All that Happened in Galwan

Last week, it was all about a skirmish at the Galwan Valley. A handful of twenty Indian army personnel including a colonel lost their lives battling with Chinese troops who holed at the Line of Actual Control (LAC). Tempers and sentiments soared nationwide. 

The ‘hawkish’ media turned into war strategists, and each treadmilling to make the best presentation. A lame-duck politicians call for ‘ban on Chinese food’ (facepalm) and another, [the namesake] busy criticizing with no or distorted facts, at his baseline. Anyhow, by now, both Congress and Communist parties in India have lost their steam, and no-one bothers what they say. 

Unlike, my [namesake], I waited for a while till the last drop of the news trickled down—one of the few sensible decisions that I ever abided. So, what happened in the Galwan? There are two parts to the answer. One, some twenty soldiers were martyred, their bodies were put to the coffins and flew to respective states for cremation. Well, everyone knows about it. The other part of the answer that a very few is interested is where lies my interest.

Sometimes in 1860, a British surveyor W. H. Johnson draw a line to demarcate the borders of India and China. He presented the map to Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir, Pratap Singh (the grandfather of Karan Singh). His father, Gulab Singh in 1820 toppled the sovereign Tibetian regime and annexed the Gilgit region to its fold. 

Pratap built a fort the Sahidullah (modern-day Xaidulla) and stationed his troops to guard the eastern border of the country. The Black Jade River (Karakash) flows murmuring softly near the Xaidulla before it enters the Aksai-Chin. The route served as the main trading route to many ancient caravans who would carry silks and precious jades from the Khotan (or Hotan) to the west. [Trivia: Initially, Babur too want to travel to China and not India in the lure of these precious gems.] 

Anyways, the eighteen-thousand square kilometres of the eastern portion was identified as Indian territory under Johnson’s Line. 

Initially, the Chinese Qing administration did not object, but in 1878, the Chinese conquered the fort and terrain from the Dogra Army and erected a boundary mark around the Karakoram. Since then the borders of India of China remain disputable with both sides claiming Sahidullah (or Xaidulla) as their end-points. 

In 1962 (after Dalai Lama was granted asylum by the Indian government), the Chinese troops advanced in higher numbers and with aggression over the McMohan Line (a demarcation line between Tibet and the North-east region of India proposed by British colonial administrator.) Nehru, then Prime Minister of India along with his trusted Army Chief, B. M. Kaul were reluctant to attack the advancing Chinese troops; instead, Nehru had his eyes on ‘Panchsheel Programme’ and hopeful that the Mao Zedong would agree on a mutual treaty. The dragons differed. 

In October, the Chinese surrounded the Indian army at Chushul, and go offensive attacking the Namka Chu Valley, Walong, and Tawang. The Indian forces were undermanned, with only an understrength battalion to support them, while the Chinese troops had three regiments positioned on the north side of the river. 

A sizeable a portion (equal to Switzerland) of Aksai-Chin was surrendered to China. Nehru propounded that Aksai-Chin was “part of the Ladakh region of India for centuries” and that this northern border was a “firm and definite one which was not open to discussion with anybody.” 

Whoever thinks history is boring and irrelevant, by now, might have realized that it is neither. Foundation lies in history; it is same as you plant a sapling and fifty-years later, it grows into a fruit-bearing plant; and the generations feast upon it. [Note: Those claim or snidely remarks that why always blame Nehru for recent turmoils, hopefully, they would rest their case peacefully. ] 

Now, back to what happened to mid-June of 2020. 

Galwan, named after Ghulam Rasool Galwan—a Ladakhi explorer of Kashmiri is located on the west of Karakoram and stands at the northern-most border point of modern-day India. The Chinese call it  ‘Chang Chenmo’. The river is a part of Aksai-Chin. Up the Galwan Valley lies the Siachen, the second-longest non-polar glacier house where Indian sepoy stands at guard at freezing temperature. The adjacent Shyok river between the Indian and Chinese territories.

Four-kilometers of Galwan is the Daulat Beg Oldie. Just 8-kilometres from Daulat Beg Oldie lies the Chinese border of Aksai-Chin and Siachen Glacier on the other side. After 2014 and especially, the 2019 victory, the present-day government decide to infrastructure ramp-up. 

A 60-metre bridge was proposed over the Galwan River in eastern Ladakh to facilitate the infantry and supplies to the sepoys deployed in the cold, mountainous regions of Darbuk and Daulat Beg Oldie in Karakoram Pass. A military airstrip at an altitude of sixteen-thousand feet was also proposed. 

One of the media channel, with borrowed satellite images, demonstrate for hours the various outposts, Post 1-8 at Pangong Lake, the motorable and kuccha road that armies of both countries would patrol, the superfast construction and massive deployment at Chinese side but [possibly] overlook the nearby Tarim Basin, inhabited by Uyghurs where China notoriously created a concentration camp. So, erections on the Chinese side is natural and expected. Moreover, the distance between Pangong Tso and Galwan (where the skirmish happened) is approximately 7-8 kilometres. 

The present-day Chinese government, the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) and Xi Jinping feverishly object to the creation of the bridge, but the present-day Indian government pays no heed. The construction of the strategic bridge was seen as one of the triggers for the recent aggression. 

The construction of Bailey Bride allows the vehicles of the Indian army to cross the Galwan River against the aggressive PLA in case of a worst-case scenario. The construction was completed on June 12 or 13, 2020. 

At the Y-junction of the river where the two rivers—Syhok and Galwan meets lies an Indian army-base. Colonel Bikkumalla Santosh Babu, of 16-Bihar regiment and his platoon, was in-charge of the post. On June 15, a fisticuff between the two armies was reported and since, then onwards, the situation was on the escalated vein. While patrolling on June 14, the regiment noticed some of the Chinese forces holed in the region, near the bridge.

Babu asked the Chinese to push-back 2 kilometres from Line of Actual Control (LAC) as per the international treaty. Observing a lack of inclination, the troops burned down the temporary hutment built by Chinese. Next day, on the night of June 15, the PLA troops, appearing to have readied themselves and outnumbering the Indian troops three to one, attacked the delegation with sticks, stones, barbed wires injuring two of the sepoys, Havildar Palani and Kundan Ojha.  On June 17, Babu and his men patrolled further (closing to Chinese borders) to ensure that no Chinese were hiding midway. To their dismay, the unreliable dragons did, and they attacked.

Both sides succumbed a large number of casualties. Babu and 17 other lost their lives while China yet, not published their numbers. De-escalation started. 

Chinese Colonel Zhang Shuili, the spokesperson for the PLA’s Western Command, said that the Indian military violated bilateral consensus but the MEA, S. Jaishankar remarked “China had unilaterally tried to change the status quo and that its claims over the Galwan Valley were “exaggerated and untenable.” 

India struggling with its internal conflicts after the abrogation of Article 370, separating Ladakh from the clutches of Kashmir and declared as Union Territory. A Shaheen Bagh model erupts (coinciding to the hundredth year of Khilafat Movement in 1920), the communist and anti-India lobby working tumultuously but yet, to success. 

A close analysis of the events reveals that at the root of the raging unrest in India were the communist-minded Islamist groups. They have the support either from Middle-East (alike Khilafat) or China (the Communist-garbed into dictatorship). 

After the outbreak of COVID-19 that brought the world to a halt, China too was into a precarious position. Initially, the country tried to whitewashed by ramping an Industrial growth but soon caught with its pants down. Many of the nations, Hong-Kong, Taiwan, Japan, South Korea, opened its front against China. 

China’s main rival, USA, supports the growing aggression and India was one of the significant countries that every one bank. It is also the primary market for the American and Chinese traders. 

At such juncture, China needs a diversion tactic; moreover, its prized project China–Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) hits a roadblock if Gilgit-Baltistan either gets sovereignty or make inclusion to India. China would have no direct access to Gawadar Port that allows the country to connect with the west without using the sea-faring trade routes where it has numbers of adversaries. 

Besides, the rising anti-China goods movement in India could bring down China’s monopoly on the world market. The world geopolitics is changing rapidly. 

It is foolhardy to look at the recent skirmish in Galwan as a standalone event or being over-passionate nonsensically. For twenty years, I have been a writer (may not be a fictional one but technical always) I understand, ‘a story contains a story within’. So, look deeper, look real. 

My Viewpoint: Un-necessary Row Over 'Nepo-kids'

The second-most favourite topic of the social netizens, after their ill-informed understanding of Galwan Valley, Line of Control and misrepresentation of Prime Minister's speech, is 'nepotism'. (Facepalm) It all started with a rising actor recently committing suicide. The entire nation gets obsessed with the rising nepotism, especially in Bollywood.

Now, visualize this.

A king wished his eldest son to become his successor. Everyone loves him, everyone is obsessed with his enticing personality, and he got himself a queen too. The king has other sons, [note, no daughter] but he wished only the eldest to govern. The young prince has no past experience or excellence except killing a few demeans or being a guard to sages as they perform homas. Yet, he was chosen as king-to-be.

Well, 'nepotism' was thence, not known. So, look at Google to find the word's etymology.  An Italian word (nipote, which means nephew) was made famous by the French in the mid-17^th century. Initially, the word was used as 'euphemism' when Pope Julius II, the second ruler of Papal states was chosen to lead not because he was suitable, but he was the 'nephew' of Francesco Todeschini—Pope Pius III, the first ruler-pope.

Has anyone ever heard the family in Windsor Castle have passed their mantle to an outsider? A Diana or Kate Middleton were inducted into the fold but not to the throne. The crown remained within the three family units, the Stuarts, the Hanovers, and the Windsors. So, it is difficult for me to understand the hoopla—why the outrage? Well, it's a foreign or Western concept. Okay, let me look at what is practised in India.

The kingdom of Magadha, for hundred and forty-three years, were with Haryanka, from Bimbisara (545 BCE) to Nagadarshakha (413 BCE). Later, the mantle of administration, whether the Afghan Lodhis or the Moghuls (that most take pride) were always within a dynasty; irrespective whether the successor is competent or not. The tradition continues. Nehrus, Yadavs (of Uttar Pradesh and Bihar), Gowdas, Thackerays, Scindias, Rao's of Telangana, Hoodas, Chautalas, Singhs, if have anything familiar—it is not the political ideologies but the bloodlines.  Even the [alleged and famous] spinsters Mamata or Mayawati prefers their 'nephews' to succeed them.  

Bloodline not necessarily flows within the politics even the house of industrialists, Wadias, Ambanis, Birlas, Jindals all have their successors from the family. So, if 'Bollywood' follows the same, 'hungama hai kyun barpa'? I recall, when I was in Mumbai, there was an Irani eating house on the other side of Andheri Station (West). I used to begin my day with their bun-maska or the keema bhuna with bun and the milky tea. The eatery at the prime location displays a board that reads, 'Since 1915…".

The gentleman on the counter was not ancient but in his fifties so, one day I asked, about the history. [Since it was raining heavily, I was not in a rush to office.]  Quite reluctantly and with a gruff he responds, the café was founded by his late grandfather [some] Mazban. He points his finger to the board and quite proudly introduced himself as the 'third generation'.

Later, I found that all the Parsis and Irani cafés in Bombay (the Marzban, Behrams, Bastani) and Pune is family-owned. The servers (waiter) working in these eating joints do not mind training the next generation—one day who will be their boss, with business errands or castigates the owner-kid as 'nepo-kids'. They continue with their job.

Similarly, in Calcutta, sweetshops and roadside eatways takes pride in their foundation year and the founding father. The sweet-toothed Bengalees would flock before the stores of Bhim Nag, or Sen Moshai or Bancharam for their doses. A Nobin Chandra Das roshogolla is often taken with a veneraton though the man sometimes died in 1925. His family, his nephews, now run the business at different quarters of Calcutta.  So, why nepotism is trending nowadays?

Family successions are quite a common practice. A Marwari or a Gujarati trader (no matter how small or big) would have his son or son-in-law sit in the galla.  I had a Punjabi college-mate whose father runs a junk-stall in Dariba. Reluctantly, he would go on every Saturdays and Sundays to the shop and then, would crib the week.

Once, I dared [as everyone aware I am moofat] 'why do sit the shop when you don't like to'?

He promptly responded '…well, it is our family business shop; my father is old and suffering from cancer. I am the only son in the family. Who will take care of the shop, whether I liked it or not?'

 A doctor wants the child to be a doctor, a lawyer wants his/her child to be a lawyer…everyone wants a successor that too belonging to the bloodline. So, if an ex-actor wants his child to become an actor, why label them as 'star-kids' or 'nepo-kids'. Agreeably, all are not talented but who goes to watch a talent in the movie theatre?

If talent or the story is what rules the public interest then a Sanjay Leela Bhansali's poor rip-off Bengali classic 'Devdas' won't be minting money, or an arthritic Peshwa queen won't jig her leg or do thumka in competition. The poor, mismatching representation of Ala-ud-din Khilji won't be blown the people [ironically, the man was an ardent follower of the Sufi saint Hazrat Nizam-ud-din]. Does that mean one needs to bear with it? Hell, no.

Ex-actors, who showcases or promotes his or her child [after nose-or-lip job or puffed] was once a commoner like you and me. So, there is room for everyone—whether talented or lacking. Everyone listened to their father or mother's childhood story. They would walk miles to schools, wear the old or lone piece of shirt, read under city-lights or save ‘annas’ by skipping the lunch to buy a book. 

Times have changed, and none [exceptions are always prevalent] can’t say the narrate the same tale to their grandchildren or children. Today, you may not be privileged, but tomorrow, your generation will be. Does that make your child—a ‘nepo-child’? If yes, go ahead and protest.

PS:

When we gift 100 or 200 crores to a puffed-up star who kills people sleeping on the pavement or imbibe his gesture to rub his nose [as a regular snorter] with the thumb; are we eligible to talk about about ‘nepotism’ or reason that forces SSR to commit suicide. The dead actor might have left with a few question unanswered, and a pandora-box opened but how logical it is to blame the gamut of star-kids for his untimely death.

A New Me is on Uprise...

This blog is dead because the one who used to write ...is oozing with pain and want to lay to rest. 

- From a wounded soul. (RIP, Myself)

I'm Gay Even When I am Asleep!

Eating the self-made fish patties for the lunch can causes mental diarrhea with severe dream constipation. It happened so that while I was having my afternoon siesta, like any other Bengali ‘bhadrolok’, after having 6-7 fish patties I dreamt:

My dead father woke me up, this morning, but I found him sleeping inside the car. My driver, Zia standing beside the car, pulls out a carrier filled with ‘chicken biryani’. Both men start feeding each together. What? My father (who is dead) and my driver (who will be dead soon). [...I’m the only guy who wants his father to be gay...]

Leaving both the old gentlemen to each other’s company, I start driving the car seating in a crumpled state. When I was at the flyover that connects Appu Ghar to Secunderabad Station, I realised that my seating position needs to be changed and start adjusting my seat by opening the door. A policeman helped me...(how unreal this dream could be?)

Finally, I parked my car in a forgotten place and decide to take the metro-rail to reach home. I left my car keys at home.

In the station, a gang of girls, playing with colours fell in love with me. I realised, I’m a not a straight guy [how melodramatic] and so, I dumped them all; except a fat girl with ponytails with whom I got married. [I seriously need to operate myself now...] Thankfully, the dream sequence repaired the reel soon, [I can never be a straight - not even in my dream...uhuh!] so I start running away from the fat-girl and finally, escaped through a tunnel to the flyover where Appu Ghar meets Secunderabad. [I saved my 'gayhood'....yeah!]

Now, I am awake. Can anybody tell me where I parked the car?

What A Year It Was!

Lying over my lazy bum, I’m waiting for the last few hours of ‘this year’ to close-by. Little have we realised that the ‘past 365-days’ was all-spent under the shade of ‘Doomsday’, as predicted by the ancient guys when they ran out of their scrolls. Then, when it passed without the world splitting into pieces, we realise ‘it was stated metamorphically’. Indeed!

Look around yourself. The country of peace and non-violence has suddenly awakened to the most violent expression of humankind; The Great Satan losing its title to ‘The MAN’ and phallus, became the most degenerated scar every grown on man-kind. In fact, the world order is assumable, set to change forever and hopefully, at the 24^th hour of this 365^th day.

It’s not only the world order, but each one of us, individually and personally has an irreparable loss to talk about. To me, there are reams to talk for. Wait a minute! In the initial months, you were counting a loss; in fact – a great patch-up headway. (Oh, yeah!) Under the impending shadow of ‘A’ heading far-away, it was a compromising situation to smoothen the catastrophe to hit on the forthcoming ‘First of July’.

Agree! It was a joyous moment for ‘A’, both financially and professionally, as he settled down abroad with a lucrative offer but, left me for-ever to be homeless once again. For past 37-years, I’ve pretended to be happy with four walls and a silent voice within me; except of those ‘four years with some A’ – the years when I lived as anybody else. Well, I’m happy for him, but to me; the doomed walls and silent voice returned. Now, with an unknown future, a gulp-on-throat, and forced smile; I start to make a living again.

Providence! Oh, don’t make me smile. No sooner did A left me forever, few carrots are offered by the Providence. An impending promotion, a car at throw-away prices; only to realise that the ‘I am to be doomed day-by-day’.

The promotion happened without a raise and the car take-away all that I’ve raised. Inflation found a new way as bills get doubled and subsidies subsided. Banking is no more a fun and life passed paying off the EMIs things that I have rented. I was still managing, till each month – there was a broke-age.

• First, the year-old laptop died and a new one is the only replacement. 
• The passion dried and the muse had left. 
• The house keys were lost and the door was broken.
• The taps starts leaking, the air-conditioner was misused, the gas cylinder leaked, and finally, the plants dried away.

If this was not enough, a series of bouts with families, friends, colleagues, relatives and domestic help followed throughout the year; as each month passes. Well, stop finding blame with me; if relations has got soured day-by-day. I could narrate their state, at length; truthfully, I sternly reacted.

• A bunch of colleagues promised a holiday-trip only to trip off, at the right moment. 
• A junior colleague asked for 2-hour break when the project was underway, and then didn’t turn up or informed to make the delivery happen. 
• A father-son duo, belongs to my extended family, stayed for 10-days at my expenses and left me a bill in an inflationary state. 
• A dear sister, always complain and blames me for things-that-happened years back; but decline to give an ear to my woes, when I wish to lament. 
• An aunt, howsoever good, always cribs, complains and nags like a ‘pain’.

Finally, the dear mother – she sided my dear sister and had the wrath for all-the-nonsense. Ugh, the year is finally lost and all my relations have doomed away. Sitting in these last few hours, with handful complains, I wish myself – a happy new year ahead.  

A Day Called 'Sunday'

September 09, 2012 – Sunday, Time: 05:10 P.M.

My home got no clock yet, I am punctual to core. I got no driving license yet, there is a car parked down that belongs to me. I can’t measure distance yet, have walked miles; and I am bored yet I trying to be funny.

What a Sunday?

Silence Please, Men at Work!

Oh, this ain’t a roadside signage that drawn my lecherous self, to sweaty and hard-bodied men under-constructing a road or building, to whom I could serve myself as the turkey that they will feast upon. Rather, it’s the unsaid rule of 36 people who work together but, never talk – AT MY WORKPLACE.

Historically, I know a ‘shy guy’. It was me - a silent geek with grandpa’s spectacles although my childhood; the only among the 50 students whose transformation to a melodramatic, over-the-top, cacophonic (but outspoken) bitch was the talk of the town today. In fact, I was so silent that nobody knows that ‘I was gay’ till, I start speaking so voluminous that nobody could ‘make me straight’ now.

Dude, let’s concentrate on those 36 people rather writing a character certificate for your own self. (Err…) Okay!

So, here’s this 36 people who comes to work every day (in singles and doubles) but never punctual, find a seat for themselves before the computer and remain seated for 8…no 9…err! 10 hours. What’s un-natural about it? All goes to work and seat in their chair and do their work, on/ off computers…! Oh yea, these are different.

In a 1500 sq. ft, where the air-conditioner don’t work when it is summer but, keeps you freezing when it’s raining or cold outside – the 36 people seat in their chairs, next to each, in different cubicles and start working. An hour, another hour, (add) few more hours; they still working...

No looking to LEFT, not to the RIGHT; nothing to scratch, nobody sighs…no phiss-phiss, no khus-phuss! Maintain distance, maintain silence…men are at work. Sometimes, the silence sound so horrible that even a metal pin might feel embarrassed of ‘being dropped’. (“Oops! I made some noise, SORRY!”) The icy-cold conditioned air swept through the room, embalmed each to a corpse laid to rest in their grave-desk. The best of the dedicated peoples, among all the countrymen, that my company has hired. And, the only non-dedicated me who jump around, crackdown the most lewd jokes and breathes so moanfully that could give my neighbor a ‘boner’. (Ouch!)

Look at the bright side, for Heaven sake! They work dedicatedly and concentrate to core. Oh yea! Getting their freelance work done at office expenses; fixing the same errors for n-number for the same program in every similar project and continues for more than 6-months, fixing their dates and lovenotes on Spark (intra-chat message application) and staring to their computer screen without a blink – if that’s what you call working then, indeed I take a bow. Has anybody heard this, “All work and no play make 36 dull men…”

Surprisingly, these 36 people unfix their posterior from the seat and walk out the glass door, turn bright, fun-filled, cantankerous individuals. Ain’t that sounds strange? Sometimes, I feel they are too hideous and too ‘silent’ in their real self. I feel betrayed now coz’ my HR promised me “a energetic and amazing workplace…”

Can you Measure the Distance?

Dear Az,

Since, you love reading me through my write-ups than to chat-in-person, let me now do some talking.

Three-months and you are gone. I am somewhat recycling to ‘what you have met’ (with few exceptions); keeping myself busy at work. In past two months, I have started contributing and collecting accolades again – for my work, for my ideas, for my creative talents; and yes, the political brick-batting. [Suddenly, worms of politics have dirtied my workplace and, I get soaked into it. I hate this but always the best player to the game.]

Anyways, this is not to speak about what going at work. It’s all about YOU and ME – the two most dearest peoples I have loved, and misses.

I haven’t said you many a things, till now. I haven’t spoken about me to you, so hurtfully. Agreed, we did spend years with each other; many a evenings, fought-and-kissed, made to the bed and satisfied; yet…I always remain standing in the dark behind you, watching and waiting.

In the last few months, a strange feeling was overcoming me and I was basking to glory; or about to reach your love till you bought a ticket to highlands. I regaled and left to my mooring with a broken tambourine. I haven’t said you, that last time when you hugged me – the night before you left; I had a gulp hidden inside my throat about to explode, yet I smiled back; only to break down once you are gone. That night, I cursed myself, and complained to Almighty (if there is any) for making me ‘what I am’.

Honestly, I don’t recall the numbers of raindrops that have drenched me one evening, while we were returning on a bike from Gol Gumbaz. I don’t make an effort to visit the places where we have memories of ours. I lived those moments to every nanosecond, I knew your touch, I can feel your breath. But now, they all gone frail and fail to measure the distances…

I ain’t complaining, but I impatiently wait for that little chat window to open with a scribbled word from you. Do you know sometimes, it feels like waiting for the postman, from the yesteryears and then he cycled through without any packet from me? I know, it sounds too dramatic, rather melodramatic to core but, that’s how it feels. And, finally one-day you says something which is nothing much a few monosyllables… (Ah, dear me!) I die a thousand deaths reading those monosyllables.

I ain’t complaining, I do understand – we have lives different from each other. I ain’t trying to bring the poles together; I didn’t wish for ‘something crazy’. I know, I am standing at the dead-end and there’s nothing for me, to continue. In fact, I expect nothing except ‘you’ – the forbidden fruit, which the GOD has denied to me. I ain’t a Eve, I am Adam dahlin’.

But, could you spare few minutes after your friends are gone, the prayers are said, the food is eaten, and the lights are out. Could you spare few minutes for me, and say ‘that you’re fine, you do think about me’. Life might start cycling and, I am hopeful, there will be ‘a day’ when we both meet each other again – till that time, please spare me few minutes of your for MYSELF. 

Happy Birthday, Mom!

To Dear Mom,
First, she made me a baby, then the 'man of the house' and now; doubled as her 'father'. Thanks for everything that you did, and mostly, you was born. Happy b'day! Big Gal.

Searching for the Gothic One...

After an extended and exhaustive orgylicious weekend, when the mind needs no more; I stand bare-backing my camera, and walks miles of Hyderabad for more orgasms. (Ain’t, I confided to being a self-proclaimed maniac. If not, then it’s best of the examples.) Clad in my unwashed, crumpled blue denims that can smeel far away, I strayed around the streets hawkish-ly for the gothic drama to unfold. But fatelorn...

In this part of Andhra Pradesh, Goddess Yellamma – one of the many myriad forms of Kali being celebrated with aplomb. As traditionally, the gold and silvery brass pots craftily painted with rich turmeric and extravagant layers of vermillion shaping the surface, filled with rice mixed with jaggery and fried julienne onion strip are carried to the temple by women, to please the god for gifting rich harvest.

For an atheist like me, this piece of information is not interesting; but, what could set me a** run through the streets are the gothic face-masks that most do. Yellamma, as imagined, is vociferous, dominative kind known for her temper is worshipped by a bundle of screaming cheetahs dressed in their gothic attire but artistically best. But, I am fatelorn and found none as the entire day passed.  

Yet to my surprise, when revisited the camera book, are the glimpses of vibrant colours of festivity filled with holy orb and sunshine. Holyness devoured but I ain’t satiated yet. (Thumbnail images of Bonalu festival are lined below.)