Korigad Fort by Kavita Shivdasani 11/10/2014

Korigad 11/10/2014 by Kavita Shivdasani

It was trekking time again. About a fourth of the class signed up out of which a fourth chickened out last minute with the usual excuses of, “had viral infection”, “has a bad cough so I am sure he will puke”, “it is too hot”, “you guys are leaving too early” and so on and so forth. So finally we were left with a grand total of sixteen kids. To quote my long suffering bus driver Kaalu “pehle toh pachaas seater bus kam parta tha aur ab pachees seater bhi khali lagta hai…”

Two mums Geeta and Anju, decided to brave it out as assistants along with my trekking resource personnel Prashant and Ameya. While the kids entertained themselves on the bus journey to our trekking destination Korigad Fort the two mums and myself gossiped about my hey days when it was normal to have nothing less than two and a half bus loads (about 80 – 120 ) of kids accompanied by enterprising and plucky mums to destinations in and around Bombay. In fact our explorations had taken us to places like Vada for rappelling and river crossing, Nashik to check out the paper mills, its history, Dahanu for the chickoo orchards, bee keeping and visiting the gold jewellery mould makers, Asoo village to hobnob with the gram panchayat, watch “kushti” and understand the workings of the village market committee, Badlapur for night star gazing, Karla Caves in Lonavala, Nath Gufa for trekking and more.

Anju whose older one had attended the KYE classes in those golden years enlightened Geeta that I used to be “three times more aggressive and crazy” in those days. I confess I definitely did the description justice. It was the days when cell phones were a thing of the future and the only way I could keep track of the second and third bus was standing at the head of the first bus staring out of the rear window. If I lost sight of the following vehicles I would order Kaalu the driver of the lead bus to halt until the others caught up. If it took longer (in my opinion) than necessary I could be seen performing a war dance demanding to know why the other two drivers were being lackadaisical. A loud whistle was an effective way to silence a busload of equally vociferous kids and efficiently communicate what was expected of them. Anyone who did not toe the line was in for some big time trouble.

For indoor class no one was allowed to enter class late and since most of them never wanted to miss class lateness was a rare occurrence. Pinakin Thakker once scaled the locked gate of New Era School from the Huges Road side to get to class on time. The normal entry point was from the Tejpal Lane but that was the longer way in and he would have been late. However the irate watchman caught him by the scruff of his neck and the time lost in evading the captor cost him the advantage he had gained from the illegal entry not to mention all the unmentionable remarks from my end when I finally opened the class door at break time. Pinakin chose to hang around and brave the watchman and me instead of scooting home – a pointless expenditure of energy -because he knew full well his mom Dolly would send him scooting right back to face me.

New parents would wait for admission time and huge crowds of mums would “gherao” me and demand to know if there was a vacancy for their child. Each mum would compete for attention by tapping my shoulder or yanking my arms as I struggled with my mile long waiting list. Alok Nanda the creative head of Trikaya would wait patiently at the periphery of this heaving mass of ladies hoping his kid had made it on the admissions list. I would helplessly shake my head in regret. Alok would stoically return each trimester until he finally hit pay dirt exactly nine months later – the time it takes to conceive and deliver a baby.

Today I seem to be spending time tugging parents to encourage their children to participate in KYE activities. As Anju aptly stated “my life has completed a full circle”.

If on-line posts are anything to go by it would appear the latest trend is to holiday in five star resorts posing with the food, in front of the pool or carefully manicured lawns or the elegantly styled hotel in the background. Ah not to forget the children receiving life lessons pretending to be “dabbawallas” in the air conditioned play malls with a Rs. 4000/- per head entry charge.

But I believe nothing can be more magical than watching the kestrel with wings outstretched, buoyed by invisible thermal energy, suspended motionless below the blue sky and above the highest point of the fort.

And I know nothing can outshine the melodious call of the barbet or the mating chorus of the cicadas as we headed up the hill side.

And I believe nothing could exceed the exhilaration of the wind rushing by as we stood just below the Ganesh Darwaza entry into the Korigad Fort and Prashant our trekking guide had to hold onto 4 year old Mahi with one hand and his hat with the other, so both would not fly away.

And as we stared mesmerized, I know nothing could surpass the simple beauty of the measureless expanse of long grass continuously undulating in the breeze like silvery green ocean waves

And I believe nothing could go beyond the pain of walking over the hot sharp stone to the ultimate and exquisite pleasure of the cool and healing waters of the lakes inside the Korigad Fort.

Random Thoughts by Kavita Shivdasani uploaded 24/8/2014

Shikhandi was born Shikhandini. However her father had been promised a son by Shiva. So unable to accept that the child was a girl she was re-named Shikhandi, dressed as a boy and ingrained with all the qualities befitting a mighty prince. As I re-read the tale I recalled an entry I had made in my journal last year.

The discussion was on foeticide and tests like a sonography that helped to determine the child’s gender. The children were in the age range of 6 - 8 years. The point being “how do you know whether the fetus was a girl or boy?”

The conversation meandered thus

Child 1: “boys wear shorts.”

Child 2: “I wear shorts too and I am a girl”

The suggestions ranged from long/short hair, voice, games they played and so on and so forth but nothing held up especially when I decided to intervene and bung a really large spanner in the works – “remember the baby is in the mom’s womb and cannot be heard, does not wear clothes, play games …”

Some gentle nudging was required to steer the thought processes towards the desired direction. “How do boys urinate?” I asked.

Girl Child 3: “Oooh from that pipe like thing.”

Girl Child 4: “it looks like a tap.”

Girl Child 5: “yes I have seen bhaiya pull down his zip and do susu…”

Enlightenment dawned for the girls with brothers and boy cousins. The girl children were definitely one step ahead of the boys since although the boys realized that the girls did not have the “pipe like thing” or “tap” I am not sure if the boys figured out how the girls relieved themselves.

I decided not to pursue the matter and called it a day since it was time to go home.

Long ago when Kartik Maheshwari and the Punjabi boys were about 8 or 9 years old a deep discussion raged in class on death and the soul talk. This was the outcome of my narration of The Bhagvad Gita using the Amar Chitra Katha version by good old Uncle Pai.

Child 1: When you die you go to God.

Child 2: How is that possible?

Child 1: your body flies to God.

Child 3: No, No your body is burnt but your soul goes to God.

Mystified looks were directed at me. While I tried to formulate an appropriate explanation of the soul Child 4 piped up, “your soul is everything about you. No one can see it or know it except God and you”.

Ranchodbhai.............by Kavita Shivdasani

Ranchodbhai….. Renowned as “Boy” an alias which was his inimitable identity right up to the time he withdrew from our services at the grand old age of 75 years. Hailing from a remote village in Gujrat he was little under six feet, upright, lean, tough, dark skinned with tiny twinkling eyes set deep in a face creased with candor and loyalty.

Boy was always immaculately clad in a starched white drill cloth Nehru Jacket with shiny brass buttons, white trousers, gleaming black boots the entire ensemble crowned by a Gandhi ‘topi’.

We inherited Boy and the beautiful rosewood dining room furniture when father who worked for a British firm - with all the trappings of the Raj - was posted in Bombay. The Company provided us a spacious dwelling in an exclusive part of town which just before we moved in had been occupied by a British Director of the firm. The Englishman had especially had local craftsmen to design and carve the banquet room effects but due to high transportation costs regretfully gave up the idea of carting the pieces back to England much to our delight. Neither was he able to coax Boy his Man Friday to accompany him overseas as the latter aged 57 had recently retired from Company service and was not duty bound to oblige.

Father requested Boy to stay on with us in his personal capacity and generally oversee the rest of the household minions. Boy ruled them and us with a rod of iron and clockwork precision. He ensured that Father’s suits and accessories for office were ready on the dot, meals were punctually and tastefully served, laundry and groceries and house cleaning taken care of. In fact mundane aspects of housekeeping were a mystery to Mother thanks to Boy’s omnipresence. Boy in fact even kept meticulous records of telephone calls for Memsahib (mother) and Missy Baba (I).

Mother had a habit of forgetting her cupboard keys and bits of her gold ornaments all over the place. However they never missed Boy’s eagle eye. He would quietly stash it away in his pocket and wait for father to arrive home in the evening. When both my parents were sitting down for tea and discussing the day Boy would materialize with the keys (or jewellery as the case maybe) on a salver and hand them over to Mother much to her discomfiture. Boy’s point being Sahib should know the onerous responsibility he shouldered because of Memsahib’s laxity.

His military strictness softened at meals especially if both my parents were not in. He would cluck and fuss dictating how much I should eat, what I should eat and why I should eat – a habit that drove me berserk. No amount of irritation on my part deterred him. So I decided to repay him in kind, every time he sat down in the kitchen for his meals. He got the point. But just how tough it was for him to keep away was obvious from the fact that I knew he was hovering anxiously in the kitchen doorway by the long shadow his presence cast on the opposite wall.

Any repairs that needed to be done around the house – electrical, carpentry, plumbing – would warrant an immediate telephone call by Boy to the Company’s Administrative Department. Boy would imperiously command the Division Head to send the necessary technician who in turn would arrive post-haste. Mother rather scandalized at such a high-handed demeanor on Boy’s part called up the amused Administration Head to apologize only to be informed by the latter that the entire Company was familiar with and fond of Boy and took absolutely no offense. Boy had been in service with the firm since the age of 12.

On one occasion Raj Talwar the then Chairman of a renowned nationalized bank and a college friend of Father was over for cocktails. Being a teetotaller Raj accepted a chilled fruit juice. After taking a sip he unthinkingly placed the glass on the highly polished peg table only to be promptly admonished by Boy that the glass should never be placed without a coaster as the polish would be stained.

Mother had been recouping from a long hospitalization and had been advised by the Company’s doctor that although she had been sent home she was to continue bed-rest and make sure she took all her medication on time. Boy ensured that the Doctor’s orders were followed diligently.

Since several visitors would drop by to keep Mother company she requested Boy that her bedroom be tidied first. Boy however had his own fixed notions about housekeeping and firmly believed in beginning from the withdrawing room and working inwards. This tug-of-war lasted till one morning Mother (who had been warned by the Doctor not to lose her temper since it was not good for her heart condition) in exasperation flung a full glass of water all over Boy and was of course immediately aghast at the lunacy of her action. Boy who had just served her the water for her medication without missing a beat calmly stated that as his jacket was rather damp he would catch a chill. So he requested permission to change into a dry jacket and then immediately to supervise the cleaning of her room.

After a 4 year stint in Bombay Father was posted to Calcutta and Boy of course formed an essential part of the entourage. One evening about 5 years later Boy was returning home from an evening stroll when a young girl learning driving lost control of the car and knocked him down. Boy was pretty severely injured and although the Company permitted expenses for hospitalization Mother felt he should remain home with us and ensured that our family doctor visited home everyday to check and dress his wounds.

Since he was almost 67 years old (although he insisted he was not a day older that 50) we mutually decided he should be with his family back in Gujrat. His going away took a while to adjust to but the void was never filled.

About two years later we received a call from Boy asking if it was possible for us to arrange a job for him in Bombay since Bombay was closer to his home. He needed the job as there was severe famine in his village. Mother immediately arranged for him to work with a relative. This enterprise was rather short-lived and Boy haughtily resigned from the post. His reason being that his memsahib (Mother) used to allow him to drink milk while my Aunt (much to her chagrin) did not allow him sufficient milk in his tea!

We returned to Bombay and Boy returned from his village to be with us. He served us with incorruptible devotion until he retired at the age of 75 years. (He still insisted he was not a day older than 50)

I remember one afternoon when I was studying for my graduation, Mother had gone visiting and Father was in office I was suddenly overcome with excruciating stomach cramps so unbearable I could not call out for help. Boy who would check in on me every half hour or so happened to arrive on his self-appointed patrol duty to find me writhing in pain. He promptly called the Company doctor and ordered him to visit on the double. He then informed both my parents. The Doctor had already hustled me off to the Hospital before they arrived. It had been an extreme case of appendicitis and Boy’s quick thinking had saved time and my life.

Some years after Boy had returned to his village Father sent him a letter inquiring after Boy’s health and how his family was keeping. Boy’s family comprised of his wife, son and daughter both his children being married and well settled. Father suggested that both Boy and his wife visit us for a while.

A post card reply from Boy read thus:

“Me and wife too old to travel

Sahib, memsahib and Missy Baba come and visit.

Me have ‘pucca’ house and extra room”

by Kavita Shivdasani

("Boy" took over my family around 1967 - they do not make humans like him any more)

Happenings Half-term (May, June, July 2014)

  Happenings Half-term (May, June, July 2014)

The first three months of this term has been pretty action packed. Hobby idea led us to explore aero-modelling and horse riding with interesting essays and visits and discussions. We talked about WW I fighter planes, the Wright brothers and Amelia Earhart. We reviewed the famous Biggles series by Capt. W.E. Johns and watched dogfigts on youtube.

Then we met the last of the stalwarts – grandparents galore – who regaled use with their life and times.

Trekking to Karnala fort helped us discover forts, their uses and all about Shivaji, the “Habshees” and more.

And the Mangroves of Mumbai was a journey into surviving green spaces of our city, the varieties of mangroves and their uses.

We rounded this off with visual recollections of these experiences. Here are some of the drawings by the children of the class. Compare these to the actual photos. PLEASE NOTE: THE CHILDREN DREW SPONTANEOUSLY FROM MEMORY WITH NO ADULT ASSISTANCE

WATCHING AERO MODELLING

WATCHING AEROMEDELLING Samarth Kabra 6 years

MODEL PLANES

MODEL PLANES Naavya 7 years

MODEL PLANES Noyonic 6 years

GRANDPARENT'S DAY

GRANDPARENT'S DAY Aadhya 8 years

KARNALA PEAK

KARNALA PEAK Danya 6 years

Karnala Peak Nihan 6 years

Karnala Peak Devashree 9 years

Mangroves - path through the swamp Radha 6 years

MANGROVES - PATH THROUGH THE SWAMP

The Mangroves of Mumbai by Kavita Shivdasani 26/7/2014

The Grey Mangroves

Bound by Vashi Bridge, Eastern Express Highway, Ghatkopar and Bhandup lies the largest stretch of privately owned densely forested Mangrove swamps. The Godrej family purchased about 2000 acres of Mangrove land in 1940 at the princely sum of INR 45 per acre at an auction arranged by The Bombay High Court on behalf of the government of India.

Although the Godrej family set up their factory in the vicinity of the mangrove forests they have protected this stretch thus far. The protection of this coastal forest is vital to our ecosystem as they act like a buffer between the sea and the land and reduce erosion. The exposed roots act as a breeding ground for various marine creatures, a source of wood for fire and building houses. The extract from their bark and leaves are used as herbal remedies. They provide fodder for cattle in coastal regions. The list is of course endless.

Mangroves refer to trees of medium height and large shrubs which adapted to saline soil along the coastal regions in tropical and subtropical lands. At a time when the earth was densely covered with trees the lack of space forced certain varieties of trees and shrubs to adapt to saline coastal conditions, especially along the inter-tidal space. These plants did so by developing stilt roots to elevate the plant above the water and breathing roots that appear to look like “pegs” dotting the swampy soil at low tide. These root adaptations enabled the trees to breathe even when their lower roots were submerged. They also developed a mechanism in their leaves to pump out excess salt. Thus came into being the Mangroves and their associates like the “meswak”.

peg roots

On 26^th July 2014 we were treated to a vista of grey mangrove from the viewing tower and had an opportunity to take a look at the stilt roots of the red and orange mangroves. To round off the entire experience of hobnobbing with the mangroves we ventured onto the narrow walkway constructed on the swamp between thick mass of mangrove shrubs on either side only to have run out at top speed when we were engulfed by an equally thick cloud mosquitoes. The silver lining we were informed was that “these mosquitoes are not malarial”! Amen to that.

The Samudrabans (author Siddhant Mehta 11 years, 2011, Illustrator by Ishita Singh 9 years 2013)

Foreword

“It is said that all plants were created from the hair of Brahma” – Brahma’s Hair by Maneka Gandhi. The KYE children inspired by the mythology and legends on Trees in this book decided to create their own set of folklore.

The Sunderbans is the third of this series of KYE folklore.

Mkhut the ostrich wandered around the tall grass with his flock of brothers, sisters, mum, dad, cousins, aunts and uncles looking for berries, seeds and insects. 

He spied a juicy worm and blinked his thickly lashed eyes with pleasure. Mkhut edged towards it lowered his long straw-like neck but the creature wriggled away.

Mkhut lowered his neck again and ‘peck’ the poor worm was never ever seen again. Mkhut turned his head back towards his group, but they too were nowhere to be seen. He scanned the landscape anxiously twisting his long neck and tried calling out to the rest of his family but there was no reply.

 Mkhut was scared but there was no time to use his mandarin sized brain, because at that very moment an arrow whizzed past his head missing it by a few inches. He noticed a man his dark well oiled skin gleaming in the sunlight. Dressed in lion cloth with a quiver of arrows slung on his back the tribal hunter was deftly stringing another arrow into his bow.

Mkhut’s extra small brain was packed with only one thought “run”. He lifted his strong, two-toed humongous feet taking gigantic leaps to evade the hunter. Leaving the familiar grass lands behind Mkhut found himself on a vast stretch of mud flats in the delta region of the Bay of Bengal where the great rivers emptied themselves into the sea.

After regaining his breath Mkhut observed much to his delight his entire family near the river. He rushed up to them in joy. 

Mkhut’s long throat was parched so he bent down and drank in long gulps.

 Suddenly a loud gushing sound made him stand erect just in time to see a colossal wave heading their way.







He and his family realized that they could not run fast enough to escape this threat and so they huddled together and lay down low as if to avoid detection

Their heads and necks were difficult to spot against the sandy soil. It almost looked as if all of them had put their heads in the ground hoping for the best.So when the wave hit them they broke its force and shielded the land from flooding and being washed away.

Although Mkhut and his family saved the day, he and his flock were rooted to the spot as the mud turned thick and swampy upon contact with the water. The tangle of beaks and necks exposed above the water especially at low tide began to look like intertwined roots leading to the nickname “walking tree”.

As time went by they spread into a dense and beautiful sea forest or ‘Samudraban’ or the “Sunderbans” or beautiful forests of coastal West Bengal.

I have often seen this old lady wending her way to wherever it is she is going to – slowly, patiently and with stoic determination – have often wondered what all the brouhaha about the political destiny of our country means to her and if all the modifications will in any way modify any thing for her and million others like her…….

K