5 things I learned about Japan

When I returned from my solo trip to New York City back in mid-2013, I was star struck. I had seen nothing so beautiful, well planned, systematic, and (relatively) clean. I visited four first-world countries after that but NYC remained my favourite. I wouldn’t stop ranting about it. New York this, East Coast that.

My husband picked Japan for a 15-day vacation in April. It was completely his idea because I remember resisting it.

“Who goes to Japan for a holiday?” I’d asked. Right enough, every single person I told about my upcoming holiday asked me the exact same question; or at least framed it as one of the many questions they asked: “Why Japan? Are you going there for work?”

A very large part of me does not want to write what I am about too because it fears that Japan will become the next Switzerland if Indians discovered it. By that I mean a samosa stall at Mount Jungfrau (for real).

I mean, come on!

But I am going to say it because Japan makes the East Coast look like a cranky little village. Here are a few observations I made in the country of tomorrow. After all, it is already tomorrow in Japan!

Chilling scenes at Kyoto's Imperial Palace

1)     Japan is affordable 

Yup, that’s what a blanket statement looks like. Let me explain, bottled water costs YEN 95 for 2 litres which is about Rs 50. Singapore, on the other hand (and for comparison), is one of the most expensive when it comes to packaged water (in my experience).

We ate scrumptious and wholesome local food for as little as Rs 500 for two in all of the cities we visited. And we lived in the most central parts of Osaka, Kyoto, and Tokyo for merely Rs 4000 a night. Planning is key; the country has something for everyone.   

Entry to most gardens is free. 

2)    Japan is one of the most beautiful, culturally rich, and scientifically advanced countries in the world

And are they punctual or what!? I thought I was type A. While you know about the scientifically advanced bit, the bullet train seriously goes so fast, I had to wait for my ears to pop every 5 minutes, Japan has so much more than sakura (cherry blossom) and anime.

For example, in the month of April, Kyoto, which is home to Gion – the geisha district, hosts Miyako Odori (Dance of the Capital). It is a collaborative performance of dance, music, and elaborate set design by maikos (geishas in training) and professional geishas. While you won't understand a word if you don’t know Japanese, the essence of the show and the art of Japanese story-telling will stay with you for ever.

But it is drop-dead beautiful first!

3)    The Japanese are SO friendly!

This is for real. We experienced a good dose of their amicable nature in all the three cities we stayed. Yes, even bustling and busy Tokyo.

Picture this: Two very Indian travellers are lost again looking for a restaurant on their TripAdvisor app so they enter an eatery to ask for directions. The girl goes to the open counter, gets the server’s attention and points at her phone. What happens next?

The server understood what I was asking her but didn’t know how to explain the location to me. So, as any Japanese would, she left what she was doing and walked the 200 meter distance to the location with us.

This happened 3 times in different settings.

4)    There is no place for the vegetarian in Japan

If you’re a fussy eater who is constantly on the move across neighbourhoods in Japan, you better not get hungry without an eating plan. I’d say the same thing to vegetarians, vegans, people with food allergies, etc.

We once ordered a vegetarian vegetable Japanese salad that came topped with a generous helping of minced chicken. Besides, all our orders were in sign languages because restaurants rarely have menus in English. Which brings me to the next observation…

But loads for vegetation!

5)    The Japanese don’t need no English

When you are that humble, self-sufficient, and proud to be Japanese, you don’t need English to get you by! I’d peek into the phones of fellow commuters on the subway and I’d see them typing away or browsing the internet in Japanese. I didn’t see one local read or say anything in English (unless forced by our party of 2). And I like to get comfortable and stare.

We visited the tourist centre in Nara and the only girl we spoke to in fluent English (in 15 days) was shocked to learn we didn’t know how to write our mother tongue perfectly. 

When I asked her if she could write Japanese, pat came the reply, “Of course! I am Japanese!”

So, like, I love Japan. I want to go back. Sigh.

PS: I have some more pictures put up on Instagram: @SabGhiasi Plus, my food tales are documented at @Gobble_up

One can only stop and stare at beautiful things.

Kaas - The Valley of Flowers and Thoseghar Falls in Satara

Another long weekend found us in Satara, some 250 odd kms from home. I've visited Mahabaleshwar, some 50 kms from here, since I was 4 years old. But we never managed to make our way to this bustling city before. 

Satara is rich in flora and fauna, especially after the rains. We visited Kaas, Maharashtra's own Valley of Flowers and the beautiful Thoseghar village and falls that has the most amazing winding ghats leading up to it. Unfortunately for us, it rained an hour before we arrived in Kaas and all the flowers were asleep.

Cox&Kings published the bit I wrote about the drive up to Thoseghar and what to expect. 

Read here: http://blog.coxandkings.com/the-hidden-gem-of-satara-thoseghar-waterfalls/

The Europe-esque pictures (courtesy, the husband) do justice to the sights to behold on your way up to the falls. Here are a few other pictures of Kaas and Satara that we captured during our short stay.

Posers are gonna pose!

The sleepy Valley of Flowers in Kaas, Satara.

The beautiful Kaas Lake on a sunny day. Sigh. 

The windmills really left us fascinated. They're so BIG!

This is the only way to fully experience the rolling hills and the wind in the air.

All pictures courtesy: Nadir Kanthawala

Trekking in Harishchandragad, Maharashtra

I've tried to update this travel series. I promise; I even went to Dubai looking for inspiration. Unfortunately, I only found sand and glass buildings that would appeal to no one in their right mind. So I came back upset and generally tired.

Then, I was introduced to Harishchandragad in Ahmednagar, Maharashtra. My husband, one of my best buds, and I went hiking here one Saturday.

I wrote about my experience and the good people and CnK published it. Here's a link:

http://blog.coxandkings.com/hiking-through-waterfalls-and-fog/

I've got more pictures, though. Look:

Look at this, will ya?

Nadir under a waterfall; cooling off.

How many waterfalls are there? Let me count...

Mount Batur Trek in Bali, Indonesia

During the year I spent researching our impending honeymoon in Bali, I frequently came across high recommendations for a trek atop an active volcano. It is called Mount Batur and is closest to the small touristy town of Ubud.

Many adventure companies offer this trek and we could have booked ourselves online; but Indians that we are, we decided to do a bit of market research when we got to Ubud. Our hotel was more of a quaint cottage with a cute infinity pool that overlooked a lush green valley.

Told you so.

We were promptly handed two large umbrellas as we boarded a shuttle that would take us away from our rustic stay to the centre of the town.

A light drizzle began as we made our way to one of these many tour company stalls. The man behind the counter was extremely helpful and sold us this trek package for half the amount we had budgeted. Why? Mostly because January is part of the rainy season in Bali and not many people think of climbing a volcano at such a time. Especially not Indians on their honeymoon; even he seemed amused.  

A little history on us and trekking:

My husband and I have trekked before, during our respective trips to Himachal. I struggled with power yoga for a whole year before our trip to Bali. I may not be as flexible as my instructor would have wanted, but I can definitely do 100 surya namaskars like my life depends on it.  Both of us *believe* we are fit in the average sense of the word.

Back to climbing up Mount Batur

We were signing up for a sunrise trek, so we knew we’d have an early pick up. The booking guy told us to be ready at two the next morning. I have to mention here, the Balinese people are sticklers for time. Then again, so are the two of us.

Our driver and us were ready to roll up the mountains at 2 05 am. We made our way up the winding ghats from our hotel for a good one hour before we stopped at another hotel to pick up two of our other companions. It began to pour as we waited in the car for the couple to make an appearance.

Inhibition began to creep in as sheets of rain hit the windshield ahead of us. After a good half an hour later, at about 3 30 am, the couple ran towards our car huddled under a windcheater. The two apologised profusely and admitted to have forgotten altogether about their booking. The five of us tucked in with our windows rolled up and were on our way again.

Another half an hour of climbing later, we were met with a huge sign board that said Welcome to Mount Batur, or some such. We halted at what smelled like a coffee farm and saw various groups of trekkers chit-chatting and stuffing down some breakfast. Not a brown person in sight, we noted.

As many of the others began to leave, our party of four was served banana pancakes and black coffee. We ate and drank in big gulps. We were then asked to board the car once again.

The rain had turned into a lazy drizzle by now and a soft wind began to blow. We drove a bit under the huge sign and stopped at a large ground. It had a tin-roof office of the association of guides at Mount Batur at one end of it and toilets at the other. Our driver introduced us to our guide for the trek, a broad-smile, local, 15-year-old girl, who’d take us to our sunrise.

She handed us bright flashlights before we were on our way. Our group was a bit behind the 100-odd trekkers making the ascend that morning, so we walked briskly from the word go.

It was hardly a climb in the beginning. The path was broad and covered with loose black volcano soil. I remarked to my husband that this it was going to be easy-peasy if the roads are so broad and only slightly tilting. But somehow, he asked me to wait and watch.

Eventually, our Australian friends kept pace with our nimble guide but we started to lag behind. About 45 minutes into the climb, the real trek began. We took more water and gasping-for-air breaks as the path began to narrow and get steeper.

We passed silhouettes of various crops dancing in the wind and dodged quite a few stray rocks on the way. We were leaving the vast landscape behind quite steadily. Soon enough, we had caught up with the other groups that had left ahead of us and our guide met more and more of her friends.

An hour into the trek, my lungs threatened to collapse. The husband had a six-kilo backpack with his camera and equipment and was really sweating it out too. The night sky was still above us and the many stars twinkled at intervals.

Somewhere towards what seemed the end, there was a sudden incline in the terrain and only one person would climb at a time. Many other guides, who were easily half our ages, chatted with us on the way to the top. They wanted to know where we were from and what we doing in their land. They were most friendly. But with the barely there level of oxygen, I mostly stuck to sign language to respond.

At about 6 am, we were all asked to rush up. It was only 20 minutes till the sunrise and we could miss it at no cost. Our guide requested one of her friends, a boy of 14, to help us get to the summit while she went ahead with the other couple. Yup, Indians don’t climb mountains! How ironic. What with the Himalayas across our border and all.

Sun's on the way.

After a lot of slipping, and skidding, and skinning my palms, and what seemed like a life time, we were atop the mountain at 6 15am. After all that rain and scary weather in the past few days, the horizon seemed quite clear.

It is the worst to have cold wind dry your sweat but we were too distracted by the slow and steady sunrise behind Mount Agung ahead of us. As the first morning light broke, we had a clear view of Lake Batur by the feet of the mountain, edged with fields in various shades of green.

Nature brings you - Sun!

And then, just like that, the sun was up even as an ominous sheet of dark clouds glided towards it. The climb was well worth it. A few minutes of frantic photo-clicking ensued and we settled in to enjoy the view. Just for the drama, a mass of clouds decided to engulf everything in our line of vision and it seemed like we were floating in the sky for a while.

This can happen too.

All in all, this trek is highly recommended, honeymoon or not. Make sure you have trekking shoes on, or ones with a great grip, because the soil is fine and loose. You may sweat climbing up but you’re going to need a jacket at the top. Water and sunscreen are important too as it’s going to get hot during the two-hour-long descend. 

On our way down. Such a beauty.

Phantasm

As the cultural leader and representative of my course and institute in Mumbai, I could legitimately bunk class and participate in every college festival. This fantasy story was written for Sophia College's annual fest when I was in the second year of my course. We had to pick a fairy tale of our choice and give it a modern twist. Here's what I wrote:

Judy first noticed the four discoloured patches on the ceiling. Then, she noticed the spider crawl up the wall beside her bed. And then, she screamed.

“Okay, Judy; one last push,” the nurse seemed bored but alert.

Judy mustered all the strength she could, and pushed with all her might. She hated the man who was putting her through this even more now. But her eagerness to see her baby was only growing.

“It’s a girl!” the nurse announced and cocooned the baby with a white blanket. With moist eyes, Judy carefully wrapped her arms around the little bundle of joy. The first feature she registered saw was this: the sun shone in through the window and highlighted a perfect golden crop of hair above her baby’s deep blue eyes.

“So, decided on a name yet?” the nurse had snapped the new mom back to reality. Judy looked deep into her new born's eyes and pushed a few strands of hair away from them; then she smiled and nodded.

                                                                         xxx

Judy had promised to give her daughter everything and more. Their life was more than comfortable, thanks to a hefty inheritance. She did everything to insure her child would never make any of the mistakes Judy had lived to regret. Rapunzal’s future was bright and nothing would stand between her and a perfect happily ever after.

Being born to a world-renowned artist had had its perks for Judy, until she had decided to fall madly in love with the wrong man. A messy divorce later, Rapunzal was the only direction Judy needed to help her get by.

This turning point of her life was a sure sign from the force. Most so, she believed that the magnificent golden-brown hair was no stroke of genes or heritage. It was a sign. All Judy had asked from her beloved daughter was to keep the hair. The locks had brought good times and luck, and so, they stayed. Rapunzal had agreed.

                                                                      xxx

Rapunzal adjusted her Gucci sunglasses and squinted towards the blazing sun. She was relaxing on her private beach this weekend. Rubbing an extra bit of lotion onto her body, she removed her valuables and made her way to the clear-blue sea. What a mood setter this water was, she concluded. Dabbing herself with a bright pink towel minutes later, she noticed her phone deep awkwardly.

“Trish! Where have you been!?” she squealed as soon as she answered; her laughter hitting a high pitch. “Yes, yes. A lot has been going on. A bit unnerving, yes. You know how it is. We need to talk. By the way, how was London!?" As the only person who had her mother's full approval from the get-go, Trish was Rapunzal’s best friend.

Like every detail in Rapunzal's life so far, her life after her imminent high-school graduation was chalked out and ready for launch. But like every other decision, she didn’t want to gulp down what was planned for her this time. She wanted to throw up. 

Having every wish fulfilled in return for obedience never seemed like a bad barter.  But the thought of leaving high school, the town of Brishineberg, and certain people behind, had begun to prick. She tugged at her hair, scrawling. Certain people? Chris.

They went to the same school and had met a party two years ago They were inseparable since then. He was the son of a hardworking plumber who'd taken several loans to ensure his intelligent son went to the best school. He had no mother.

Rapunzal and him shared an interest for the same courses and had reached a compromise for the same extra-curricular activities too. Anything beyond that was not permissible. She knew the rules and always abided by them. Her mother would only read "hardworking" as "poor" and "penniless".

But over time she had formed a special bond with him and this had gained momentum, instead of dying down. Trish would help her. There was a plan. Life seemed so clear and simple unfolding itself right beyond the fluttering waves that kissed the shore and retraced themselves before her eyes. She smiled and grabbed a towel. It was all going to end well.

“You dhonth say!” muffled Trish in between bites of tiramisu. “ Yes! I do say! She is my mother and she will understand!” Rapunzal tried her best to sound convincing even if it was only to herself. “ Listen,” cut in Trish, finishing the tiramisu and sounding serious. “ I hope you know where you’ll be getting at with this... this confession of sorts! Chances are you’ll be disowned! That to from this gorgeous mansion! Is it really worth it!?” Trish tried hard to reason but Rapunzal, tossing her hair into a pony and putting on a shrug, just smiled in reply.

                                                                                xxx

Judy was half-way through Painting the Right Picture: An Artist's Voice when she heard her study's door gently shut. She looked over the book and adjusted her posture on the leather sofa. Rapunzal stood before her, stooped back with each hand over the other, in front of her. Judy sat up. She knew this body language well. Her daughter only stood this way when she was about to break news of causing trouble. Like the time she had cut the garden pipe into bits to test the sharpness of her new scissors.

What trouble could she have caused now?

"Mom," Rapunzal began, "we need to talk."

                                                                                 xxx

The discussion between righteous mother and teenage daughter began to turn into an ugly brawl soon after. In between muffled cries and shrieking howls, Judy decided to drive off and Rapunzal, feeling her heart being wrenched out of her chest.

She threw herself of her soft bed and cried till her head hurt. It may have been well into the night when she sat up and wiped her tears. She was angry, hurt, and irrational. She got off her bed and went all the way to the basement. There, she slowly opened the storage closet.

It hadn’t come to use, that phenol bottle, until Rapunzal drank it without a flinch. “I’m sorry, mum” was all that escaped her.

                                                                                    xxx

Judy's car pulled into the driveway about half an hour after the incident. The servants were dreaming sweetly in their quarters, oblivious to the catastrophe that awaited the house.

She had decided to reason with Rapunzal and meet Chris. She understood the cost of love too well, and that she could not protect her daughter for ever. Maybe Chris would make a good man after all.

Musing to herself with a slight smile of her face, she entered the house to be hit by a strong smell of floor-cleansing liquid.

Following the acidic smell, she switched on the light in the basement and felt the ground below her feet tug away.

Kneeling beside her daughter’s cold body. Her life passed her by. What had it been worth? Making the perfect life for someone else, when she could not even make a perfect life for herself? Was it her exceedingly pushy attitude that had driven away the man she loved and that too only because he was no match to her father? Tears streamed down her face rapidly as all these thoughts revolved around her was fantasm. It was now pulling her away.

She stood up and made her way back to the main door robotically.  What had she done? Why had the perfect ending driven her to such hysterical levels? A million questions flooded her mind.

She kept walking now hitting the sandy beach. The moon radiated the skies above giving them a perfect gleam. The moon gave its light to all of what was plunged in darkness. She wished she were the moon. The cold water hit her feet as she embraced the waves. That was how it would end. The stars shone and the moon spread its light. They all lived happily ever after.

PS: I have a certificate that says the above won first prize. I hope to develop the story and characters further, sometime.

How to study for a master's degree

I've not touched this post too much. It's mostly as I wrote it back then. It may have been written a little after the birthday I mentioned; it made me laugh. Beautifully exhibits my unchanged level of patience since I was born, well, at seven months.

My first white hair

The University of Mumbai hates my guts. I’m almost certain that some hideous goblin goes out of his way to schedule exams around my birthday. I’ve so far donated at least three birthdays to the cause of academics. Speaking of hitting the books (pun may be intended), I remember things much better when I know I am allowed to forget them. The minute my brain is made aware that it must remember what I’m reading, it refuses to comply.

So, coming straight to the point, the last two hurdles before the finish line to my master’s degree were scheduled a day before and the day after my 23^rd birthday
(See? Told you!). 

I sulked, whined and threw multiple tantrums, at work and at home, to gather as much sympathy as I could. After everyone had patted me on the back, fed me my favorite food, and continued watching the TV like nothing had happened (read: my mother), I decided to seriously get on Google and check my subjects out.

I spent two whole weeks (unpaid leave, no less) slaving over the works of TS Eliot, William Blake/Wordsworth/Yeats and what have you, trapped inside my little room.

I trust that you, as a well-educated and refined reader, are familiar with the fact that: No exam preparation is complete without struggling with the concentration level of a sandwich. And I was in no mood to challenge any well-established fact. 

I revived my Twitter account, dusted my book closet, and even developed a keen interest toward my hair.

The last exercise made me a little sad. It wasn’t bouncy anymore. Was I loosing hair? I was sure there used to be more of it. Was that a split end? Wait-a-minute. Is that a…white…HAIR!?

When I first saw this shiny strand dancing in the light, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I twirled a bunch of hair around my finger, and looked closely. There it was, my first-ever, full-length, whitish-grey hair.

I was fascinated by how well it had blended in with the rest of my mane. I sat in my chair for a while, thinking about the hair. I thought of the various coming-of-age poems I was reading. I could almost feel that moment guiding me toward the threshold I'd have to cross from being young, wild, and free to getting smart, erudite, and mature...

Well, almost. This reverie may have lasted at least half a minute before I wrapped my finger around the strand and yanked it out – follicle and all. I examined it a little more, poked it around and tested its elasticity, à la Sunsilk’s ad.

I jumped off my chair and purposefully marched out of the room. Strand clutched tightly in hand, I went straight to the kitchen and chucked it into the bin.

I'd deal with all the thinking later, it was positively time to get some grub.  

Why I write (and read)

I found a few old scribbles. It may have been five years or so since I wrote this post. Each word still holds true, even though my style of writing may have changed. Here's how I got to read, and eventually write. It's about the foundation I'm building a tower on today.

Daddy is a conspicuous bibliophile

I’ve spent every summer from the age of 3 to 18 in Kuwait. I remember being surrounded by books in all shapes and sizes, stacked up in boxes or resting on shelves that hugged the walls of the spare room. My dad is a reader.

Mom, an official of the Clean Squad, would hand us a duster and lock us away in the room, with the promise of biryani. Daddy, armed with the cleaning cloth and his reading glasses, would sit in a little corner and patiently sift through each of his prized possessions. He would eagerly want to show me all of his hundred-odd James Hardly Chase novels at once but he'd begin by grabbing my attention with the colourful pictures in his treasured National Geographic magazines; ones that date back at least 30 years. 

This routine would play out as soon as Mummy would find Daddy ambling about at home over the weekend. There was only one thing for him to do—something, anything about the books! We would then quickly scamper to his little library (poorly disguised as my visiting room) and begin with the tidying. 

Come to think of it, that was when little me—in my PJs and bob cut—was hooked on to the myriad worlds that awaited bound between spines in all sizes. Those sessions introduced me to the whiff of old books and my father’s fondness for the written word.

He would ever-so-tenderly empty one over-flowing carton at a time, and wipe clean the thin film of dust on the books’ covers—front, then back. He would then page through the introduction and read out when, and from where, he had gotten the book; a habit I’ve inherited. It made him so happy; I vividly remember it showing on his pink face.

We’d rearrange magazines as we spoke about his favourite genres—history, fiction, and mystery. He asked me what I liked to read best. I’d lamely manage the names of a few Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew novels I’d chanced upon in my school’s library. Now that I think of it, something triumphed inside him when we had these talks. He knew which one of his three little ones would inherit his treasures, when the time was right. 

To date, my father does not go to bed before he has read. It’s a virtue in his eyes, not to be loosely categorised as a habit. I have him to thank for so many things but our shared love for words on pages is number one. 

Mummy, on the other hand, silently stood at the doorway and smiled at her two crazy hoarders. The both of us have her to thank for completely understanding the obsession and oh-so lovingly humouring it.  

Post-script: This is the new bookshelf of my new life. I’ve been lucky to find a man, yet again, who is as obsessed with reading as my number one guy.