“The adventure begins at the edge of the Shire — welcome to Hobbiton!”
As long-time admirers of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit trilogies, visiting the real-life locations where these epic tales were brought to life had always been a dream. So, when we planned our trip to New Zealand, a visit to Hobbiton — the iconic Shire of Frodo and Bilbo Baggins — was a non-negotiable stop. We simply couldn’t leave Middle-earth behind without stepping into its most charming corner.
Hobbiton is nestled in the heart of Matamata, a region of lush pastures and gently rolling hills on New Zealand’s North Island. It was here, in the late 1990s, that director Peter Jackson conducted aerial surveys in search of the perfect location for the Shire. Legend has it that when his team spotted the Alexander family farm, it was love at first sight. The unspoiled beauty of the land — its sweeping meadows, mature trees, and bucolic charm — was exactly what Tolkien had described in his books.
“A view straight out of Tolkien’s imagination — rolling hills dotted with hobbit homes.”
Initially, the Alexanders weren’t too keen on turning part of their farm into a movie set. But with some persuasion (and an undisclosed agreement), they eventually agreed. And so, the world’s most beloved village of hobbits came into being. One delightful piece of trivia we learned during our visit was that Peter Jackson ran out of funds during the initial stages of development. To keep the project going, he approached the New Zealand government, who in turn had the New Zealand Army assist with the early groundwork — an unusual but heartwarming collaboration that helped build movie magic.
Our tour began with a tranquil ride in a golf cart through the countryside. As we crested a hill and caught our first glimpse of the Shire, a wave of excitement washed over us. There they were — the familiar round doors, grassy rooftops, and colorful gardens tucked into the hillsides. Every corner of Hobbiton was bursting with life and detail, from miniature wheelbarrows and rustic lanterns to tiny clotheslines with hobbit-sized laundry flapping in the breeze.
“Every round door tells a story — could this be a baker’s home or a gardener’s cottage?”
We explored the Shire with childlike wonder, moving from one hobbit hole to the next. Each home had its own character and charm — some for bakers, some for fishmongers, each with a story hinted at through props and signs. The stone bridge with its iconic double arches, the waterwheel gently turning by the mill, and the peaceful lake all brought scenes from the films vividly to mind.
“The iconic bridge where Gandalf once rode into the Shire — picture perfect.”
A true highlight was visiting the inside of Frodo Baggins’ house. Walking through the rooms, we could almost imagine him pacing about, deep in thought, the weight of the Ring heavy in his pocket.
“Stepping into Frodo’s world — the journey truly begins here.”
Although we couldn’t go inside Bilbo’s house, Bag End, just seeing it up close — with its iconic green door and lush garden — was magical in itself.
“Bag End in all its glory — the green door that launched an adventure.”
And then came the perfect ending: a visit to the Green Dragon Inn. Stepping inside, we were welcomed by a roaring fire, wooden beams, and the unmistakable coziness of a true hobbit gathering place. We ordered a round of their specially brewed ales and sat by the hearth, sipping slowly and soaking in the atmosphere. It truly felt like we had been transported into Tolkien’s world.
Raising a mug of Hobbit ale at the Green Dragon — a toast to the Shire!”
Our visit to Hobbiton was not just a tour — it was an experience, a nostalgic walk through a world that had enchanted us for years. If you’re ever in New Zealand, take the detour to Matamata. Whether you’re a die-hard fan or just someone who appreciates storytelling, nature, and craftsmanship, the Shire will leave you spellbound.
“One for the memory books — peace, beauty, and a touch of magic.”
Porto greeted us like an old friend with a tale to tell. Perched on the cliffs of the Douro River, its charming houses, adorned with colorful azulejos, cascaded down towards the water, as if drawn by an invisible thread. Overhead, the majestic Dom Luís I Bridge, an iron marvel designed by a student of Gustave Eiffel, stretched across the river, connecting the historic heart of Porto to Vila Nova de Gaia.
With every step on its cobbled streets, we felt transported to a different era—one where history, literature, and music wove together in an enchanting dance. Had we unknowingly stepped into a storybook town? It certainly felt that way.
A walk through History
Porto’s origins date back to Roman times when it was known as Portus Cale—a name that would eventually shape the very identity of Portugal. The city has seen centuries of maritime explorations, witnessed the rise and fall of empires, and remained resilient through wars and revolutions. Yet, despite its rich past, Porto doesn’t merely live in history; it embraces the present with a dynamic energy that makes it one of Europe’s most captivating destinations.
Wandering through its labyrinth of streets, we stumbled upon grand baroque churches, lively squares, and hidden corners filled with stories. But among all its treasures, one place stood out—Livraria Lello, a bookshop that seemed to pulse with an almost magical energy.
Where Magic and Literature collide
If there was ever a bookstore that felt like it belonged in the world of Harry Potter, Livraria Lello was it. The moment we stepped inside, we were mesmerized. The towering bookshelves, the elaborate wood carvings, and the intricate stained-glass ceiling bathed the room in a golden glow. But the real showstopper? The sweeping crimson staircase—elegant, almost alive, as if it had a mind of its own.
It was easy to see why J.K. Rowling, once an English teacher in Porto, found inspiration here. It is said that the Hogwarts moving staircases were born from this very place. As we traced our fingers along the wooden railings, it wasn’t hard to imagine young witches and wizards bustling about, spellbooks in hand.
Porto’s literary magic doesn’t stop there. Even beyond Rowling’s influence, the city has long been a haven for writers, poets, and dreamers. In many ways, its winding streets, misty evenings, and old-world charm make it the perfect setting for a fantastical tale.
A Sip of Tradition – The World of Port Wine
Leaving behind the world of books, we set off to indulge in another of Porto’s legendary offerings—Port wine. A short walk across the Dom Luís I Bridge took us to Vila Nova de Gaia, home to the centuries-old wine cellars that have made Porto famous.
The sweet, fortified wine that bears the city’s name has been produced here since the 17th century. We toured one of the many historic lodges, where enormous wooden barrels lined the dimly lit cellars, aging gracefully over time. The scent of oak, fruit, and a hint of spice filled the air as we sipped on rich ruby, tawny, and vintage varieties, each one telling a story of the Douro Valley’s sun-drenched vineyards.
The experience was more than just a tasting—it was a journey through time, where ancient traditions met modern refinement. With every sip, we felt a deeper connection to the land and the generations of winemakers who had perfected their craft.
Fado – The Soulful Sound of Portugal
As the sun began to set over Porto, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet, we found ourselves drawn to yet another defining element of Portuguese culture—Fado music.
Fado, meaning fate, is the heart and soul of Portugal’s musical heritage. Rooted in deep emotion, it tells stories of longing, nostalgia, and the bittersweet beauty of life. We entered a small, candlelit Fado house, where a singer, draped in black, took the stage alongside a guitarist.
As the first notes of the Portuguese guitar rang out, a hush fell over the room. Then came the voice—haunting, powerful, and filled with raw emotion. The lyrics spoke of sailors lost at sea, of distant lovers, of dreams that never came true. Though we didn’t understand every word, the melody transcended language, speaking directly to the heart.
It was a moment of pure magic—one that seemed to suspend time. When the final chord faded into silence, there was a collective sigh in the room, as if everyone had just awoken from a dream.
Porto, You have truly cast a Spell
As we strolled back along the riverbank, the twinkling lights reflecting on the Douro’s surface, we couldn’t help but feel enchanted. Porto had given us so much—history, magic, melody, and flavor—all wrapped in its unique charm.
It is a city that whispers tales of the past, yet sings with the vibrancy of the present. A city where Harry Potter’s magic lingers in the air, where every sip of wine is a tribute to centuries of tradition, and where the sound of Fado echoes through the night like a poet’s last verse.
Porto, you have truly cast a spell on us. Until we meet again!
“Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed Nomini tuo da gloriam“ ( Latin). In English it translares to : Not to us, Lord, not to us, but to Thy name give the glory
Tomar in the heart of Portugal, is a town steeped in history, mystery, and legend. During our recent visit, it transported us back to the era of the Knights Templar, the Crusades, and the Church Order.
The Convent of Christ, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is a masterpiece of medieval architecture. A Templar stronghold, it was both a church and a fortress with a unique blend of Romanesque, Gothic, and Renaissance styles.
We entered the Convent and as we walked through the corridors, we could almost see in our mind’s eye the knights riding in. As the legend goes, the knights would even pray while on horseback as they chose never to be caught off guard and remained ever ready to fight on behalf of the church. This was the reason for the spectacular Templar’s round church with its high archways being built in the heart of the convent.
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The Convent of Christ and its structure was inspired by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The latter had been built at the traditional site of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial and thus it is no surprise that it was in this city that the legend of the Knights Templar started.
The Knights in their white mantles and a Red Cross emblazoned on the chest were arguably the best fighting units on the side of Christianity in the Crusades. For centuries they remained committed to defending Jerusalem as also offering safe passage to Christian pilgrims travelling to the Holy Land.
The Knight Templars achieved the zenith of their fame in the 12th century when in the Battle of Montgisard, six hundred odd knights beat the redoubtable Muslim general Saladin and his army numbering twenty-six thousand!
The other noteworthy aspect of the Templars Order was that it became the banker to Europe from a Papal sanction. Knights desirous of joining the order donated large amounts, nobles going to Crusades would place their wealth and businesses with the Templars for safe keeping. This huge aggrandizement of wealth though led to its eventual downfall. It is said that in the early fourteenth century, the French Monarch Philip IV, deeply indebted to the Templars and unable to pay back, started to arrest, torture, and execute the French knights.
After the dissolution of the Order, the Templars found refuge in Portugal under a new ‘Order of Christ.’ Our guide spoke of the secret knowledge the order brought in and how that influenced Portugal’s Age of Discoveries, including Vasco da Gama’s travel to India. Ostensibly, much of the so called ‘secret knowledge’ of the Templars had been acquired from Arabs during their travels to Jerusalem and beyond.
For us, Tomar wasn’t just about history; it was more about the Knights Templars’ valour and enduring legacy. Their closely guarded secrets included that of the Holy Grail which forms the basis of Dan Brown’s famed thriller ‘The Da Vinci Code’. In the book, the Knights Templar order is portrayed as the guardians of vital information relating to Christianity spanning over one millennia.
The bomb exploded 600 meters above the city. A blinding flash of light, a thumping boom and more than 50,000 people were dead. Those who survived were destined to suffer from the horrendous effects of radiation linked diseases and mental trauma over months and years.
I was at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, watching the recreation of 6th August 1945, that fateful day when ‘fat boy’, the first Atomic Bomb, was dropped and detonated over the city of Hiroshima.
A detailed cinematic view of how Hiroshima would have looked on that day was being projected from the ceiling on a large circular surface. It was akin to looking at the city from above. I could see the city scape with cars, vehicles and streetcars moving on the roads, boats sailing on the river channels and the concentration of buildings in the city Centre. A city like any other, with people going about their daily chores. Doing what they should, thinking of tomorrow, aspiring for a better future.
Hiroshima on 6th August 1945 morning Street cars on Hiroshima streets on 6th Aug. 1945 morning
Then the bomb comes into view. Pirouetting and gyrating as it falls in slow motion. If I had not known what it was, it did not look menacing at all. And then it explodes. A writhing, swirling engulfment by crimson flames, smoke and a mushrooming cloud blocks out everything. When visibility returns, I can see nothing on the ground except a few building structures standing; everything else had been obliterated.
Hiroshima on 6th August 1945 after the Bomb
As I meandered through the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, looking at the exhibits, the graphic visuals and reading the quotes of unknown people of eighty years back, little did I realise the mind-altering experience it was having for me.
A visit to Japan and Hiroshima had been on my bucket list for a long time. My dad used to frequently tell me stories about his trip to Japan in the nineteen fifties. Japan was barely a few years beyond the great war when all its cities had been devastated by American bombing. But as per my dad, it’s veritable phoenix like ‘rise from the ashes’ was a testimony to the Japanese indomitable spirit.
Moving out of the Museum, I strolled through the Hiroshima Peace Memorial gardens. I could see the skeletal remains of the Atom Bomb dome, now a UNESCO heritage site. Interestingly, it was the only building close to the nuclear blast which remained standing. Today, it remains a mute reminder to an event which should never have happened.
The Atomic Dome buiding after the bombing
In between the Museum and the Atomic Dome is the memorial cenotaph, a saddle shaped monument in remembrance of all those whose life got so suddenly snuffed out by the atomic bomb.
A view of the memorial cenotaph
The park, nestled as it is between the gently flowing waters of two river canals, has a tear shaped outline. Does it signify the tear drops of the holocaust survivors as they went about looking for their near and dear ones all those years ago? I wondered………
Peace memorial garden- the river canalHiroshima Peace Memorial garden
As I walked under the afternoon sun, the images and the writings in the museum danced and coalesced in my mind. The perceptions of the victor and the vanquished. How those perceptions led to differing narratives and actions. Those contrasting threads of recorded history about what led to what happened and how what happened showed up for the unaware Hiroshima dwellers on that fateful day. Yes, there was a victor and a vanquished. But no winners, only losers all round ……….
@ Hiroshima Castle which was completely destroyed by the bomb, reconstructed a few years later
**
With the surrender of Germany, the Allies focus had shifted to Japan which continued to fight. The Potsdam declaration of end July 1945 threatened ‘utter destruction’ and sought an unconditional surrender of Japan, a demand that got rejected by the Japanese armed forces.
US War publicity poster
“My mother and I, aged 6, went grocery shopping. Every- one was out on their verandas, enjoying the absence of piercing warning signals. Suddenly, an old man yelled ‘Plane!’ Everyone scurried into their homemade bomb shelters. My mother and I escaped into a nearby shop. As the ground began to rumble, she quickly tore off the tatami flooring, tucked me under it and hovered over me on all fours.
Everything turned white. We were too stunned to move, for about 10 minutes. When we finally crawled out from under the tatami mat, there was glass everywhere, and tiny bits of dust and debris floating in the air. The once clear blue sky had turned into an inky shade of purple and grey…….”
-Takato Michishita, Atomic Bomb survivor
Despite brutal firebombing of more than a hundred Japanese cities and towns which led to near destruction of infrastructure and large civilian casualties, the American high command remained unconvinced about its efficacy to end the war. The firebombing of Tokyo, codenamed Operation Meetinghouse, killed an estimated hundred thousand and destroyed forty square kilometers and more than two hundred and fifty thousand buildings in a single night.
“I was three years old at the time of the bombing. I don’t remember much, but I do recall that my surroundings turned blindingly white, like a million camera flashes going off at once. Then, pitch darkness. I was buried alive under the house, I’ve been told. When my uncle finally found me and pulled my tiny three-year-old body out from under the debris, I was unconscious. My face was misshapen. He was certain that I was dead.
Thankfully, I survived. But since that day, mysterious scabs began to form all over my body. I lost hearing in my left ear, probably due to the air blast. My younger sister suffers from chronic muscle cramps to this day, on top of kidney issues that has her on dialysis three times a week. ‘What did I do to the Americans?’ she would often say, ‘Why did they do this to me?”
-Yasujiro Tanaka, Atomic bomb survivor
As a full-fledged Allied invasion and ground offensive into Japan was being planned, U.S. President Truman and his war cabinet were getting increasingly alarmed by the estimates of American casualty that would occur from such an invasion. The estimates ranged between two to four million casualties and more than half a million dead. A nation and its citizens were increasingly war fatigued. The President and his cabinet came round to the view that it would be better to use Atomic Bombs to end the war quickly and save American lives. But can such an arithmetic tradeoff justify taking the lives of innocent citizens? I wondered……
“I was eight when the bomb dropped. My older sister was 12. She left early that morning to work on a tatemono sokai (building demolition) site and never came home. My parents searched for her for months and months. They never found her remains. My parents refused to send an obituary notice until the day that they died, in hopes that she was healthy and alive somewhere, somehow.
I too was affected by the radiation and vomited profusely after the bomb attack. My hair fell out, my gums bled, and I was too ill to attend school………”
-Emiko Okada, Atomic Bomb survivor
A month before that fateful day when the Atom bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, the highly secretive Manhattan project in the US had produced two distinctive types of atomic weapons. The first was code named ‘Little Boy,’ a Uranium based fission chain reaction type bomb. The other was called the ‘Fat Man,’ a more sophisticated and powerful plutonium-based implosion type weapon. Nuclear Physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer, now made famous by the Oscar winning movie of the same name, oversaw the research into the calculation of the fissile material critical mass and detonation.
“Then the sky turned bright white. My siblings and I were knocked off our feet and violently slammed back into the bomb shelter. We had no idea what had happened.
As we sat there shell-shocked and confused, heavily injured burn victims came stumbling into the bomb shelter en masse. Their skin had peeled off their bodies and faces and hung limply down on the ground, in ribbons. Their hair was burnt down to a few measly centimeters from the scalp. Many of the victims collapsed as soon as they reached the bomb shelter entrance, forming a massive pile of contorted bodies. The stench and heat were unbearable.”
-Shigeko Matsumoto, Atomic Bomb survivor
In the aftermath of the bomb
As the Atomic Bombs were being assembled for eventual use, simultaneously, pilots of the U.S. Air Force were getting trained on the long-distance B-29 Super fortress aircrafts which would be used to deliver the bombs.
“As my mother and I were eating breakfast, I heard the deep rumble of engines overhead. Our ears were trained back then; I knew it was a B-29 immediately. I stepped out into the field out front but saw no planes. Bewildered, I glanced to the northeast. I saw a black dot in the sky. Suddenly, it ‘burst’ into a ball of blinding light that filled my surroundings. A gust of hot wind hit my face; I instantly closed my eyes and knelt to the ground. As I tried to gain footing, another gust of wind lifted me up and I hit something hard. I do not remember what happened after that.
When I finally came to, I was passed out in front of a bouka suisou (stone water container used to extinguish fires back then). Suddenly, I felt an intense burning sensation on my face and arms, and tried to dunk my body into the bouka suisou. The water made it worse. I heard my mother’s voice in the distance. ‘Fujio! Fujio!’ I clung to her desperately as she scooped me up in her arms. ‘It burns, mama! It burns!’
I drifted in and out of consciousness for the next few days. My face swelled up so badly that I could not open my eyes. I was treated briefly at an air raid shelter and later at a hospital in Hatsukaichi, and was eventually brought home wrapped in bandages all over my body.”
-Fujio Torikoshi, Atomic Bomb survivor
In the adtermath of the bomb
Just after 2 am on 6th August 1945, three B-29s took off from the island of Tinian and proceeded on their six-hour flight to Japan. One of them, the Enola Gay, carried the Little Boy atomic bomb. The bomb was released and detonated over Hiroshima just after eight in the morning. The radius of destruction was two kilometers with fires raging over eleven square kilometers.
“One incident I will never forget is cremating my father. My brothers and I gently laid his blackened, swollen body atop a burnt beam in front of the factory where we found him dead and set him alight. His ankles jutted out awkwardly as the rest of his body was engulfed in flames. My oldest brother suggested that we take a piece of his skull – based on a common practice in Japanese funerals in which family members pass around a tiny piece of the skull with chopsticks after cremation – and leave him be.
As soon as our chopsticks touched the surface, however, the skull cracked open like plaster and his half-cremated brain spilled out. My brothers and I screamed and ran away, leaving our father behind. We abandoned him, in the worst state possible.”
-Yoshiro Yamawaki, Atomic Bomb survivor.
Melted statue of Buddha
From the Enola Gay, the crew saw “a giant purple mushroom” that was boiling upward and had reached much above the aircraft altitude. At the base of the cloud, fires were springing up everywhere amid a turbulent mass of smoke that had the appearance of bubbling hot tar. The city that had been clearly visible in the sunlight a few minutes ago, had completely disappeared under smoke and fire. Captain Robert Lewis, co-pilot of Enola Gay, wrote in his log, “My God! What have we done?”
“The injured were sprawled out over the railroad tracks, scorched and black. When I walked by, they moaned in agony. ‘Water… water…’. I heard a man in passing announce that giving water to the burn victims would kill them. I was torn. I knew that these people had hours, if not minutes, to live. These burn victims – they were no longer of this world.
‘Water… water…’
I decided to look for a water source. Luckily, I found a futon nearby engulfed in flames. I tore a piece of it off, dipped it in the rice paddy nearby, and wrang it over the burn victims’ mouths. There were about 40 of them. I went back and forth, from the rice paddy to the railroad tracks. They drank the muddy water eagerly. Among them was my dear friend Yamada. ‘Yama- da! Yamada!’ I exclaimed, giddy to see a familiar face. I placed my hand on his chest. His skin slid right off, exposing his flesh. I was mortified. ‘Water…’ he murmured. I wrang the water over his mouth. Five minutes later, he was dead.
In fact, most of the people I tended to were dead…….”
-Inosuke Hayasaki, Atomic Bomb survivor
**
Epilogue: The final death toll in Hiroshima from the bomb was close to 150,000 people, mostly civilians. An event which led to Japan surrendering nine days later, effectively ending the great war.
Despite heightened awareness of the ‘end of Humanity’ risk posed by nuclear weapons, the cold war between the U.S. and the erstwhile U.S.S.R. ensured continued stockpiling of these very weapons.
In Remembrance…… Shakti Ghosal
Acknowledgements:
Time Magazine ‘After the Bomb’, 1985.
Wikipedia: ‘Atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki’
Several of the photos used are from the exhibits in the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum.
From missionaries’ prayers to steel’s fiery glare.
Through seasons of change, the city stands tall,
A testament to history, embraced by all.
On an invitation from a close friend, we decided to take a weekend trip to Bethlehem in the state of Pennsylvania. The road travel was a pleasurable one on the I-78 highway and it took just under one and a half hours even though there was a drizzle.
We exited the highway to find ourself in a quaint town with its residential suburb. Directions by the Google map was impeccable and we were soon at my friend’s place nursing a glass of wine and some welcoming starters in front of a brightly decorated Christmas tree.
The conversation soon veered to the fascinating aspect of how the New World has used so many names from the Old World for its own towns and places. So, it seems to have happened for Bethlehem. And therein hang a couple of tales.
Driving through Bethlehem town, one cannot fail to notice the Victorian architecture, presumably from colonial times. The historic part of the town looks just that, with gabled sidewalks and stairways going down to different levels. This dates back to the mid eighteenth century when Bethlehem was founded as a missionary community by a small group of Moravians. The location chosen was where two rivers join, the Monocacy and Lehigh. What is less known is that this was also the time when wars with the original Indian settlers were being fought in the region. In the book ‘Snow over Bethlehem’ chronicling events recorded in old Moravian diaries, author Katherine Milhous writes about a group of children taking refuge in the strong stone buildings of Bethlehem to escape from the ongoing Indian wars. As Christmas approaches, the town of Bethlehem and the children are saved from an Indian attack by a miraculous event.
In Bethlehem’s embrace, a tale unfolds,
A legacy scripted, in stories untold.
Moravian missionaries, with purpose divine,
Founded a haven, where faith did entwine.
During the American War of independence, in the latter part of the eighteenth century, many continental force veterans fled to Bethlehem as the British army advanced from the east. Amongst them was the French aristocrat Marquis De Lafayette who enjoyed a father-son relationship with Commander in Chief George Washington. The Marquis is arguably one of the most fascinating individuals in the pages of history. He was instrumental in trapping British General Lord Charles Cornwallis (future Governor General of India) and his troops in Yorktown which led to the British surrender and losing the war. Subsequently, during the French revolution, as the commander of the National Guard in Paris, the Marquis saved King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette from the fury of a crowd in Versailles and escorted them back to Paris. He subsequently supported the transfer of power from the aristocracy to the bourgeoisie. In remembrance, Lafayette was granted honorary citizenship of the US in 2002.
Bethlehem has a nice downtown and we drove through a nice medley of restaurants, storefronts and pleasingly architectured buildings. The centre of attraction, visible from a distance, were the five rusted blast furnaces of the erstwhile Bethlehem steel company. Now known as the steel stacks, they serve as a dramatic backdrop to a newly created art and entertainment district.
Bethlehem steel, a symbol of the American industrial revolution, came into being at the turn of the twentieth century. The steel plant supplied steel for many of the famed structures like the Empire state building, the Rockefeller centre and Chrysler Building on Manhattan to name a few. However, it achieved iconic status during the second world war when the corporation President promised Franklin D. Roosevelt, “Mr. President, we remain fully committed to your war effort and will build and handover one warship a day”. The company kept its promise and exceeded that by fifteen ships!
Smokestacks whispered tales of industry’s might,
Yet, in Bethlehem’s heart, shone a guiding light.
Amidst the clangour of progress, a spirit remained,
Of community, resilience, and dreams unrestrained.
Sadly, the company could not keep pace with evolving technologies and competition in the second half of the century and filed for bankruptcy a hundred years after it came into being. The steel stacks stand in mute testimony to a glorious industrial past.
Bethlehem is known as the Christmas City of US. As one drives through the suburbs and downtown, this becomes apparent with every building joining the festive mood with wondrous lighting and decorations. We decided to visit the Christkindlmarkt, the annual Christmas market. The market had been set-up in the steel stacks area and consisted of three massive tents full of traditional artisans displaying their craft, delicious food, knick-knacks and even ice sculptures. The German look and feel were overwhelming.
Even though a huge area had been designated for car parking, it was difficult to find a slot because of surging visitors.
As the embers of industry began to cool,
Bethlehem’s spirit endured, an eternal jewel.
From furnaces to festivals, the city transformed,
A Christmas market, where magic is performed.
My host mentioned about the star of Bethlehem in passing. I amusingly thought to myself, if Bethlehem is here, can the star be far behind. Sadly, we didn’t get the chance to spot the star of Bethlehem; we came to know that it is a cluster of LEDs installed at a place called the south mountain (we did not go there). Seems there has been a star on the south mountain since the 1930s.
As we drove back, the Star of Bethlehem continued to be in my thoughts. How the three Magi from the East were guided by the star to Jesus’ birthplace in Bethlehem. How on that wintry night, some shepherds were in the adjoining fields guarding their flocks of sheep. And the depth of the parallel between the sheep being taken to Bethlehem to be sacrificed on Sabbath (Friday) and years later, Jesus Christ being led to Bethlehem and crucified on Sabbath. Did the star of Bethlehem see it all?
In musing……. Shakti Ghosal
Acknowledgement: Snow over Bethlehem by Katherine Milhous. Publisher: Charles Scribner’s Sons; First Edition (January 1, 1945)
“Long Island, where every whisper of the wind carries the echoes of its legend, every tale spun weaves into its lore, and every horizon unveils the tapestry of its landscape.”
I had been fascinated with Long Island since the time I had read F. Scott Fitzerald’s ‘The Great Gatsby’. The place symbolised for me the American dream, the roaring economy, the hedonism and a fast evolving, couldn’t-care- less society of a hundred years ago. I recall this line about Jay Gatsby’s extravagant parties, “There was music from my neighbour’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars”.
More recently, Long Island again came back to mind as I watched that disturbing apocalyptic movie ‘Leave the world behind’. The story played out in a luxurious Long Island home with menacing deer herds symbolising a world and its technology coming apart.
So recently, when we got the opportunity of a longish break to take a vacation on Long Island, I was excited.
We drove through Manhattan and the boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens on our way to Riverhead where we planned to stay. The place turned out to be a quaint town with some excellent Mexican eateries.
Riverhead is at the fork from where the East and the West fingers of the island branch out. Our room had a view onto a lake which had a surreal lustre under moonlight. As we relaxed in the evening, the conversation took a supernatural turn as it is wont to do at such times.
There is the tale of ‘Curse of The Lady of the lake’ which does the rounds in these parts. Legend has it that a Native American princess takes the life of one boy every year by drowning them in the lake, as she looks for her lost love. It is about a beautiful Indian princess who fell in love with a settler named Hugh Birdsall. Birdsall lived in a log hut and the princess was not permitted to meet him. For seven years she sent messages to him on bits of bark that floated underground from the lake to his hut. After seven years of waiting, she paddled out to the middle of the lake in her canoe. The next day the canoe carrying her dead body floated down to her lover. He leaped into the canoe and together they were swept out to sea.
Prior to the seventeenth century, Long Island had been inhabited by several Indian tribes before the European colonisers arrived. First it was the Dutch who started settling on the west side. They were soon followed by the English who initially came in on the east side but eventually took over the entire island. The English presence became so strong on the island that even during the American Revolution, while the British troops were losing ground to the American army elsewhere, they won the crucial Battle of Long Island and continued to hold sway on the island till the end of the war.
As an interesting aside, General George Washington, the Commander in Chief of the American continental army, having gained the upper hand over the British at Boston, moved his army to defend New York because of its strategic port. However, he was outmanoeuvred by the British when his troops were attacked from two sides and had to hastily retreat with his men back to Manhattan. Part of the victorious British troops was led by Charles Cornwallis. Years later though, General Cornwallis with the entire British troops surrendered to George Washington at Yorktown, marking the beginning of the end of British colonisation in America. He subsequently took over as Governor General of the Indian colony. The American war experience may have influenced Cornwallis in terms of his approach to governance in India and perhaps a desire to avoid the mistakes made in the American colonies.
As we travelled on the western finger towards the tip, the landscape transformed into vineyards and undulating woods. We took a Wine Tasting break at one of the Wineries near Peconic bay. We sat sipping some of the excellent Reserve Merlots, Chardonnays and Cabernet Sauvignons served with cheese and ham.
Looking out at the rolling vineyards and woods, we seemed to have indeed left the world behind. In our mind’s eye, we could see the herd of antlered deer looking back at us.
The next day we motored down on the east branch of Long Island. This is the part where the Rich and Famous have homes. The Hampton suburbs are dotted with colonial era and extravagant mansions. One is quite likely to come face to face with glamorous looking folks inside super markets and get tempted to pop the question, “Are you famous?” With luck, one might bump into Sarah Jessica Parker or Matthew Broderick!
Driving onwards through picture perfect suburbs, we finally reached Land’s End, the farthest point of Long Island jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean.
Montauk, named after the original Indian tribe which lived in these parts, has wonderful viewing points of the ocean apart from desolate beaches and the Montauk lighthouse. A veritable treat of a 360-degree view of the Atlantic awaited us.
Standing there, my thoughts went to The Great Gatsby’s East Egg and West Egg neighbourhoods and the lighthouse light which flashed across the bay.
Having explored Long Island and its two branches, it was time for us to get back. I was happy to have seen and experienced all that Long Island had to offer. Or so I thought!
Driving back, we noticed an exit to Amityville. The memory jangled.
The Amityville story became known across the globe with the publication of the book ‘The Amityville Horror- A True story’ half a century back, subsequently made into several movies over decades. The infamous house in Amityville is where an individual murdered six members of his family in their sleep. The Lutz family purchased and moved into the house a year later. That is when the terror began and the family had to literally run away in twenty-eight days. The Lutzs could never give details about what they faced in the house but alluded to evil spirits and demons. A priest who had been invited to bless the house was forced to leave by a deep voice telling him to ‘get out!’; later he developed high fever and blisters on his hand.
As we continued on our way back to New York city, Long Island held sway on me with the legend, lore and landscapes it had spawned.
In musing……. Shakti Ghosal
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Wishing all Readers merry Christmas and a great and purposeful 2024!
1938
President Franklin D. Roosevelt was staying in his favoured Hyde Park home. An early riser, he was standing by the window allowing the early aura to caress him. The low hung clouds, changing hues from the morning sun, glistened shades of orange as they floated by.
The rather modest Springwood estate had been home to President Roosevelt since birth. As he looked out at the estate’s trees and greenery, in his mind’s eye he was grappling with more weightier subjects. Coming at the helm of affairs five years back during the great depression, he had steered this vast land through the New Deal and 3 R’s reforms which he believed had allowed for people to regain faith in themselves, leading to employment rising and recoveries in Agriculture, Industry and Banking. However, once again, the country was facing production and profit declines coupled with rising unemployment. Arrayed with this threat of depression rearing its head, was the larger danger of the ongoing European conflict escalating out of control and engulfing the United States too. Roosevelt’s preferred policy to keep the US neutral was coming under increasing strain with both France and Britain pleading for US involvement against Adolf Hitler and Germany.
With an effort, the President shifted his mind from the above grim thoughts. He loved to look at the trees flourishing all around, now grown from the saplings he had been painstakingly planting for over a quarter of a century. Just a few days back, he had come to know that Mrs. Margaret Van Allen, the owner of the estate in the north, was hobnobbing with land developers to sell off the property. Having witnessed the birth of the Vanderbilt estate in his teens, he had a certain attachment to it.
President Roosevelt asked for his specially designed Ford Phaeton to be brought onto the driveway; he loved driving the car around Hyde Park. Followed by his security in a separate vehicle, he was soon on his way to the Vanderbilt mansion a few miles to the north.
“Mr. President, this is indeed an honour”, gushed Margaret Van Allen. “I just got a call an hour back about your visit, so do pardon any lack of…….”
“Mrs. Allen, it is I who needs to apologise for this unwarranted and sudden intrusion”, President Roosevelt responded with his usual grace. “I will come to the point. I understand you want to sell the estate. Your beautiful home has always held a special place in my heart. It is not only the magnificence of this mansion which I saw built as a teenager, I knew your aunt Louise and uncle Frederick well. They were so passionate and proud of their home. The Vanderbilt estate is the soul of Hyde Park. If it gets divided and sold off in parts, the casualty would not only be Hyde Park but the wonderful collection of trees. I would hate to see that happen….”
The President’s voice seemed to trail off as if coalescing with some deeper thoughts.
“I dream of Hyde Park the way it has been since my childhood. I plan to will my own estate at Springwood in its entirety to the American people. That way it’s past heritage would be preserved for future generations. May I also request you to do the same. That way the entire Hyde Park area would remain preserved”.
Margaret Van Allen felt elated at being asked by the President of the United States to join him in such a noble cause. She promised to consider the proposal seriously.
As President Roosevelt was leaving on the expansive circular driveway, he could not but help admire the beautiful array of trees and plants which Frederick Vanderbilt had so lovingly nurtured over decades.
**
Present
We could not help but admire the trees and the gardens as we drove on the circular driveway to the car parking area.
We were visiting the Vanderbilt mansion, the national historic site in the Hyde Park area on the banks of the Hudson River. We had heard impressive accounts about the place and were curious to know more. Parking our car, we strolled to the small chalet like building which housed the National Park Service (NPS) office, the mansion was visible at some distance. From the French windows in the rear, one got the first views of the flowing Hudson; the in between park area was a golden abundance of fallen leaves, glistening in the autumn sun.
Hudson river banks in the autumn
How the NPS got into the place is an interesting story. More than eight decades back, Margaret Allen, the niece of Frederick Vanderbilt, moved by President Roosevelt’s vision, decided to handover the estate to the Government. The US Congress approved the acquisition and the expansive park with the mansion was purchased by the NPS against a consideration of one dollar!
The rise of the Vanderbilts forms the basis of the book ‘The First Tycoon: The epic life of Cornelius Vanderbilt’. Author T. J. Stiles provides an engrossing perspective of the American capitalism’s original sinner, the man who inspired the term ‘robber baron’.
Cornelius Vanderbilt, the family founder, was the individual who essentially invented the modern corporation through his purchase and consolidation of New York’s major railroads, and brought the American professional and managerial middle class into being. His influence remains so great as to be almost intangible. As the author writes: ‘He may have left his most lasting mark in the invisible world, by creating an unseen corporate architecture which later generations of Americans would take for granted.’
According to the author, Cornelius Vanderbilt’s greatest coup was buying up New York’s major railroad lines, using every trick in his arsenal, including the manipulation of stock prices. His wealth became enormous. He writes that Vanderbilt ‘exacerbated problems that would never be fully solved: a huge disparity in wealth between rich and poor; the concentration of great power in private hands; the fraud and self-serving deception that thrives in an unregulated environment.’
Cornelius’ grandson Frederick had a personality quite contrary to that of his grandfather’s flamboyance and bluster. Quiet and reserved by nature, Frederick Vanderbilt nevertheless possessed great investment skill to rapidly increase the inheritance he had received. He with his wife Louise purchased the Hyde Park estate and built a palatial country home for themselves which came to be known as the Vanderbilt mansion.
The Vanderbilt mansion was inspired by the Italian renaissance styles. It really showcased Frederick and Louise’s obsession to flaunt their taste of refinement. Money in itself would never give the status of Western Europe’s blue-blooded aristocracy which the couple hankered for; what was needed was to assume the tastes and behaviour. Stepping into the entrance hall of the mansion and looking at the opulence and object d’arts, one gets the sense that the owners wanted to leave an indelible impact in the minds of visitors.
Entrance lobby
Each of the mansion rooms, be it the guest entertainment area, formal dining room, the study and boudoirs, seem to be telling a story of their own. Standing there, one could almost see Frederick retiring with his guests post dinner for a brandy and a fireplace chat.
Guest seating
Dining room
The mansion remained the preferred home of Frederick Vanderbilt and his wife Louise for several decades. It incorporated a number of modern innovations of the day, including plush bathrooms and the couple lived a life of incredible luxury with sixty employees at their beck and call.
Bedroom
Bathroom of early twentieth century
Looking at the extensive kitchen, staff dining areas in the basement with separate stairways and bedrooms, one gets reminded of Downton Abbey and the life of the retinue of servants attached to the British aristocratic Crawley family in the series.
After Louise Vanderbilt’s death in 1926, Frederick lived a largely reclusive life in the mansion till he passed away twelve years later. Prior to his death, he bequeathed the estate to Louise’s niece Margearet Van Allen.
As we left the Vanderbilt estate at the end of our visit, the beauty of the surroundings seemed juxtaposed with visions of the Robber Baron family and the manner in which they contributed to the American way, the disparity in wealth, the aggrandisement of power and the unregulated environment it had spawned.
The American way……
In musing……… Shakti Ghosal
Acknowledgement:
The NPS Guide services @ the Vanderbilt Mansion
‘The First Tycoon: The Epic life of Cornelius Vanderbilt’, by T.J. Stiles, April, 2010. Winner of National Book Award.
Disclosure: The conversations in the first section are fictional constructs based on historical incidents.
The reign of the dinosaurs had long ended. Snuffed out by an unlikely asteroid strike. A fifteen kilometers wide piece of Iridium laced rock had struck near present day Mexico, creating a ten times wide crater and unleashing lava, ashes, smoke and gigantic waves around the world.
Though the mass extinction event exterminated most of the flora and fauna on the planet, the continental drift and shifts continued unhampered for millions of years thereafter. The active planetary crust led to the Indian land mass smashing into the Eurasian land plate. The resulting crumpling and buckling at the collision point led to what came to be known as the Himalayas, a veritable abode of the Gods, the tallest mountain range in the world. An awesome creation standing testimony to Earth’s inner energies.
The permanent glaciers and ice formations led to glacial water bodies being formed. This is how the lake came into being. Situated at a height of 18,000 feet within the mighty Himalayan range, the lake acquired a mystical aura for all men and religions who passed by. The waters remained mostly frozen due to the height and the overwhelming presence of the Dongmar glacier which nestled it. Thirsty men and animals could not quench their thirst. And so it came to pass that a Guru was passing by when he too felt the mystical aura of the lake. He put his hand in the lake and Lo and behold! The water stopped freezing and became available for all to quench their thirst. This subduing of the Dongmar glacier’s frozen might by the Guru gave the lake the name of Gurudongmar. The second highest lake in the world with water that no longer froze.
**
The Man was indeed getting on in years.
As a child, he had been precocious and so had been nicknamed. ‘Buro’, an old man. He was now precisely that, replete with the mindset of the elderly. Over the years, he had acquired a liking for travelling and seeing the world. Age had dimmed the eyes somewhat, but not that inner passion to set forth and discover new places.
When the Man first heard about the wondrous lake of Gurudongmar, his heart urged him to travel. His brain though was more circumspect; it counselled, “My dear chap, are you crazy? You suffer from vertigo. What might happen when you go up all those torturously winding roads?” His friends too cautioned; they related dire tales of folks collapsing from lack of oxygen in a no-Man’s land with medical facilities hard to come by.
“But when a Man makes up his mind, he is not made for defeat. He can lose out, even destroyed, but not defeated.”
The tug of war between thoughts continued. But the die had been cast, the travel plans stood finalised. Came the day of travel and the Man set forth armed with some basic medications, a quiet resolve and some raucous misgivings. A flight, several car rides through mountainous roads into the Himalayan kingdom and the day of reckoning arrived.
“This was not the time to think of what was not there. It was the time to think of what one could do with what was there.”
Six in the morning and after nursing a cup of hot tea, the Man set forth for his rendezvous with the lake.
The slow wafting mist seemed in perfect harmony with the biting chill outside the moving car.
Passing through the last army check post, the vehicle climbed to the Kala Pathar, black stone viewpoint.
The fresh snow from the previous night lay in gay abandon. The white mist drifted upwards, a curtain rising up from the snow flakes and into the low hanging clouds.
As the old man stood watching the shifting views of the Kala Pathar blackness through the whiteness of the entwining gaps in the mist, it seemed like a ballet being performed. Was it the Universe sending him a message of hope?
“Every day is a new day. It is better to think it would be lucky. So when luck does come, one would be ready.”
The climb towards the lake had begun. It was not on roads cut out on the mountainsides which the man had been used to. It was on a rising terrain with no roads or markings to provide a direction. It was all down to the driver and the vehicle, their combined experience and strength to negotiate the path.
And then, all of a sudden, the heavens opened up. Sunbeams splayed and sliced all around. The climb had now reached above the level of the clouds and mist, a surreal moment. The old man nibbled on slivers of ginger; he had been advised so by some friends. A final swerving climb over barren rocks and the vehicle stopped on a mound from where the lake could be seen.
The stillness of the blue waters seemed to beckon. ‘Come, partake of my mysticism.’ The sun shone in all its splendour. Was it trying to discover that mystical aura with all those reflections? At the far end of the waters, part shrouded by rising mists, towered the snow laden glacier. As the old man stood transfixed by the wondrous surroundings, the tug of thoughts took over. Was this the place where divinity was born? What made the pristine barrenness so unworldly? Was it the glacier with its whiteness, or the water with its blueness?
A needle pricked the cheek. Then some more. Shaken out of his stupor, the man looked around. The hitherto gentle breeze had gained in strength. Crested by a whirlwind, tiny pebbles and dust particles chased each other in an ethereal dance. As the needles borne by the wind swayed through the onlookers, a soft murmur of protest could be heard. The old man slowly turned and moved back towards the waiting vehicle.
In Learning…….. Shakti Ghosal
Disclosure: The Old Man in the post is the author himself.
Acknowledgement : ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ by Ernest Hemingway
‘Baked earth temples, where the fired body is porous. How does this work? Monsoon rains drench all, But there they are, that should have melted wet in the wash And drained and dribbled away, solidified like candle wax, But they stand in their various stalwart clay red forms…..’
We boarded an early morning train from Santragachi Junction for our three-hour journey to Bishnupur, the temple town of West Bengal. We had heard tales of its heritage, architecture and fascinating terracotta artifacts.
Alighting at a quaint station, our waiting car whisked us to the Banphool treehouse resort in the Joypur forest area where we were booked to stay over the next few days. I was visiting the Bankura district for the first time and realised it had excellent forest cover.
Banphool Treehouse
Did you know that Bishnupur was the jewel in the crown of arguably one of the oldest-running kingdoms in the world? The Malla dynasty was founded in the 7th century and continued to exist till the beginning of the 20th! Moving along the narrow roads and lanes, I mused about this continuation of a single dynasty over a thousand years through the turbulence of India’s history. I could not think of any other kingdom of India which had replicated this feat. Waves of Muslim invasions through the Khyber pass, the might and spread of the Mughal empire, the colonization of the sub-continent by the British had ensured that the longevity of homegrown kingdoms remained limited. So how did the Malla kingdom continue the way it did? Was it because the Malla kings had the wisdom to be flexible and used diplomacy to ensure they were not conquered? Or was it because the focus of the invaders was on the fertile and revenue-generating Gangetic plains and the forest areas of Bankura and Bishnupur held little attraction? Or could it have been a combination of both?
The uniqueness of Bisnupur’s architecture stems from the short supply of stones in the area. The local architects, centuries ago, found a way to build using the local ‘Laal Matti’ red clay; they used burnt bricks made of this. Incredibly the builders could use the interlocked red clay bricks to make roofs and overhanging arches without the need for concrete or other supporting structures. The temples and buildings made in this manner, using laal mathi bricks, locally available laterite blocks, and Terracotta overlays, have survived for centuries!
It is said that the kingdom of Mallabhum, in its heyday, extended far beyond Bankura. Encompassing as it did the districts of Burdwan, Birbhum, Midnapur, Purulia and going up to the southeast part of present-day Jharkhand state. What to me remains intriguing is the flowering of creativity manifested by the fascinating Terracotta art form, the Dokra craft on metal, the timeless beauty of Baluchari and Tassar sarees and the Hindustani classical music form known as Bishnupur Gharana. What is that which catalysed this huge upsurge of artistry in a forest land? What could have been the motivation to sustain such creativity against all odds?
Which brings me to the Terracotta temples and the associated art form which the Malla rulers took to mesmerizing heights. The intricately chiselled terracotta panels stand out, depicting as they do, mostly incidents from Krishna and Radha’s liason, but to a lesser extent, important scenes from the Hindu epics Mahabharat and Ramayana.
Terracotta panel
The Rasmancha, a four-century old arched temple structure with a pyramid-like top. Replete with visions of Radha playing with Lord Krishna during Rash Purnima, that full moon night in November.
Rasmancha
The arcs and the arches…
The Shyam Rai temple, the only panch ratna or five pinnacle temple in Bishnupur with terracotta art on all four sides.
Shyam Rai temple
The Jor Bangla temple, with an innovative roof design akin to two thatched roofs joined together.
Jor Bangla temple
The Madan Mohan temple, a large structure with exceptionally detailed wall art depicting Krishna Leela.
Madan Mohan temple
‘…….Each one a sculpture, arcs and arched doorways, outer walls Of small framed panels, depicting: Ganesh, Siva, Varuna, men And women, carriages and animals, cows and collocations Of the visible world, elephants engaged in the act of coition, Mounted, each panel an astonishment, hundreds of them, On each side wall. One temple’s roof’s a pyramidal lift Of straight diagonal lines, converging; another’s is as swift A symmetrical curve as a scimitar’s blade, four curves, Balanced; another’s uses square shapes; all are brazen, Terra cotta red, and smell of cold earth. The air is wet and warm……’
Outer walls
Chiselled intricacy of Terracotta
In fact, I learned that the Bishnupur temples were inspired by those built in faraway Vrindavan, tales of which had been brought by travellers and vaishnavite disciples over the centuries. However, the architecture and forms remained distinct, following local traditions and innovations.
Nestled incongruously amongst the terracotta temples sits a large four-meter Dalmadol cannon. Legend has it that when attacked by Maratha marauders, the Malla ruler himself fired the cannon to save the region.
Dalmodol Cannon
I had gone to Bishnupur to see the temples. I returned reliving the entrancing tales of Mallabhum’s Rajas, their creative passion for architecture and their devotion to Lord Krishna. Do I still hear the sounds of Rasleela in the corridors of Rasmanch? Do the murmurs of Terracotta surround me whichever way I turn?
In Musing…….. Shakti Ghosal
Acknowledgement: Quoted verses are by Alan Riach, Scottish author and Academician.
“No one truly knows a nation until one has been inside its jails. A nation should not be judged by how it treats its highest citizens but its lowest ones.” – Nelson Mandela
Alipore Jail in Kolkata has recently been converted into a museum and we made a visit. I found the place refreshingly well laid out with directional signs to the various highlights.
Though not well known, there are actually two Alipore Jails. The first Alipore jail, later called the Presidency jail, was built more than two hundred years back. The newer one, which continued to be known as the Alipore Jail, was built close to the earlier one in the early twentieth century. Known as a ‘correctional home’, it was used by the British to hold political prisoners.
A few miles away from Alipore jail is Dalhousie Square. Named after Governor General Lord Dalhousie, who held office in the mid-nineteenth century, it was and continues to be the administrative and Business epicenter of Kolkata. Standing majestically at the center is the Writer’s Building with its French renaissance style architecture, Roman facade and rooftop statues.
Dalhousie Square is today known as Benoy Badal Dinesh (BBD in short) Bagh and therein hangs a tale of an interesting connect it has with Alipore Jail.
It was 1930. With the Indian freedom struggle at its peak, Alipore Jail was bursting at its seams with political prisoners. Colonel N. S. Simpson, the Inspector General of Police, had become the epitome of brutality when it came to dealing with political prisoners. Seeing himself as an able administrator, Simpson had devised an efficient and brutal system to force the prison inmates to reveal their political ideologies and ‘terrorism’ plans. Merciless beatings while hung from a tree, putting chilli powder on the genitals etc. were commonplace.
Three Bengali revolutionaries Benoy, Dinesh and Badal, aged twenty-two, nineteen and eighteen, chanced to come together. Members of the Bengal Volunteers, a group set up by Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose a couple of years earlier, they had found their life’s calling in revolutionary activities. The threesome, having heard horror stories about Colonel Simpson’s notoriety, decided to take the fight to the British administrator.
To gain access to the Writer’s building the three youngsters entered Writer’s building wearing immaculate western attire. Asking to meet Colonel Simpson, they shot him dead point blank. BBD Bagh today stands testimony to the courage of this threesome.
***
As I stood looking at the Alipore jail gallows, I heard a sound and turned around to see an old tree standing forlornly in the courtyard. The rustling leaves seemed to be whispering to me about the killings and the merciless beatings it had been witness to. Did I hear Dinesh shout ‘Vande Mataram’ as he was being taken to the gallows?
Dusk fell and I watched the red-bricked Jail walls come alive and take on the colour of blood. The coloured lasers of the ongoing Light and Sound show pranced to and fro. A multitude of voices ebbed and flowed, from various directions.
Netaji Subhas Bose protesting against brutal assaults on other inmates, just before he was knocked unconscious from a head blow.
Subhas Bose inviting Deshbandhu Chittaranjan Das to a frugal meal that he had painstakingly cooked himself.
Young Indira ‘Priyadarshini’ Gandhi meeting her father Jawaharlal Nehru ( first Prime Minister of independent India) when he was incarcerated in a cell for participating in the civil disobedience movement.
Dr. Bidhan Chandra Roy ( a future Chief Minister of the state of West Bengal), himself serving a sentence, treating sick and injured prisoners in the jail hospital.
The whisperings of the guards on watch tower duty.
The tales that the jail was relating to me were of innumerable shades. Of sacrifice and suppression. Of idealism and brutality.
Night had fallen when I stepped out of the Alipore Jail complex to return home.
As I got into the cab, I mused on the dichotomy of the Western civilizational ethos about freedom and bondage. Did that ethos emanate from a deep-down racial distrust of ‘non-western’ people and their purported non-adherence to western civility and norms which had justified Europe’s colonization ( it was never termed conquest!) of almost all of the planet?
When it came to India, The British parliament and administration had gone to great pains to justify its ‘colonial intervention’ in the name of the rule of law, human rights and upliftment of the natives. An image of a benign Raj was fostered, a righteous mask was worn through setting up parliamentary commissions and inquiries every time there were reported cases of extortion and torture. The British would always take the moral high ground claiming ignorance of torture and beatings indulged in by the indigenous havildars and policemen a category which was illiterate, poorly paid and only too happy to curry favours with the British Sahebs.
In 1854, the Madras torture commission, which had been set up to investigate allegations of torture in the police department, had scathingly observed:
‘The police establishment has become the bane and pest of society, the terror of the community, and the origin of half the misery and discontent that exist among the subjects of Government. Corruption and bribery reign paramount throughout the whole establishment; violence, torture, and cruelty are their chief instruments for detecting crime, implicating innocence, or extorting money. Robberies are daily and nightly committed, and not unfrequently with their connivance; certain suspicious characters are taken up and conveyed to some secluded spot far out of reach of witnesses; every species of cruelty is exercised upon them; if guilty, the crime is invariably confessed, and stolen property discovered; but atempting bribe soon release[s] them from custody….’
A hundred and seventy years on, does the above sound eerily familiar? As I sat thinking of all this in the cab, the irony of the situation did not escape me. The British have long gone, our tryst with destiny is now three-quarters of a century old. But our governance and law-enforcing structures seem to perpetuate those very aspects which our forefathers had fought against.
Would the shifting of the jail facilities away from British structures like the Alipore Jail finally allow for fresh thoughts and mindsets to set in? I wondered.
The museum boasts an excellent coffee shop which we thoroughly enjoyed. A visit is recommended.
In Musing……. Shakti Ghosal
Acknowledgement : “Very wicked children”: “Indian torture” and the Madras Torture Commission report of 1855: by Anuj Bhuwaniam Replicated from Sur – Revista Internacional de Direitos Humanos, São Paulo, vol.6, n.10, pp. 6-27, 2009
A New Beginning 