My friend Shubhangi tells me that this section of the mountains carries (and I confirm) a lot of fog, so the Britishers started calling it Foggy. After they left, the locals turned it into Fagu. The mountains are her home and I trust this source of information. The valley seems as endless as the Himalayas and the sky ahead of us, and I’m a tiny speck of white sweater against a white cottage. And each speck I can lay my eyes on has stories to tell. It took me a few days to figure out my rhythm - wake up around 7 am, meditate for a few minutes and go on a short walk with Cookie, the dog. Upon our return, Cookie would leave us to explore the rest of her kingdom. I brewed my coffee and wrote my morning pages in the garden until we all had breakfast together. Around 10.30 we’d get on with our projects and tasks but always meet for our meals. My co-residents, amongst other titles that suit them, were
(a poet), Varsha (a children’s author) and Ria (a screenwriter).I’ve sketched almost every single day, written snippets for this newsletter and worked on my book. We had flexibility to work on anything we wanted and at our own pace. One of the cool parts of the residency program is that we are requested to leave behind a physical artefact - art, poems, books, anything we made. So I worked on a fun art concept while I was here.
The two-page double-sided spread starts with the front and back view of the Sparrow’s Song Cottage, and opens into a sketch of the view of the valley from the garden.
This has been a very insightful week - one of introspection, observation and conversation. I have penned down some of them below.
Day 1 (August 3):
I am all warm cozy now with my fuzzy socks on, hiding under a pristine white quilt. Yummy home-cooked food has long since made its way into my belly. The ride from Chandigarh was relatively quick but I think everyone will sleep soundly tonight. So far, my favourite part has been meeting Cookie (Kukki), the resident Sparrow’s Song Cottage dog. I am carrying strands of her hair proudly on my trousers. I stepped outside after dinner, and peered into the night sky in case any stars were visible but found nothing. A few steps later, hundreds of twinkling stars were staring at me, littered across the dark valley of Fagu and Kufri. Although the skies weren’t clear, the view of the valley had been; and now the fireflies of all the houses in the mountains were glittering. I observed it for a few breaths - the fluctuations in electricity visible across the distance, the crickets hiding in the bushes, and the smell of… fragrance of “not-a-city” wafting in the slight breeze.
Day 2 (August 4):
I think I get why a lot of writers lived in the mountains and why writer’s retreats are often away from the cities. I woke up at 8am and by the time it was 10.30 I had meditated for a bit, gone on a short walk with the cottage dog, had breakfast and written my morning journal pages. I felt like I had achieved a lot already. Today is sunny with a cold wind blowing. I have restricted my phone usage, I have made an illustration and I have sketched. Eventually, I will run out of things to do and there’ll be nothing left but write my book. I realise that I am procrastinating at this very moment - writing something, anything but my book. In Mumbai I have to create time and will to write. There’s always an event to attend, a chore to do, people to visit, and shows to watch. This cottage is remote enough that I have resigned myself to walks on quaint paths and writing. There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to be. Alas, what a fate! Hoorah, what a fate!
Day 3 (August 5):
I was woken up this fine morning by a screaming bird. As someone who has been woken up a few times in the past by honks of multiple angry cars of Mumbai already in a traffic jam somehow at 7am, I much prefer this. My morning meditation was a futile attempt as I let my ears pick up the chatting teetars sharing their morning gossip. I honed into the teetar closest to me, and let my attention wander to her friends returning her calls across the valley. Sound really travels far in the mountains, picked up by the winds and deposited everywhere else. The short and slow walk into the woods let us notice:
tiny Indian white-eyes in their sulphur-yellow glory flitting about in groups like excited children out of school bustling around a vada-pav walla
Bulbuls in pairs flirting like a young couple from old Indian movies, one being chased by the other
a kite, flapping its wings effortlessly until it caught a draft and soared away like… well, a kite.
Day 4 (August 6):
When we sat down on the slightly damp rock patch slightly off our very damp walking path, the entire valley was visible at our feet. The fluffiest of clouds were nestled between the jugged ridges of every single hill, and deep grey rain clouds blanketed us all. Cookie sat with us too, watching the doll-sized locals pass by under us on the main road. A trotting young cream-coloured dog spotted us too but went along his way. We sat still for what seemed like eternity but everything around us seemed to be moving. Especially the clouds. A mammoth crowd of clouds rushed suddenly upwards towards us, flooding our view of the valley and within a few minutes we were enveloped completely by fog. If it were a solid thing, the scene would have been accompanied by crashing sounds as the clouds rammed into the pine trees. If it were a liquid thing, it would’ve left everything in its path drenched. As it were, we were all now a little damp. We commenced our walk through the fog, focusing on only a few metres ahead of us accompanied by the barely-a-crunch of the pine needles beneath our feet. Just because we understand how it works, doesn’t mean its not magic.
Day 5 (August 7):
It’s been pouring or drizzling all morning so we’ve all spent time indoors. I like keeping Cookie company so I found myself back in the veranda. The sun must have been adamant about making his presence known though, because the rain clouds suddenly lifted. We are at the rock patch down the goat path near the cottage. We’ve each chosen a rock to perch upon, with our book or journal of choice. The shoes on my feet are damp no more and I really think the Fagu nature gods are being especially kind to us. A few crows glided past me, closer than any birds have so far. I find myself sharing facts - Himalayan crows are bigger and fly higher. I was seven when I saw (and still remember) my first Himalayan crow. I have the tendency to collect facts and random pieces of information; perhaps not unlike crows themselves with their penchant for shiny things.
Day 6 (August 8):
For a place where time passes so slowly, this week has come to an end too soon. And in a place where nothing happens, things have changed. The plant that hosted 8 or 9 silk moth caterpillars is bare now, completely devoid of leaves. The pine-needled path we’ve started to frequent has hosted multiple fogs, has grown new bunches of Himalayan daisies and clusters of mushrooms are crowding soggy logs. The hike to the half-constructed house has extra apples, almost out of reach. It seems like the cows know us better too. Many beetles of different sizes have made their way into our veranda to find a safe place to pass on from this world. The time it takes for us to walk places has shortened. And the valley looks different every hour, every day. I wish we had more time here but I know that would also be too less. I find myself wondering if I’d be able to maintain this pace or even this mental state when I’m back in the city. Living a slow life is so much more challenging there. But I’m stubborn and I hope to make it work.
Day 7 (August 9):
I woke up with Josh’s Islands in the Sky playing in my mind. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and the teeters infiltrated my ears instead. We went apple-picking, and I tried to notice every glistening drop of rainwater that was attached to the apples. I watched as the drops let go, finally one with the soil as their siblings had before them. Some unfortunate drops with the dreams of being part of the water cycle ended up on my skin, hair and clothes. They’d have to take an unusual route to end up in the clouds. One of our apple-picking attempts resulted in a bonus fruit falling on the soft grass and rolling a few steps further. Like Atlanta, we paused intentionally to pick it up and admire it in our hands. It will become part of our last breakfast in Fagu, a fitting end to our stay here. I’ve not had enough of apple-picking, and I too can tell what form my dreaming was about to take. As we descend into the plains later, I will find an apple-shaped slice of Fagu wedged into my heart. A wedge that has replaced the section of myself I left behind in Fagu.
I vowed not to read anything during the residency, but I faltered. Here’s a list of
Things I have read over the week:
Varsha’s children’s book - Leya’s Extra-Secret Super-Important Birthday List
Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, a non-fiction book on what it takes to be a writer
Funeral for a Demon, a short fiction story by Srividya Tadepalli
A revisit to After Apple-Picking by Robert Frost
- ’s newsletter
Freestyling Words: Wishes & Dreams
Join me and Rujuta of Art & Emotions Inc. for an online workshop on free association journaling. It's beginner-friendly and we combine some awareness exercises to get you into the flow. This month’s topic is wishes and dreams!
🗓 August 18, 2024
🕓 4.00 pm IST
💸 Early bird fees = INR 200 until August 12 & INR 300 from August 12 onwards
Get Writing! With Vedi & Sanj
sanjeeta saha from Rest My Opinion and I are hosting a 'Get Writing!' workshop online where we will work on prompts for all levels and learn the basics of creating compelling pieces of writing. Half of the proceeds will be donated to Khartoum Aid Kitchen through watermelon art fair.
🗓 August 24, 2024
🕓 4.00 pm IST / 12.30 pm CEST
💸 Pay as you please with minimum of INR 300 or EUR 5!
Coffee, Connect & Create - August
An engaging meet-up for like-minded artists from different fields to chat over coffee while creating with each other’s company over video call!
🗓 August 25, 2024
🕓 4 pm IST / 12.30 pm CEST
💸 Pay as you please with minimum of INR 100 or EUR 3!
Washing a rucksack full of laundry,
Vedi