Plight of the flightless bird

Though I'm a wanderer, I go tourist-y every once in a while. Two years ago, an ostrich farm in Oman seemed sufficiently tourist-ed and so, perfectly accommodated my eccentricities at the time.

The Barka Ostrich Farm, located at one and half hours drive from the city of Muscat on the way to Nakhl (meaning palm trees), is home to camels, crocodiles, horses and, of course, a small and the only population of ostriches in Oman. There are also a few ducks and lazy cats in the farm (although someone who’s been to Muscat knows that cats are not exactly a rare sight in the city). The farm is surrounded by acres of lush green land and a massive insecticide spraying contraption to protect the crops cultivated on the farm.

Wikipedia reads that the Arabian ostrich, once native to the Arabian Peninsula and Near East, is now found only in parts of Southern Africa. Culturally, the Jewish viewed this bird more or less negatively but after the rise of Islam, the bird came to symbolize wealth and prosperity.

Ostrich meat is not only ‘halal’ to the Muslims but has become popular among many cultures because of its low cholesterol count. The Jurassic-sized ostrich eggs, feathers and leather are used in production of handicrafts/other products that are sold to visitors of this farm.

Ostriches are shy birds but there was one curious female ostrich peering at me from the other side of the wire- fenced enclosure at the farm (females are lighter in color than males). She appeared in a good mood but I’m a little intimidated by large birds after watching Hitchcock’s movie ‘The Birds’ so kept my distance

An elaborate tour and over a hundred photographs later, I left for home but this bird still lingered my thoughts. Trying to gather more information, I spent some time reading up on ostriches – I was surprised to learn that even though this gigantic bird is found mostly in game parks and farms, its conservation status is that of ‘Least Concern’.

The House of God

I don’t particularly fancy going to temples: over the years, the spirituality that I associate with temples has gradually diminished. For one, I don’t approve of a separate ‘VIP’ queue for those who are willing to pay extra to escape the never-ending queue of worshippers, who gather hours before the day dawns to bow before their God (even if just for a second). Also, I have always found the temperament of temple-goers quite intriguing; the concept of trashing the resting place of a deity – they so revere - is beyond me. The current state of most Indian temples is so ugly that no popular temple is without banana peels and plastic bags.

"What are you looking for and why are you here?

- I seek a quiet morning in what was once God’s lair."

The Deobaloda Shiv temple is neither popular nor easily accessible which is why I wanted to see it.

The temple walls narrate stories of erotica, war, celebration and glory on a canvas which is small but nothing short of grand and all set in a 5th century plot. The sculptures on the pillars inside the temple are both interesting and delightful for anyone who can recognize and appreciate art. There is a garden on one side of the temple and a small pond on the other. It is said that the pond connects the temple to an ancient city through an underground link. The temple doesn’t get many visitors and so is peaceful and clean. All in all, the temple offers contentment to the art hungry, refuge to the restless and titillation to the curious.

And even a skeptic like me doesn’t mind admitting that if God ever resided on earth, he must have lived in the walls of temples such as this one.

Hue of abandonment

On my way to Bargi Dam from Jabalpur, I caught a glimpse of Tilwara Ghat. It is said that Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes were cast into the river Narmada at this Ghat, a piece of information which has led Tilwara Ghat to assume a place in history as well as make way into itineraries.

An old bridge, from the days of British Raj, still stands over Narmada at Tilwara Ghat.

“As the sun traced its descent into the end of another day’s story, an old abandoned bridge stood stern, in all its character and glory.”