Recently on a group tour of Punjab (now known as bespoke tourism), a fellow traveller in her 30s kept staring into her phone even when the guide was explaining the history of Amritsar. I soon realised that she was actually googling everything that he was saying and nodding her head depending on whether Google sanctified what he was saying. Not only did I feel ashamed for her impropriety in front of the guide but mentally blamed all ills of society on digital gadgets.
Little did I know that soon I would be wishing that more people of my generation in search of instant gratification did indeed google. I had learnt a few months ago that an all-India craft organisation was scheduled to hold its national meet in Santiniketan. The fact that the organisers had chosen mid-April - when temperatures touch 42 and 43 degrees - to hold this meet didn't speak highly of their organisational skills. Anyway, since I was getting phone calls from Hyderabad, Bengaluru and Delhi (despite the fact that I was in no way connected) regarding hotels and travel possibilities, I realised the organisers must be particularly un-savvy. Since mutual friends had suggested my name as a point person in Santiniketan, I obliged. What had me, of course, were questions like "where can we find something interesting to eat? We have just stepped out of the conference for a bit". The time was 1.30 in the afternoon, the place was Santiniketan - at best, a moffusil town - and the temperature was 42 degrees. "Get to the tourist lodge fast and you would be lucky to find some food," I said, quite taken aback at how city dwellers tended to overestimate semi-urban reality.
The same week some friends called from Kolkata to say that a few of their relatives were visiting the city from Bengaluru and wanted to come to Santiniketan for half a day. Although they pretty much knew what there was to see and had it all chalked out, they still had one question: Was there any place where they could see tribal women dancing? Infuriated at the question, I tried to keep calm and asked, "Where? On stage? In their village? By the side of the road?" "People have told us about these dancers," they said lamely. I said I was not privileged to know when any tribal would break into a dance in merriment or in order to earn a meal.
Shortly thereafter, two graphic designers from Mumbai were in Santiniketan for a day. They arrived into town by about 10 am and that's when they dialled me to figure out "what can we do in half a day?". Just as I was gritting my teeth and thinking of intelligent, helpful things to say, she asked another question: "Can we meet some artists?" "Without appointment?" I shot back. "Just asking," was her reply. Why ask? Does it happen in Mumbai? Do artists loll around waiting for art aficionados to happen to them? The woman piped down on the art-love bit and asked for directions to Rabindranath Tagore's house instead. "Do you have a map; are you familiar with any landmarks?" "No" was the short and sweet reply.
When I was narrating this to my partner, who has just published a business directory of the area (primarily to ward off such "what, where" questions) he immediately saw in this a business opportunity. Should we include artists' names in the directory then? People could then copter-land on to Santiniketan, dial a few artists and head back with bargains.
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