The Fairytale of Our Times

"The wedding weight-loss secrets of a lazy procrastinator who defied the odds and became a skinny bride. Get The Wedding Day Diet today"

(An excerpt from the ads that facebook decided to throw at me today)

Just Realised...

...How when N speaks, I can still make out the sound of his smile.

Bus of Thought

Unusual as it sounds, that's the title of one of the regular fillers that appear on London bus TV screens now. The plot is simple - a man enters a bus, picks up a paper or a postcard someone has left behind on the seat, and reads what's written on it. He then pauses for a moment, looks into the distance, and writes something down in a notebook. The camera zooms into the page, and Voi-la! Therein lies something supposedly profound.

"Knowledge is knowing that the tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad"

You get the idea.

The reason I like it though, is because of the actor. At the end of it, he turns to you and smiles. Grey hair, spectacles, laugh-lines (he doesn't peer through them, instead looks above them, like when you tilt your head a bit, and your glasses sit on your nose). Looks like a benevolent uncle/grand-dad, who has a living room full of books and will not only let you borrow what you want, but will also buy you ice-cream and ask your parents not to scold you for eating it.

Yeah, the things I think of on a bus!

Last week however, I couldn't pay attention to him. Throughout the ride back home it was hard to ignore the constant jabbering of the woman behind me. She was talking to a friend over the phone, and in that brief 10 minute ride, I was treated to a lot of details about her life - that her grandmother thought she was 22 instead of 23 and mailed her the wrong birthday card, that in school she and her friend had gone for a slumber party where they wore those green satin gowns and it's been oh-so-long since she thought about it, that Ian got a job and was so happy that he called her at work and screamed into the phone and the person sitting next to her said that it was very loud, that she wants to buy that skirt they saw last week but thinks she's too broad on the hips for it, that she is right now in a bus headed to Bow Lane but will get off after two stops where she wants to pick up groceries to make that sauce her mom said would be great for dinner tomorrow, that her flatmate celebrated her birthday with a huge bash to which she was invited at the last minute which was very surprising because it was SHE who threw that b**** a surprise party last year before she made all those fancy friends of hers, that she's going away this weekend with Ian but hasn't thought of where to but it's okay as long as they get to spend some time together.

Small complaints, little joys, and a whole lot of gossip.

I am not being judgmental though. Now that A's finally given me her number (after some perplexing silence since she moved to NYC) I know it won't be long before I start doing the same.

The Sea and a Few Visitors

Walking is fun, even without music. I miss music – but slowly, other things take its place. Like seeing, observing. Noticing faces and frames which I wouldn’t have paid any attention to otherwise.

A non-descript eatery in Chinatown. Food is hot, tasty, and served quickly. I take a table at the far end of the room, hungry from the long walk from Liverpool Street Station. Pearl tapioca tea, steamed rice, and chicken in black bean sauce. While eating it, I realize I had ordered the exact same meal a long time ago with someone else. Today, I have Craig Thompson for company.

And Britney Spears too. She moans and squeals from the speakers, something like “…then why do these tears come at night”. The Chinese couple that runs the eatery is arguing over something. He decides its not going anywhere, and pulls a chair aside, and sits down to eat his bowl of noodle-soup. She hears the buzz on the kitchen-chute, and opens it. While hurrying to my table with the steaming hot food and chopsticks, she pauses to size me up. Young Indian woman, eating alone, staying away from the more exotic items on the menu. After this quick evaluation, she decides I might need some help, and fishes out a fork and knife from her apron, and places it next to me with a sweet smile. I eat the whole meal with chopsticks, nonetheless. I’m clumsy, but I’m learning and I need the practice.

Craig Thompson is wandering in Marrakesh, alone in a sea of people.

Entering the museum, I felt out of place too. I was, by far, the youngest person there. Everybody else seemed wiser (?), older. Silver-grey hair. Sweaters and pearl necklaces. Glasses. Some have aged so gracefully – a unique radiance on their face, the kind that comes only from a life well-lived. Others looked alone, quiet – in those few moments when they let their guard slip, their eyes shone with a moving sadness. There were many couples, arms around each other, lockstep, sometimes with their grand-kids tagging along. Then there were those who had this dull nonchalance on their faces, like they couldn’t understand what the big deal was about these painted versions of the French sea-coast, they would have much rather preferred the real thing, thank you.

Sea and Rain – Variations in Violet and Green. Whistler painted light in this one. Wispy. But why oil, I wonder. A solitary figure, dissolving into sea, rain and foam. Floating and getting gently assimilated into a larger scheme of things over which he has no control. It would feel weightless to be in that picture. Ethereal and featureless. My thoughts turn to M – I know if he were here, we would have both stopped together at this painting for a long time.

A little girl. Pigtails. Pink sweat-shirt and shoes. Wide blue eyes. Notebook and a cartoon pen in her hand. She is so tiny, she reaches only up to my knees. She’s walking in a world inhabited by people who tower over her. But her eyes stop at each painting, and she looks at them, mouth slightly agape, in uncorrupted wonderment.

He’s dabbed viridian green, streaked cobalt blue and dissolved a pinch of ochre into a basic foundation of pale sky blue to portray the sea in Régates à Sainte-Adresse. I love his sky, and the way the sea contrasts against it. Its sunshine – this Monet painting. I like him painting sunny days. The brighter palette, the sky with its patchwork of blue and white. Those paintings always make me feel strangely contented.

His T-shirt says “The Liver is Evil. It must be Punished”. His beer belly tells me he’s a man of his word. He’s here with his wife, who clasps his arm. He’s rolled up the gallery pamphlet, and is using it to point at pictures of interest.

Monet’s “Le Chemin de la Cavee” (Pourville) is a thing of beauty. It’s as simple and as complex as that. I have to sit down for this one, and take it in.

If only I knew how he painted. The colours and the brushstrokes – they are not violent, passionate and intense (the way Van Gogh would have done the same scene) – but they look as though they’ve been painted by the wind. There is a perfect balance here – rich, sensuous colours applied in such a way that they evoke a wispy quality of a light sea breeze. It’s the kind of breeze, I felt, that would steal from behind and embrace you lightly, when you’re standing in a golden yellow paddy field at sunset. But in this picture, its not gold – there are greens, yellows, reds and blues. In that dark green shrub over there, in its depths, are so many colours! The flowers and the grass sway with reds and yellows and browns. And the sea in the background is lavender and blue and everything in between.

An elderly gentleman in front of me is scribbling in his Moleskine notebook. The pages were brimming with his notes, his handwriting struggling to keep up with his thoughts. He turns around and suddenly looks straight at me, and for a second, I am embarrassed to be caught observing him. He smiles, and with a nod of his head, acknowledges our shared interest in Whistler’s Alone with the Tide. Two people, lost in one canvas. The other’s presence feeling strangely unintrusive.

Then, a huge family comes along, kids and parents and grandparents and prams. He looks at them, smiles politely, and then walks away to another painting.

When walking back, outside in the courtyard, I saw two pretty young girls (sisters maybe?) with long locks of curly hair, light eyes, and skin the colour of biscuits, clapping their hands together. The sound reverberated around the enclosed space, going back and forth, lingering on in ever softening echo. As I walked out onto the street, their laughter of a few minutes back reached me, reflected off the portico. And then, as I moved away, I could hear it no longer – just the humdrum of a normal weekend.

Dhuvi

I became an aunt as early as 2002. But thanks to campus-based education (mine) and globe trotting parents (his), I never really got to know my nephew.

He’s a little person now. He loves maps. He gets excited about adding numbers. He asks questions, and once you answer a few, he asks you even more. He loves weekends so much that he sings to himself as he eats his Saturday breakfast. He wants to help out in the kitchen, and wants to know what exactly goes into that cake you’re baking. He sits on my lap in the car, and talks incessantly – about animals, friends and the rain. He has toys which I could never dream of possessing when I was a kid, but his favorites are an old shaving brush and a broken magnifying glass – and a tattered wallet to house the two.


When he meets you for the first time, he takes time to warm up. He hides behind a chair and eyes you with interest. When I visited him in Singapore this May, after a gap of almost three years, he ate his food quietly, while sneaking glances at me.

But then, one afternoon, I fell asleep with a book on the living room couch, while he watched his quota of Saturday afternoon TV. I woke up to the touch of something warm. My five-year-old nephew was removing the book from my hand, and brushing the hair off my face so that I could sleep more comfortably.

Since then, we’ve hit it off. When he came over to India, he remembered me, and talked to me in that kiddie-English of his, about all that’s happened in his life since we last met. We have our tiffs, but we get over them quickly. There is something simple and tender about the love of a child – no complications, no big questions, no games. It may be lost over a long period of separation, but its never too hard to regain that affection.

Today, he said goodbye. Before getting into the taxi, he gave me a warm, exuberant hug – the kinds that only a child can give.

I wonder when I will see you next, Dhuvi – I just hope you don’t grow up by then.

The Truth Hurts

I've been in lazy stupor for quite a long time - one term of little interest in academics, a lot of warm afternoons of take-away and movies, blissful evenings of coffee, good company and conversation, and a graduation ceremony to end education officially. Home (a sleepy little town), did not improve affairs much - life was just moving from one book/film/song to another, enjoying things that I haven't had the time to do in a long time. It was me-time - it also was tranquil, with nothing to shake or stir me.

But it changed today. I watched something, which had enough power to make me sit up, take notice, and blog! I watched An Inconvenient Truth.


Its been discussed in the media a lot, its even brought Al Gore to the Oscar ceremony. To many (including me), its been something you knew about, you considered to be an important film, but you never cared to watch. Today I took the trouble to sit down, devote just over an hour of my time, and pay attention. Today,I finally listened to what the man was trying to say.

It makes a lot of sense. It is delivered crisply, with the help of numbers, graphs and pictures that you have to be BLIND (or STUPID) to ignore. It is, to be very honest, scary and appalling to find out what we have been doing to our planet.

Yes, its oriented towards American audiences. Yes, it takes you through many events of significance in Gore's life. But none of it, I feel, dilutes the impact of the message. The film tries to address the issue of global warming from an everyman perspective - how it impacts our lives NOW. How it impacts the lives of OUR children. How it is not something so far away into the future. And how a frustrating lack of political and social will is scarring our planet.

And what is so interesting is how Gore connects the dots - so many of our environmental problems and natural catastrophes (floods, droughts, hurricanes, typhoons, spread of diseases) stem from one common root - global warming. There isn't an issue of being distracted, of having too many things to work upon at once - simply focus on getting those carbon emissions down, and you can start changing things. And for many people of my generation, who plan their careers and lives in developed countries, these choices are neither irrelevant nor out-of-reach.

In the end, it reminded me of what S said. Its okay to realise how small you are, and how this pale blue dot is all you've got.

Its also okay to consider yourself big enough to make a difference.

The Epiphanies Of Travel

It has been a month now since I started living out of a backpack.

After Vienna, it was Paris. Then, November took me to Lille, the French Riviera (The Cote D’ Azur), Montpellier, Barcelona, Rome, Naples, Pompeii, and Florence. It also showed me the different faces of people - kindness and hospitality from unexpected quarters, resonance with the thoughts of authors and poets, glimpses of sheer artistic genius, and how the character of a nation and its people, totally irrepressible, finds outlet through everything from food to monuments.

November also made me a year older.

Paul Theroux’s The Pillars of Hercules ((c) Cape Cod Scriveners Co, 1995) was a good find this month. He traces the long route between the two pillars of Hercules (near the strait of Gibraltar) – he travels, hugging the Mediterranean coastline, all the way from Spain, back to Morocco, drawing a full circle in more senses than one. Since I was also making a similar pilgrimage, the book seemed all the more illuminating.

It has always intrigued me, what the lure of travel is. I am prey to it, but I don’t think I can explain it fully (I tried once here). I identify completely with Theroux when he says:

Here, now, on this rail car rattling across Corsica under the massive benevolence of this godlike mountain top – this for the moment was all that mattered to me, and I was reminded of the intense privacy, the intimate whispers, the random glimpses that grant us the epiphanies of travel

Memories of these months I spent in Europe, I know, will strike me as scenes and sensations. Already, cities and towns have been distilled into events, pictures, thoughts, tastes, colours and smells. And whatever is left, will become so much a part of me that I couldn’t discern it.

I remember, way back in September, how I had gone to Feldberg with friends. In the heart of the cuckoo clock country, I found myself sitting on a tree stump, right in the middle of nowhere.



Desolate long patches of grass on a windy hill top. I don’t hear the people walking by – this is my own world.

I am so tiny. All I hear is wind, all I can see is the limitless blue of the sky, and brown-green grass on these slopes. A few branches, with red tips, sway in front of me. The hills seem to stretch on forever. I am so small – one tiny life, that hardly measures up against so much sky and so much wind.

Life, and being, felt a lot lighter that day. And curiously, more complete.

A Weekend in Wien

I thought a lot about how to write about Vienna (Wien, to be precise). I wanted to convey at least a bit of the dazzling beauty of the city. Pictures and words to my rescue, I thought.

After considerable time spent at my laptop, I am none the wiser.

All I can say is, if you ever get a chance to go there, please take it! Give up money, time, work, anything – Wien is worth all of it and more. With its commanding presence, it will make an admirer out anyone who is willing to succumb to its charms.

The Schonbrunn Palace is a bit off from the city center – but its well worth the visit. Construction for it started in 1696, was abandoned midway, and then resumed by Empress Maria Therese of the Habsburg Empire.



It once housed 1500 people – which would have included, one imagines, hundreds of servants to take care of the elaborate gardens and fountains surrounding the place.



The best part of the grounds is the winding path that takes you up to the Gloriette, a victory arch built to commemorate the victory in the Battle of Kolin. The view from the top, at sunset, is well worth the climb.


If you are an art-lover, Vienna is a wonderful city to explore. Must visits would be the Leopold Museum (with an admirable collection of Schiele and Klimt) and the Oberes Belevedere (with an impressive collection of Austrian painters). Schiele’s rugged human figures seem like they are tearing the canvas apart with their thick knuckles and hypnotic gaze.


Klimt’s Life and Death is a picture that haunts you. My travel companion was particularly captivated by the look in Death’s eyes (?), as it stares at the vibrancy of life, all intertwined and inextricable.


Walk along the Ring to find more impressive buildings – the Parliament building for instance.


Guarded by a magnificent fountain, whose water glistens and sparkles in the sunlight, the building is grandiose, but still has an air of quiet seriousness.


The Rathaus (City Hall) in Vienna is ostensibly one of its tallest structures, but that is also thanks to the Eiserner Rathausmann (Iron Knight of City Hall) who valiantly stands on its top, with his huge pennant.


Hofburg – the palatial campus is a lesson in extravagance. Marble sculptures, cobble stoned courtyards and towering apartments for the royals.


From its grounds, Hofburg offers a wonderful panoramic view of the Viennese skyline – which on a sunny day appears dotted with interesting monuments. Pause for a while, and remind yourself of where you are.


But what enfolds you as you walk in Vienna, sadly, I cannot capture here. It is something beyond individual elements.

A café at Michaelerplatz, sipping coffee to the sound of horse-hoofs on cobble stones. The escalator from Karlsplatz U-Bahn station at night, rising to the surface, and the Opera House emerging in front in its dazzling attire of night lights and chandeliers. The Mozarts and Beethovens of street corners, coins thrown into guitar cases, applause from crowds. The green grass at Burggarten and a lazy Sunday afternoon spent in talk and chocolates, with the magnificent steel-and-glass Palmenhaus nearby. A coffeehouse near the Rathausplatz, where an old man, in suspenders, bends over a table and looks over sheet music, lost to the world. Circus Roncalli at night, sharing a table laden with sturm (Viennese wine) and pasta, under the starry sky, the idle banter of friends in the air.

Put all that together. And then add a little more.

Then, you'd get somewhere close to what Vienna is.

Some More Beer, and a Bit of Night Music

It’s raining in Rotterdam now, a rainbow outside my window. The brick lane along the river would be wet now, and the bench from which I saw the skyline the other day would be covered with tiny, round droplets – cool, almost moist like the moonlight that shone on the harbor.

The last few days have all been about discovery – new places, new faces. Belgium, Germany and The Netherlands. Now, back at Rotterdam, I catch my breath before the next week.

It was a cloudy day in Antwerp – perfect for long walks exploring the many streets, and perfect for some warm Belgian waffles. The Oud Arsenal was a pub of common, everyday existence – the faces of the people there seemed familiar, the waiters knew the customers, and there were silent nods to convey “the usual”. We settled into a corner, right next to the window, not wanting to rupture the rhythm of the place and treated ourselves to delicious trappist beer!

Bonn – birthplace of Beethoven, home to an impressive University, and venue to numerous street performers who sing to the night. Music tinted by starlight. Music reflected off the cobblestones in the town square. Music melting into the cold night air.

The university was a vibrant structure by daytime – its yellow walls bright, almost as if its in full bloom, against the blue sky.

The central square had a small book market, with tiny little wooden sheds all stacked up with books. Wish I knew German – I would have picked some up.

Friends at Cologne have rented a delightful little apartment. The former residents are currently in South America, and have rented it out for this term to our two friends – but the house continues to feel like their little, private universe. The house is strewn with little artifacts of life and love – postcards from friends stuck to the kitchen cabinet, photo albums stacked next to CDs of Beethoven and Puccini, photographs of a local food market in the kitchen, books, orange and yellow walls, medals that he won in rowing competitions hung above the door, her collection of exotic spices in little bottles. The house somehow speaks of the intimately ordinary.

Taking pictures of the place somehow seemed like an intrusion to me. As if I would be taking a snapshot of their life, without them knowing about it. So, I don’t have a picture to share. Neither do I have any of the next scene.

Bonn at night. A man at a piano. A street lamp, and a crowd of passers-by as his spontaneous audience. A few minutes where imagination soars. A few minutes, where his fingers, in complete mastery, command delightful music from those keys. A few moments when music connects stranger, stone, lamp, star and night.

The song stops. Applause. The crowd disperses.

I walk away, the music still in my ears, the magic still in the air. For quite a while after that, the stars still sounded like his piano.

Of Beer and Belgium

Brussels did not impress at first – a rather unimpressive central station with prosaic interiors was what we saw first. Walk a little bit, and you come upon the Galeries St Hubert, and you are stunned for a while. Walk in, and the corridor bowls you over.


The shops are pricey, but the window displays are treats enough – colour everywhere, sparkle and glitter on chocolates, brushwork on tiny porcelain figures. We went by what the Bible said (Lonely Planet i.e) and picked up a hazelnut praline from Neuhaus – the 1857 chocolate shop, where the praline was invented. It melted in my mouth like a little piece of heaven.


The Rue des Bouchers is a lane crammed with restuarants, each having its own well stocked shelves of oysters and clams and escargots.

People dig into fragrant dishes, overflowing with fresh seafood - I can only imagine how tasty all that would have been.
It was Belgium – so after chocolate, it had to be beer. The A La Mort Subite (At The Sudden Death), is an unassuming pub right behind the Galeries St Hubert. Run by the fourth generation of the Vossen family, the pub serves some really nice brews. Being travelers of the backpacking kind, we went for the cheapest ones on the menu – Grimbergen Blonde, Maes Pils and Special Palm.

Cigarette smoke, brusque waiters, large mirrors, bright lights reflecting off wood paneled walls, couples at tables, Belgian Beer, and an Ian-Mckellanish waiter, who served us with a generous, Gandalf-like look in his eyes. The bustle of the place was a delightful cacophony.

All I remember is brightness, and refreshing cold beer.

The Grand Place opened up in front of us suddenly, as we turned into a small lane. Bowled over, we were. The place was bustling with the weekend crowd, but it seemed unusually packed, the reason for which we were to find out soon.

There was so much life around – trumpets playing, drums, the constant chatter of people in the cafes, a wedding going on in the Hotel de Ville (which, by the way, is the most impressive structure at the Grand Place).

On one of the many lanes that radiate from the Grand Place, we come across a crowd in the corner. Everyone is cheering, and shouting at the top of their voices, with glasses held high in the air. And a statue of a boy pissing beer!

We had stumbled into a local festival. Le Petit Julien was pissing Belgian fruit beer, and any visitor could have a glass for free. The crowd’s cheers was slowly drowned out by the sound of an approaching carnival – locals dressed in bright costumes, with drums and trumpets (and their own voices, for good measure) were marching up the lane. Music, and then, a bit of dance – celebration in the air.

Walk a little bit longer, and a tiny hidden treasure on the road – the church of the Lady of Good Help. A tiny doorway, which you would miss if you aren’t observant. Inside, absolute quiet, except for the faint strains of a church choir. Amidst all the dance and motion, a pause. Jesus on the cross. Amidst all the life, a little bit of death.

Next, Antwerp – Flemish, not French. But definitely Belgian!