Itchy Feet

The beach at Chandrabhaga near Konark was a dull grey blanket when I reached there early in the morning, eyes half shut, mind still on "where-is-my-filter-coffee" mode. What ever happened to the "famous" East Coast Sunrise that I woke up at 5 a.m. for? The rain. That is what happened. Who has heard of rain in February? Where are we living, for heaven's sake? In London? *end of rant*

Chandrabhaga wore a deserted look, a few early morning types wetting their feet tentatively in the angry waters, creating enough noise to make up for their lack of numbers. I walked away from the group towards the fishing hamlet between the narrow road and the sea. I found small groups of fishermen sitting on their haunches, staring at the sea with desperate eyes. Are you not going in to the sea, I asked one of them in Hindi. I don't know if he understood my words, but he followed my hand pointing to the sea, and pointed towards the sky in return. Both hands up, a sign of despair.



I stood staring at the waves for a few minutes, mind a peaceful blank, unmindful of the cold wind playing havoc with my already sore throat and aching ears. The sea, in all its dreary tones, was still magnetic. As I headed back to the car park, the sun was just peeping out and the boats standing desolate on the shore suddenly seemed to get a life of their own. I turned back and saw a few of the fishermen already heading out into the sea. Good luck to them.



By the time I reached the temple at Konark, the sun had resumed its game of hide-and-seek and the skies were again colorless and pale. I seem to have a talent for choosing the most dismal days in the year for visiting the most beautiful places in the country - just perfect for that washed-out background in the photographs.

Admittedly, no sun is not the best way to visit the sun temple. But for all the dullness in the sky, the temple stands tall and majestic, inspiring awe without any effort.



I hired a guide to show me around the temple, eager to know more about its history and keen on not missing out the finer details. The guide starts off with the story that all such monuments have - about when and how it was built. Twelve hundred workmen toiled at it for twelve years, using up twelve year's worth of state revenue to build this magnificent temple. And as a fitting climax, a twelve year old master craftsman fixed the kalash at the top of the temple, a feat none of the other older more skilled workers could achieve - and jumped to his death into the sea, protecting the honor of the clan. To this day, the child's sacrifice haunts the temple, no puja has ever been carried out there. It stands proudly, much of it in ruin as a reminder of the grandeur that was. Even today, in all that ruin, there is a profusion of carving all around the temple, intricate and astonishing in detail. Animals, people, clothes, jewellery, even emotions and feelings... seeing them, one understands what made Rabindrabath tagore enthuse - here the language of stone surpasses the language of man...



It is believed that the temple was originally constructed right on the shore, till the sea receded a couple of kilometers sometime in the past. European sailors were said to use this black pagoda as a navigational point in the sea. The temple, as is well known, is dedicated to the sun god, Surya who resides there (says my guide) with his two wives Chhaya and Sandhya. The scorching, all-powerful sun with his soft, gentle consort - shade and evening. Heat and cool. Life and stupor.



And that is what Konark is all about. The never ending cycle, the ever moving rhythm of life. The East-West axis of the temple shaped like a chariot on twelve pairs of immense wheels, the rays of the sun following the circumference of the temple as the day progresses. The lower part of the temple walls carved with images of elephants and horses - for the child to enjoy. Right on top, where the gods anyway reside, are carvings of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, for the aged to look at.



The middle part, at eye level - for the young - is full of erotic carvings - man and woman, intimacy and togetherness, procreation, recreation. As natural and joyful as life itself. My guide spares no pains to point out the spicier carvings to me - lesbian, woman with animal, group sex - see, he tells me, all this has existed in India centuries ago. Foreigners take these ideas from us and they make films out of these. Chalk up one more for Global India.



Another recurring motif throughout is that of victory-defeat. Just as you are about to climb the steps to the natyamandapa, you are greeted by two statues ofn either side of the steps. There is a lion (signifying power), riding an elephant (connoting wealth), which is in turn trampling a man (standing for justice). What this means, my guide is unable to explain - is it to acknowledge and accept that justice wil be trampled upon by might and wealth? Or is this a metaphor for the eternal food chain... or is it meant to remind all visitors about the ephemeral quality of life?



Right towards the end of our tour, my guide points out this carving of a woman standing by the gate - she is all dressed up and waiting for her husband. He adds for good measure, in those days, women used to wait for their men. Nowadays, often men have to wait for the women to come back home.



I think of my husband waiting for me back in Bombay and feel a quick pang. I pay the guide his fee and head towards the exit when I stop. I want to go back for another round, this time on my own, just to take in the magnificence of it. Standing in the shadow of the temple, watching the huge wheel intently, it is almost possible to feel it move, taking you back in time with it. Close your eyes, and you can hear the waves crashing aginst the walls of the temple, eroding the sandstone slowly through the centuries.

Cochin has not changed a bit in all the years that I have been going there on work. True, the airport is larger, glitzier and farther than it used to be ten years ago. There is more chrome and glass all over the city, Subways and Coffee Days alongside the Dwarakas and smaller eating places of old. Mammooty and Mohanlal beam at you alternately from all the hoardings in the city. And then suddenly, near the old airport area, there is a faded hoarding with Amitabh Bacchan with a - do not throw your garbage out into the open. Why, I wonder...

I had a few hours in the morning before my flight to Bombay and I decided to explore the Fort Kochi area; the weather was cool by Kerala standards and I had a car with Jomon the driver eager to double up as local guide and broken-Tamil translator. We crossed many bridges, most of them built recently to make local it easier to travel through Cochin, with its many tiny islands now part of the main city. We then drove through narrow lanes, romba neraiyya humbu - too many humps - speedbreakers - on the road because of schools in the area, Jomon informed me seriously. Road humps notwithstanding, we narrowly missed being run down by a bus headed towards navel base at breakneck speed.

Fort Kochi could be charming; centuries of history and culture squeezed tight within a few square kilometers of narrow lanes all leading to the sea. Now there is garbage all over, there is kitsch all the way from Rajasthan, there is the dust and mud of of construction.



Empty coconut shells lie strewn all over the place, alongside lie empty boats, colorful in their fresh coats of paint but looking tired and just wanting to sleep through the heat of the day... Local guides take groups of foreigners around relating tales of the portugese and the chinese that sound too rehearsed to be true. Fishermen wait for foreigners to walk up to them before they start operating their fishing nets; only two hundred rupees madam, one of them told me, offering me a "dicsount rate" in honor of my Tamil.



Despite all this, Fort Kochi is charming. Just as you get off the car at the Vasco Da Gama (he is all over the place here), you catch sight of the chinese fishing nets waiting for you, waiting for the right tide to begin their descent into the sea. Picturesque and pretty, these nets which operate on a simple system, were brought all the way from China centuries ago. Many of them lie broken today, and my driver says that few local fishermen know how to repair them. Now they seem to act more as tourist traps rather than traps for fish.





Just down the road is St. Francis Church, built in 1503, some say by the Vasco man himself, definitely by the Portugese, in any case. The church is undergoing renovation work now, but despite the buzz of the cleaners and carpenters, there is a sense of peace and quiet inside. The high wooden ceilings and the brilliant stained glass have clearly withstood centuries of well-meaning renovation. On one side is a rectangle where Vasco Da Gama was said to be buried initially, before his remains were shipped off to Lisbon.





Just as I walk out of the church, a guide escorts a group of middle-aged English women, he leads them to a step where they can sit comfortably while removing their shoes. In India it is customary to remove shoes before entering any temple, he says in English that sounds more like Malayalam. It is amazing how India swallows up centuries of foreign influence, churches become temples and English is embraced in one fell swoop into the numerous local dialects and accents of the country.

My last stop was at the Dutch Palace, now also the local archaeological museum. The palace - museum, not as popularly mentioned as the fishing nets and the church, was a wonderful surprise. For an entry fee of Rs.2, I spent an hour gazing at the collection of arms and coins and palanquins, and more importantly the fascinating murals in the first floor and the basement (which is actually at ground level, but is reached by narrow steep steps from inside the museum). Most of the murals depict scenes and stories from the Ramayana. there is also one entire blank wall in the basement, where there was at some time in the past, murals depicting the entire Kumarasambhava by Kalidasa. It has now been sketched in black and displayed along with the information board.

The murals were breath-taking in their detail, with their rich vermillons and vibrant ochres and deep reds of vegetable dyes. The blues and indigos, so much a feature of mural work in the North, especially that associated with Rajasthan, were prominently missing here; only one solitary figure of Vishnu carried dark greens, which seemed too fresh to have been painted centuries ago. The basement also had an inside room filled with what can only be described as the Kamasutra of the gods; siva playing with vishnu-maya, parvati looking on in anger and envy in one; siva playing with parvati herself, seated on his lap, in another. Krishna in rasa leela, the gopis dancing intoxicated by love and lust for him.

The huge compound also contains a temple of the bhagavati, the protector deity of the rajas. The palace was built and presented by the Portugese to the Raja of Kochi, Vira Kerala Varma in 1555 AD. It came to be known as the Dutch Palace from 1663 after they carried out some renovations in the palace.



In all, a couple of hours well spent. Fort Kochi has more, notably the famous Jew Town, also home to the oldest Synagogue in the country, built in 1568. I intend to visit it the next time I am in Cochin. And also wait patiently to watch the chinese nets in action. Trapping fish and tourists alike cleverly.

The Dubai Shoppping Festival had just began - earlier than usual - when I went to Dubai. And it was the weekend before Christmas. Half the world seemed to have landed in Dubai at that time, to shop, and shop some more. One crazy evening at the maddeningly crowded Mall of Emirates, and I decided to stay away from the mall-mess.

I hopped on to an open top bus that Sunday and explored Dubai on foot, by bus and by boat. I discovered more "shopping" opportunities in Dubai - the souks, or local markets, filled with the sounds and smells of the Middle East and South Asia. Tiny shops selling incense sticks and pictures of goddess Lakshmi. And cheerful yellow marigold flowers that belong right in any shop lining the main street leading to the large temple in any town in South India. And then the ads on the walls announcing "bed space available for Tamil Bachelor. Please contact..." it is possible to close your eyes and wonder for a minute about where you are.




I walked through narrow winding lanes, each sharp turn leading into narrower lanes, each filled with some sort of "speciality goods" or the other. These souks seem right out of the distant past, with their deep red high arches and wooden lanterns that bring the lanes alive after the world outside gets dark. For these souks represent a world inside another world.



The shop-keepers along these souks seemed to be as much of detached observers s we, the tourists were. Chatting among themselves, sipping glass after steaming glass of fragrant tea, they seemed to know the real buyer from the rest of the interested crowd. Most often, they simply ignored your presence, or welcomed you into their little group of gossiping men with a smile.





Silks and cotton, spices and nuts, silver and gold... Large air-conditioned shops, their windows glittering with all the gold on show, and small roadside stalls, their wares seeming to wink at your right out of the tall rickety tables on which they are displayed.







Surely, there is a lot to buy in Dubai!

***

Note : Here is my earlier post on Dubai on Itchy Feet- Dubai and the -est obsession

Pointing out through the window of his living room, G said, See that building there, the one with all the cranes.... that is going to be the tallest building in the world. I am guessing the look on my face said 'how interesting, yaaaaawn'. Dubai is suddenly obsessed with being and building the largest, the biggest, the mostest, he explained. The new airport coming up is supposed to be the largest in the world. There we go again, I thought.

The next day, on the open top hop-on-hop-off bus, the guide shreiked into the mike at intervals of five minutes, pointing and waving franctically (she was in a state of feverish excitement, you must understand) - this building you see is going to be the tallest in the world when it is completed in 2009. And she added, there is provision on the top to add on more floors in case any other building in the world overtakes this one, so our Dubai always has the tallest building in the world. How reassuring.

Then we were treated to the sight of the eighth tallest building in the world, the guide trilling on with the names and exact heights of each of the seven taller than this one. No, I do not exaggerate. The heights, down to the last inch or whatever it takes to be on that list.

This is a land obsessed with creating. And why not? the city itself was created out of nothingness - this lot of buildings here, this was just sand two years ago... And to think I found Singapore fake. Everything in Dubai is created to attract attention - snow and ski slopes inside a shopping mall, Christmasy decorations and teddy bears (or were they polar bears?) in red coats singing Merry Christmas in an Islamic country, a hotel built on reclaimed land to resemble a sail-boat (this, the Burj Al Arab, incidentally is not among the -est buildings, but it does happen to be the only seven star hotel in the world. So there).






But I am not complaining. I loved it all... Camels in pink and yellow, the dumb looks on their faces intact in The Camel Company. Breath-taking sunsets along the beach, the sails of the Burj Al Arab hotel, magically opening up to the sun in front of your eyes.





The creek with its traditional abras (tiny taxi boats) ferrying locals in a hurry and tourists with all the time on their hands across. Old and new mosques with tall minarets reaching to the very skies, the sun sitting like the flame on top of a candle, and beautful detailing in blue on the walls (with a lift inside to get to the top floor!)







I cheerfully gave the desert safari a miss, keeping my tender back in mind. Instead, I hopped on to the tour bus and spent the day riding around the city, taking in the smells and sounds. And the unexpected bursts of colors everywhere in the desert city. And shivering slightly in the chilly breeze in the middle of the day. I spent the evenings at eating places by the creek, watching the city lights twinkle in the distance, looking up suddenly to catch the fireworks that go off in the city every night during the DSF.



Dubai is full of these surprises. Ignore the obvious, the cliches that Dubai has been selling hard and fast for a long time now - yes, even the shopping - scratch a little deeper and there is a surprisingly modest and fun Dubai.

Note : Did I say ignore the shopping? Expect my next post Dubai or not to buy up on Itchy Feet as soon as I find the time for it.

***
Update : Read Jai Arjun's Dubai Nuggets for more on Dubai's state of perpetual wannabeness. ...This is bizarrely appropriate, for more than anything else Dubai gives the impression of being perpetually in labour, straining to produce one of the great metropolises-cum-tourist centres.

***
One more note : as promised - Dubai or not to buy? finally on Itchy Feet

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

---Walt Whitman - Song of the Open Road



Sometimes... the road takes you far far away, sets you free, lets you explore, allows you to discover... youself.

Roads.

They let you get away. From the smoke and the dust. From the noise. From the heaviness in your heart.



Sometimes, they take you home... after a long tiring day. When you just want to not think about the hard journey but the warmth that lies at the end of it.

Sometimes you walk with a spring in your step, head looking up, mind looking ahead. Or with your head bent. Counting the concrete squares on the pavement. Noticing the way the water creeps into the tiniest cracks on the side. And try to forget.

Often, you stand in front of two. Or more. And wonder which way lies happiness. Fulfilment. Which way is just the right one? And even long after you have chosen, you never know...



They tease and tantalise... and constantly surprise... what is in store at the turn?



The sun high above your head. The wind on your cheeks, sometimes the raindrops on your hands... You walk, drive, smell the flowers and the fumes and find your destination in the company of a friend.

And then sometimes, you walk alone...



Is it any wonder then that I love being on the road?

My overnight trip aboard Superstar Libra was everything I had imagined and hoped it would be... The idea was to go some place far away from Diwali crackers and the smoke that gets in your eyes and throat and refuses to leave it is time for you to go back to work after the holidays (last minute tense question to husband - they wouldn't burst crackers on a ship, would they? husband seeing the printed program and answering in a distracted manner - well, they seem to have a Diwali theme party on later tonight... that, that, should have warned me, but never mind that for now).



I had hoped to leave behind on shore all stress, forget about work, completely unwind, stare at the water, sleep under the stars... where no mobile signal can interrupt your pleasant dreams with "before all networks get jammed, here is an early diwali wish for you, may your life sparkle like those bright..." you know what I mean. I had also hoped that my husband would not discover his long forgotten sea sickness and decide to throw up all over the place the minute we set sail, Thailand memories still green in our minds (pun intended somewhat, but only if you think it is funny) - (no, he did not - he just developed a fever and a grumpy look as a result, poor man).

In short, a quiet, peaceful relaxing holiday.

Quiet? Did I say quiet? I actually got quite a few things I did not expect. Jain cuisine at all meal times and Himesh rocking through the night, just to name the most painful of those. It turned out that Libra had a truckload of travel agents (SOTC? one of them asked me during the emergency drill that took place in the first few minutes after I got on. What, do I look like SOTC??, I stared in reply) who had been invited for a free ride so they could in turn pass on the PR to their clients. Who, surprise surprise, were mostly the Jain-cuisine-eating, pocketfuls-of-moneyed, Gujarati-loudly-speaking, Himesh-loving variety... They who have the money call the shots, said a wise friend when I cribbed about it the next day.

Indeed they do.

The first I noticed anything amiss was when I went all the way up to deck 10 (the terrace, so to say) just after we started sailing, in the hope of enjoying a quiet drink. And then the skies erupted - it sure felt that way to me - to the strains of jhalak dikhla ja. The DG, bless the man, a Philipino promising more of the stuff and those pretty young things in small skirts, (one of them Rina, all the way from China) circulating among the crowd which was straining at the leash to get at the poolside barbecue, and pullling people on to the dance floor. At Just chheeell, cheeelll, just cheeeelll... I started to walk away in search of a quieter spot.



Just to get you to speed on how I got to deck 10, here is the flashback. Superstar Libra has started sailing from Mumbai since last year. We got on the ship Friday evening for a cruise that was to take us into the seas off Bombay and get us back the next day at 2 p.m. We 'checked in' rather late, which was just after 6 p.m. for the cruise that was to start at 8. We had a cabin, I am embarrassed to say, at deck 2, which I figured was only slightly above the level of the water, a cabin so tiny that one look at it and we decided that this was not the best thing for two generously built people. We put our combined brains to the problem and finally figured out a way to manage. One of us would lie down on the tiny bunk while the other contorted the body and stood / walked to the tinier loo - which incidentally, has a shower and a hair-dryer and soap / shampoo dispenser and the works. A miniature marvel, that is what it was. And then the other would lie down... Finally, the experience gained from years and years of squeezing in and out of Mumbai locals paid off. (Apparently, there are larger cabins with bathrooms that have bath tubs inside and large windows looking out into the sea on decks above but that is for the seriously rich and the travel agents).

The lift took us all the way to deck 9, with the swimming pool and the jacuzzi tubs and the restaurants and the bars. And also alas! to the DJ and the Himace-bhai and the ultra-cute, namaste, bahoot accha hai female crew. Starters and drinks in hand, we walked all the way to the end of the ship, far away from the noise, where the only sound was that of the Titanic tune hammering loudly inside my head... Hush. And then silence... This was more like what I had imagined. There is no feeling of movement till you look down at the sea and see the ship cutting rapidly through the waters.



More exploration took us to the shop (where you can buy Star Cruises souvenirs at unbelievably high prices), the spa and the beauty parlour and the other restaurants and clubs inside the ship. It also took us to deck 4 through which we had entered the ship - where now, a sad little band was playing soulful music. I looked up and was startled - pictures of goddess lakshmi and ganesha all over. And paper, plastic garlands. And two tiny, bright little idols of Radha and Krishna right next to the band.



Why? Oh why? I had not noticed all this at the time of entry, as I had been busy trying to avoid being photographed with a couple of extremely brightly and scantily dressed dancers. We ate in peace at the Continental restaurant (which also serves, among things, Jain Continental. Actually I don't know that - I didn't notice any sign boards to this effect) which serves a passably decent set meal.



We ended up on the dot of 11 at some club or the other for the promised gala diwali party, cheerfully giving the "production show" (what on earth is a p.s.?) a miss. Different DJ, same south east asian girls (having quickly changed from short skirts to silky saris) - chaalo chaalo, come and dance, same music - just cheeelll cheelll. Well, there was a topless "erotic" show on the cards at midnight but I figure my husband and I had the same thought - of south east asian girls dancing topless to aashiq banaya aapne remix - since we did not consider going for that show.

And so went the night...



The best part of the cruise for me was early the next morning - I was up at 5.30 and out on deck 10. And for a full 45 minutes, I had the ship all to myself. Not a soul except the man cleaning the deck who smiled and said good morning and left me to my own devices. Coffee cup in hand, I stood at the railings watching the water under the ship, now pitch black, now glittering a pale green in the lights of the ship. Just me and the sea gulls who refused to be photographed. And slowly, slowly, in front of my eyes, first a patch of shy pink, some purples thrown in... and finally yellows and orange.





A wonderful half hour in the "hot tub"- jacuzzi - and an exotic breakfast of upma and idli (no, serious - jain idli at that) later, hubby and I found empty deck chairs, pulled them under the shade and proceeded to vegetate. We must have definitely started sprouting roots since we were left alone when all else around us were being dragged in to "exerdance" classes and jackpot tambola games. Such joy. We dragged ourselves out of the deck chairs at noon, went exploring again, duly shopped for Star Cruise souvenirs (hey, there was a discount on them, so there), waddled towards lunch and went back to our cabins to pack and get ready to get off. We had a short wait for the port to give the ship clearance where a man in white shorts came on stage to entertain us and kept asking us in turn to come up on stage and dance. He also kept asking us to crack jokes - but only veg ones please - no, he seriously said that. And then we were on the gangway getting off into the heat and dust of Diwali in Bombay. The end of our first cruise.

In all, a wonderful time, the Hindi remixes and mostly bad food (jain or otherwise) eaay to ignore in light of the otherwise relaxed and pampered feel. Superstar Libra has longer cruises to Goa and Lakshadweep. And my husband and I definitely intend to take one of those soon. And this time, definitely on a higher deck, in a larger cabin. We intend to dress up as travel agents and see if we can wrangle a free ride, if not, well, the money is very worth it.

***
Related post - Some thoughts on - Going local... to what extent? on my Mindspace blog

If days in Delhi are about long hot cab rides with drivers insisting on playing CDs of Kumar Sanu hits, or have the FM stations belting out the latest Hindi filmi hits, the nights are almost magical. The heat of the day is gone, there are early signs of winter in the air. As most of New Delhi is slowly drifting to sleep, Old Delhi continues to bustle with chaos. Traffic piles up at 10 p.m. on a Sunday night at the intersection outside the Red Fort, horns blare with abandon and fist fights threaten to break out any moment.

The fort meanwhile has shut for the day for visitors, but is illuminated, coyly waiting for the sound and light show to commence. We walk through group after group of policemen, and barricade after yellow barricade (which incidentally, I do not grudge since they serve me very well in the absence of a tripod).



I stop in front of Lahore Gate for this crooked view at the majestic fort, making a mental note to return sometime during the day. More metal detectors and frisks later, we are suddenly walking through the covered bazaar which now boasts of some of the ugliest touristy trash that can be found in Delhi...



And well inside the fort, we sit in the open, facing the diwan-e-khas, watching the lights dance and the sounds roll through the open spaces; the laughter of women at the all-women Thursday bazaar, Shah Jahan's vision for the Taj, Aurangazeb's bigoted pronouncements all the way to the call for independence early last century. We shiver slightly in the nippy air, as the son-et-lumiere brings alive centuries of Mughal Delhi.



We walk out after the show, hurried along by the slightly impatient securitymen who are waiting to lock up behind us and leave for the day. A quick dinner and a strange desire for late night ice-cream at India Gate expressed by the husband later, we find ourselves at the said gate.



India Gate is strangely dark and inaccessible; more policemen, more yellow barricades. However, all around is activity - balloon sellers and buyers, icecream vendors on their cycles and icecream eaters, photographers and the photographed, cops going round and round in their vans, children at their loudest best and couples very quiet on the lawns...



Bahut sari tasveeren khichvayi hai humne... I have had lots of pictures taken, said the balloon man, feigning great reluctance, and promptly putting his hands out and his smile on for this perfect pose. All is almost well with the world, if I can bring myself to ignore the number of security checks and police vans I encountered in a single evening...

In sunny Goa, not all signboards are scary. Some of them are well, interesting...



I hung around for a bit hoping to meet the John massagist (from Delhi) himself. And then figured out that if he is 'gents', chances are he would meet only other 'gents'...

And while on Goa, here is a relevant if cheesy line I came across - Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take; but by the moments that take your breath away... Which leads smoothly to these moments which almost did...

There is cricket in Goa. Match on a hot Sunday morning, complete with a small stadium, spectators and commentators...

And then there the more serious business of football. On the roads, in the playgrounds, in schools. Even in hoardings. Everywhere...

You are in Goa and you are not cheering for football??



Hot? Who says it is hot? 11 am on a Saturday morning, these kids were plaing football and screaming their lungs out. Notice that some of them are actually playing barefoot. Ouch! Just watching them made me tired....



Can you spot the football in the air?

Abrupt cessation of sport when one of the kid spots me. Time out under the tree to discuss the stranger with the camera. Play not to resume till she moves away.

So long as we are telling you what not to do, we thought we may as well tell you this too - do not abuse children



I mean... what?

Spotted across Goa beaches and snapped at Palolem finally...

Snapped in more than one way. Picture this - group of drunk bare-chested, beer-bellied, white under-weared (yuck, don't even let me get started on this one) Indian men playing leer-leer on the beach. Young white mom in swimsuit and very pretty little girl (not older than six) in pink swimwear playing on the sand, building castles, complete with pink pail and shovel. Men watch for over ten minutes, as they frolick like fat dolphins who have lost their way and landed on the shore, and found paradise there.

Little girl cannot bear the midday heat and takes off top while mom just just gone to fetch a bottle of water. And suddenly one of the men rush towards the girl with camera in hand. I start to scream, hey you cant do that - while mom returns and with a firm shake of her head, refuses to allow the budding photographer to click a picture of the kid.

And before you jump up and tell me how much I am over-reacting, please read this. And this. And many many other such discussions that I keep coming across. And also open your eyes and see the world around you carefully. It must be scary being a parent in today's world...