Literature – Page 9 – The Book-Butterfly

How not to write about books and their authors

Vikram Seth. His bearing was elegant and cosmopolitan even as he walked barefoot across the centuries-old stone floor of the family courtyard.

I had just arrived from an 8-hour road trip. I was groggy from the Bonamine. His manners and speech were refined. I was smitten. I allowed myself the harmless attraction because: I could blame the Bonamine, I knew nothing about him, the attraction was one-way, I was leaving the city the next day, and I would never see him again.

He shook my hand firmly, checked the haveli logbook and complimented my penmanship. I had only written my name and “Udaipur,” but perhaps the combination of the letters with my handwriting looks slightly elvish.

I had booked a smaller room, but because the haveli was not fully-booked, he assigned me a more spacious room — the room he had as a boy. Of course, it had dreamy windows overlooking the courtyard and the sky.

He introduced himself as Vikram Seth. I squealed inside, “Like the author?” I immediately checked if they were one and the same person. Because of his air of profundity, I wouldn’t have been surprised had he turned out to be the writer. But Google came up with a different face. The author will have to forgive me: This Vikram Seth was younger and more good-looking.

When I had freshened up and settled down, he asked if I had tried Kingfisher beer. I indulged in a mug and a conversation. Theirs was the only garden in a radius of several kilometers, he mentioned. Friends thought it laughable, he said, to keep it when building a modern hotel extension on that garden can be more lucrative.

“I’m glad you kept the garden,” I said. “It’s proof that you treasure things that are more valuable than money.”

He nodded thoughtfully and smiled. I left for Udaipur early the next day and never saw that smile again.

But I did not feel wistful. It was not love. It couldn’t have been. And it’s easy to practice anasakti, non-attachment, whilst traveling (and groggy on Bonamine). But now I’m wishing that I were a better practitioner of anasakti and traveller of life than I am in and of India.

So forgive me if the only thing I can tell you about this book that I got from the Jaipur Sunday Book Market for 200INR/140PHP is that it has some poignant lines that accompanied me on days when I waited indoors for the sun to soften, and that British composer Jonathan Dove set the poems to music in a song cycle of the same name. And forgive me, if all you learned from this post is this: How not to write about books and their authors.

The transmutation of India into a memory…

And just like that, I am back home, and immediately started teaching a series of online students in the US within the hour I arrived.

When people ask about my trip, I find myself answering that it was eye-opening, very much like reading a satisfying book.

I thought I knew what to expect. I thought I knew what it would be like. I soon learned that what I had in mind was a narrow-minded, stereotype-based, and extremely ignorant idea of India and its people. And to think I read! To think I’ve been lugging books, including all 2000 pages of Paul Scott’s Raj Quartet. How much more if I didn’t?

But the beautiful thing about being a reading traveler is that we do not read or travel for the certainties; and reading and traveling is an intuitive acknowledgement of an ignorance that we treat with a book or a trip.

It was Emerson who wrote, “The mind, once stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions.” A great book does this. India does this. But only, perhaps, if one pays attention. India has expanded the way I think about places, people, and even design.

“Thank you,” one guide said earnestly, “for paying attention.” After I repeatedly refused his offer to take touristy photos of me, “So you’re not a Tiktok girl, huh? Most of the time people are only interested in having their pictures taken, they don’t even listen anymore.”

We have stereotypes of Indian men and they have stereotypes of us. Fair enough. But would you believe that two of the most cultured, educated, and refined men I have ever interacted with I encountered in a father and son duo in Jaipur? Would you believe that I felt more safe and respected in the company of my guides, drivers, haveli owners, hotel staff, than in one provincial event that I attended back home where a senior and former politician (someone I’m supposed to be able to trust) undressed me with his eyes? But that’s a story for another day. I have way better memories now.

Like this memory of a Mughal garden across the Yamuna River, yet unravaged by the claws of Agra’s over-tourism, where one can spend the entire afternoon reading and contemplating, or gazing at the Taj Mahal.

Just like that, the transmutation of India into a memory has begun…and what a memory to relish!

Five Indian Forts

Although the stories about these places are just as intriguing and twisted as Game of Thrones, what may look like promotional shots for season two of House of the Dragon, are photos of five out of approximately a thousand forts in India that are triumphs of strategy and engineering.

Amber Fort: The most picturesque. Jaigarh: Where one will find what used to be the largest cannon in the world, and along with Amber Fort and Nahargarh, has the best views overlooking the city of Jaipur and the sunset. Chittorgarh: The largest living fort in Asia, and where I was congratulated for being named “Mira” and being a musician, as Chittor residents are devotees of the mystic musician, Meera, or Mirabai. Agra Fort: The only Mughal fort among these, commanding a majestic view of the Taj Mahal, standing since 1530 and is still being used by the Indian Army up to this day!

June 2024 – The Taj and Other Mahals

The sky is despondent in Agra. I also saw an Indian vulture perch on the Taj Mahal and camouflage itself against the cornelian and onyx marble inlay. It has made me pensive. Maybe it should. After all, two of the main sites here are mausoleums: The Taj Mahal and the Tomb of I’timād-ud-Daulah, often misnamed “Baby Taj”, despite being the predecessor.

So little is said about the latter, but it literally sets in stone the transition period of Mughal architecture from red sandstone to intricately inlaid marble. Its details made me gasp! And to my surprise, no one else was in sight!

But the Taj, the Taj… when you’ve seen it so many times in friends’ pictures, and in books, you think you already know what it looks like. Nothing prepared me for how much it moved me! Something stirred in me when I came closer, when I felt the inlaid precious stones with my fingers, when I looked through the delicate lattices carved from entire slabs of marble… now I know what Victor Hugo meant when he described architecture as, “the handwriting of the past.”

We all know the story: 20,000 workers, 24 hours a day for 22 years. Its maintenance workers of today are descendants of the original construction workers 17 generations down. All these, to eternalize this handwriting of love… which, of course, Mumtaz never read, or laid eyes on.

*Mahal* in Filipino means either love or expensive. (Their synonymity is relative and will depend on how much, or what, love cost you. Haha) Mahal, in these parts, means palace. And yet, this is not a palace, but a mausoleum. It is, however, expensive; and is probably the world’s best-known and well-preserved expression of love.

It is interesting how this particular Mahal, the Taj, the crown of all Mahals, is ironically inaccurate in Urdu and accurate in Filipino.

Fatehpur Sikri

It was a mind-blowing family tree that brought me here.

Fatehpur Sikri was established as the capital of the Mughal Empire in 1571 by Emperor Akbar. Akbar’s grandson, Shah Jahan I is famous for having the Taj Mahal built. Akbar, as we know, is the third Mughal emperor, as he is the grandson of Babur, founder of the Mughal empire. Babur in turn, is the great-great-grandson of Uzbekistan’s Amir Timur, known in the West as Tamerlane.

I cannot think of a longer bloodline of distinguished rulers who have left their mark so distinctly (with conquests and architecture) in this world. And oh, did I mention that Babur is a descendant of Genghis Khan on both his father’s and mother’s side?

The architectural details of Fatehpur Sikri are just as astonishing as Akbar’s pedigree. The fort walls, the gates, the palaces, the mosques, are made predominantly of red sandstone. And because Akbar had three royal consorts, one Muslim, one Christian, and one Hindu, their individual palaces were masterfully designed and decorated according to their religion and culture.

The Anup Talao especially left an impression on me. It is a pavilion overlooking a platform for musicians. My guide explained that oil was added to the pool of water surrounding the platform to enhance the sound of the musical performances!

On the opposite side is what used to be the library, now off limits, now sans books, but I can only imagine how glorious it must have been. Salman Rushdie’s The Enchantress of Florence was the first novel I read long ago that got me interested in the Mughal Empire. It was partly set here in Fatehpur Sikri.

The Lure of Udaipur

Jodhpur is closer to Jaipur, so is Bikaner, and then Jaisalmer would have been accessible from there. These names are not words in my head, but meters of music, rhythm, and mystery that lure me from far away. These are some of the cities in the state of Rajasthan that have been playing in my mind ever since the idea of an India itinerary was formed.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to cover all these cities in one trip with the kind of traveling that I do — the kind that asks me to avoid breezing through them, the kind that urges me to sit still and experience a few sunrises and sunsets in them, the kind that begs me to listen to them. After all, each city has its own music. Each city sounds different. And it is waking up to this kind of music that exhilarates me in my travels.

Udaipur was not in the plan. But when the distance between two places are no longer measured in miles but by a melodic strain one can’t help but follow, you follow.

And now I know how this Mewar kingdom founded in 1559 sounds. It sounds resplendent.

Rajasthan: A Photo Journal

The longer you stay in Jaipur, the deeper you plunge into color.

The white marble and the red sandstone for the greatest edifices of Uttar Pradesh — the Taj Mahal and the Agra Fort — were transported by elephants from Rajasthan.

And traveling in Rajasthan is a journey through ancient feats of architecture, engineering, craftsmanship, space and time.

If you do not go through Rajasthan in haste, I promise you, you will be colored by it.

The Stepwells of Rajasthan

India’s arid regions gave birth to stunning baoris, or stepwells, that were mainly built as cisterns, but also functioned as sites for religious ceremonies, rituals, and cool resting places.

There are approximately two to three thousand ancient stepwells in India, and I’m fortunate enough to have visited two here in the state of Rajasthan: Panna Meena ka Kund, a 16th century picturesque stepwell in Jaipur, beautifully contrasting the more massive Chand Baori in Abhaneri that was built between the 8th and 9th century.

Can there be a better lesson in strength, function, and beauty, than a baori?

A Whiff of Book Pages in Jaipur

Universal Books

Jaipur Sunday Book Market

Oh to be in the locale of the Jaipur Literature Festival — the festival that has brought illustrious figures such as Salman Rushdie, Michael Ondaatje, Ian McEwan, and other stars to its marvelous gates! (What can one expect from a literary feast directed by none other than William Dalrymple?)

Unfortunately, I missed this year’s festival by several months. But are the Sunday Book Markets and their bookstores evidence enough that the love of books is alive and well in Jaipur?

Rajat Book Corner

Rajat Book Corner’s shelves were cascading with the best selections. They had Pamuk, Mahfouz, Proust, recent literary prize winners, the Indian greats, among many others. So you can imagine the argument between my other selves against the practical one who kept whispering firmly, “Just one book, just one book.”

After a while of intense internal struggle, I finally went with something I hadn’t seen in Philippine bookstores: Pyre, a 2023 longlister of the International Booker Prize written by Perumal Murugan.

“Good choice,” said the man at the counter.

“Thank you,” I answered, thinking it was something he always said to bookstore clientele.

“It’s a great book! We discussed this in our bookclub.” That’s when I realized he meant it. He had read Pyre. To my surprise, he added, “Wait. I think this is a signed copy. The author signed it when he came here.” And indeed, it was!, “Wait. I think this is a signed copy. The author signed it when he came here.” And indeed, it was signed!

For yet another surprise, he recommended a book based on my choice: “Banaras” by Vertul Singh. And because readers have a sixth sense that can detect another reader’s literary preference, it certainly looked like a book I would love to read. Practical self was defeated. I bought it. But I think the bookseller just pointed me to my next destination in India if I get the chance to return.

Amidst the scent of spices and sandalwood, there is a whiff of book pages in Jaipur that a reader’s nose cannot help but follow. These are my souvenirs from following that trail.

Isn’t it a wonderful thing when you allow books to lead you to places, and when you let places lead you to books?

June 10, 2024 –Indian Mangoes

These mangoes were purchased from a side street in Jaipur to refute Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s claim that — *gasp* — India’s Alphonso mangoes are sweeter than Philippine Carabao mangoes!

Don’t get me wrong. I love A.N. She is the most wholesome and heartwarming author one can find on bookstore shelves these days. Her World of Wonders still keeps my heart soft. Before leaving for this trip, I suggested her latest book, Bite by Bite: Nourishments and Jamborees, to two friends who are also traveling, and then hinted that we discuss it over wine when we’re all back in Dipolog. But after scanning the first few pages, I ended up reading the whole thing even before I left! It was the last book I read in May.

I just had one problem with it: The mango verdict.

“I am the daughter of a man from India and a woman from the Philippines,” She writes. “They have argued all my life about whose mangoes are the sweetest, the best. Both have asked me to take sides, and for years I’ve refused until now. Alphonso mangoes, hands down. From India.”

And these were the lines that led me to a dark side street in India. I began to worry on my way back to the haveli. Not for my safety, but for the reason that, from within the bag hanging from my hand, the unbelievable fragrance of the mangoes were already invading my nostrils! I think my heart raced when I sliced one open with my Swiss knife.

My verdict? Maybe THAT will endanger my safety! Haha!

What I realized, however, as the two juicy mangoes were immediately reduced to seed and skin, was that THIS is nourishment — tasting, exploring, discovering, learning, reading, traveling, and eating the mangoes of another country. Once in a while, our hearts need this.