Dated: Some time end of June! Sorry that the editing took so long.
This post is dedicated to Shammi Kapoor, since he was the first person to have introduced me to Paris (and hence) France by
A whirlwind 5 month tour (I was in US, Canada and France) comes to an end; I am tired and need some rest from travelling. France having been the last leg is the most fresh in memory; sorry US and Canada. I need to stop travelling so much; only then can I write properly about it. Well, writing was not the most well planned part of the trip. I did not have a camera for most of US and Canada travels while in France my travel diary had already been exhausted. Now you know what you can gift me on my birthday!
No, please do not give me Superdupont comics, I can’t understand French. This is just to tell you about the image of France that I have in my head thanks to my friend Benjamin.
France has a sense of humour; you have to have it too if you want to stay there. For instance, it kept reminding me of Bengal throughout the month.
What? Bengal! Yes, Bengal. As soon as I got to Kolkata, er! Paris, I saw that political unrest was brewing and strikes were announced due to recent changes in labour laws. Trains were cancelled, flights were cancelled and people were stranded mid-journey.
The French love politics and philosophy; they will argue throughout the dinner as if they are about to kill each other but forget everything by the time for wine.
Every evening when I passed a house, there was a good chance that there was someone sitting on that verandah looking at people, acting smug and smoking away to glory.
Also, once they are excited the language of conversation suddenly becomes Bengali, Er! French.
There are so many other idiosyncrasies which I do not have time for! Enough! The French are as nice people as are the Bengalis; I had a fantastic time.
I arrived late in May in France after a complicated convoluted flight sequence (Vancouver, Boston, Tel Aviv, Paris… things people do for money) and was warmly welcomed by an old friend Arindam who gave me a place to stay.
I was most taken aback by the general ambience, aura and architecture in and around the city. I didn’t have the time to visit the museums but upon Prateek’s (a friend) recommendation I did visit La Sainte-Chapelle for a wonderful performance of the 4 Seasons.
Late in the night I was walking by the Louvre and I saw some men selling their wares outside a fancy restaurant. I couldn’t help but note in my diary:
At the Louvre
The lady fumed at her soup;
She tasted parsley among the radishes!
The mirth was eclipsed by a frown
She had been let down
And the bowl was left aside.
Though ebony isn’t the colour of a fanciful night;
Yet they kept the street alive
Right across the Louvre,
Just so that
The evening meal wouldn’t be cold
Or stolen from another’s bowl.
From none of the many who passed me by
Did I hear any utterances or as much as a sigh,
It must indeed be a common sight
Beside the Louvre in the night,
That there are many tales the colours tell,
But nobody listens.
As a side note, I have often wondered what must be the psyche of the people who can display loot and theft with such pride!
From here I made my way to La Rochelle, a coastal town by the Atlantic. I must say that the trains here are nothing like that in Bengal; despite the strike I had a comfortable ride. La Rochelle has historically been an important port for France and hence been well fortified over the ages.
It was a pretty town to walk around and spend an afternoon in. I took the boat in the evening to the beautiful island of Oléron where I was to stay for a math conference for the next four weeks. What are you thinking about? The picturesque setting for the following four weeks: Sandy beaches lined with shells and smooth pebbles bouncing on the grey sea extending to the blue blue sky; the occasional sea gull hanging on the cool balmy wind warmed by the sweet summer sun and pecking on my food when it could. So did I! But then I slowly discovered the promise of sand, surf and warm sunshine was a lie and the temperature remained below 15 degree Celcius for most of my trip.
I did have a very good time. Every evening it would be me and my bicycle on the lovely island as hours slipped by while visiting quaint corners hailing back a few centuries or maybe just ogling at the spectacles of natural beauty. The conference, by itself, was very busy: for 5 days a week we would start at 9 in the morning and often continue until 11 in the night. Friends and family complained that I was not being very responsive but what could I have done. The internet was very flaky and would turn up or turn down according to its wishes. For most of the time I couldn’t even check my email. What a relief!
Maybe not completely! I wanted to go around various places in France and the lack of internet made it extremely difficult to plan. Surprisingly there was a cafe a couple of kilometers away which had decent internet and the best hot chocolate that I have ever had; I would go there in times of need. Hot chocolate (is claimed to have originated in France in its present form) was certainly one of the best things that I have had while I was there; not far behind is the Canelé (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canel%C3%A9). Needless to say that I am a vegetarian sweet-tooth.
Lunches were provided to me at the venue; the dinner and breakfast, I had to take take care of myself. It is always a pain for me to travel given my diet. Most places don’t have much for vegetarians and spending a month on some nondescript corner of the world kills me; this time I was smarter. I had lunged all the spices from the infamous Gare du Nord area of Paris to the island and killed all my roommates with the sharp smell the first night I was there. Slowly they got used to it and later joined me on certain occasions. Cooking my own dinners saved me because most people were sick of the food at the venue by the end of the month. The lunches by themselves were splendid 5-course spreads which lasted for ever but wasn’t particularly delicious especially for a vegetarian; my friends described it as bad French food! Elsewhere I did enjoy Plat d’Jour despite its blandness. Thank god for laal mirchi and haldi.
During one of these lunches I was told by Fabien Durand about Bla Bla car (https://www.blablacar.fr/) and gave me many suggestions on where I should go. For those who do not know about this, Bla Bla car is an internet portal which allows people to hitch a ride. Having hitchhiked all my life this did not seem too much out of the ordinary and along with Airbnb enabled my travels cheaply.
I selected Angoulême and Bordeaux for the first weekend. Bordeaux was selected because it was Bordeaux, and because of having heard so much about it from my seniors who had stayed there and Angoulême was selected because of its history with comic strips and my love for Tintin and Asterix. I found a blablacar which would take me to Angoulême at 7 in the morning but left 2 kilometers from where I was staying. The lady (from the blablacar) called me at 7 in the morning; I don’t remember much from the conversation except that she was not very happy. I had overslept and she left without me.
I woke up with a start and started trying to find out how I could get there but the dammit internet was not working. Finally Fabien arrived for breakfast and gave me a ride until Dolus, where I would get a bus for La Rochelle; there I would get another bus to Angoulême. So far so good! As soon as I sat in the bus the driver announced (in French): Because of the strike we are not going to Angoulême, we shall go to Saintes and stop there! Did I say that France had a sense of humour? I didn’t find this very funny back then!
A co-passenger did find this funny. We started talking and he told me how terribly boring Saintes is (still funny?). But then I prodded him a bit more and came to realise that he had stayed in Saintes most of his life and there were plenty of things to see; there was not much of a night-life but who cares about that.
A scene which stood out on that visit is one at Abbaye aux Dames (or the Abbey church)While I was obsessing over my camera I heard a sob and I realised that it wasn’t right to be a tourist there.
The Lady at the Church
Old grey stones raise splendid walls
The ornament of the town
And gaudy pagans from the conquered past
Line the sloping roof,
They are aloof
Of my inquisitiveness.
The tall towers rise above,
The bell atop sounds,
The organ sings holy tunes
Reverberating among the runes
Which line the pillars and the hall.
Is it a doorway or a tunnel infinite?
The nave is long, the ribs divide,
The ceiling extends towards the sky,
Fragile glass windows softly tell
The story of thy Lord
While the sun streams across silently.
My vision does not meet the horizon of my faith.
I watch enamoured and my camera clicks
When suddenly I freeze
Tears falling to the floor;
I try to pick them up
But they disperse
With the largesse of the church
And I see
His body hung by the crossed mast
Where the sails of Forgiveness
Had cruelty borne
And my naivety whimpers to a stop.
I tuck the camera in the bag,
And in silence
Find her sobs melt my heart away.
I have a natural affinity to religion (as ill-defined as it is) and find churches, synagogues, temples extremely interesting. I would love to learn more about them in greater depth but this knowledge doesn’t really come from books; it has taken me years to realise this. Back in Providence again, I was invited by a professor for a Purim (Jewish festival) related ceremony to a synagogue. I wrote right after:
In the Temple of God
Among the mellifluous chants
And the fragrance of flowers
Sat there wheezing the old man,
His cough is all I heard
In the temple of god!
Overpowering was the stench of urine
Repugnant was the phlegm on his jacket
My thoughts were filled with disgust
And a lack of trust
In the temple of god!
I couldn’t bear to imagine
The pile of dirt from where he had come,
The lice infested body that had brushed my side,
And my prayers began to falter
In the temple of god!
I got up to the leave the dome,
And turned around,
Only to find his smile
Outliving my ignorance,
In the temple of god.
I kept thinking of the Gauls and imagined them bashing up the romans with some magic potion in hand.
Given that I reached this place mostly by accident I later wrote:
The Road Builders Song
On my back rides a mountain of tiles,
My eyes are set on a distant tower,
Over the dust-laden path I lay them down,
Tiles, one by one,
The road follows my desires.
Whether it be the shivering mountain tops
Or the scorching desert sand
I withstand all pains to lay down my tiles,
But not all weathers can by bones survive
And to preserve my cause I abdicate my steps
Choosing often valleys and pastures instead.
There are fellows I meet of an independent fate,
Sometimes there is not much to say,
And our paths lead us away,
But there are times we follow together a distant gaze
Some roads meander and loose their way
Others intertwine in a wilful maze.
I spend the nights of rest
Watching the stars make their way across the sky,
And I ask-
Do they too chase distant towers?
Do they too spend many long hours
Laying down tiles cautiously
Only to find
Wide awake as they dream
Setting the soil where the tiles shall later be?
Finally the evening fell and I realised that I have to make my way to Bordeaux. The trains were off and with many tears and struggle I finally found a ride to take me there. It was a nice French lady who didn’t speak much English but still kept up a great conversation; as I have always said, the art of communication isn’t solely incumbent on the knowledge of language. None of this would have been if I would have woken up in time. Being a student of dynamics I am well aware of sensitivity to initial conditions and chaos. While in the United States I learnt this in a very hard way.
I was taking a 6 o’clock morning flight to Kansas via Newark. I woke up in time and reached the airport and everything was going well. But then the lady at the security found that I had water in my bottle and I had to go through everything once again. I asked her whether I had enough time for my flight… “But of course! You have plenty of time.” I decided to invest it in a cookie at Starbucks. By the time I had finished my cookie I had missed my flight!
I pleaded with the lady at the counter to which she asked what had I been doing? I said um um um to which she replied “Fine! You can go on the next flight!” While I was extremely happy that everything was going to be fine despite my folly, it soon transpired that the next flight was delayed and the lady at the counter realised that I was going to be late for my connecting flight and decided to transfer me to evening flight from Newark to Kansas. Well! When I reached Newark, it turned out that the connecting flight was delayed as well and one of the attendants suggested that I should run to it and so I ran with my bag and baggage but by the time I got to it my seat had already been taken. I spent the rest of the afternoon crying on my broken fate and eating the terrible airport pizza. In this much time, I could have easily flown to Kolkata.All of this because of a single cookie! Thankfully I was coming home to an awesome friend and a great host, Terry (my good friend) who took care of me for the next few days.
This wasn’t the worst of such cases, I remember the first time I was in Mexico: I was flying to Oaxaca via Mexico city when I realised that I had forgotten slippers at home so I bought new ones at the Vancouver airport. I reached Mexico city early in the morning and conveniently forgot them on my seat. The slippers were extremely important and I had several hours before the next flight. So I ran hither and thither so that someone could give me my slippers. At some point I looked at the watch and realised that I had only one hour till the next flight. It turned out that it left from another (but adjoining) airport; by the time I reached it, it was already too late. My Spanish was rudimentary and informing the facilities that my baggage was on board and that I was poor foreigner in this foreign land who is going to die if he doesn’t get to Oaxaca by the next flight was extremely difficult; but it worked. All because of slippers that I forgot at home (and maybe a bit of stupidity.)
Anyways coming back to my story the lady dropped me to an adjoining suburb called Bègles. Interestingly there was a festival going on and I greatly enjoyed a play outside lampooning the British, despite the fact that I could hardly understand anything. Later at an Airbnb in Toulouse I really enjoyed shitting.
Some urinals from Carcassonne are really full of piss…
One of the things which I found most surprising in France was that despite the general disdain for everything British and American I found France in general very Americanised. Even though they are not conversant in English, the cars, the bars, the fancy diners, all played terrible pop-American music. I wonder why. Second world war? Tourists? Money divides but somehow also brings together at times; I guess.
I loved the play and the festival. Later in the evening, I was eating falafal at a nice Turkish bakery when I suddenly saw an old and close friend Felipe walking by. It wasn’t a complete coincidence given that he was coming to the conference via Bordeaux and I was sitting outside on one of the main walkways of Bordeaux; yet I was surprised. The artsy city served as a great setting for recollection, nostalgia and catching up. (It has wonderful museums supposedly which I did not have time for.)
City lights flickered as the city flowed beside the Garonne from the ancient Romans ages to being a jewel in Napoleon’s crown and now an impressive mosaic of the new and the old. Bordeaux, in my opinion, is the most beautiful (man-made) city that I have been to.
We saw quite a few churches and having stayed in Israel I asked Felipe (the know all) how did Christianity become a “white” religion. He replied that it was probably because of the Romans. Didn’t the Romans butcher Christ? And then it dawned upon me how it is beneficial for the state machinery to destroy you, make you a saint and then slowly take over completely. The following pictures are from the Cathédrale St-Andre the next day. We were too busy talking to think about pictures.
I returned to Oléron next evening getting a nice ride all the way home. It turns out that the strike delayed Felipe’s trip till 12 in the night and cost him quite a bit!
The next couple of weeks were busy but very nice. It was great to have Felipe around and we cycled around, talked a lot and took many nightly walks. It was wonderful lying in the sand lost in wonder among the stars
and then realising that there was a spider crawling into your pants!
There were at least a couple of occasions when a bat brushed by my ear and scared the wits out of me. Probably the most memorable to me is the sound of nature. As the nightly silence would set in the island would explode with the million frogs, crickets and birds rising to chatter. There can be no greater music. I am a city person; I need the amenities of a city. But a regular visit to such a place has now become an imperative for the rest of my life.
But then Felipe left. The following weekend I decided to visit Toulouse and Carcasonne. Toulouse, because I had a friend there and it was a very interesting town and Carcasonne because it was Carcasonne.
France is divided into two parts: Paris and not Paris (or the Province). Toulouse is one of the most vibrant towns of the province and rightly so; this is not surprising since it has a very large student population. If you are a aerospace junkie this might be a good place for it is home to Aérospatiale (responsible for many planes/ jets that fly around). There is also a great Aerospace museum called Aeroscopia which I had to give a miss. Talking of planes, a few months back I was visiting Dalton, Ohio visiting the Wright university. Every had been warning me that Ohio is the most boring place to be in the world and I should do my best not to go there. Someone went to the extent of saying that I have to very wrong to be visiting Wright. Well! I was visiting a wonderful and very knowledgeable host. Consequently I did not plan any roaming around. On my way from the airport I asked the driver: Is there anything worthwhile in this city? He replied with a question: What is the name of the university that you are visiting. I blankly replied: The Wright University. He asked me: Does that remind of something?
Of course it did. So this was the home of the Wright brothers and currently was the home of one of the best Aerospace museums in United States. I felt sad at my non-existent camera, that I only had a couple of hours and could not visit their bicycle shop up in the town. I had a very busy schedule.
Let us head back to the La ville rose (the pink city): Tolouse. My first impressions were those of the clichéd yet romantic European narrow alleyways, cobblestones and serenading musicians. Well! One shouldn’t forget the disgusting overarching smell of urine, filth, alcohol and people rolling all over them. I don’t think that my personal experience was a part of just the Euro cup experience: https://youtu.be/ZYbhwu9J-Xg
What do you find more interesting: beautiful, brocaded walls who don’t have a voice or layers of contradictions spiralling you down into the abyss of contempt, up into the zenith of joy and then back. I guess everyone has their own desires from life!
Next morning I was greeted by my friend Jaya who showed me around the town and its sights.
From here on I went on to Carcasonne. The person who was driving me there had a caravan and I was curious to hear what he was upto. It turned out that he was an iron man https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ironman_Triathlon. A very interesting conversation ended as we reached the fringes of the town of Carcasonne. Long car journeys are great for conversations. Even the French speaking people that I met on my trip spoke so much despite their lack of English. But probably the most interesting car conversations were the ones I had in the US.
I travelled almost constantly when I was there and had to take many long taxi rides. Almost every taxi driver that drove me was an immigrant from Africa. Immigration is a very sticky topic around the world right now thanks to the Syrian crisis and ISIS. African immigrants, in general have been ill-treated all over. Even Israel does not quite respect its African Jewish population. It was very heartwarming to hear the tales from the taxi drivers how the wars which we don’t fight, the terrorism by which we aren’t terrorised by and the food scarcity which does not feed on us, led them to move. These immigrants were often people at respected positions in their society. For some reason they had to flee into scantily prepared shanties and restart their life from zero in the US. Their degrees were not recognised, their property was lost and now they were on the street somehow making a living. One of the best moment of these journeys were Hindi songs which I sang with each and every African driver; they had seen many more Hindi movies from the 70s than I had and knew the lyrics of each and every song completely. Surprisingly (or not) they failed to connect with the modern Indian cinema despite the better quality of acting and camerawork. As one of them mentioned “The smell of the soil is sorely missing.”
Anyways the iron man (for I don’t remember his name) left me on the outskirts of the town from where I walked along the highway for several kilometres before reaching my Airbnb host. This was probably the strangest Airbnb house which I stayed in. The place was not exactly clean and comfortable. I was hungry for the night but it turned out that there wasn’t a restaurant in sight and the lady didn’t seem to have food to offer. Well I ate from my bag of nuts and went to sleep; I had to leave early in the morning. I woke up at 5 and headed to the bathroom for my morning ablutions. There sat the owner’s cat guarding the narrow path. I tried to cross but the cat was in no mood to budge. Not wanting to hurt her, I went back to my room and came back after a few minutes. I saw it circling beside the bathroom door and angrily meowing at me. I scampered back inside. Now I was scared and every five minutes I would try it again, in vain; I did not want to wake up the owner either because it was very early in the morning. Giving up ultimately I googled “What to do with an angry cat?” I remember reading this: http://www.wikihow.com/Calm-Your-Angry-Cat I decided to follow suggestion 2 and left the cat alone for about 20 minutes. Woaw! The cat was gone. I opened the bathroom door and the cat rushed in. Arghhhhhh!!!!!
It rushed in and started trying to lap up water from the shit pot failing which it tried to lick water from the walls of the washroom, failing which it tried to attack the faucets. I brought out my water bottle and poured some water on the floor. It understood that I meant well and approached me. I poured water into my hand it lapped it up slowly. It was a great lesson in patience and I was very happy with my morning (and very angry with the owner). Because of her I had missed the beautiful lights of Carcasonne fort in the night and now she had also ruined my morning. Well, so is so! This also reminds me an old poem from San Pedro de Atacama. I don’t really hate cats; please do not unfriend me!
I hate cats!
If they were to hate me back
It would have been perfect,
Instead they utter such an inviting purr
That I forget my hatred
And it seats itself on my lap,
The sweet little cat.
This love lasts till you were to fall into it,
For then she runs away,
Disinterested in your play.
The woolen yarn, the falling leaves,
The singing birds of the tall trees,
She counts her prey
For the coming end of the day.
She rubs her fur about your leg,
This ain’t her affection, the soft brown fur,
She wants to scratch her back
And you hairy leg is much better than the thorny tree.
If you do not believe me,
Walk behind surreptitiously
A friendly neighbourhood cat
And witness the cruelty the evil one perpetrates.
That perfection of feet,
The rounded, chiseled face,
Brings about your admiration
And horror on the dark nights,
The burning lights
Do reflect the truth!
So I suggest caution,
Next time your were to seat a cat
On your lap;
With its falling hair
It expands its lair
Till all is hers!
Well the nasty episode had a lovely ending. After an hour’s walk I was among the tall facades of an ancient fortification.
The citadel within a citadel; the grand towers loomed well above the city of Carcassonne and its psyche. Every shop seemed to revolve around the town’s cynosure and all the specialised fancy cameras seemed to point only at one destination. After an arduous climb, I placed my luggage in a hostel (Auberge de Jeunesse or Youth Hostel which is where you should stay if you are visiting) I went around sight seeing.
One may now ask, how is it, that something going back to the early parts of this millennium, be in such perfect shape. It was rescued by an architect Viollet-le-Duc by some extravagant rebuilding and reconstruction. There on, the Cité has been part of many debates, whether or not, reconstruction and thereby the ‘fabrication’ of history is justified.
Very well! The castle was very nice but there was work to be done and I had a conference to attend the next day. In the middle of my wonder and amazement I received a call from Bla Bla driver saying that he will leave an hour earlier from a non-descript city corner. At first there was disbelief which was followed by panic. It was lucky that I was carrying my cell phone from Israel with free international roaming on it (Golan has some hard to believe deals) and quickly tried to book another one. Somehow nothing was working out. The tourism office suggested that I should try the train. There was only one leaving at the right time so that I can get to my ride from Toulouse to Oléron. For that, I would only have to get to the train station in 40 minutes. Not too bad. Sadly because of some ceremony (I don’t remember what) the roads were clogged. The taxi got there in 30 minutes and using some James Bond style driving got me to the train in time. I ran and got into the train; the doors closed behind me. I didn’t have a ticket but that is usually not a problem; the trick is to find the ticket checker before he find you. The rest was comfortable and without incident.
I will not complain too much about Bla bla car and Airbnb; I used them for the first time on this trip and have mixed opinions about them. I will not say that everything was wrinkle-free but it did make a lot of trips plausible which weren’t possible otherwise.
This led me to my last week in France. As mathematics proceeded in full force, the world continued to churn. I remember that when I had come into France, everyone was joking about the UK European Union referendum; with the Brexit there was a sudden disquiet. On the other hand Trump was on with his vociferous bawls; he was hardly considered seriously in US when I had reached it. In no time he took up cancerous proportions leading to depressing discussions with my roommate many a evenings. You can never know the way politics swings. I remember Amartya Sen reading the 2004 Indian elections (in which BJP was routed) as a rejection of the so-called Hindutva philosophy; I wonder if he reads 2014 Indian elections as an embrace. Neither is true; any political pundit of some stature realises that the electorate is extremely complex and laying a single label or the other leads to dilution of conversation. Maybe the intent is merely political or possibly, the preconceived notions cloud their intellect.
It was interesting to be in the politically-informed France at that point right before the refugee crisis, the spike in racism, Brexit, labour law reforms and Trump. Lunch was always interesting as was the mathematics. But all good things must come to an end. The week was over and I had to head back to Paris. One of the organisers, Prof. Thomas Fernique, quite amazingly, kindly gave me the keys to his apartment.
Thanks to a gracious lift by one of the speakers (Alexander Holroyd) that week I got to the train station well in time in La Rochelle. I looked at the chart and went to the right platform. For a long time, there was no train. I drank some orange juice, no train . I ate a wonderful chocolate croissant, still no train. By the time I had my sandwich I got a bit worried. There was some strange blinking announcement on the boards and decided to translate on google. “Train will not be stopping here.” I panicked and asked the lady beside me; she said that my train is about to leave from the opposite platform. I can’t do without drama, can I? With my heavy suitcase I ran over several kids and old folks to the other platform. In the nick of time
a lady pulled both me and my suitcase into the train; the doors closed behind me and the train left. Before I could look deeply in her eyes, travel through Europe and fall in love among some mustard fields of Punjab she said “Welcome” and left. Ahh! So is life.
Love doesn’t quite seem to be the thing for me. Travelling around contiguously and having such a good time by myself, I had never considered love and relationships important in life. A few infatuations here and there came and vanished without a mark but lately society has managed to convince me that I don’t really understand my 10 years older self. Hearing the experiences of similar-minded people scares me out of my skin; I guess bad experiences make a greater mark. Nevertheless I have started making attempts at establishing sparks of creation via friends, marriage websites etc. But then, somehow online contact is not really contact while my vagrancy does not help. I am not going to bore you with the myriad of complicated thoughts ruining my psyche but I wrote at some point
Love in the time of Internet
The old parchment, full of tears, desiccates in the sun.
Letters, that I had long waited for, arrive with their resonant bling;
And my apprehension meets the words,
Ostentatious yet expressionless.
The edges are seamless;
No thoughts seem to have waited by the parchment walls
For the folding and crumpling to bring them in;
The letters encircle no hesitation in their clear articulation
And the words don’t backtrack
To express dismay, for how ineffectual
They are in the wake of her emotions.
Is it the person, the parchment or the age,
Can someone say?
So the written word turns to voice
And long minutes are spent lying on the grass
For leagues away are not easy to connect
Even in the time of the internet.
The awkwardness drifts away in a few days
And every count springs a new surprise;
While the clock ticks meaninglessly anyways.
But what about the stark silence that it brings in the end?
No echoes seem to travel across the seas.
Slowly we drift apart
As abruptly as we were drawn;
Though the words can bring us close
Can the words contain
The warmth of a deep embrace?
Love in the time of the internet
As it was ages ago,
And so I return to the empty pages, yet again!
Somewhere else a spark fails to prosper, but who knows…
The End of the Night
Some night lay forlorn under the canopy of stars.
For sure I saw her trudging away,
But did she realise
That every step that she took
Only drew her closer to the day.
One may conclude how uncaring
Was the confidence of her steps,
That too, in the clarity of the night;
But can those steps forget
The afterglow of the loving embrace,
The silvery reflections across the lake
And the soft melancholic dew
That the birds rued,
And hearing the quiet longing of the night
Called out for the morning rays.
The swooping owl stopped to gaze
The mountain tops being set ablaze;
In his soft affectionate light
Slowly came the end of the night.
The night knew that she would dissolve
But that did not waver her stolid resolve,
Far away on the horizon they lay
Promulgating the colours of the day.
The reader may have now begun to grieve
The gaudy colours they had come to see,
But how can one know?
Maybe the separation that my heart had felt
Was a sequence in waltz unknown to me.
I don’t know. The train got back a bit late; I was sharing the apartment with a wonderful Irani couple (Sina and Anna) who introduced me to the world of Bollywood in Iran. I was quite wonderful to hear of some extremely interesting editing which movies like Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gam went through to pass through the censors.
I had a wonderful day in Paris which I spent roaming around more or less aimlessly. I met with one of my roommates from Oléron, Nicholas Mace who showed me the sights and sounds of his student life.
In the evening I whiled away my time in a long queue leading up to the catacombs. Do you know about the Catacombs?
Underneath Paris is another Paris, which is well-hidden, guarded and dangerous; off-limits to most who are faint hearted and urbanite. These grotesque narrow alleyways, often falling on each other, have a long slithering history throughout the history of Paris. Nicholas had introduced this to me and we were planning for a secret tour of the area led by his friend. His friend could not join, we could not go and hence I decided to go for the official and uninteresting version. Sadly my camera battery died before I reached the mound of skulls under the ground.
The importance of preservation of history is a questionable practice; the question is beyond many of us. I, for sure, do not have the intellect to wrap my head around it. Certain tribes of native Americans for instance believed that things must fall back to ground to where they came from. In most urban synthetic architecture, this is not really an option. But nothing can last for ever and there will be decay. Does it remain historic after the reconstruction?
Thanks to an archaeologist Tom Helmer, I along with friends Krishna, Srivatsan and Roland did manage to visit an ancient native American archaeological site close to Rhode Island in the United States.
Even the smallest stone carving from the ‘western’ civilisation is placed in the fancy museums and displayed in glass casings with the soft spotlight shining on them, incessantly. If the glass casing is offered to the deceased civilisation would it be out of respect, guilt or some deceitful political motivation. I put down my pen, for my fingers are tired and I can clearly see the horizon of my understanding.
“In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you’ll dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it to the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.”- Ernest Hemingway