They say that eyes are the windows to the world. That they might well be, but the windows in our apartments are my eyes to the world. At least my world!
One evening, couple of weeks ago, we discovered that none of our channels were working. I have become quite addicted to the word games and quiz programmes and the post-dinner movie on one of the 5 channels. More worrisome than that- was it a problem with our TV?. Oh bother...what a problem we'd face having to fix it.
Rang N who lives in another area. Her TV was working fine. Timidly knocked on my neighbour's door – my first door to door interaction with any neighbour (beyond the ‘bonjour’ one has to mouth in corridors) and asked if there was a problem with his tele. Ofcourse I quite forgot my carefully rehearsed questions and could only manage – votre tele, ça marche? No it too had a problem. Perhaps the problem lay with the extrerior antenna.
Downstairs, there lives a lady, (her flat faces ours) who watches TV late into the night 7/7. We can see the lights from her TV blinking through the chinks in the window shutters. Then I checked her windows. Completely dark. That confirms it. Its not our TV. But the antenna! Sure enough, all channels came back next day!!
It’s surprising how much one gets to learn about one’s neighbours without having ever to interact with them.
The old man in the house next to ours...retired. Loves pottering around his garden, tending it with a wide variety of sophisticated and expensive looking gardening tools.
The lazy couple in the next building - maybe twice or thrice a year, develop this sudden burst of energy and mow their lawn and then leave it untended for the remainder of the year. Perhaps guilt pangs from the neat lawns next door!
The very nice elderly retired couple on the second floor on our opposite end - the ones who Always smile and reply to my occasional queries (what is that building where children play on Sundays? Can I used dried thyme in ratatouile?) have their children and grandchildren over for dinners on their terrace on hot summer nights. Winter means the chairs are wrapped up in plastic and the table is turned upside down and weighed down by a pot.
The enormous pair of boots on the window ledge on the 2nd floor must belong to the very tall young man I meet occasionally! Very meticulous. Often Keeps poireaux on the outer ledge of his window - perhaps to keep them fresh!
Before I came face to face with them, I knew that there were two boys in our building. Their mother would often shout at them which could be heard through their open attic windows!
The young couple downstairs, despite their two cars, are motor bike enthusiasts and take more care of their bike than the cars.
It was the same in Kolkata. When we moved into our newly constructed apartment building, we must have caused a lot of irritation to our neighbours by blocking their view and reducing their privacy. Our immediate neighbour had a fancy roof top cabin in pale blue with dark blue glass and it had somehow got broken by some one chucking bricks at them from our building. They complained loudly about it and has been ever since, dubbed by us as 'Kanch bhengey debo'. In the last 11 yrs that we have been there, we have always referred to them by that name. KBD are having a party. Some in their family is getting married etc.
The Next building is 'babu's' house...babu being the plump young son of a couple with a very clean roof top...babu's father would personally wash the roof and water their huge potted plant collection every evening. Well Babu is now a young man and last month, there was a shamiana on his roof and then we heard the conch shell blowing and ullu dhoni...babu it seems has got himself a wife!
On the other end, is a patriotic family (they hoist the Indian tri-colour every 15th august) with a sporty daughter (she works out on the roof).
Owners of the next house are seriously religious. They have all night kirtans. Holi is approaching when we see the children in the cream house dropping balloons filled with water on unsuspecting passers by below…
I don’t know what sort of an impression the above might be making; I don’t actually spend my time peering outside the windows. These references I have drawn by what little I can hear while I am cooking or cleaning or while pulling up or down the window blinds!
I haven’t see the insides of their homes, don’t think I ever will…don’t particularly want to. But yet, these little encounters are important for me. Little insignificant details, which makes me feel like I am getting to know this place a bit more, am getting a little more settled here, my home at the moment.
Glossary Bengali Words
Kanch bhengey debo - Will break the glass
Ullu dhoni – ululations (usually at Bengali religious ceremonies especially during marriages)
Kirtans – religious songs
Holi – Hindu festival of colours
Friday, February 27, 2004
Monday, February 23, 2004
Best Kept Secret
Each morning, I wake up to the familiar tolling of the bells of the 11th century cathedral. It towers over our township and has an angel perched on the roof gazing down benevolently at us. Over the centuries, bits and pieces have been added to it including an Episcopal palace and a beautiful garden. The palace is now a museum with not an un-impressive art collection and the beautifully tended garden is a popular place for walking, lazing around and of course for the all-important post-wedding photos!
A little down the road is the Mairie (Mayor’s office), a handsome old building. It is infact an old chateau built along the Marne which courses through the town. There are 5 bridges spanning it on regular intervals, including the old bridge or ‘vieux pont’ which had been destroyed in both the world wars is now repaired and fully functional.
The water-front is beautifully tended and is in summers, a place to walk one’s dogs, or feed the greedy swans, fish or just peer into the numerous boats that are moored at the jetty.
The other end of the town is the forêt! A closer inspection reveals that it is cared for as well. There is a track carefully tended to give it a rustic air, with a broad swathe of green in front of it! It is popular with cyclists, children and walkers and joggers.
Our town is mentioned in a famous guide book as a ‘market town’. Our cathedral gets a polite mention. Honestly, the cathedral is nothing great. There are similar Cathedrals scattered throughout France, ours is perhaps a bit larger than others.
So, we have a pretty as a picture town, bound at one end by a forest and the other by the River Marne, with a big cathedral, a museum, some smaller chapels. And yet, one wouldn’t think so if one where here. There are prominent signs pointing the way to the cathedral, the ramparts of the Roman walls from around 2BC. We even have an ‘office de tourisme’ which has numerous printed brochures in many languages, detailed, guided tours to highlight the interesting sights of our town and of our region.
But then ours is a big town. Even those with a handful of residents take care of their town and places of interest, which might simply be an old house some one famous once stayed in or an old church or an ancient road!
I often visit the office de tourisme to pick up a brochure or two of places in interest in our region Seine et Marne. The beautiful brochures and the amount of information available is amazing. It makes it seem that there is so much to be seen. Every village and town, big or small is represented, every chapel, cathedral, roman ruin, chateau is marked. Roads maps, bus, trains schedule, hotels, inns to suit every budget is provided so that one has to go take a look.
Once in a while, we get newsletters about the ‘jours de patrimoine’ with details of tours, events centred around their monuments, history or speciality. Our mairie regularly publishes, interesting itiniaries, guided tours of places of interests in the region. Often it’s a town having just one place of interest. But it is accounted for, maintained, and not kept hidden.
No doubt, these places are historic and very well maintained, but they pale in comparison when compared to India. India I believe has not even tapped a quarter of its potential. Our town, offers guided tours of what it calls the ‘episcopal city’ which is in effect the cathedral, the museum and the garden!
I once met a Japanese globe trotter in Paris, who told me that India has possibly the greatest ‘patrimoine’ in terms of history or sheer quantity and yet we have not learnt to ‘sell’ it. Sell not in the sense of exporting ancient priceless art (we have plenty of that), rather the development our tourism industry.
The amount of signs pointing to our towns places of interest are to be seen to be believed. In contrast, in Calcutta (the city I am most familiar with), we do our best to keep our treasures hidden, undeveloped and neglected!
There has to be a reason behind this lack of interest. One obvious answer is who can think of heritage on an empty stomach. Well then what about those who don’t have to think about empty stomachs? People who litter these places, draw graffiti, or simply don’t care.
Its not the government alone who is making the effort to keep its patrimoine intact. The French people also take part in it and do their bit. There are numerous groups called friends of this monument or that church or this garden or that activity who do their bit to promote and maintain their heritage. This national sense of pride in their ‘patrimoine’ is incredible.
Just think of Kolkata alone. We could have numerous museums dedicated to the authors of the Bengal Renaissance, themes to show Imperial Calcutta, Colonial Calcutta, origin of the city, Independence struggle, our own vibrant art forms, Bengal school of cinema, list is endless. Instead some of us are fighting over the installation of a statue of Jyoti Basu at the Calcutta Book Fair. Some are indifferent to it, and yet others like me, who write a blog about it.
Sure, there are enterprising individuals in India who strike out on their own but it is an uphill task what with an elephantine bureaucracy, disinterested citizens, unscrupulous people out to make a quick buck.
And yet, despite the laughable touristic facilities, India is still a big draw. I often find India specials advertised at the agence de voyage here in our town. But mostly they are for Delhi-Agra-Rajasthan.
Imagine if we did the same for each and every part of India. Every one of our cities, towns, villages have so much to offer. If we repaired, built, maintained them, even some of them, instead of keeping them as unaccessible and best kept guarded secret?!
A little down the road is the Mairie (Mayor’s office), a handsome old building. It is infact an old chateau built along the Marne which courses through the town. There are 5 bridges spanning it on regular intervals, including the old bridge or ‘vieux pont’ which had been destroyed in both the world wars is now repaired and fully functional.
The water-front is beautifully tended and is in summers, a place to walk one’s dogs, or feed the greedy swans, fish or just peer into the numerous boats that are moored at the jetty.
The other end of the town is the forêt! A closer inspection reveals that it is cared for as well. There is a track carefully tended to give it a rustic air, with a broad swathe of green in front of it! It is popular with cyclists, children and walkers and joggers.
Our town is mentioned in a famous guide book as a ‘market town’. Our cathedral gets a polite mention. Honestly, the cathedral is nothing great. There are similar Cathedrals scattered throughout France, ours is perhaps a bit larger than others.
So, we have a pretty as a picture town, bound at one end by a forest and the other by the River Marne, with a big cathedral, a museum, some smaller chapels. And yet, one wouldn’t think so if one where here. There are prominent signs pointing the way to the cathedral, the ramparts of the Roman walls from around 2BC. We even have an ‘office de tourisme’ which has numerous printed brochures in many languages, detailed, guided tours to highlight the interesting sights of our town and of our region.
But then ours is a big town. Even those with a handful of residents take care of their town and places of interest, which might simply be an old house some one famous once stayed in or an old church or an ancient road!
I often visit the office de tourisme to pick up a brochure or two of places in interest in our region Seine et Marne. The beautiful brochures and the amount of information available is amazing. It makes it seem that there is so much to be seen. Every village and town, big or small is represented, every chapel, cathedral, roman ruin, chateau is marked. Roads maps, bus, trains schedule, hotels, inns to suit every budget is provided so that one has to go take a look.
Once in a while, we get newsletters about the ‘jours de patrimoine’ with details of tours, events centred around their monuments, history or speciality. Our mairie regularly publishes, interesting itiniaries, guided tours of places of interests in the region. Often it’s a town having just one place of interest. But it is accounted for, maintained, and not kept hidden.
No doubt, these places are historic and very well maintained, but they pale in comparison when compared to India. India I believe has not even tapped a quarter of its potential. Our town, offers guided tours of what it calls the ‘episcopal city’ which is in effect the cathedral, the museum and the garden!
I once met a Japanese globe trotter in Paris, who told me that India has possibly the greatest ‘patrimoine’ in terms of history or sheer quantity and yet we have not learnt to ‘sell’ it. Sell not in the sense of exporting ancient priceless art (we have plenty of that), rather the development our tourism industry.
The amount of signs pointing to our towns places of interest are to be seen to be believed. In contrast, in Calcutta (the city I am most familiar with), we do our best to keep our treasures hidden, undeveloped and neglected!
There has to be a reason behind this lack of interest. One obvious answer is who can think of heritage on an empty stomach. Well then what about those who don’t have to think about empty stomachs? People who litter these places, draw graffiti, or simply don’t care.
Its not the government alone who is making the effort to keep its patrimoine intact. The French people also take part in it and do their bit. There are numerous groups called friends of this monument or that church or this garden or that activity who do their bit to promote and maintain their heritage. This national sense of pride in their ‘patrimoine’ is incredible.
Just think of Kolkata alone. We could have numerous museums dedicated to the authors of the Bengal Renaissance, themes to show Imperial Calcutta, Colonial Calcutta, origin of the city, Independence struggle, our own vibrant art forms, Bengal school of cinema, list is endless. Instead some of us are fighting over the installation of a statue of Jyoti Basu at the Calcutta Book Fair. Some are indifferent to it, and yet others like me, who write a blog about it.
Sure, there are enterprising individuals in India who strike out on their own but it is an uphill task what with an elephantine bureaucracy, disinterested citizens, unscrupulous people out to make a quick buck.
And yet, despite the laughable touristic facilities, India is still a big draw. I often find India specials advertised at the agence de voyage here in our town. But mostly they are for Delhi-Agra-Rajasthan.
Imagine if we did the same for each and every part of India. Every one of our cities, towns, villages have so much to offer. If we repaired, built, maintained them, even some of them, instead of keeping them as unaccessible and best kept guarded secret?!
Sunday, February 15, 2004
The Great Divide
There is a retrospective of Popular Indian cinema "Vous Avez dit Bollywood" at the Centre Pompidou, in Paris. There are about 40 films to be shown between February and April, a selection showcasing the essence of Bollywood, from a wide selection - Bimal Roy, Raj kapoor, V Shantaram, blockbusters, family dramas, women oriented films, crime to name a few. There is a movie everyday of the week and as many as 4 or 5 on the weekends. And it was because of this that we decided to go yesterday, a Saturday, to the centre Pompidou. (And not to celebrate Valentines Day)!
There were 4 movies showing. We decided on Sahib bibi aur Ghulam at 5pm and Shree 420 at 8.30. Both classics and of different genre. We arrived early with loads of time to spare. We bought tickets and spent the time by checking out restaurants for our dinner to be had in between the two movies. We finally settled on a Chinese resto which had a grand buffet.
We returned to the centre around 4.30 to find that a long queue had already formed. The cinema hall was half full by the time we took our seats. Mostly French. I counted exactly 4 Indians apart from us.
In France, the cinema halls are usually small and unlike in India, seats are not numbered. You are free to choose your own seat. And to my utter amazement, people opt for the front rows, up close to the screen. In India, the real cheap seats are the ones close to the screen, prices going up as one goes away from the screen. Once A & I sat in the front row (not out of choice, they were the only ones available). What a horrible experience that was. The images were blurred and pixillated. And the movie “Punch Drunk Love” did nothing to alleviate our misery. So I cant quite understand this love for the front rows.
The first film Sahib Bibi aur ghulam based on the Bengali masterpiece by Bimal Mitra about a young boy caught up in the excesses of the crumbling zamindari era, brilliantly translated for the screen by Abrar Alvi and Guru Dutt. The film beautifully captured images of palatial mansions, the luxurious idle lifestyle of the zamindars, baijis and the social and religious restrictions of women, as seen through the eyes of the simple village boy Bhootnath. The wonderful score by Hemant Kumar, fine portryal by Guru Dutta, Rehman, Waheeda Rehman, Dhumal and ofcourse the magnificient Meena Kumari as the tormented Choti Bahu. Can we imagine anyone else but her, singing ‘Na jao saiyan chura key baiyan’. I cant. Not for the life of me. She was no great beauty, and yet, her poise, her voice, her dialogue delivery gave her a certain charisma that was lacking in actresses far more beautiful than her.
The setting as we know, is that of a zamindar family at the fag end of its glory days, with its social and moral binds that was extremely far removed and alien to the French audience: The choti bahu’s pining for her wayward husband, starving, praying to gods and applying sindoor in the hopes of winning him back, her making the supreme sacrifice of taking to drinking in order to lure her drink loving husband to stay at home and away from the dancing girls to name a few.
The French subtitles made it worse. They failed to capture the essence and appeared ludicrous. So the poignant moments when Choti Bahu asks Bhootnath to smuggle in a bottle of alcohol for her and takes it from him with trembling hands had people laughing. Translated into French, it appeared as banal as 'I want wine, bring me a bottle’. It had the audience in splits. There was one particular woman right behind me (it always is so…families with wailing babies or the ‘narrator’ who had to give a running monologue never fail to be seated in my vicinity), who laughed at bits when no one else did. When the by now, alcoholic choti bahu falls down the stairs, she (this woman behind me) split a seam laughing and was nearly hysterical with laughter at the end when bhootnath realises that the dug up skeleton among the ruins is choti bahu’s.
The film became tragic to me for reasons Guru Dutt couldn’t have ever imagined.
I didnt have much of an apetite and couldn't do justice to buffet at the Chinese resto. It was extremely crowded and uncomfortable since there was a constant stream of diners going to and for helpings, carrying plate over my head, squeezing past your table.
The second film Shree 420 started sharp at 8.30 to a packed hall. More Indian faces this time.
From the first scene itself, we were hooked! Raj Kapoor is a penniless honest young man who comes to Bombay to look for a job is befriended by the footpath dwellers. He soon realises that honesty does not pay and takes to the crooked path to make it big. He gets it all but at a cost. He however does the right thing at the end and the bad men go to jail and he is back to the people he loves most – his fiancée and his friends from the footpath. The acting, the cinematography, the dialogues, the songs and even the choreography are wonderful and even today, don’t appear dated. Despite all the masala elements, the story was eminently believable and credible. One didn’t have to suspend one’s belief like one now has to for the recent spate of masala movies. The audience burst in a round of spontaneous applause when the film ended!
Throughout our return journey, I was a bit crest fallen at the audience reaction. Okay, certain things were incomprehensible to them coming from a very different culture. But why was there a 'Oh no, not again' sort of a sigh each time there was a song? People happily pay money to see Hollywood musicals. No such sighing there. A who is extremely self assured and confident has no such problems. He enjoyed both the movies and cared two hoots about who thought what. Something inside me however kept on bothering me.
I finally put it down to cultural differences. Song and dance routines are ingrained in us, and we can’t imagine a movie without one. Sure we get weary of a bad song but do love the singing and dancing around the trees!
Apart from the Indian subcontinent, Bollywood has its fans in middle east, parts of Africa and once upon a time in Russia(don’t know if it still exists even now). But here in France, it’s a new phenomenon. After Lagaan and moreso Devdas at Cannes, ‘Bollywood’ has become chic. One ‘does’ a bollywood film like one goes to a jazz bar, take up yoga or try a new diet. They haven’t taken to it like fans elsewhere. Its merely something amusing. Upset as I am of seeing Sahib bibi ghulam sending the audience into splits, I have to admit that this is a two way thing. For example, although I think I have adjusted quite well to life in France – everyday life that is and the popular culture… and yet I don’t agree to all things considered great by French or even understand it. The most glaringly example would be the late singer Claude Francois. With his 25th death anniversary, there is some programme or the other on the TV, everyday. He is a major star with a huge fan following – something I can't understand. His weird hairstyle, his bizarre dancing on the stage which to me looks like PT exercises quite puts me off. There a number of other French singers I prefer over him anyday. But were I to mention it to some one here, it wouldn't be taken lightly. But I don’t mean any disrespect but that’s they way I feel. Perhaps that’s how they too felt and laughed!
Somehow, the poem 'Oh, East is East and west is west, never the twain shall meet' pops up in my mind. But relax, I am letting it get out of hand. There is surely more to bridging cultural differences than the acceptance of Bollywood films?
Post Script: This morning I found this bit of news on the net : Asia's Largest Slum to Get $1.3 Bln Face-Lift. Dharavi (in Mumbai, the city where Raj had come to find his fortune in Shree 420) home to 600,000 is to get proper amenities. Perhaps its nothing more than a pre-poll gimmick. But who knows, it might be for real. Then Raj’s dream (in Shree 420) of homes for the homeless might be more than a just a feel good filmy dialogue. It would be prophetic! Atleast for some of them.
Glossary French Words
Vous avez dit 'Bollywood' - Did you say Bollywood
There were 4 movies showing. We decided on Sahib bibi aur Ghulam at 5pm and Shree 420 at 8.30. Both classics and of different genre. We arrived early with loads of time to spare. We bought tickets and spent the time by checking out restaurants for our dinner to be had in between the two movies. We finally settled on a Chinese resto which had a grand buffet.
We returned to the centre around 4.30 to find that a long queue had already formed. The cinema hall was half full by the time we took our seats. Mostly French. I counted exactly 4 Indians apart from us.
In France, the cinema halls are usually small and unlike in India, seats are not numbered. You are free to choose your own seat. And to my utter amazement, people opt for the front rows, up close to the screen. In India, the real cheap seats are the ones close to the screen, prices going up as one goes away from the screen. Once A & I sat in the front row (not out of choice, they were the only ones available). What a horrible experience that was. The images were blurred and pixillated. And the movie “Punch Drunk Love” did nothing to alleviate our misery. So I cant quite understand this love for the front rows.
The first film Sahib Bibi aur ghulam based on the Bengali masterpiece by Bimal Mitra about a young boy caught up in the excesses of the crumbling zamindari era, brilliantly translated for the screen by Abrar Alvi and Guru Dutt. The film beautifully captured images of palatial mansions, the luxurious idle lifestyle of the zamindars, baijis and the social and religious restrictions of women, as seen through the eyes of the simple village boy Bhootnath. The wonderful score by Hemant Kumar, fine portryal by Guru Dutta, Rehman, Waheeda Rehman, Dhumal and ofcourse the magnificient Meena Kumari as the tormented Choti Bahu. Can we imagine anyone else but her, singing ‘Na jao saiyan chura key baiyan’. I cant. Not for the life of me. She was no great beauty, and yet, her poise, her voice, her dialogue delivery gave her a certain charisma that was lacking in actresses far more beautiful than her.
The setting as we know, is that of a zamindar family at the fag end of its glory days, with its social and moral binds that was extremely far removed and alien to the French audience: The choti bahu’s pining for her wayward husband, starving, praying to gods and applying sindoor in the hopes of winning him back, her making the supreme sacrifice of taking to drinking in order to lure her drink loving husband to stay at home and away from the dancing girls to name a few.
The French subtitles made it worse. They failed to capture the essence and appeared ludicrous. So the poignant moments when Choti Bahu asks Bhootnath to smuggle in a bottle of alcohol for her and takes it from him with trembling hands had people laughing. Translated into French, it appeared as banal as 'I want wine, bring me a bottle’. It had the audience in splits. There was one particular woman right behind me (it always is so…families with wailing babies or the ‘narrator’ who had to give a running monologue never fail to be seated in my vicinity), who laughed at bits when no one else did. When the by now, alcoholic choti bahu falls down the stairs, she (this woman behind me) split a seam laughing and was nearly hysterical with laughter at the end when bhootnath realises that the dug up skeleton among the ruins is choti bahu’s.
The film became tragic to me for reasons Guru Dutt couldn’t have ever imagined.
I didnt have much of an apetite and couldn't do justice to buffet at the Chinese resto. It was extremely crowded and uncomfortable since there was a constant stream of diners going to and for helpings, carrying plate over my head, squeezing past your table.
The second film Shree 420 started sharp at 8.30 to a packed hall. More Indian faces this time.
From the first scene itself, we were hooked! Raj Kapoor is a penniless honest young man who comes to Bombay to look for a job is befriended by the footpath dwellers. He soon realises that honesty does not pay and takes to the crooked path to make it big. He gets it all but at a cost. He however does the right thing at the end and the bad men go to jail and he is back to the people he loves most – his fiancée and his friends from the footpath. The acting, the cinematography, the dialogues, the songs and even the choreography are wonderful and even today, don’t appear dated. Despite all the masala elements, the story was eminently believable and credible. One didn’t have to suspend one’s belief like one now has to for the recent spate of masala movies. The audience burst in a round of spontaneous applause when the film ended!
Throughout our return journey, I was a bit crest fallen at the audience reaction. Okay, certain things were incomprehensible to them coming from a very different culture. But why was there a 'Oh no, not again' sort of a sigh each time there was a song? People happily pay money to see Hollywood musicals. No such sighing there. A who is extremely self assured and confident has no such problems. He enjoyed both the movies and cared two hoots about who thought what. Something inside me however kept on bothering me.
I finally put it down to cultural differences. Song and dance routines are ingrained in us, and we can’t imagine a movie without one. Sure we get weary of a bad song but do love the singing and dancing around the trees!
Apart from the Indian subcontinent, Bollywood has its fans in middle east, parts of Africa and once upon a time in Russia(don’t know if it still exists even now). But here in France, it’s a new phenomenon. After Lagaan and moreso Devdas at Cannes, ‘Bollywood’ has become chic. One ‘does’ a bollywood film like one goes to a jazz bar, take up yoga or try a new diet. They haven’t taken to it like fans elsewhere. Its merely something amusing. Upset as I am of seeing Sahib bibi ghulam sending the audience into splits, I have to admit that this is a two way thing. For example, although I think I have adjusted quite well to life in France – everyday life that is and the popular culture… and yet I don’t agree to all things considered great by French or even understand it. The most glaringly example would be the late singer Claude Francois. With his 25th death anniversary, there is some programme or the other on the TV, everyday. He is a major star with a huge fan following – something I can't understand. His weird hairstyle, his bizarre dancing on the stage which to me looks like PT exercises quite puts me off. There a number of other French singers I prefer over him anyday. But were I to mention it to some one here, it wouldn't be taken lightly. But I don’t mean any disrespect but that’s they way I feel. Perhaps that’s how they too felt and laughed!
Somehow, the poem 'Oh, East is East and west is west, never the twain shall meet' pops up in my mind. But relax, I am letting it get out of hand. There is surely more to bridging cultural differences than the acceptance of Bollywood films?
Post Script: This morning I found this bit of news on the net : Asia's Largest Slum to Get $1.3 Bln Face-Lift. Dharavi (in Mumbai, the city where Raj had come to find his fortune in Shree 420) home to 600,000 is to get proper amenities. Perhaps its nothing more than a pre-poll gimmick. But who knows, it might be for real. Then Raj’s dream (in Shree 420) of homes for the homeless might be more than a just a feel good filmy dialogue. It would be prophetic! Atleast for some of them.
Glossary French Words
Vous avez dit 'Bollywood' - Did you say Bollywood
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
A different sort of monument
Paris, is always crawling with tourists. In spring, in summer, in autumn and winter. In the double- decker ‘Open Bus’ tours, ear phones plugged in, listening to the taped commentary, in the numerous Bateaux Parisienne sailing on the Seine, guided walking or bicycle, thematic tours, or on their own, guide book firmly in hand, discovering Paris.
My discovery of Paris was a bit different. My first quest in Paris had been English book stores and in the process, I discovered Paris and hers charms.
Brentano’s in Opera, was my first book shop, in Paris. I discovered it almost as soon as I arrived since my husband’s office was close to it. I have spent many a happy hour there. And I have yet to take a look at the beautiful Opera Garnier after which that area is named. Among the many books I bought at Brentano’s, I also picked up a Paris City Guide.
The guide book was pretty detailed, with maps and helpful hints, history etc. I found out that we were living in a very historic area – ‘Quartier Latin’ or the Latin Quarters (so named because Latin used to be the language of Sorbonne ). Notre Dame, Pantheon, Jardin du Plante, the Paris Mosque and the Hamam, Sorbonne and all within walking distance! A was very keen to begin with the Hamam in the Paris Mosque (the oldest Mosque in France and incidentally where the Aga Khan and Hollywood star Rita Hayworth tied the knot)!
But I had to go to the ‘Shakespeare and Co’ – the historic book shop about 15 minutes of walking from where we lived. The owner /Publisher had famously published James Joyce’s Ulyssess when no one would touch it with a barge pole. Ernest Hemmingway whiled away his time here, when in Paris!!
Brightly painted in green, yellow and pink it was a book lovers paradise. Books everywhere, outside in shelves or in cartons and inside ceiling to floor shelves just about anywhere. Not in any boring symmetric arrangement that one finds in modern book shops. Every possible place had some books crammed in it! There was a small well in the floor inside the shop where people had thrown coins in. For good luck, to find a room with a view of the Seine! Didn’t ask if it worked. Judging by the number of coins, it would be good luck only for the owners I guess!! Would come to a neat amount. Occasionally, we’d find an old man, bent with age, in a Hawaiian shirt, sitting in the tiny cashiers desk in the centre of the front room, surrounded by books. He’d always ask us the same thing – “Are you a Mumbai walla? I am!” To this A would reply, no I am a Delhi walla!!
Just around the corner from where we lived, a carton full of English books and very cheaply priced caught my eyes, outside a book shop curiously named ‘Mona Lisait’. I pondered over this curious name but not for long. I was more interested in the books. It simply over flowed with books. In boxes outside the shop, inside in shelves, on tables, under the table, piled on the floors. I rsoon became a regular there, if only to rifle through the contents of the books. I spent many a happy hour crawling under tables through dusty piles, whiling away my time. I had loads of time on my hands, what with A away at office and no friends. One day I backed out from under the table to find the owner – a portly gentlemen with a pony tail smiling at me. “Ah! Des Livres – Grand Passion, eh??” All I could manage was Oui Oui. Although I wanted to tell him more. How I had filled up my tiny flat (in the few months that I had been there) with books, in neat piles on the floor not having shelves.
There were other shops too – Tea and Tattered Pages, which alas was closed on the day we went looking for it. However all was not lost. We found ourselves at Hotel d’invalides which is now a magnificent museums of arms and artillery with separate floors dedicated to ancient armaments, WWI and WWII. And ofcourse the golden domed chapel with Napoleon’s tomb.
WH Smith, the wheelbarrow, Bretano’s, Shakespears & Co., became my monuments. I bought and read books at a furious pace, frightening A in the process. At this rate we’d be soon crowded out of our tiny apartment, not to mention the whole I was burning in his wallet!
And then he found the solution! He found out that there was large English Library in Paris – the American Library in Paris and wasted no time in becoming a member. By some curious mix up, our library card has his name printed on it and my photograph!! It took me about 45 minutes to reach it (2 metro ride and a 10 minute walk). But worth the trouble. What a wonderful library and what a stock of books.
End of 2001, I returned to India for a few months. So, A and I decided to sell all the books I had bought, 2 cartons full. We went to S and Co to sell my books – they bought 2nd hand books. That old man wasn’t there. Instead a young chap who offered 200F for the whole lot and somehow we accepted. A shame since each book was more than 200F easily. And then he asked us for our postal address in India. On hearing it he said in a very smirky manner ‘fancy that…I just put it (our Delhi address) on an envelope and it reaches you?’ I felt like telling him ‘its called a postal address. I am sure even your shop has one’. But I didn’t. Courage always fails me when I require it.
3 years have gone by, I know Paris like the back of my hand (thanks to guiding numerous friends, relatives). I come to Paris twice a month or sometimes more. I rarely visit the bookshops unless some one (a guest) specifically wants to go to one. But I regularly make the one and a half hour trip to the American Library. It is the most important place for me in Paris, apart from the Indian and Bangladeshi grocery stores! The Left Bank of Paris comes a close 3rd!
Postscript – Last year, during my intensive French course, I finally learnt the import of the name Mona Lisait: Mona read (lisait being the past for reading)!!
Glossary French Words
Bateaux Parisienne - Paris Boats
Ah! Des Livres – Grand Passion, eh? - Ah books - A grand passion, eh?
My discovery of Paris was a bit different. My first quest in Paris had been English book stores and in the process, I discovered Paris and hers charms.
Brentano’s in Opera, was my first book shop, in Paris. I discovered it almost as soon as I arrived since my husband’s office was close to it. I have spent many a happy hour there. And I have yet to take a look at the beautiful Opera Garnier after which that area is named. Among the many books I bought at Brentano’s, I also picked up a Paris City Guide.
The guide book was pretty detailed, with maps and helpful hints, history etc. I found out that we were living in a very historic area – ‘Quartier Latin’ or the Latin Quarters (so named because Latin used to be the language of Sorbonne ). Notre Dame, Pantheon, Jardin du Plante, the Paris Mosque and the Hamam, Sorbonne and all within walking distance! A was very keen to begin with the Hamam in the Paris Mosque (the oldest Mosque in France and incidentally where the Aga Khan and Hollywood star Rita Hayworth tied the knot)!
But I had to go to the ‘Shakespeare and Co’ – the historic book shop about 15 minutes of walking from where we lived. The owner /Publisher had famously published James Joyce’s Ulyssess when no one would touch it with a barge pole. Ernest Hemmingway whiled away his time here, when in Paris!!
Brightly painted in green, yellow and pink it was a book lovers paradise. Books everywhere, outside in shelves or in cartons and inside ceiling to floor shelves just about anywhere. Not in any boring symmetric arrangement that one finds in modern book shops. Every possible place had some books crammed in it! There was a small well in the floor inside the shop where people had thrown coins in. For good luck, to find a room with a view of the Seine! Didn’t ask if it worked. Judging by the number of coins, it would be good luck only for the owners I guess!! Would come to a neat amount. Occasionally, we’d find an old man, bent with age, in a Hawaiian shirt, sitting in the tiny cashiers desk in the centre of the front room, surrounded by books. He’d always ask us the same thing – “Are you a Mumbai walla? I am!” To this A would reply, no I am a Delhi walla!!
Just around the corner from where we lived, a carton full of English books and very cheaply priced caught my eyes, outside a book shop curiously named ‘Mona Lisait’. I pondered over this curious name but not for long. I was more interested in the books. It simply over flowed with books. In boxes outside the shop, inside in shelves, on tables, under the table, piled on the floors. I rsoon became a regular there, if only to rifle through the contents of the books. I spent many a happy hour crawling under tables through dusty piles, whiling away my time. I had loads of time on my hands, what with A away at office and no friends. One day I backed out from under the table to find the owner – a portly gentlemen with a pony tail smiling at me. “Ah! Des Livres – Grand Passion, eh??” All I could manage was Oui Oui. Although I wanted to tell him more. How I had filled up my tiny flat (in the few months that I had been there) with books, in neat piles on the floor not having shelves.
There were other shops too – Tea and Tattered Pages, which alas was closed on the day we went looking for it. However all was not lost. We found ourselves at Hotel d’invalides which is now a magnificent museums of arms and artillery with separate floors dedicated to ancient armaments, WWI and WWII. And ofcourse the golden domed chapel with Napoleon’s tomb.
WH Smith, the wheelbarrow, Bretano’s, Shakespears & Co., became my monuments. I bought and read books at a furious pace, frightening A in the process. At this rate we’d be soon crowded out of our tiny apartment, not to mention the whole I was burning in his wallet!
And then he found the solution! He found out that there was large English Library in Paris – the American Library in Paris and wasted no time in becoming a member. By some curious mix up, our library card has his name printed on it and my photograph!! It took me about 45 minutes to reach it (2 metro ride and a 10 minute walk). But worth the trouble. What a wonderful library and what a stock of books.
End of 2001, I returned to India for a few months. So, A and I decided to sell all the books I had bought, 2 cartons full. We went to S and Co to sell my books – they bought 2nd hand books. That old man wasn’t there. Instead a young chap who offered 200F for the whole lot and somehow we accepted. A shame since each book was more than 200F easily. And then he asked us for our postal address in India. On hearing it he said in a very smirky manner ‘fancy that…I just put it (our Delhi address) on an envelope and it reaches you?’ I felt like telling him ‘its called a postal address. I am sure even your shop has one’. But I didn’t. Courage always fails me when I require it.
3 years have gone by, I know Paris like the back of my hand (thanks to guiding numerous friends, relatives). I come to Paris twice a month or sometimes more. I rarely visit the bookshops unless some one (a guest) specifically wants to go to one. But I regularly make the one and a half hour trip to the American Library. It is the most important place for me in Paris, apart from the Indian and Bangladeshi grocery stores! The Left Bank of Paris comes a close 3rd!
Postscript – Last year, during my intensive French course, I finally learnt the import of the name Mona Lisait: Mona read (lisait being the past for reading)!!
Glossary French Words
Bateaux Parisienne - Paris Boats
Ah! Des Livres – Grand Passion, eh? - Ah books - A grand passion, eh?
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Whither Tiger?
WHITHER TIGER?
We set off one foggy morning in a sparkling, well tuned ambassador with Sonuji from RTDC at the wheel, from Bikaner House in Delhi. We sped through the empty roads through Delhi-Gurgaon-Rajasthan towards our first stop, a tiny detour actually, to The Sariska Tiger Reserve.
We were keeping good time and there was no fog that had slowed down traffic only yesterday, 3 hours from Delhi and yet no sign of Sariska. Did we miss the turning? A traffic police confirmed that we hadn’t. ‘40 kms baad, ji’. 40kms soon whizzed past and yet no sign of the turning to Sariska. Sonuji got down to enquire disbelief writ large on his face. He hadn’t heard of Sariska. Seems we had left it behind. Sonuji clucked and asked in a low voice “jaana zaroori hai kya? Ek chiria ghar hai?”. “Chiria ghar? Nahin bhai. Jangul hain, sher hain”, was my father- in-law’s emphatic retort!!
Sonuji shut up and took a U-turn and this time we found the road although there were no signs. We had to stop frequently to inquire and were told we were on the right road but were given a bewildering variety of names of roads and villages through which we had to pass. And then suddenly there it was. A short turning to the right – past an ornate old gate on high pillars and domes and fading pink and green paint. Sariska Natural Park and Tiger Sanctuary. It had a colourful tiger painted on it too!
The gate was shut but there was a window alongside with an attendant who informed us that there was no entry fee on that day, Tuesday, because of puja at the Hanuman temple at Pandupole. What? A temple in a tiger reserve? He told me that there was a supine Hanuman temple at the other end of the Sanctuary and there were no guided tours on that day. But we could take our car in and drive straight through without leaving the metal road which ran straight through the reserve. Fine!
But first, breakfast, at the only place nearby – the RTDC hotel. There were quite a few guests there including two young chaps with binoculars slung around there necks. This cheered us up. The sanctuary must be full of tigers. A and father-in-law (fil) settled to sumptuous omelettes which were larger than the plates they were served in. (Reminds me of a line in a Bengali movie where the heroine, served with a 6 egg omelette remarks – omelette na carpet?). Mother-in-law(mil) is vegetarian on Tuesdays and I am allergic to eggs. So we settled for vegetarian sandwiches: Tiny triangles rendered tinier by slicing off the crusts – a hangover of the Raj, I think. Read somewhere that English teas were accompanied by wafer thin cucumber sandwiches. The cucumber was alas, missing, but wafer thin it was. The ‘vegetable’ consisted of a very thin, almost fine slice of tomato, salted and peppered. We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This was followed by some milky coffee (A and I are by now used to strong black coffee – French style). Breakfast finished, we returned to our car and entered the sanctuary with hearts full of hope to catch sight of at least one tiger, if not more, although with empty stomachs (mil and I)!
We were handed a small plastic card with the do’s and don’t’s. A read it out and said we had to drive at not less than 30 km/hour – great! This surely meant the place was swarming with tigers! We were told to stick to the metal road which ran straight down the sanctuary and to avoid the tracks that ran off from the main road. Thick brush, trees, narrow gullies almost dry surrounded both sides of the road. There were a few cars crawling ahead of us. We didn’t have to wait long to get our first sight of wildlife. There were various types of deer – small, big, with and without antlers, in groups or single, pheasants and of course hanumans. No tiger yet. We kept our eyes peeled though. Just in case. Beginners luck. An old toothless woman in bright colours ambled past our car. Wow! Wasn’t she afraid a tiger would pounce on her? Another one – sunning herself. Wow! The locals are brave.
Then I found out that we had to travel at not more than 30 km/hr and not over. Mil was convinced we were on a wild goose chase – simply a waste of time. Fil and I were still hopeful.
Occasionally a car ahead would slow down and out would come the binoculars and we too would stop and crane our necks to see what could it be that was of interest to them? And then we’d reluctantly move on seeing it was a deer or perhaps a bird.
Suddenly, breaking the monotony, A shouted that he’d seen one. A tiger. Where? Where? There, to the left, no a bit to the right, go a bit ahead, no a bit back – there. Sure enough, deep in the brush, a tiger sat, partly visible only, with its back to us, sunning itself!! Yahoo. Cars behind slowed down to catch a glimpse of whatever it was we had stopped to watch. Not seeing the camouflaged tiger, they’d move on, but not before they saw the smug expression on my face – I saw a tiger – You didn’t!!
Will it turn, will it get up and come close? Should we shout to attract its attention. A wanted to throw a pebble in the brush. I forbade it immediately. What if the tiger decided to make a meal of my well endowed husband? Minutes ticked by but the tiger sat immobile. Why didn’t it move? Even if only to twitch its ears or swish its tail? Eh? What’s that? A large pheasant happily hopping around the tiger? Haven’t I read somewhere that when there’s a tiger in the vicinity, birds squawk all at once and small animals flee the area. No such squawking only happy chirping and certainly no exodus of small animals. Realisation dawned. It was a lump of granite half hidden in the brush that we had been staring at. Sheepishly, we moved on. Did Sonuji smirk? More deer, birds and hanuman later, we came to a sort of a checkpoint where the road branched off into a Y, with an arm to the right. The left arm went straight to Pandupole and the Hanuman temple. A wanted to turn right back out of the sanctuary and head for Jaipur. But mil was firm. You got your chance to see tigers (too bad you didn’t), now I want to go to the temple.
The road was by now quite populated with people and hanuman. The scenery was lovely though. Trees, brush, river through which the road wound its way up and down. At places the road was very bad and there were warnings chalked on huge granites. There were also warnings about not bathing in the canal which was completed ignored by all and sundry. And suddenly, we were at Pandupole Hanuman Mandir. We parked our car and made our way nervously through a huge bunch of hanumans sunning, picking lice or simply fighting among themselves. Mil and I bought prasad and gave hurried prayers to Lord Hanuman. There was quite a crowd. In the jostling, I quite forgot to see the supine Lord Hanuman properly. Later, it seemed to me a longish (sideway) block of granite with the face of Lord Hanuman chalked on, in vermillion. A sat glowering in the car, upset at the wastage of precious time. Mil was upset about the tigers or their lack.
On our way out, we met 2 forest rangers and asked them if there were indeed any tigers?
- Zaroor ji. (Ofcourse)
- Kitney? (How many)
- 30-35. Aur Jackal, Hyna, aur deer aur pheasants.
- Dikhai kyun nahin detey? (Why cant we see them)
- Kyun ayey wo bhala? Itni noise pollution mein? (Why should they come here? In so much noise and pollution).
Sach baat. But so disappointing.
We retraced our way back to the gate and then back to the main road to Jaipur. Our lunch was terribly delayed leading to terribly frayed tempers. Added to this, among the 100s if not 1000’s of dhabas lining the road from Delhi to Jaipur, we chose one with terrible food. Whoever heard of a dhaba with terrible food? Just our luck. The debate continued about the wisdom of our wasting half a precious day at Sariska. We were on a 3 day tour of Jaipur, Ajmer and Pushkar with Sariska thrown in.
Next morning, at our hotel in Jaipur, I read a newspaper article by a retired high ranking government official, on Sariska. How we were guilty of neglecting a gem of a reserve in our own backyard (referring to Rajasthan State Government). A heavy traffic road runs straight through the reserve (that explains the trucks we saw at Sariska) adding to noise pollution, no doubt not conducive to tiger’s well being. Worse, there has been a high rate of casualty among deer, jackals and birds crushed beneath the truck tyres. If immediate measures were not taken, the natural fauna of that reserve would dwindle away.
Then we weren’t wrong after all, just unlucky. I did read somewhere that tigers are very unpredictable. Even in famous tigers sanctuaries like Ranthambore, one might not see a single tiger for several days and then suddenly one might catch sight of hordes of them within couple of hours.
Perhaps, if we do wake up now and take care of it, then future tourists would be able to get a ‘darshan’ of not only the supine Lord Hanuman but of some tigers well!
Glossary Indian words
ji - a word added to names or end of sentences to show respect.
“jaana zaroori hai kya? Ek chiria ghar hai?” – Is it necessary to go (there). It’s a zoo.
Nahin bhai. Jangul hain, sher hain” – No brother, it’s a jungle with tigers.
omelette na carpet – Is it an omelette or a carpet.
Sach baat – True words
Darshan – sight, view
aur - and
We set off one foggy morning in a sparkling, well tuned ambassador with Sonuji from RTDC at the wheel, from Bikaner House in Delhi. We sped through the empty roads through Delhi-Gurgaon-Rajasthan towards our first stop, a tiny detour actually, to The Sariska Tiger Reserve.
We were keeping good time and there was no fog that had slowed down traffic only yesterday, 3 hours from Delhi and yet no sign of Sariska. Did we miss the turning? A traffic police confirmed that we hadn’t. ‘40 kms baad, ji’. 40kms soon whizzed past and yet no sign of the turning to Sariska. Sonuji got down to enquire disbelief writ large on his face. He hadn’t heard of Sariska. Seems we had left it behind. Sonuji clucked and asked in a low voice “jaana zaroori hai kya? Ek chiria ghar hai?”. “Chiria ghar? Nahin bhai. Jangul hain, sher hain”, was my father- in-law’s emphatic retort!!
Sonuji shut up and took a U-turn and this time we found the road although there were no signs. We had to stop frequently to inquire and were told we were on the right road but were given a bewildering variety of names of roads and villages through which we had to pass. And then suddenly there it was. A short turning to the right – past an ornate old gate on high pillars and domes and fading pink and green paint. Sariska Natural Park and Tiger Sanctuary. It had a colourful tiger painted on it too!
The gate was shut but there was a window alongside with an attendant who informed us that there was no entry fee on that day, Tuesday, because of puja at the Hanuman temple at Pandupole. What? A temple in a tiger reserve? He told me that there was a supine Hanuman temple at the other end of the Sanctuary and there were no guided tours on that day. But we could take our car in and drive straight through without leaving the metal road which ran straight through the reserve. Fine!
But first, breakfast, at the only place nearby – the RTDC hotel. There were quite a few guests there including two young chaps with binoculars slung around there necks. This cheered us up. The sanctuary must be full of tigers. A and father-in-law (fil) settled to sumptuous omelettes which were larger than the plates they were served in. (Reminds me of a line in a Bengali movie where the heroine, served with a 6 egg omelette remarks – omelette na carpet?). Mother-in-law(mil) is vegetarian on Tuesdays and I am allergic to eggs. So we settled for vegetarian sandwiches: Tiny triangles rendered tinier by slicing off the crusts – a hangover of the Raj, I think. Read somewhere that English teas were accompanied by wafer thin cucumber sandwiches. The cucumber was alas, missing, but wafer thin it was. The ‘vegetable’ consisted of a very thin, almost fine slice of tomato, salted and peppered. We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This was followed by some milky coffee (A and I are by now used to strong black coffee – French style). Breakfast finished, we returned to our car and entered the sanctuary with hearts full of hope to catch sight of at least one tiger, if not more, although with empty stomachs (mil and I)!
We were handed a small plastic card with the do’s and don’t’s. A read it out and said we had to drive at not less than 30 km/hour – great! This surely meant the place was swarming with tigers! We were told to stick to the metal road which ran straight down the sanctuary and to avoid the tracks that ran off from the main road. Thick brush, trees, narrow gullies almost dry surrounded both sides of the road. There were a few cars crawling ahead of us. We didn’t have to wait long to get our first sight of wildlife. There were various types of deer – small, big, with and without antlers, in groups or single, pheasants and of course hanumans. No tiger yet. We kept our eyes peeled though. Just in case. Beginners luck. An old toothless woman in bright colours ambled past our car. Wow! Wasn’t she afraid a tiger would pounce on her? Another one – sunning herself. Wow! The locals are brave.
Then I found out that we had to travel at not more than 30 km/hr and not over. Mil was convinced we were on a wild goose chase – simply a waste of time. Fil and I were still hopeful.
Occasionally a car ahead would slow down and out would come the binoculars and we too would stop and crane our necks to see what could it be that was of interest to them? And then we’d reluctantly move on seeing it was a deer or perhaps a bird.
Suddenly, breaking the monotony, A shouted that he’d seen one. A tiger. Where? Where? There, to the left, no a bit to the right, go a bit ahead, no a bit back – there. Sure enough, deep in the brush, a tiger sat, partly visible only, with its back to us, sunning itself!! Yahoo. Cars behind slowed down to catch a glimpse of whatever it was we had stopped to watch. Not seeing the camouflaged tiger, they’d move on, but not before they saw the smug expression on my face – I saw a tiger – You didn’t!!
Will it turn, will it get up and come close? Should we shout to attract its attention. A wanted to throw a pebble in the brush. I forbade it immediately. What if the tiger decided to make a meal of my well endowed husband? Minutes ticked by but the tiger sat immobile. Why didn’t it move? Even if only to twitch its ears or swish its tail? Eh? What’s that? A large pheasant happily hopping around the tiger? Haven’t I read somewhere that when there’s a tiger in the vicinity, birds squawk all at once and small animals flee the area. No such squawking only happy chirping and certainly no exodus of small animals. Realisation dawned. It was a lump of granite half hidden in the brush that we had been staring at. Sheepishly, we moved on. Did Sonuji smirk? More deer, birds and hanuman later, we came to a sort of a checkpoint where the road branched off into a Y, with an arm to the right. The left arm went straight to Pandupole and the Hanuman temple. A wanted to turn right back out of the sanctuary and head for Jaipur. But mil was firm. You got your chance to see tigers (too bad you didn’t), now I want to go to the temple.
The road was by now quite populated with people and hanuman. The scenery was lovely though. Trees, brush, river through which the road wound its way up and down. At places the road was very bad and there were warnings chalked on huge granites. There were also warnings about not bathing in the canal which was completed ignored by all and sundry. And suddenly, we were at Pandupole Hanuman Mandir. We parked our car and made our way nervously through a huge bunch of hanumans sunning, picking lice or simply fighting among themselves. Mil and I bought prasad and gave hurried prayers to Lord Hanuman. There was quite a crowd. In the jostling, I quite forgot to see the supine Lord Hanuman properly. Later, it seemed to me a longish (sideway) block of granite with the face of Lord Hanuman chalked on, in vermillion. A sat glowering in the car, upset at the wastage of precious time. Mil was upset about the tigers or their lack.
On our way out, we met 2 forest rangers and asked them if there were indeed any tigers?
- Zaroor ji. (Ofcourse)
- Kitney? (How many)
- 30-35. Aur Jackal, Hyna, aur deer aur pheasants.
- Dikhai kyun nahin detey? (Why cant we see them)
- Kyun ayey wo bhala? Itni noise pollution mein? (Why should they come here? In so much noise and pollution).
Sach baat. But so disappointing.
We retraced our way back to the gate and then back to the main road to Jaipur. Our lunch was terribly delayed leading to terribly frayed tempers. Added to this, among the 100s if not 1000’s of dhabas lining the road from Delhi to Jaipur, we chose one with terrible food. Whoever heard of a dhaba with terrible food? Just our luck. The debate continued about the wisdom of our wasting half a precious day at Sariska. We were on a 3 day tour of Jaipur, Ajmer and Pushkar with Sariska thrown in.
Next morning, at our hotel in Jaipur, I read a newspaper article by a retired high ranking government official, on Sariska. How we were guilty of neglecting a gem of a reserve in our own backyard (referring to Rajasthan State Government). A heavy traffic road runs straight through the reserve (that explains the trucks we saw at Sariska) adding to noise pollution, no doubt not conducive to tiger’s well being. Worse, there has been a high rate of casualty among deer, jackals and birds crushed beneath the truck tyres. If immediate measures were not taken, the natural fauna of that reserve would dwindle away.
Then we weren’t wrong after all, just unlucky. I did read somewhere that tigers are very unpredictable. Even in famous tigers sanctuaries like Ranthambore, one might not see a single tiger for several days and then suddenly one might catch sight of hordes of them within couple of hours.
Perhaps, if we do wake up now and take care of it, then future tourists would be able to get a ‘darshan’ of not only the supine Lord Hanuman but of some tigers well!
Glossary Indian words
ji - a word added to names or end of sentences to show respect.
“jaana zaroori hai kya? Ek chiria ghar hai?” – Is it necessary to go (there). It’s a zoo.
Nahin bhai. Jangul hain, sher hain” – No brother, it’s a jungle with tigers.
omelette na carpet – Is it an omelette or a carpet.
Sach baat – True words
Darshan – sight, view
aur - and
Sunday, February 01, 2004
The Coat
I was happily ensconced in Kolkata when all of a sudden I found myself getting married and leaving Kolkata behind for France, end 2000. I had a million things to do in a space of less than one month: hand in my resignation, hand over my responsibilities to some one else, visa, bank details, never ending farewell dinners and all the 1000 and 1 things associated with an Indian marriage. To be honest, R and family took care of the marriage end completely, but even then I had an enormous amount of things to tie-up. So, I had little time or thought to spare about warm clothes. Having lived in Kolkata for 12 years at a stretch, I had no warm clothes to speak of. No scarves, no gloves, no coats and not even socks (that hateful thing I was glad to see the last of, once I finished school). I found myself in Paris in mid-December in full scale winter which to me was of arctic proportions, with a suitcase full of tropical clothes and sandals. My mother in law had very kindly lent me her coat, a thick sweater and I had a shawl to shield me from the bitter cold on my arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport.
The first week, I wore A’s clothes. I braved the roads of the chic capital of the world in A’s black lamb wool over coat and his black boots. I have big feet for an Indian woman but even then I found A’s boots enormous not to mention heavy. And worse, the street where I lived had a steep gradient. I found myself dragging my feet and walking like Frankenstien’s monsters of the old B&W movies. But I happily went around experiencing Paris, without a care in the world. All that mattered for me was that I was warm. Till I spied myself reflected in a window pane. Who was this ridiculous hobo wearing some one else’s over large coat, boots and gloves? Oh god! It’s me. A wanted to wait couple of weeks till January for the ‘Janvier Soldes’ or January Sales where all brands and shops gave as much as 50% off.
Luckily (or perhaps not so luckily) for me, I didn’t have to wait that long. One day, in a rather expensive shopping arcade in ‘Opera’, A spied a shiny black thick coat going for only 150Francs. Without a second thought, he bought it for me. It was deliciously warm, had a velvet lining and was even waterproof. True it was a bit on the larger side but not as bad as A’s coat. I wore it and wore it and wore it.
Then came the January sales and true to his word, A bought me loads of warm clothings (coats, gloves, shoes, scarves, socks) including a very lovely black coat and two pairs of boots which even after 50% off was expensive. However, I found very little opportunity to wear them all. The shiny black one was water proof. What’s more black went with everything and was not too expensive to risk spoiling it by frequent use. It was spacious enough for me to wear as many things inside as I wanted to.
I would experience the occasional pang when I spied a smart body hugging jacket or coat. But then A would instantly point out how much more useful my coat was and what a bargain it had been. He kept insisting that the shop had wrongly marked it so cheap. So wherever I went, so did the faithful shiny black coat.
End 2001, I returned to India bag baggage for a hiatus of 6 months. When I returned to France in mid-2002, I bought along with me only the bare essentials which meant one pair of gloves each, one pair of sturdy boots and one workable coat each. And that meant – you got that right – the shiny black coat. I left most of my other stuff behind in suitcases at my in-laws’ in Delhi or at my parents’ in Kolkata.
Winter 2002-2003 was colder than 2001. And to my delight it even snowed! And the shiny black coat served me well. I wore it everywhere – to the movies, to the marché, to the library or even for walks. I didn’t buy anything else since I already had quite a few of them lying in India, including a wonderful cream goose feather jacket which I had worn only once since I bought it in Paris.
Perhaps the most striking feature or should I say characteristic feature of the French is their undeniable sense of style. No matter what their financial status, they dress well. And always. No matter what the time of the day – early in the morning, late at night or how banal the outing – they are smartly dressed, hair and make up in place. And there I was in my ugly black coat breaking all sorts of dress codes. The constant use had dulled it sheen but it refused to tear. It was warm as ever. All buttons were intact and the zipper not once got stuck. It even had a detachable hood, the buttons of which has gotten a bit loose and had once dropped off unknown to me when I had one day gone out for a walk. On my way back, I found it propped on a window ledge where a passer by had thoughtfully kept it. Hmmpf. A gave me such a good ‘jhar’ for being so careless with a perfectly good coat. True I didn’t do it purposely. The coat looked more and more ill fitting, made me look like a shapeless lump, like some poor immigrant, robbing me of any sense of style and confidence that I ever had. Since I wore it constantly, I usually left it propped behind a sofa or a chair and it soaked up all the rich smells of Indian cooking so I seemed to be walking around in a cloud of garlic.
And then, one day, it ended. I went to India mid-December last year and on my return, brought with me all the other coats that I had. And when I landed at CDG at 2am one night in January this year, I pulled out the plush cream coat and sailed out head held high!
It has been snowing these past few days and yet I don’t mind stepping out of my warm apartment – each time dressed in a different coat, topped with a peaky cap, a different scarf, gloves and boots and not feeling out of place at all!! What a difference one coat can make to one’s life.
Storage space is a big problem here. One has to give a lot of thought before buying anything. Be it a piece of furniture or a pair of shoe or an extra coat. Where do I keep it? So when we were packing for our India trip, A asked me to take the shiny black coat with me and leave it behind in India. That way I would have one coat less to hang up when I brought the other back with me. Our shelves in our wardrobe had already collapsed once and what trouble we had to go through to get them fixed and we don’t want a repeat. But somehow, I couldn’t find it in me to be parted from my long suffering constant ‘sathi’.
Even today, when I am getting ready to go out, my eyes automatically stray to the suitcase where I have laid it to rest, before of course selecting a smart one. It has served me well and beyond the call of duty. Like ma would often say ‘Aagey darshan dhari, pichey goon bichari’.
Goodnight sweet prince (of coats)!!
Glossary French Words
Janvier Soldes’ – January Sales
Opera - A chic area in Paris, so called because of the Opera Garnier
CDG - Charles de Gaulle airport
Glossary Bengali / Indian Words
Jhar - Scolding
Sathi – companion, friend
Aagey darshan dhari, pichey goon bichari – Beauty always scores over merit.
The first week, I wore A’s clothes. I braved the roads of the chic capital of the world in A’s black lamb wool over coat and his black boots. I have big feet for an Indian woman but even then I found A’s boots enormous not to mention heavy. And worse, the street where I lived had a steep gradient. I found myself dragging my feet and walking like Frankenstien’s monsters of the old B&W movies. But I happily went around experiencing Paris, without a care in the world. All that mattered for me was that I was warm. Till I spied myself reflected in a window pane. Who was this ridiculous hobo wearing some one else’s over large coat, boots and gloves? Oh god! It’s me. A wanted to wait couple of weeks till January for the ‘Janvier Soldes’ or January Sales where all brands and shops gave as much as 50% off.
Luckily (or perhaps not so luckily) for me, I didn’t have to wait that long. One day, in a rather expensive shopping arcade in ‘Opera’, A spied a shiny black thick coat going for only 150Francs. Without a second thought, he bought it for me. It was deliciously warm, had a velvet lining and was even waterproof. True it was a bit on the larger side but not as bad as A’s coat. I wore it and wore it and wore it.
Then came the January sales and true to his word, A bought me loads of warm clothings (coats, gloves, shoes, scarves, socks) including a very lovely black coat and two pairs of boots which even after 50% off was expensive. However, I found very little opportunity to wear them all. The shiny black one was water proof. What’s more black went with everything and was not too expensive to risk spoiling it by frequent use. It was spacious enough for me to wear as many things inside as I wanted to.
I would experience the occasional pang when I spied a smart body hugging jacket or coat. But then A would instantly point out how much more useful my coat was and what a bargain it had been. He kept insisting that the shop had wrongly marked it so cheap. So wherever I went, so did the faithful shiny black coat.
End 2001, I returned to India bag baggage for a hiatus of 6 months. When I returned to France in mid-2002, I bought along with me only the bare essentials which meant one pair of gloves each, one pair of sturdy boots and one workable coat each. And that meant – you got that right – the shiny black coat. I left most of my other stuff behind in suitcases at my in-laws’ in Delhi or at my parents’ in Kolkata.
Winter 2002-2003 was colder than 2001. And to my delight it even snowed! And the shiny black coat served me well. I wore it everywhere – to the movies, to the marché, to the library or even for walks. I didn’t buy anything else since I already had quite a few of them lying in India, including a wonderful cream goose feather jacket which I had worn only once since I bought it in Paris.
Perhaps the most striking feature or should I say characteristic feature of the French is their undeniable sense of style. No matter what their financial status, they dress well. And always. No matter what the time of the day – early in the morning, late at night or how banal the outing – they are smartly dressed, hair and make up in place. And there I was in my ugly black coat breaking all sorts of dress codes. The constant use had dulled it sheen but it refused to tear. It was warm as ever. All buttons were intact and the zipper not once got stuck. It even had a detachable hood, the buttons of which has gotten a bit loose and had once dropped off unknown to me when I had one day gone out for a walk. On my way back, I found it propped on a window ledge where a passer by had thoughtfully kept it. Hmmpf. A gave me such a good ‘jhar’ for being so careless with a perfectly good coat. True I didn’t do it purposely. The coat looked more and more ill fitting, made me look like a shapeless lump, like some poor immigrant, robbing me of any sense of style and confidence that I ever had. Since I wore it constantly, I usually left it propped behind a sofa or a chair and it soaked up all the rich smells of Indian cooking so I seemed to be walking around in a cloud of garlic.
And then, one day, it ended. I went to India mid-December last year and on my return, brought with me all the other coats that I had. And when I landed at CDG at 2am one night in January this year, I pulled out the plush cream coat and sailed out head held high!
It has been snowing these past few days and yet I don’t mind stepping out of my warm apartment – each time dressed in a different coat, topped with a peaky cap, a different scarf, gloves and boots and not feeling out of place at all!! What a difference one coat can make to one’s life.
Storage space is a big problem here. One has to give a lot of thought before buying anything. Be it a piece of furniture or a pair of shoe or an extra coat. Where do I keep it? So when we were packing for our India trip, A asked me to take the shiny black coat with me and leave it behind in India. That way I would have one coat less to hang up when I brought the other back with me. Our shelves in our wardrobe had already collapsed once and what trouble we had to go through to get them fixed and we don’t want a repeat. But somehow, I couldn’t find it in me to be parted from my long suffering constant ‘sathi’.
Even today, when I am getting ready to go out, my eyes automatically stray to the suitcase where I have laid it to rest, before of course selecting a smart one. It has served me well and beyond the call of duty. Like ma would often say ‘Aagey darshan dhari, pichey goon bichari’.
Goodnight sweet prince (of coats)!!
Glossary French Words
Janvier Soldes’ – January Sales
Opera - A chic area in Paris, so called because of the Opera Garnier
CDG - Charles de Gaulle airport
Glossary Bengali / Indian Words
Jhar - Scolding
Sathi – companion, friend
Aagey darshan dhari, pichey goon bichari – Beauty always scores over merit.
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