Bali

1 of 6

Casting off the snug cloak of certitude and comfort for the scruffy, patched up jacket of adventure always gets me high and my travels often bring me face to face with others who are enlivened with the same idea. I always thought we are identical in that sense.

Turns out we’re as identical as two similar looking ice cream flavours—both white and creamy—but one is speckled with Oreos and the other with brown chunks of caramel. And you don’t know which is which until you take a closer look. I did just that and found Seema’s travels amount to lounging by the sea, watching waves; Paul likes to visit local cafes; Jacelyn hikes in the wilderness while my friend William, a Miyazaki fan, visits Japanese sights that are inspirations for artistic settings featured in Studio Ghibli films.

I put myself under the microscope too and discover I’m the type that thrives to explore everything in the guidebook, from the touristy to the ‘nobody cares about’ sights. Until my hamstrings ache, I don’t feel I’ve travelled at all. And with this realisation came the desire to try a radically different travel style and see if I can still quench my curiosities and gain cultural insights.

Discreetly lit paths wound past majestic banyans, thickets of bamboos, ferns, climbers and coconut trees, leading to thatched roof cottages

Bali is my lab

I’d execute my plan in Bali—an Indonesian island, nine times the size of Mumbai and up the ante by restricting myself only to Ubud, Bali’s cultural capital. This trip wouldn’t be about spreading myself thin but about anchoring myself.

For 300k Rupiah, Agung was driving us from the airport to Ubud—but not without asking the question every cab driver in Bali enquires of his backseat passenger: What are your plans?

I had talked myself out of building an itinerary—a colour-coded table of hourly activities I fondly churn out before every trip and devoutly consult. So when Agung rattled a sequence of activities from exotic temple sightings and volcanic mountain visits to Kecak dance performances, I became increasingly nervous. A sarong clad resort staff saved me from spiralling down the wormhole of self-doubt by holding the car door for me to shuffle out and reconnaissance my base for the next four days. Discreetly lit paths wound past majestic banyans, thickets of bamboos, ferns, climbers and coconut trees, leading to thatched roof cottages. Number 27 was mine, with a mossy green door.

What has remained unchanged for centuries is their belief that it’s a cause for celebration when the departed soul crosses over to the spirit realm

Liberating days

Mornings began by waddling out of the four poster bed and settling on the porch facing a little garden enclosed by 3-feet brick wall. A bendy Frangipani stretched its arms like a sinewy dancer from the north west corner of the lawn and dropped pink flowers at my feet while a gecko riding a decorative stone elephant kept watch until the butterflies flitted in, which is when it scurried after them. Shafts of sunlight poured through the leaves and I saw gold dust dancing in the air which smelled of dew and pungent earth.

It was liberating to not be pulled away from this. Just because there wasn’t a plan in place I once joined the free morning walk offered by the resort and followed our guide to the paddy fields of Kedewatan village with nine enthusiasts. “We use an ancient irrigation system called Subak to water our fields. No pumping required”, said our guide. For thousands of years, Balinese farmers have cut deep into volcanic earth to feed water into aqueducts from where bamboo pipes carry the water to the top of rice fields and let gravity pull it down from terrace to terrace. Ingenious!

“Because of steep land prices in Bali…” explains our guide who has now gathered us at a graveyard “…mass cremations are economical”. A single cremation may cost $9,000! It sounds like a practical solution to a contemporary problem but what has remained unchanged for centuries is their belief that it’s a cause for celebration when the departed soul crosses over to the spirit realm. “Shedding tears is prohibited, especially upon the body of the deceased. It makes the passage difficult,” cautions our guide. “There’s a band! Everybody dresses up and feasts!” he adds. Our own morbid approach to death back home makes it hard to comprehend the Balinese way but it’s humbling to learn about it.

After breakfast I decide to stretch my legs and walk on JI Raya towards Ubud Centre, passing warungs [small eateries] promising “paddy field views”, spa parlours, convenience stores and craft shops like Pithecan Thropus, where I treat myself to a lovely batik wallet. The constant drone of mopeds swishing by keeps me company till I reach the wooden Campuhan bridge straddling the Wos river and overlooking a deep gorge.

Bridges Bali, a seven tiered restaurant, offers front row seats to this spectacular sight and I settle down on their roofed veranda with a cup of Rooibos. It feels like I am nestled inside a green womb, an experience so intimate that I spend several unplanned hours hypnotised by the tune of gurgling water and the bizarre maze of vegetation.

Every intricately detailed painting on the walls depicting Balinese life and legends was proof of his expertise in Keliki miniature painting

Bali up and close

Across the bridge is a discreet looking temple and one afternoon, when the weather was fine, I climbed down the stairs from the street and followed some shy teenage boys and their newfound girlfriends in school uniforms on what’s called the Campuhan Ridge Walk. Trust a gorgeous scenery such as this: an unending spindly road snaking through deep emerald valleys to soothe young romance. Their awkward handholding was soon replaced by whispers of sweet nothings.

The trail was occasionally steep and just as I was heaving from a climb, Wayan Surana flagged me down, invited me inside his modest art gallery and shoved his credentials into my hands. This was unnecessary because every intricately detailed painting on the walls depicting Balinese life and legends was proof of his expertise in Keliki miniature painting, a craft he’s been practising for over 20 years. “Art galleries demand hefty commissions, so I cut the middleman and sell directly to you”, he says. If only he’d thought of the studio’s visibility, he wouldn’t have to ambush prospective patrons. “It’s cheaper here, please, which one you like?” I sense his desperation, but buying art cannot be rushed. So I promise to return and walk back to the bridge, onwards to JI Hanoman, where the atmosphere is zingy.

Hard-nosed businessmen usually found negotiating with tourists are overseeing the placement of Penjor—majestic bamboo poles festooned with decorations—on either side of the road. Tomorrow is Galungan—a revered Balinese festival marking the victory of dharma over adharma.

“Penjor represents Basuki dragon, who protects us from evil”, says an onlooker as he relates the story behind the symbolism that essentially involves supplicating gods, defying demons and appeasing ancestral spirits. It seems everything in Bali, from birth and death ceremonies to ancient irrigation technique to subjects of miniature paintings, is affected by celestial and infernal interventions.

As I become aware of this, I begin to observe things I would’ve otherwise overlooked. My trip ends with dinner at Bebek Bengil and something tells me that the conical shape of that mound of steamed rice served with crispy duck isn’t merely decorative. “It represents our holy mountains—abode of God and ancestral spirits,” says the server. That’s when I knew my self-inflicted social experiment wasn’t a goner.

GOOD TO KNOW

When to visit

With mild and temperate weather year-round, Bali is always enticing. Nov – April can be slightly hotter and humid with brief torrential showers while May – Oct is fairly dry and great for outdoor activities.

Where to stay

Uma by COMO, Ubud is an ascetic hideaway in the lap of nature outfitted with luxe amenities. You are not just spoiled with a daily choice of activities, from cooking classes to adventure tours, but also by the unmatched hospitality of their staff.

Where to eat

A 15-minute walk on a narrow path flanked by expansive paddy fields, obscure cottages bellowing smoke out of their chimneys against an enormous blue sky transports you from the modern trappings of Ubud Center to the idyllic settings of Sari Organik, an organic farm and eatery where you can indulge in healthy, tasteful food paired with lush views and quietude.

Getting around

Ubud is best enjoyed on foot. Set off on nature treks in the nearby Campuhan and Kedewatan villages and when you miss Wi-Fi head to the town centre along Jl. Raya, Jl. Hanoman and Jl. Monkey Forest, where men hawking their taxi services are found every step of the way.

The post Anchoring myself in Bali appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Melbourne

1 of 8

The license plates brightly announced: Victoria—The place to be. Was it propagation, reassurance or a testimonial? I needed none. Not now anyway. Freshly disembarked, the smell of disinfectant from the flight hadn’t even washed off my body. This slogan—which seemed more like a conclusion than a first impression—needed to be obliterated from my mind, if I were to form any sort of opinion. I had just reached the land down under—Melbourne to be precise.

First impressions

Although, in the age of Internet it would be untrue if I claim I didn’t have the slightest notion of how the city fared in the global mindset. Last year, Melbourne was named the world’s most liveable city by The Economist for the fourth consecutive year. As I watched immigration officers at Tullamarine airport welcome travellers with warm smiles, saying “How are you t’day?” and engaging in friendly chitchat, I considered moving here right away.

There are bigger factors that contribute to Melbourne’s liveability, but this geniality seemed to exude from every Melbournian I met—be it the African taxi driver, the Chinese sales person at the souvenir shop, the Greek ‘hotel concierge’ lady or the English cashier who warned me of impending bad weather and urged me to take shelter. Each one of them made Melbourne more likeable.

Going back in time

Wondering if the city’s cultural diversity and cosmopolitan heart are responsible for its openness and practised ease with foreigners, I entered the Immigration Museum on Finders Street. Turns out, the first immigration to Australia happened in 1788 with convict transportation from Britain. By 1850s penal transportation ceased and in 1851, the newly formed state of Victoria discovered gold beneath its surface, leading to the Victorian gold rush! Melbourne—Victoria’s capital, which served as a major port, experienced rapid growth and soon became the economic centre of Australian colonies. The gold boom brought a large amount of immigrants from England, Ireland, Wales, America, China and Germany.

Although people across the world were willing to migrate to this vast unknown landmass in the southern hemisphere for better prospects, the British were still the favoured kind. Early 20^th century saw the imminent ‘White Australia Policy’ meant to eliminate non-European migration.

Not for long though! Australia’s vulnerability after WWII led to calls for Australians to ‘populate or perish’. The British were still preferred, but immigrants from other countries were admitted to push population growth. Immigration policies no longer mentioned race. By the 1980s, family reunions became the most common criteria for migrating to Australia!

I spent nearly half a day reading through the fascinating ‘immigration timeline’, that stated by 1990s—nearly one in four Australians was born overseas. There are people from over 100 countries that are now Australian citizens. It was indeed symbolic that the immigration museum is located inside the beautifully restored Customs House, which was used to control immigration in the 19^th century and recorded every arrival at its doors. Exiting the building, I walked towards the iconic Flinders Station. On the way when I heard random gabble in all kinds of languages and find eateries selling pho, dumplings, souvlaki, doughnuts, and pasta in adjoining streets, it all made sense.

Roaming through the heart of Melbourne

Being wonderfully cosmopolitan is one of the many aspects of Melbourne that appealed to me. I am also a sucker for history. The trappings of the 21^st century hold abundant allure no doubt, but I’m equally fond of tracing elements of the past in a city’s present landscape. Little did I know that my day spent ambling in Melbourne’s CBD [Central Business District] and around would take me past many buildings featuring ancient architecture from the gold rush times, and juxtapose it with glimpses of the city’s modern, edgy style.

I settled by St. Paul’s Cathedral to watch hundreds of people crisscrossing each other at the traffic lights. Some were swallowed by the arched gate of Flinders Station, some glided into the swanky Federation Square and others cheered their way to Melbourne Cricket Ground [MCG] for the famous Boxing Day test match.

This area seemed to be the city’s default nucleus with emanating arteries carrying restless feet, zooming cars and rattling trams. No one seemed to stop. Everybody was heading somewhere.

So I followed suit and headed into Melbourne’s favourite hangout spots—her laneways. What started out during the gold rush era as dingy rear access to properties has tasted repurposed success today. As I walked along I realised that here, grunge is hip. Fancy boutiques, bookstores, cafes, pizzerias, soup and wrap joints are housed in narrow lanes with exposed wires, pipes, air-conditioning vents, graffiti and poster-covered walls.

The bustle of life is spilled right on the city’s cobbled street, with its tiny chairs and stools. I hunched over a ‘flat white’ [yes, this city has its own coffee style] on Degraves Street and watched tanned and toned Melbournians zip past. Suddenly, I was painfully conscious of the calories piling with every bite of my crepes with vanilla ice cream that I gorged on at Café Andiamo. With such scrumptious ‘MasterChef’ quality food available especially on the streets, I wondered how anybody could stay in shape.

Discovering the diversity of the people

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how Melbournians stay fit. The fact is that Melbournians love any kind of heart-pumping activity. This isn’t just manifested in establishments like MCG and Rod Laver Arena, which host prestigious championships, but also from watching every other person walking, running, cycling, rowing or  hiking somewhere in the city. And if that’s not enough, I’ve watched many people shop, run errands and even dine in spandex and sneakers, as if it’s some kind of code for ‘I’m always on the go’.

However, the more I wandered, the more convinced I became that these denizens of fast life are, in fact, multifaceted. Like their city, they’re a heady mix of Victorian refinement and contemporary ‘cool’. On one instance I saw them drinking cups of ‘Snow White’ tea at Hopetoun Tea Rooms inside the 19th century Block Arcade, dressed in brocade, silk scarves and pearls. At other times I found them in baggy overalls, spray cans in hand, making edgy art on the graffiti-covered walls of Hosier Lane. On yet other occasions they were decked up in Goth necklaces and skull-printed stockings queuing outside the Moorish Forum Theatre.

Peace in the midst of the bustle

Realising that I needed to recuperate, I decided to visit the Royal Botanical Gardens. Painting by the ornamental lake in this vast park still remains a fond memory of mine. While the tranquillity repaired my mind’s restlessness from an active day of sightseeing, my eyes feasted on the variegated foliage, mixed and matched to form the most pleasing landscape reflected in the water. Sulphur-crested cockatoos screeched in the branches and a lone duck waddled in search of food. I could have lounged here for hours.

Where Melbourne rates in my liveability index

Given the experience in Melbourne, it was hard to not get ahead of myself and indulge in harmless daydreaming. What if I moved here and wanted a place to stay? Well, I’ve my heart set on idyllic East Melbourne. I’d probably settle somewhere on George Street, Hotham Street or Gipps Street. This area has rows of 19th century Victorian era houses with elaborate iron lacework that could make anybody weak in the knees. I’d pick a quaint house here and ditch the flashy condos I see in construction everywhere else.

As I roamed the streets aimlessly, an avuncular resident watching me stopped to check if I needed assistance. “Are you looking for something?” he asked with the same warmth and concern I’d encountered many times before. I smiled at him. It was my last evening in Melbourne. “Not today,” I replied. But maybe someday, who knows!

The post Warm, friendly and multifaceted: That’s Melbourne for you! appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Notes from a travel sketcher

1 of 10

Two years ago on a trip to Japan, I packed a sketchbook, couple of pens and a watercolour tin in my backpack. The plan was to document my journey slightly differently—the way travellers and world explorers did of their escapades on paper and canvas, before the camera was invented.

In the age of selfie sticks and Go Pro, seeking something that doesn’t offer instant gratification sounded ridiculously archaic to many. “Why bother sketching, when you can click and move on?” they said. I imagined myself sitting for prolonged periods on foreign terrain in inclement weather with people watching [and perhaps judging] me while I scratched lines on paper. What was I getting into?

My debut travel sketch

The voices of detractors and self-doubt were drowned out the moment I cracked open the first page of my travel journal in Tokyo’s Shinjuku Gyoen to sketch the sublime cherry blossom. Few hanami revelers picnicking in the garden came over to watch. I was mixing a fragile baby pink to colour the foliage when they peered over my shoulder and showed gracious thumbs up.

Encouraged by their gesture I sketched the lanterns hanging from the trees when they lit up after sundown, the family of four opening their bento boxes and sake bottles, and a white duck waddling out of the pond. And while I did my line work and carefully painted every scene, I was there, encapsulated in the moment, oblivious of time and space. I was observing and creating. Nothing else mattered.

Unbeknownst to me, I had connected with my environment in a primal sort of way. These sketches seem rudimentary today, my drawing skills having improved and all, but when I browse through them I can smell the wind, hear the leaves rustling and feel the blossoms falling at my feet.

It is such an exercise in mindfulness. And when mindful, every sense in the body is so receptive that you feel awake and aware, as if a mist has been lifted. Ever since I started drawing my journeys, I feel I’ve been to places—lived, breathed in and grown roots in the little time I was there and not just passed through them in a haze.

Unbeknownst to me, I had connected with my environment in a primal sort of way

Toiling labourers etched in time

Once while vacationing in Kolkata, I noticed an empty patch in front of my parent’s house being prepped for construction. From our balcony I watched men, thin as rod, brown as earth, working the plot the entire day and sleeping on the hard ground at night under mosquito nets. What I’d seen has long been replaced with a multi-storied building. What I’m left with is a sketch of those men toiling away and a hasty scribble that reads, “Four labourers towing away mud, bricks and debris in their wicker baskets, cleaning the space for a new construction just in front of our house. A heavy downpour seems to have stopped their work for the time being”.

We are exposed to a million things on our travels and daily lives and we weave through them like maniacs, greedy to experience all, making only a handful of memories, of the most extraordinary events. The rest—the everyday, mundane things—fades away with time. My sketch of those labourers captured an ordinary moment in a day gone by, something I would’ve lost had I not made a visual record.

Apparently on 23^rd April 2013 I went on an impromptu date with my husband. We had coffee and dinner at a nice restaurant from where I quickly sketched the windows of the shophouse opposite us. My entry says, “The restaurant was pricey but the evening was priceless. The joy of reliving the ‘ordinary’ is what I find in the pages of my sketchbooks. A Harvard Business School study found that recording the quotidian stuff give us more pleasure in retrospect than our extraordinary events. My travel sketchbooks are a testament to that.

When I’m on the road, drawing is also an absolute novel way to come in contact with locals. While in Penang, I was trying to sketch Armenian Street’s iconic red tuk-tuk, but couldn’t progress much because none of them would stay parked for long. As I was about to give up, a tuk-tuk driver, upon seeing my predicament, not only parked his vehicle in front of me, but also declined every tourist that approached him for a ride till I finished my drawing. I was moved beyond words. While sketching Mumbai’s CST station, the man whose shop front I was occupying brought me a chair to sit and iced water to beat the heat. Kindness from strangers is rampant when I’m armed with a sketchbook and has opened avenues for many heartfelt conversations.

An HBS study found that recording the quotidian stuff give us more pleasure in retrospect than our extraordinary events

Sue, the owner of a makeshift olive shop at Lyttelton Farmer’s Market near Christchurch told me how she lost her store in the massive 2011 earthquake and had to start all over. She had seen me drawing her table of olives and walked over to chat. The garrulous owner of Indian Palace—an eatery in Singapore shared the struggles and successes of her immigrant life, while I drew her shop. I met Nishiguro at Tokyo’s Tsukiji Fish Market, and without speaking a word of each other’s language we understood one another perfectly. Using wild hand gestures he told me he’d sold five tunas at the early morning auction. The best part, however, was when he clapped excitedly after I copied his shop’s name in Japanese into my sketch.

Sketching opened many doors for me…literally

Sketching is not intrusive. I haven’t met anyone who felt threatened or offended because I was sketching his or her house, vehicle or pet. On the contrary, I’ve been granted access to places that I wouldn’t otherwise be allowed to see. The Long Bar in Royal Selangor Club in Kuala Lumpur denies entry to ladies since the British times. When the old waiter saw me drawing the bar from the threshold, he not only let me in, he showed me around the lovely space and plied me with stories. A Chinese opera group gave me access to their elaborate behind-the-stage make-up session only because I came wielding a sketchbook and pen. Earning people’s trust has been my sketchbook’s greatest gift on my travels.

Recently a friend surprised me with a personal message claiming he likes my travel sketches. I asked him why. After saying, “it’s colourful and fluid in its movements…,” he added something interesting, “…yet leaving space for interpretation.” I love how a drawing can evoke a dialogue between the artist and the viewer. While sketching a destination, I interpret the elements that inspire me and leave the rest. I tell the story of a place a certain way. Another artist drawing the same location may offer a different perspective and the viewer, in turn, may experience something else.

In Hong Kong, the overcrowded cheek by jowl buildings with cables sticking out, washing lines, neon signs and an incredible number of air-conditioning machines fitted on the building facades jumped out at me and my sketchbook is filled with drawings that show this urban chaos. My impressions of Singapore show its rapidly changing streetscape, a potpourri of pre-WW2 shophouses, Art Deco buildings and 21st century high-rises.

British reportage illustrator George Butler said in a TED talk that drawings encapsulate the passage of time. “The 2 – 3 hours on the street observing, watching, witnessing is so important. It’s not just the snap of a shutter and walking away,” he says and I echo his sentiment. Travel sketching, after all, is not an end, but a means to an end. Perhaps this was the gratification I was really after.

The post Notes from a travel sketcher appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

St. Petersburg

1 of 7

Imagine the distress of a person who’s been tossing and turning for three nights in a row on probably one of the softest beds in one of the best hotels in St. Petersburg that too after exhausting days of sightseeing. No, there wasn’t a pea under the mattresses. It was the ‘white nights’—the most fascinating phenomenon I’d encountered. Due to St. Petersburg’s northerly geographical location—a few latitudes south of the Arctic Circle, during summer the sun does not descend enough for the sky to grow completely dark! As a result, although it was way past midnight, light beamed through my hotel window, framing that fantastic view of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral against a faded purple sky like a medieval oil painting.

Enjoying the midnight sun

Propped against my pillow, I could see tiny figures moving on top of the massive cathedral and occasionally bright flashes from their camera blinded my vision. Across the street, St. Isaac’s Square swelled with evening revellers huddled on benches, chatting and laughing; cars were zooming past and for just a few seconds I could hear their loud thumping music. Clinking of wine glasses floated from restaurants, teenagers were rollerblading on the streets spurring each other on and the birds were still singing on trees. These balmy summer nights that held the brightness and vigour of mornings seemed like nature’s reparation for grey sub-zero winters that sends this Russian city under wraps for seven months. Like all things transient, locals understand its worth and have been celebrating the sun’s prolonged patronage ever since Peter the Great founded this city in the early 18th century. How could I ever draw a curtain on all this? And I mean that literally.

Revelling in ancient opulence

I was coming to grips with St. Petersburg’s age old veneer of aristocracy and opulence—the sweeping squares, the wide-cobbled streets lined with pastel coloured mansions, pretty wrought iron bridges over innumerable canals, onion domed churches and giant bronze statues of great Russian figures. That’s when I noticed the only thing familiar—a pale yellow aura, so typical of all Baltic cities, that swathes St. Petersburg at all times, growing rich and golden as the day gains momentum.

And in this illuminating light, while walking on Nevsky Prospekt, the city’s main thoroughfare, I was compelled to stop time and again to process everything the revered musicians, playwrights and painters of Russia may have experienced and captured in their creations.

It’s magnificent, to say the least, specially the intersection of Nevsky and Griboyedov Canal around evening. Dom Knigi, the city’s largest and most famous bookshop from 1938, housed in the richly decorated Singer Building, is swarmed with customers. Café Singer’s tables by the arched windows overlooking the mighty Kazan Cathedral are permanently occupied with starry-eyed romantics. There’s a street theatre across the road and a jam session few metres away, both obscured by an animated crowd.

A juxtaposition of the old and new

Along the canal, a lady is smoothening the folds of her gown with a gloved hand while holding a red parasol in the other. A velvet-robed gentleman stands by her, offering passersby a chance to take pictures with Russian nobility in exchange of rubles. How seamlessly they fit the backdrop! On a bench by the water, I spot babushkas soaking the sun, eyes closed, faces upturned and their ice cream wielding grandchildren clinging to their skirts. Busboys from various restaurants around the area are prepping for dinner.

My 21^st century soul was constantly playing catch up with such 18^th century refinement, spread lavishly across vast expanses of land, the land that I couldn’t traverse an inch without stumbling on some piece of history.

Russia’s turbulent history

And not all, as I found out, was gilded as the city’s façade. Hotel Astoria, the historic mansion where I was lying awake, was reportedly the proposed venue for Hitler’s victory banquet. The Führer was so confident of Leningrad’s quick fall during the siege—a Nazi military operation lasting 900 days, with the ultimate aim of razing St. Petersburg to the ground—that he got invitations printed in advance.

It was history’s most deadly blockade. The Germans had cut off all supplies routed to the city and its suburbs; intense bombing took thousands of lives and destroyed countless historic landmarks. Lack of food, water and utilities caused unparalleled famine killing four times more civilians than the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Moving on

While researching St. Petersburg before my visit, I was struck by a black and white photograph of Nevsky Prospect, dating from the time of the siege. The road looked brutally raked, with potholes all over and the mansions lining it appeared dismal. Apparently, Dom Knigi, the state bookshop I’d just bought postcards from, had its windows shattered and storage rooms flooded when a bomb dropped on a neighbouring building. Knowing what the city had endured vis-à-vis what I see today made me both distraught and hopeful at the same time.

I found solace in St. Petersburg’s stoicism, in the fact that it hasn’t forgotten but moved on, meticulously rebuilt itself by spending millions. The Palace Square—the space where the tsarist troops fired on peaceful protestors in 1905—is now filled with hoards of cheerful camera-wielding tourists, whose pictures will tell a different story.

Inside the Winter Palace

The imposing Winter Palace of Russian tsars, once pillaged by the Red Army and damaged during the siege, stands fully restored at the head of the square. It houses the world-renowned Hermitage Museum, where I’m headed, even though I detest being cooped up inside four walls.

The Hermitage, however, proved worthy of every second spent there—both the extravagant Rastrelli-designed interiors and the hundreds of paintings. Oh the paintings! The works of Da Vinci, Picasso, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Monet, Dali, Gauguin and Rubens adorn its countless walls. The art lover in me tasted heaven a million times in the five hours I spent there.

My lifelong fascination with Henri Matisse’s paintings was kindled in Room 344 on the 2nd floor, after viewing ‘The Red Room’. Even as I write this, every fibre in my body pines to go back and stand in front of the giant canvases of ‘Dance’ and ‘Music’ and admire Matisse’s fearless strokes and eye-popping colours.

Making the most of the whitenights

Outside the Winter Palace, a slick salesman thrust a brochure in my hands advertising ‘Regular English-guided boat tours’. The next hour was spent riding a ferry with 20 other people over the graceful Fontanka river flowing into Moika and then through the breathtaking Zimny canal into Neva. Peter and Paul Cathedral’s golden spire was piercing the sky like a needle. But our guide however was pointing to the dome of St. Isaac’s Cathedral on the opposite bank, suggesting we climb its 300 steps to enjoy panoramic city views.

I don’t know about the others, but I took his advice to heart. As I clicked pictures atop Russia’s largest cathedral way past midnight, my eyes gazed at the red and green rooftops of the mansions around. I wondered if someone was looking out her window right this moment, wide awake because she too was bewitched by enchantment of the ‘white nights’.

1] Pic: Licensed under [CC BY 2.0] from kishjar? [flickr]
2, 7] Pic: Licensed under [CC BY 2.0] from persona.natali [flickr]
3-6, 8] Pics: Subhashish Dasgupta

This was first published in the May 2015 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

The post St. Petersburg: Revelling in the Whitenights appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Kyoto during spring

1 of 9

Tranquil Zen temples… artistic rock gardens… and old neighbourhoods with wooden houses along narrow alleys. Kyoto lives up to the image we have of an ancient, mystical Japan and spring renders this scenery irresistible because that’s when Japan is swathed in the salmon pink sakura [cherry blossoms].

Northern Higashiyama

If you are in Kyoto during this a magical time, head directly to the ‘Path of Philosophy’ in Higashiyama [the eastern hills]. This pedestrian street along a canal lined with blooming cherry trees on either side is where adjectives fail and clichés ring true… Abandon any effort to describe this pink-hued scenery on a postcard, and instead meander in the footsteps of one of its famous patrons—the 20th century philosopher Nishida Kitaro.

Once you manage to free yourself from this trance, there are plenty of Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines in Kyoto to keep you busy. The Eikan-do temple, built in 855 by the priest Shinsho, has its massive complex interspersed with pagodas, rock gardens, ponds and waterfalls. If the size doesn’t impress you; the precise designs of the  immaculately raked sand, stylised rock arrangements, rectangular hedges and convex shrubs in the gardens definitely will.

While we were there, a calming hush presided that caused us to talk in whispers and against which we could hear the water gurgle and rain drops fall. Along Garyu-ro, a long wooden corridor leading to Taho-to pagoda, was a Sui-kin-kutsu. ‘Koto of water drops: a sound ornament of the Japanese Garden’, the sign read. When we gently poured water using a wooden ladle into the bamboo contraption and pressed our ears closely, we could catch the sound of the drips.

‘Concentrate on the sound the water drops make’ was the instruction. The soft melody of Koto, a traditional Japanese harp reached our ears.

Ahead of us, a cluster of monks clad in a grey shade that matched the dull sky, were chanting sutras and marching out of Amida-do hall. This is the hall that enshrines the unique statue of Buddha glancing over his shoulders.

A mere 10-minute walk away is Nanzen-ji. Its 16th century dark wooden Sanmon [main gate], fringed by the soft-coloured cherry blossoms makes it a favourite of photographers. Even more so, when Japanese women dressed in spring inspired kimonos, complete with geta [wooden flip-flops] and tabi [white socks] are seen posing on the steps.

Right outside Hojo—Nanzen-ji’s main hall—a giant brick aqueduct passes through the temple compound. This structure raises a few eyebrows, especially in a space where not a pebble seems out of place. As it turns out, during the Meiji period, this aqueduct was used to carry water and goods between Kyoto and its neighbouring prefecture.

While Nanzen-ji is at the southern end of the Path of Philosophy, Ginkaku-ji or the Silver Pavilion is at the northern end. This Zen temple initially was a villa built in 1482. It takes the name from the fact that its resident, Shogun Ashikaga Yoshimasa, desired to plate it in silver. However his plans were not realised. Even without the embellishment, it’s worth a visit only to view stretches of meticulously raked white sand in the shape of a cone and ripples, representing Mount Fuji and the lake.

It’s interesting to observe how gardens in the east imitate or reflect nature as opposed to those in the western world like Versailles or Boboli gardens that impose order over nature with their geometrical shapes and symmetry.

Arashiyama

Start your Arashiyama [the western hills] walk from Tenryu-ji, a Zen temple from 1339. The wind whistles through the trees and the tinted sunlight trickles in from gaps to make a pattern of light and shade along the path. It is an ethereal stroll
through this 200-metre stretch cocooned by soaring bamboo trees.

If you thought nature relegated moss to gutters and drainpipes, witness their cultural upliftment at the hands of Zen masters at Gio-ji’s luxurious moss garden. On display are more than a dozen different kinds of mosses cultivated here. Once again, the impeccable order of the place mystifies. There’s no lawn mowing or leaf-blowing… it’s as if the garden is the work of invisible hands.

Before descending, take a peek at what seems like an outlandish prehistoric scene at Adashino Nenbutsu-ji temple. 8000 stone Buddhist images and pagodas are arranged in straight lines, with a stupa and a statue of Buddha at the centre. These crude weathered stones were originally grave-markers for the dead, buried in the Adashino region in ancient times. They remained undiscovered until about a 100 years ago, when they were brought inside the temple, to repose the souls of the dead.

Despite being a revered spiritual home, the tinge of melancholy is undeniable. The sight of toys and flowers left by bereaved parents at the Jizo shrine—a Bodhisattva guarding the souls of unborn children—is heart wrenching.

If this was heavy, a 25-minute ride on the Sagano Romantic Train will lift your spirits. Boarding at Torokko Arashiyama station, we chugged along the breath-taking terrains by the Hozu River, through valleys and in-between mountains. Disembark at Torokko Kameoka and walk to Umahori Station to catch a train back to Kyoto.

Southern Higashiyama

You can enter the ancient temple of Kiyomizu-dera, through a giant red Sanmon above a flight of stairs. While another flight of stairs leads to the main hall that enshrines a statue of Kannon Bodhisattva or goddess of mercy. After all the climbing, reward yourself with the panoramic view from the hall’s massive veranda jutting out over the mountainside.

If you haven’t had the chance to observe hanami or blossom viewing up close, a Japanese custom since the Heian period, Maruyama Park should be your next stop. Goza mats are laid, colourful nibbles in hanami bento boxes are out, so are the wines and sake. The quiet of the park is replaced by the party revellers’ uninhibited banter.

Straddling the eastern bank of Kamogawa River, the picturesque hanamachi or geisha district of Gion is crammed with shops, restaurants and the most expensive and exclusive [unless you have connections and deep pockets, entry is improbable] 17th century teahouses, where the geisha and maiko [apprentice geisha] entertain guests in an intimate environment of traditional music, dance, drinking and flirting.

Visit hanamikoji-dori [Flower Viewing Street] during evenings or walk along the scenic Shirakawa canal lined with blooming cherry trees. If you’re lucky, a window of an ochaya overlooking the canal will open, offering you the elusive vision of a geisha entertaining.

This was first published in the May 2014 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

The post Kyoto during spring appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Singapore: explore the historical face

1 of 5

Even before cracking open a guidebook, we have an impression of the place we’re about to visit. Nimble geishas serving tea in an ochaya loom up when someone mentions Kyoto; New York brings out images of verve and blinding neon; Greece, of ruins and blue sea. There’s nothing wrong with these pre-programmed images until you treat them as the only ones a destination can offer. Hear The Danger of a Single Story by Chimamanda Adichie, an acclaimed Nigerian author and you’ll know what I mean.

When friends shared selfies atop Marina Bay Sands, advertorials flashed fabulous shopping malls on Orchard, and travel episodes featured thumping nightlife at Clark Quay, I assumed that’s all there is to Singapore. For the better part of my four year expat life, I showed my back to the incredible 7,100 heritage sites packed into this island nation because I too was feeding off a single story. To spare you a similar fate, here are a few of my favourites.

Thian Hock Keng Temple

With the financial district in its vicinity—towering skyscrapers and dark-suited office workers milling about on streets—the location of Singapore’s oldest temple on Telok Ayer Street not only looks incongruous but also amusing.

Even more amusing is the fact that before the land reclamation of 1880, Telok [meaning bay] Ayer [meaning water] was the seafront. Early immigrants from the Fujian Province of China, sailing across the turbulent South China Sea, would visit this site to offer thanks to Ma Zhu [Goddess of the Sea] for their safe passage.

The 1820s modest joss house was later built into a temple in 1842 at a cost of 30,000 Spanish dollars. The entire structure was assembled without nails by skilled Chinese craftsmen and all the materials including the building’s main supporting pillars and the idol were imported from China, making it the most authentic Chinese temple in Singapore.

On my first visit, to hear a Nanyin concert at its premises a few weeks ago, I was most intrigued by the temple’s architecture—the three-hall complex with multiple courtyards, decorations on the roof ridges and the magnificent dragon and phoenix reliefs made out of colorful broken porcelain using chien-nien technique.

If not for the architectural details, visit the temple to experience the brash juxtaposition of the past and the present.

Sun Yat Sen Memorial Hall

“This is Singapore’s hidden gem,” says tour guide Mary Cooper. Despite its unparalleled historical importance, tourists don’t know much about this charming two-storied colonial-style villa in Balestier, named ‘Wan Qing Yuan’ or ‘serene sunset garden’ by Teo Eng Hock, a rubber magnate after he bought it in 1905 for his mother to retire.

“But mother preferred the bustle of Chinatown to the quiet suburbs, which Balestier was in those days and the villa remained largely unused,” continues Mary, “until 1906, when Teo offered the villa to Sun Yat Sen for repurposing it as the Southeast Asian base for his revolutionary activities, to overthrow the Qing dynasty in China.”

Milestone battles were planned here, a breakthrough coming from Wuchang Uprising in 1911, birthing the Republic of China.

Mary pauses before a black and white photograph of the founders of Tong Meng Hui’s Singapore chapter. “Here’s Sun in the middle in a Zhongshan suit, flanked by a Teo Eng Hock, a Peranakan, in western attire and Tan Chor Lam with his shaved head and pigtail, which he had cut off later.”

Visit this villa to explore the artefacts, rare photographs, calligraphy and hear enthralling stories from Mary, to get a peek into the lives and political works of the revolutionaries who transformed the future of China.

Baba House

If you’ve been tripping through Chinatown, had your fill of chilli crab with chilled beer, seek refuge from the afternoon sun in this beautifully restored shop-house from 1890. This place was once the ancestral home of Wee Bin, a wealthy Peranakan shipping magnate.

The history of Peranakans goes back to the 15th century, when Chinese merchants settling in the Straits of Malacca began integrating traits of local Malayan culture into their own, resulting in a hybrid culture. By the 19th century, Peranakans were working as intermediaries between mainland Chinese traders and colonial rulers, thus amassing immense wealth, which they spent lavishly on building decorative houses such as Baba house.

Standing at the courtyard, Chia Hock Jin, our tour guide walks us through the architectural elements of the house’s blue façade—twin lanterns bearing the resident’s name, insignias with golden Chinese characters bearing the name of the house, pastel- coloured motifs of peonies and phoenixes signifying longevity and peace.

The richly decorated half-doors called pintu pagars lead to a luxurious living room with ornately carved Qing dynasty furniture. “This is where the patriarch entertained his guests,” says Hock Jin. The family hall—domain of women and children—houses ancestral tablets, eating area and an airwell. The kitchen is lined with lacquered meal containers, woks, grinding stones, dessert moulds, mortar and pestle among others.

When Hock Jin leads us to the flamboyant bridal chamber on the second floor, it is not the carved and gilded canopied bed with fertility symbols that catches the group’s fancy, but a tiny peephole on the polished floor allowing an unobstructed view of the living room. “So a Peranakan wife could see all who came to meet her husband,” says Hock Jin, twinkling at us.

Visit Baba House to admire the potpourri of Chinese symbolism, Feng Shui and the intriguing mix of oriental and western architecture that contribute to the hybrid design of Peranakan homes, making them so wonderfully unique.

Bukit Brown Cemetery

Would you spend your weekend morning in company of the deceased? I did, when this 90-year-old, largest Chinese municipal cemetery outside China with 100,000 graves in its wake was put as a site at risk on 2014 World Monument Watch List.

This announcement pumped a sense of triumph into the ‘Brownies’—as the passionate volunteers rallying to conserve this pocket of Singapore’s heritage and biodiversity, call themselves. Part of the cemetery is making way for an eight-lane road, which mandates the exhumation of approximately 5,000 graves.

“Notice the 12 rays of sunlight etched on the headstone, indicating his longtime assistance with Sun Yat Sen’s Kuomintang,” says Chew Keng Kiat, a Brownie and our tour guide, at Tan Boon Liat’s grave, before moving on to the resting place of Singapore’s other pioneering leaders.

We’ve been grave-hopping through a festoon of rain trees, shrubs and grass that have colonised these 233 acres of undulating terrain over decades. The sky is clear but the sun barely trickles through the dense vegetation. The overpowering hum of cicadas has set the tone for the day. A site so tranquil is hard to imagine in the heart of Singapore and a perfect antidote to the city’s hubbub.

Visit the cemetery, better yet, join the Brownies to admire the architecture of the graves—their shapes, designs, decorations using sculptures that were meant to guard and assist the deceased in afterlife such as lions, Sikh guards, ‘jade girl’ and ‘golden boy’ and elaborate reliefs depicting stories on mythology, legends and filial piety.

This was first published in the February 2014 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

The post Relics of a glorious past – Singapore appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.