Before the fallen branches turn to dust
He picks them up and builds his nest;
Spring, the harbinger of love
Whispers its arrival to me
And I wonder,
When this season comes to pass
Will our souls remain entwined?
Will the sweetness still persist?
Will the mansion that we built brick by brick,
The temptations of the vagabond
And turn into the mist that it was before.


I love you so much; poke you in the eye!

Here is a background score for this piece. Pt. D. V. Paluskar celebrates the arrival of the spring, of the birds and the bees: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w3P0cIFkjxo



Will I ever write again?

I have a piece in the offing from a long time now. It is a collection of stories from my recent trip to the Himalayas. I tell friends that I am procrastinating, I am busy etc. It is an easy lie. Let me now try to post the more difficult truth.

I am not a travel writer. I write for friends (whoever likes hearing from me) and mostly for myself. To weave my silly tales with verses and photographs is like reliving the wonderful times. But I can’t overlook the fact that my writings makes these places more uninviting for myself.

Let me explain: Suppose I consider the piece I wrote on my trip to Haida Gwaii (https://nishantchandgotia.wordpress.com/2014/06/14/a-short-trip-to-haida-gwaii/).
People in Haida Gwaii would love to have some tourists. It helps their economy and gives their issues visibility. But do they want hordes of tourists who displace local population and  ruin the very thing they cherish?

I like to lie under the stars and be conquered by them, I like learning about ancient artefacts and be magnetised by them, I like being awed by ancient paintings and spiralling up into its stories, I love scampering up hillocks and testing myself against my attachments. I cannot do this if the person next to me is trying hard to lean over/displace me for his/her selfie. I was at Ajanta-Ellora last week and it was impossible to sit down in a cave and stare at the Buddha statues at length or to hear a wonderful historian (and not these louts of tour guides mind you) describe how many interesting tales are interlaced in a single section of the wall. What would the monks, who constructed these caves for meditation, contemplation and subsequent realisation, think of its current use?

Consider the piece: https://www.reuters.com/article/us-europe-tourism-backlash/summer-lovin-not-in-angry-europes-tourist-hotspots-idUSKBN1AK24L
or for instance,

At Berlin Holocaust Museum (http://metro.co.uk/2017/01/19/powerful-images-that-show-why-holocaust-selfies-are-so-disrespectful-6391091/)

The second article is a good illustration of my point. The experience at Kasol would have precisely been the reason I would not have posted the article; the writer is probably employed by 101 so has some sympathies from me. But I am not employed by anyone. Why should I write?

I am at conflict. While I think that people should travel, I can’t accept the outcome if they do. I personally have relied on some of these writings to find a horse ranch in the middle of nowhere in Chile and a small village to rest for the night while hiking along some Aztec trail (I don’t remember exactly which) in Mexico. But would I like them if they weren’t in the middle of nowhere (and crowded, noisy etc.)?

I could still possibly write for myself/friends etc and keep it private. But somehow, knowing my pride and attention-seeking psyche, I will probably not be able to keep it just that.

Many wonderful trips have passed me off-lately and not even the photographs have slipped my fingers; I am not sure how long  this will last. For now I will try to keep away from such postings.

I know that there are many arguments and counterarguments here; I would love to see your point of view  (in comments below or otherwise).


They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
So I read as a child. I loved poetry ever since my childhood and this particular piece by Wordsworth is etched in my mind. When I read it first, there were a couple of things I did not understand: Solitude and daffodils. My childhood was destroyed when I learnt (as an adult) that the latter weren’t birds.
Lately, I have come to understand how blessed my childhood really was. I grew up in a large joint family in one of the most populated cities of the world. No! This gives no immunity from loneliness but it worked for me. I don’t remember a minute of my childhood when I had to seek company.
My first brush with loneliness was when I moved to Bangalore for my undergrad, second was when I moved to Vancouver and third… It was progressive. With every move, I have hated it more. Thankfully, I recover quite quickly and find ways of filling the ‘hole’ in my life.

With time, I have however come to realise that this loneliness comes in several garbs and is there even when I am too busy to look. I am not going to take you down the rabbit hole of my ill-baked ideas (which are anyways meant for myself) but will instead illustrate my point with a simple story that I learnt as a young kid: In this story, a person is told by death that he shall keep on living only if he were to find a substitute for himself to die. He searches far and wide among his nearest and dearest only to realise that he was along and that he should accept his eventual fate. You might take this story pessimistically but I do not. To me it talks about the mortality of attachments (human or otherwise) and tells me how much it is desired that we embrace the inevitability of loneliness. In any case, to me this loneliness is absolutely essential and I guard it as I might a treasure. Here is something I wrote a long time ago!


I have no songs for you my friend
Or words of love that I may share,
That you are there, I am thankful,
I would be still if you weren’t as well.

Those hymns that I sing your presence,
Vanish in time,
There is no tide to carry them along
The grey old sea.

I do recognise that you have been a loving friend,
Visiting every now and then,
Listening patiently to my endless qualms
And returning them with beautiful songs.

Yet how can I ignore the poison,
That you stir in so many lives,
Not all are accustomed to your presence,
Oh Solitude! Withhold your fury from them.

Yet I embrace you,
For my throat parches in your absence,
My fingers quiver but do not write,
And words remain unsaid.


Some of my friends haven’t had my luck, have felt it chronically and at close quarters. At times, I have tried to help but have rarely been able to. But why am saying this midst an extremely busy period?

I came across (thanks to Stefan) this article: https://thewalrus.ca/the-science-of-loneliness/ which brought my business to a sudden halt.

Here is a quote so as to get you thinking: “when it comes to a heightened risk of mortality, loneliness is equivalent to smoking 15 cigarettes a day.” I am not going to  scrutinise their statistical abilities but given how many friends struggle with solitude in various forms, share it.

In case it was a waste of your time, let me make it up to you:



P.S. Not sure who to attribute the strips to! Thank you and I hope you do not mind if it is you.


The Mexican Paratha

Dated: Late January, Early February, 2017. (Yes. I am slow.)
I happened to be typing Mexican and google suggested “Mexican Paratha”. Google knows me! 🙂

This is about a work-trip from February this year. I haven’t got much to say; why have I written this piece then? Because the poems (from the trip) need some context and what better than my travels?

I spent about a week in Los Angeles narrowly avoiding the frenzy following the ‘Muslim’ travel ban; yet due to some hesitation (and tiredness) I had to go through an extra round of questioning. I reached my Airbnb home and went through a bit of a harrowing experience getting into the Airbnb apartment only to have my host reported against. My host was an Indian muslim.

I often see hard lines between the outsiders and the locals. Votes need enthusiasm, enthusiasm requires polarisation, polarisation needs incitement and incitement needs enemies and who better than an outsider? This is an age old political ploy which refuses to die. I used to think my city, Kolkata was different but suddenly I have felt the tides turning against me. I no longer feel welcome. (https://scroll.in/article/768248/in-bengal-why-is-kali-pujo-being-wrapped-under-the-banner-of-diwali)

A Home It Must Have Been

Broken ledges and a grey façade,
Long had the colours faded,
The tree with the twirling yellow flowers
And the bitter fruit
Which one must not eat
For the poison it carries.
The verandah for cats on a winter afternoon,
And paper boats during the rains,
The narrow alleyways
Where the sound of wood reverberated with the shouts of joy and despair
While the glass lay shattered on the floor.
The friendly store from that other street
Had all that one may need.

Oblivious, a child whiled away hours
Looking intently for the glimpse of the hummingbirds
As the bauls passed by
Singing some distant song
(That) he wished (that) he could understand.

This ain’t your home or so you say.

The house still lays as grey as it had been,
A few more ledges have broken down since,
The cats laze around while the crows caw,
But the friendly store from the other street
Lies in tatters
And no wood sounds in excitement anymore.

Not all is the same
And not all has changed.
Every gust of wind brings forth a memory
Every drop of rain enlivens a forgotten dream
And yet you say
That I do not belong.

You may be able to explain this to me;
It is possible that I may understand.
But will he understand,
That little child
Who is still swimming in the depth of the baul’s song
As alien to the land now
As the land considers him to be.

Although I have much to say about this, I will stop here and wait for another day.

I was too busy to roam around Los Angeles. Although I did try to take a few nights off; the traffic often destroyed my well-laid plans. Thanks to my brother Vedant for showing me around a bit and Laura for some excellent suggestions it wasn’t a complete waste but yes the Santa Monica beach needs more definitive time. One of the best attractions for me would have been the theatre and music scene in the city but this I just couldn’t attend to. Of the few joys I could attend to, my diary speaks (watch La La Land):

City of Stars

Long lost is the brightness of the day
And the hills that I have climbed
Feel only in the pain of my thighs.

I am tired.

Rather than falling to the ground
I choose to float
For where else will I find
Such a dazzling of stars
Close by and far
Reflecting across the infinities.


The picture was taken atop Griffith Observatory. Traveller’s tip: The Hollywood sign is not lit up for the night.

Another something which  caught my eye was at the UCLA mathematics department (thanks Nivedita Bhaskhar for the picture).IMG_20170227_164658869

Yes! That is an eye at the end of the corridor. When I was standing close to it, I could not figure out what the picture was about. It was only when I went further way, the dots which seemed random up close came together to form the eye. Doesn’t this embody abstract thought? While details can often seem scattered, overwhelming and misleading the bigger picture can string together these sparse pieces into a simple, beautiful and illuminating theory. I felt inspired. Despite my initial self-doubts the visit was professionally successful. The city needs a more wholesome visit again.

From here I flew to Mexico city and took a bus to Queretaro arriving somewhat late in the night. This was my second visit to the city. Last time, I had zipped forward to Peña de Bernal; this time I wanted to zip forward to the old city San Miguel de Allende. Alas, it wasn’t to be. The taxi that I wanted to take to the bus station decided to take me for a ride. I noticed this way too late and started to make a lot of noise. He dropped me in the middle of the highway from where I walked back to the city centre. It was too late to go to San Miguel.

“है अँधेरी रात पर दिवा जलाना कब मना है?” (The night may be dark but who has stopped you from lighting candles.) Keeping Harivansh Rai Bachchan in mind, I decided to make do with what I have and roamed around Queretaro. A visit to an excellent restaurant (Tacos el Pata) nearby made me extremely emotional:


I write:

Una Phulka Grande

Golden grains ground to flour
Neither too fine
Nor too coarse,
Gathered in a bowl not too large
And teased with water drops.

Slowly knead to a ball of dough
Softer than the dusk’s afterglow
And smoother than an eagle’s glide,
Ready to be round up into smaller balls
Each, more or less
Of the same size.

Able palms do pick them up
And roll them in flour lest they stick,
Flattening them into circular discs
Neither too thin
Nor too thick.

Now they can be laid on a hot tawa
And when small bubbles do arise
Flip and cook them on the other side.
Flip it one more time
And rest it on an iron mesh
Here comes the real test:
If all has gone well
The smaller bubbles will coalesce
And the hearts begin to brim with pleasure
As the phulkas blow up to become much bigger.

Now they can be taken off the heat
And two finger can tear apart
Pieces which can support
Many a delectable tastes.
Life would be so bland
If it weren’t for my phulka grande.

Ah! The joys of good food.

It was the Día de la Constitución in Mexico (or the Constitution day); a hundred years ago the Mexican constitution had been approved in Queretaro. Hence the president of Mexico had decided to drop by for a visit; this brought together people of all kind. There were long rallies and protest due to a sudden rise in the fuel prices (and hence inflation). 

Mao, Stalin, Lenin and Marx went to a bar…

Security was tight. As I went closer to the venue I met more people who were less pissed and more excited about catching a glimpse of the president. “Bloody communists!” someone said after I asked him about the protests. One gets such a different picture depending on the way he looks.

One of the high points of the city for me was not the food, the protests or the fancy buildings, it was walking around. It was the weekend and the streets were full of life. The entire city comes out to throng the narrow lanes, vendors were selling wares and food, street performers were trying to dare and impress while musicians serenaded; the atmosphere was festive. As the evening fell, the city squares saw men and women of all ages break into couples and fall into embrace as they danced to the sweet violin.

The city by itself was very pretty I must say.

From here I made my way to St. Louis Potosi a small town a couple of hours away. The journey was eventless except for the passing of the languid desert landscape dotted by cactii and shrubs and a many unnamed bus-stops often empty except when they were not.

Solitary on a Lonely Bus Stop

I saw a solitary man
At a bus stop
On my way to St. Louis Potosi
And far-far away
All I could see
Was an ocean of sand
Dotted by cacti.

Where was he going?
Where had he been?

I thought to myself,
Perhaps he was a swindler
Waiting for his next victim
To pick him up,
Or possibly he had been
On a bus only to realise
That his destination had changed,
Or maybe close by
He had some treasure found
Or better still
Adventures across the desert abound.

But I saw no lingering of hope
Or the tumult of joy
His eyes wandered
But his mind seemed still.
Suddenly my eyes played traunt
And I saw
With the constant sifting of sand
And company
Him at peace with eternity.

Mexican towns are full of character and St. Louis Potosi was no different. But in this town the attraction was lesser the city but more my hosts, my dear friends Felipe and Marcela. The days were spent chatting, relaxing and sometimes trying to do work (the latter we were less successful with). Extravagant dinners coupled with Indian (I cooked) and Mexican delicacies dotted my days. Cactus, Rompope (a wonderful sweet drink), grasshoppers and various kinds of mole (calling it a sauce would be a transgression; it is prepared with chocolates and a large variety of  spices. I have plenty if you want to try it) filled me up completely; not to forget the various street stalls which only a local would know.

Evening sets in at the Plaza de Armas and sets fire to the beautiful buildings of the city.


The city was a crisscross narrow lanes with low-lying buildings. There was thus not much place to park. Hence

We went for small trips in and around the city. One such trip was to a dam nearby. It was beautiful and all that but the cherry on the top wasIMG_20170206_151445961

There was a gentle slope and a few plastic crates; the kids and adults went crazy. Some slid sitting in the crate, others head first, some would climb on top of one another and some would run half the way to get some extra pace. On the ground stood people like bowling pins waiting to be bowled over. Simple as it may sound it was one of the best parts of the trip!

Marcela’s niece had a small accident; after treating her my friends made sure to allay her fears and took her for another sliding trip. Fear is a strange being. My propensity of being fearful is well known and I can’t expound it enough. It is only recently that I have started facing them; reluctantly though (https://nishantchandgotia.wordpress.com/2011/08/15/the-chicken/). There were many times on this trip (and in the recent past) that I have gotten to face fear and hence I recently wrote:


O fear! O fear!
You are a dear friend
And though it may so seem
I do not despise you.

There have been times when I was angry;
You must understand
That we have our differences:

Do you remember those nights
When you ran shivers down my spine
And kept me awake
Clenching my didi’s hand.
Oh! That reprimand!
Or when you froze my legs
On that hot summer’s day
 At the side of the swimming pool
And the following ridicule!
You surely do remember
The many times
You have buckled me under my knees
And those pretty ladies
I couldn’t dance with
Because you thought
That I was too weak.

It is possible that you were right
But you should have let me try
At least.

I complain
But please do not leave my side.
For I have suffered so many times
Alone on a mountain under snow and ice,
Struggling for breath under the rising tide
Stifled by the smell of urine and blood
Lying on the sidewalk
Flayed by rocks
With a broken wrist
And in a daze
Whenever we have parted ways.

The gift of caution is precious
And hence I proclaim
I am no longer ashamed.

Fear! Oh Fear!
Keep protecting me
For life holds many pitfalls
That you notice
Which I may never be able to see.


This picture signifies a sort of national sensation in Mexico. Felipe and Marcela took to a close by region called La Huasteca (a well-forested and watered region, read my lips GREEN; such a relief coming from Israel). The region with many beautiful pools, caves and waterfalls and what one may do with a rope?

This was close to Puenta de Dios which had wonderful underwater caves: beautiful shimmering turquoise water reflecting on the limestone and stalactites. Sadly for the fear of my camera (https://nishantchandgotia.wordpress.com/2016/08/15/cameras-dont-float/) I did not take it in.

We got to the caves by swimming in the pool below; this picture hardly does any justice to the region. By the way people (including Marcela) were jumping  in from all sorts of heights around the pool. I stayed put and decided not to show off my diving skills.


Phool khile hain gulshan gulshan…
Marcela taking a break from diving from heights and posing in front of a waterfall

We roamed around close by areas breathing in the green and the beautiful. Alas! That was that and it was time to head back (to Israel).

I do get over my fears eventually it seems (though awkwardly most of the time).

While my family members and friends are extremely intrigued with this kaya palat (change), my sister notes the expression on my face and remarks “Nothing has changed.” I shake my head and accede (though unwillingly). I hope nothing ever will.

On my long bus journey back from San Louis Potosi to Mexico (city) I thought to myself that usually I take off at least some time and travel alone. I love travelling on my own but in this trip I sort of realised that travelling with a couple of friends can also be pleasant. In a very cliched way, if I consider life as a journey I am not sure what I prefer; I value my freedom and solitude very much but at the same time I wonder what it is like on the other side. Curiosity, peer pressure, societal pressure, I am not sure what it is but who cares? Nothing changes anyways; I have a feeling that I don’t want anything to change either. The undercurrent of my emotions on the other hand betray my words. Or do they? I don’t know.

Lost Love

I have written so many odes,
By the hum of the lost tune,
The tangles of the flowing hair
And the evenings of incessant silence.
There are many voices which return
But they return as mere echoes.
Those hollow words and empty sounds.

My love floats out as a bubble,
Innocent and fragile
Resting on the whims of the wind
And the perils of touch.
I wonder why
I still hope
That maybe it shall traverse all its troubles
And reach her someday;
Maybe then
In her reflection she shall find
That I am still entangled
In the web of her flowing hair.



The Pursuit of Mathematics in India

Here is a small article I wrote for an NGO called Srijan Sujan (http://www.srijansujan.com/) about pursuing mathematics in India:

The Pursuit of Mathematics (PDF Version)

Please feel free to share. Also comment directly on the post so that people can gain from your insights and suggestions. I do not wish to edit the file unless there are major mistakes.



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An Evening in Paris

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.

Me and Arindam in front of the French Panthéon


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.



La Rochelle has a long association with Canada;  due to its location on the Atlantic it was considered the gateway to the Americas.
An extremely interesting bronze sculpture where many little faces stare out with a myriad of expressions. Observe the books on their heads which are being read by the head above it. While you try your hands at interpretations; I can’t help but share: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G70PPcltXoQ

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.

No! You jump first.

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!

Phare de Chassiron; the northern tip of the island

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.

Arc de Germanicus (19 AD)
Saintes Cathedral overlooking the City
Abbaye aux Dames; the church by itself is not spectacular but does have some quaint features; look at its tower.


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.

I wrote:


The Lady at the Church

Old grey stones raise splendid walls
Which surround
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
And see
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.

This is one of the finest amphitheatres in France from 40 AD. Despite its grandoise and long associated history it is not very touristy.

lpdc-4I 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,
We greet
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…dscn0573

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.

In Paris

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.

It is not awfully difficult to find such things in Europe but this one has some significance. It is the Monument aux Girondins (read about their importance in the French revolution). The Nazis wanted to melt these statues in order to lower French Morale.
The beautiful Rue Ste-Catherine. An important street was half-caught in Euro frenzy. There was a crazy man attacking people with soccer balls! It was bizarre.
Place de la Victoire; the turtle on the right was such a cynosure. By the way there was guillotine at this spot during the French revolution.

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.

Notice the long ribbed nave


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.

Sunrise at Oléron
Where is the baby?
Paulina and Felipe relaxing on the outermost boundary of the Le Château-d’Oléron
Michael Schraudner on a modern treasure hunt aka Geocaching

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.

Wheelies with aeroplanes is as bad an idea as it is with bicycles.

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.

At the Augustinian convent with Jaya; it is no longer a convent but a museum. Quite peaceful nevertheless!
Guess the city to which Fermat belonged.
At St-Sernin
The flower of France, Fleur-de-lis tiling the stain glass on the Augustinian convent.
The rose (red) blooming over the Garonne; if I were to float along it I would be taken all the way to the Atlantic ocean via Bordeaux.

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!

El Cat

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.dscn0568

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.



Oh sorry! I just lost my head for bit.
At St-Nazaire
अलग-अलग पथ बतलाते सब पर मैं यह बतलाता हूँ – ‘राह पकड़ तू एक चला चल, पा जाएगा मधुशाला।’ —हरिवंशराय बच्चन (Everybody gives me different directions- ‘Follow one path and you will ultimately reach the watering hole.’)

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.

Penrose tiling on the floor

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