How quiet and final a Sunday it is today. The Durga pujas (my first in 4 years) are finally over. The preparations which began well in advance, a few months ago, finally reached their crescendo yesterday with the immersion of the pratimas in the Hooghly.
The pujas officially begin on Mahalaya or the arrival of Durga but the actual celebrations take place a week later and are usually a 5 day affair, shosti to dashami (the from the 6th day to the 10th).
But for me, Durga Puja begins much earlier, perhaps when the paper man rings the bell to deliver the annual (or puja) issues of all the major bengali literary publications. These are too thick to be slipped under the door with the morning paper. The smell of fresh print and the luxury of lying on the sofa, riffling through the book checking out the various stories, knowing the pujas are just around the corner. Heavenly! (At the moment, 6 or 7 such annual issues are lying around and are driving me nuts. Can't figure out which one to start with)!
Then the pandals come up bit by bit. Overnight one finds a bamboo structure up, often on a road, or a field or park (giving little indication of what the final shape will be). Somehow, no one minds the detour these cause.
The crowds swell at the shops to buy new clothes for themselves as well as for giving. Having been away, I have sort of gotten out of that habit (not to say I didn't feel a small pang thinking I'd be going out on the puja days in my old clothes and was thrilled to find couple of sarees from my wedding, still new)*.
Bamboo barriers appear on roadsides to keep the absolutely crazy Kolkata pedestrians off the road. They cross wherever and whenever they want to and don't care a fig about traffic. In fact it’s the driver's onus to keep an eye on the pedestrian making sure he is not run over.
I can't quite explain it but there is this special 'durga puja' air all around, a wonderful relaxed holiday sort of feeling. It is reflected in little, little things. The golden sunlight of sharad, the tuning on to Radio Kolkata at 4am to listen to a special programme 'Mahishasur Mardini', on the arrival of Durga (something began in the 1930s by the legendary Pankaj Kr Mullick and now a must for Bengalis), the orange lights splayed across the frosted window of my bedroom, of the Maddox square puja, the beating of dhak, the clanging of cymbals mingled with the usual sounds of buses and cars honking, the chanting of mantras at the anjalis (morning prayer) and the smell of incense in the arati (the evening prayer).
Being away makes one appreciate old things better. But that apart, the pujas themselves have undergone a sea change. What variety of pratimas and pandals**. No more of those tarp and bamboo structures. The pandals are now old forts complete with turrets, abandoned house, fabulous south Indian temples with intricate carvings, a space ship (where the asur is an ET), cane chariot drawn by cane horses, pagodas, Egyptian pyramids and one was modeled on the huge globe of the EPCOT center at the Disney world in Florida! And they are made of terracotta tiles, jute, cane, coconut shells, sea shells, crushed coal, saw dust and gunny bags, dried cow dung pats and one, decorated completely with toffees. I marvelled at it all and savoured every bit of it even took a spin around the city from midnight till dawn (to beat the traffic jams of the evenings) and it was worth every second of it.
By this evening, all the pratimas will be immersed in the Hooghly, all the pandals dismantled and the lighting taken down by the very same artisans who built it up painstakingly and wait for next year to spin some more magic. It is sad but somehow fitting. It after all reflects the eternal cycle of creation and destruction and all important impermanence of things.
* I went out wearing a sari and promptly spilt some water onto my lap, which trickled downwards through the sari pleats and soon I was sitting in a neat puddle and I had not even seen a single puja yet! Luckily, the pallu was not wet and I pulled it behind me and spent the entire night pandal hopping!
** I had a small point and click camera. I don’t quite know how the photos will look. So instead, here are some Links those who want to check out the pratimas and pandals!
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Bhubaneswar diary
A sudden invitation I have very happy memories of the one and a half years that I spent as a kid, in Orissa. So when an old colleague from an NGO I once worked in (in fact my first job some 10 years back) rang me up on Tuesday evening to say that they were organising a seminar with women artisans in Bhubaneswar, I immediately agreed to attend it...to kill two birds with a stone, so to speak.
Déjà vu In Bhubaneswar I kept looking all around trying to locate places once familiar to me, landmarks now completely lost in the maze of roads and houses built in the last couple of decades. How often have I felt bored, irritated by people when they talk about places visited in the past with great fondness, which mean nothing to me. I am afraid I must have sounded like that. All excited I'd point out 'you know I went to school this way', with the happy rush of memories of me and R as young school kids (me in class IV and R in II) and a host of other memories. But it must have been terribly boring for my hosts. (Yawn, mm...so you went to school. Aacha). Luckily they were too polite to do anything but feign extreme interest! I couldn’t even identify that wonderful house we spent two summers in, as kids. It turned out to be the one just around the corner from the NGO’s office!
Other things hadn't changed much. When I started working in the NGO, I found that there was no schedule for anything although there was an enormous amount of energy for everything. Our train reached Bhubaneswar at 11pm, nearly two hours behind schedule. An entire troop was there to receive us at the station including my ex-boss and director on bikes, cycles and one car. He insisted on us dropping in at his office before checking in at our hotels. And once there, we had to talk the usual what is happening with the whole sordid affair of life kind of a talk and then tea, which took its time in arriving. I felt tired and hungry and a tad irritated at this disorganized state of affair. But then I thought that I was here for two days and I had come with the express purpose of meeting these people, most of whom I hadn't met for 9 years and my boss whom I had last seen 4 years ago when he attended my marriage. Here was my chance to catch up with these wonderful people. So I swallowed my irritation (which was partly aimed at myself for getting irritated in the first place) and the god awful tea (another standard fixture) and asked many questions. As is normal, nothing that was scheduled happened. The field trip was cancelled. A lot of things remained to be arranged for Buyer seller meet.
A Women’s World or is it? There was to be a buyer seller meet for products of rural women from Orissa – a governmental project, organized by the NGO. As happens with most affairs, lack of coordination is the main problem. Especially since the idea, the invitation and accommodation etc was done by government agencies. Each woman received 5 invitations, from 5 different agencies, to the very same meet. Most could barely figure it out. In fact some came empty handed without any of their handicrafts. Some came to the hostels they were to be put up in, some were found bewildered outside the five star hotel where the seminar was to be held, clutching their precious handiwork in odd bags and bundles. They turned up (much more than were expected) with very little idea as to what it was but so full of hope. And then they were told that nothing was to be sold here. It was to be only a product evaluation.
The NGO staff were up nearly till 2 arranging things for the inauguration by the minister who came accompanied by IAS officers and other officials. Then came ribbon cutting. Immediately, all the women started ululating in unison...the sound of which brought tears to my eyes. I had to blink hard to get rid of them. This was not just a tradition. But it was a sound of so much hope from these women who had so little, that they would find a buyer, a market, a way to earn a livelihood, a way to live life with some dignity, certainly more dignity than the seminar was giving them, I thought. Couple of hours later after endless cliched speeches, the women had to re-wrap all their stuff in pitiful little bundles...homeward bound, waiting till the next such meet?
The whole way in which it was conducted was very disappointing. But the post exhibition feedback session with the energetic and seemingly competent IAS officer in charge brought some hope to me that this lady means business.
A Rare breedI had got a ticket in the ordinary sleeper class for my return journey. Everyone else agreed that with some money, the TT would be more than happy to oblige especially since it was the puja season where most people ask for some sort of a baksheesh or the other. There were sure to be empty berths in the AC coaches. My boss had a big ideological problem with it. If there are seats, then it is within one's legal rights to ask for and get a better seat by paying the difference and it should be available without palm greasing. Anyhow, I was told to stand near my coach (at the end of the train) while they spoke to the TT, to try and do something for a lady.
The whole little scene no doubt repeated countless times, replayed it self slowly in front of me. Us officious, bending and talking with unusual docility, surrendering ourselves to the all mighty TT of the Indian Railways (the largest employer in the world). The TT, standing tall (this is his brief moment of glory), list in hand, looking us over, doing difficult calculations in his head and then saying uthey porun, dekchi (get in, I’ll see what I can do).The TT looked me up and down and then said, will a middle berth do? You are tall.
The TT came in a short while and upgraded the two of us who had ordinary sleeper class tickets, took the difference and left. Was it because a woman (my colleague) did all the talking, he couldn't he ask for some extra rupees or was he one of the rare breeds just doing his duty? If he was the latter, then here's to you Sir.
Last but not the leastDespite the obvious growth of Bhubanewsar, it still has this peacefulness about it. I guess its because its hardly populated compared to West Bengal and Calcutta. Rent is quite affordable; most houses have a bit of a plot attached to it, and full of foliage (unthinkable here in Calcutta). The sky I remember is still very clear and the stars are so bright...like big lamps shining in the sky. I felt happy, relaxed, lying in the hammock sort of an air. It would be nice to retire here, the land of 99,999 temples.
Déjà vu In Bhubaneswar I kept looking all around trying to locate places once familiar to me, landmarks now completely lost in the maze of roads and houses built in the last couple of decades. How often have I felt bored, irritated by people when they talk about places visited in the past with great fondness, which mean nothing to me. I am afraid I must have sounded like that. All excited I'd point out 'you know I went to school this way', with the happy rush of memories of me and R as young school kids (me in class IV and R in II) and a host of other memories. But it must have been terribly boring for my hosts. (Yawn, mm...so you went to school. Aacha). Luckily they were too polite to do anything but feign extreme interest! I couldn’t even identify that wonderful house we spent two summers in, as kids. It turned out to be the one just around the corner from the NGO’s office!
Other things hadn't changed much. When I started working in the NGO, I found that there was no schedule for anything although there was an enormous amount of energy for everything. Our train reached Bhubaneswar at 11pm, nearly two hours behind schedule. An entire troop was there to receive us at the station including my ex-boss and director on bikes, cycles and one car. He insisted on us dropping in at his office before checking in at our hotels. And once there, we had to talk the usual what is happening with the whole sordid affair of life kind of a talk and then tea, which took its time in arriving. I felt tired and hungry and a tad irritated at this disorganized state of affair. But then I thought that I was here for two days and I had come with the express purpose of meeting these people, most of whom I hadn't met for 9 years and my boss whom I had last seen 4 years ago when he attended my marriage. Here was my chance to catch up with these wonderful people. So I swallowed my irritation (which was partly aimed at myself for getting irritated in the first place) and the god awful tea (another standard fixture) and asked many questions. As is normal, nothing that was scheduled happened. The field trip was cancelled. A lot of things remained to be arranged for Buyer seller meet.
A Women’s World or is it? There was to be a buyer seller meet for products of rural women from Orissa – a governmental project, organized by the NGO. As happens with most affairs, lack of coordination is the main problem. Especially since the idea, the invitation and accommodation etc was done by government agencies. Each woman received 5 invitations, from 5 different agencies, to the very same meet. Most could barely figure it out. In fact some came empty handed without any of their handicrafts. Some came to the hostels they were to be put up in, some were found bewildered outside the five star hotel where the seminar was to be held, clutching their precious handiwork in odd bags and bundles. They turned up (much more than were expected) with very little idea as to what it was but so full of hope. And then they were told that nothing was to be sold here. It was to be only a product evaluation.
The NGO staff were up nearly till 2 arranging things for the inauguration by the minister who came accompanied by IAS officers and other officials. Then came ribbon cutting. Immediately, all the women started ululating in unison...the sound of which brought tears to my eyes. I had to blink hard to get rid of them. This was not just a tradition. But it was a sound of so much hope from these women who had so little, that they would find a buyer, a market, a way to earn a livelihood, a way to live life with some dignity, certainly more dignity than the seminar was giving them, I thought. Couple of hours later after endless cliched speeches, the women had to re-wrap all their stuff in pitiful little bundles...homeward bound, waiting till the next such meet?
The whole way in which it was conducted was very disappointing. But the post exhibition feedback session with the energetic and seemingly competent IAS officer in charge brought some hope to me that this lady means business.
A Rare breedI had got a ticket in the ordinary sleeper class for my return journey. Everyone else agreed that with some money, the TT would be more than happy to oblige especially since it was the puja season where most people ask for some sort of a baksheesh or the other. There were sure to be empty berths in the AC coaches. My boss had a big ideological problem with it. If there are seats, then it is within one's legal rights to ask for and get a better seat by paying the difference and it should be available without palm greasing. Anyhow, I was told to stand near my coach (at the end of the train) while they spoke to the TT, to try and do something for a lady.
The whole little scene no doubt repeated countless times, replayed it self slowly in front of me. Us officious, bending and talking with unusual docility, surrendering ourselves to the all mighty TT of the Indian Railways (the largest employer in the world). The TT, standing tall (this is his brief moment of glory), list in hand, looking us over, doing difficult calculations in his head and then saying uthey porun, dekchi (get in, I’ll see what I can do).The TT looked me up and down and then said, will a middle berth do? You are tall.
The TT came in a short while and upgraded the two of us who had ordinary sleeper class tickets, took the difference and left. Was it because a woman (my colleague) did all the talking, he couldn't he ask for some extra rupees or was he one of the rare breeds just doing his duty? If he was the latter, then here's to you Sir.
Last but not the leastDespite the obvious growth of Bhubanewsar, it still has this peacefulness about it. I guess its because its hardly populated compared to West Bengal and Calcutta. Rent is quite affordable; most houses have a bit of a plot attached to it, and full of foliage (unthinkable here in Calcutta). The sky I remember is still very clear and the stars are so bright...like big lamps shining in the sky. I felt happy, relaxed, lying in the hammock sort of an air. It would be nice to retire here, the land of 99,999 temples.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Rules for Watching Cricket
Bengalis take their cricket very ,very seriously. Try watching a match at Eden; a capacity crowd of 120,000, not counting those hanging from trees and atop all the tall buildings around Eden Gardens, for each and even when India is not playing**. (But perhaps I should not generalise like this for the 60 million Bengalis, in West Bengal). At least we do. And our ex-neighbour. We have invented all sorts of rules for ensuring an Indian victory. Never mind the fact that our success rate has been very bad. Nevertheless the set of rules continues to grow and grow.
I don't think I missed a single match at Eden Gardens between 1991 and 1996. And the few matches I missed, I had R tape it for me. For matches abroad, the match timings would take precedence over our lives. Ma would set the alarm to catch the 4am match between India and New Zealand! She'd get up a bit before, make tea and then settle down before the TV to watch Sachin beat the hell out of the kiwis in the first 15 overs. Yes. those certainly were the days.
I remember our neighbour dropping in early one morning to ask if she could watch the match on our TV.
'Of course. Any problem with your TV?' ma enquired politely.
'No, no. We are waiting for Bonu (their daughter) to come home and switch on the set. India always wins when she does', she said in all sincerity.
Ha. Ha. Imagine that. But lately I find that we have our sets of incredibly complicated rules as well.
The other day, as I was lighting an incense stick at the family puja altar, ma came bustling and replaced the match box, the incense stick and other stuff in a certain way.
'Ma, what are you doing?'
'India has a match today' came the all explanatory reply.
I immediately understood that these were Baba's rules. Earlier, he would wear his lucky lungi to watch the match and so ma had quite a job of ensuring that the same lungi was washed, dried and pressed for the next day's session.
Things have gotten a bit complicated since then. Most of the time, we are not allowed to watch the match. Baba sits like an ageing Royal Bengal tiger, remote in hand, in front of the set occasionally tuning in to check the score. And that's it.
'Baba, you cant be serious'. I shout in desperation.
'But I am. It works,' says Baba.
'Well if you have so much power, why don't you find out a way whereby you could get me a nice job by perhaps rearranging the furniture or something,' I say.
'Don't be ridiculous,' says Baba, in a very final tone .
This morning I was helping ma to change the bed linen in our room. The pillow cases and bed sheets done, we, we picked up a fresh bed cover when ma stopped and said
'Oh, Oh'.
'What' ?
'Can't change the bed cover. Not before the next test series (India has lost the first one and how). Baba's instructions'.
And she put the old cover back and briskly moved leaving me standing jaw dropped. (Its easier to agree to Baba rather than discussing it).
Normally Baba is a very rational man not given to any sort of fanciful flights. In fact he is boringly practical except cricket. But then India's performance of late has been so dismal. Desperate situations call for desperate measures. Perhaps it does work. Perhaps our rules for a win are getting cancelled by others non action or contra-actions.
Who knows? The truth after all is somewhere out 'there'. That could include a host of things...ETs, ESP, time travel, the truth about life and death and winning in cricket.
**(Except for that one shameful incidents in the 1996 World Cup against Sri Lanka);
I don't think I missed a single match at Eden Gardens between 1991 and 1996. And the few matches I missed, I had R tape it for me. For matches abroad, the match timings would take precedence over our lives. Ma would set the alarm to catch the 4am match between India and New Zealand! She'd get up a bit before, make tea and then settle down before the TV to watch Sachin beat the hell out of the kiwis in the first 15 overs. Yes. those certainly were the days.
I remember our neighbour dropping in early one morning to ask if she could watch the match on our TV.
'Of course. Any problem with your TV?' ma enquired politely.
'No, no. We are waiting for Bonu (their daughter) to come home and switch on the set. India always wins when she does', she said in all sincerity.
Ha. Ha. Imagine that. But lately I find that we have our sets of incredibly complicated rules as well.
The other day, as I was lighting an incense stick at the family puja altar, ma came bustling and replaced the match box, the incense stick and other stuff in a certain way.
'Ma, what are you doing?'
'India has a match today' came the all explanatory reply.
I immediately understood that these were Baba's rules. Earlier, he would wear his lucky lungi to watch the match and so ma had quite a job of ensuring that the same lungi was washed, dried and pressed for the next day's session.
Things have gotten a bit complicated since then. Most of the time, we are not allowed to watch the match. Baba sits like an ageing Royal Bengal tiger, remote in hand, in front of the set occasionally tuning in to check the score. And that's it.
'Baba, you cant be serious'. I shout in desperation.
'But I am. It works,' says Baba.
'Well if you have so much power, why don't you find out a way whereby you could get me a nice job by perhaps rearranging the furniture or something,' I say.
'Don't be ridiculous,' says Baba, in a very final tone .
This morning I was helping ma to change the bed linen in our room. The pillow cases and bed sheets done, we, we picked up a fresh bed cover when ma stopped and said
'Oh, Oh'.
'What' ?
'Can't change the bed cover. Not before the next test series (India has lost the first one and how). Baba's instructions'.
And she put the old cover back and briskly moved leaving me standing jaw dropped. (Its easier to agree to Baba rather than discussing it).
Normally Baba is a very rational man not given to any sort of fanciful flights. In fact he is boringly practical except cricket. But then India's performance of late has been so dismal. Desperate situations call for desperate measures. Perhaps it does work. Perhaps our rules for a win are getting cancelled by others non action or contra-actions.
Who knows? The truth after all is somewhere out 'there'. That could include a host of things...ETs, ESP, time travel, the truth about life and death and winning in cricket.
**(Except for that one shameful incidents in the 1996 World Cup against Sri Lanka);
Thursday, October 07, 2004
A Rainy Day
Rain means different things at different times. At times welcome, at time destructive, at times a pleasure and a nuisance at others. Monsoons this year in West Bengal seem to have continued into august, september and now October. Inquire why and more often than not, the answer will be: Ma durga's* agomon(arrival) this year, is on a boat. This means rains. And how. In fact, it has been raining incessantly since yesterday and continues even as I write. Large parts of Calcutta is waterlogged.
* The goddess durga's festival is in a few days time. This 9 day pageant (with fantastic lighting, exotic pandals and enormous crowds thronging to see them) is the chief festival of the bengalis.
Most of us are stuck indoors, an unofficial rainy day, making the most of it, ringing up relatives and friends to gleefully discuss how much of which road is under water. Its lapping at our door step; the pond has over flown onto the road etc.
Mama(ma's older brother) is the first to ring up and gives a gleeful account of the state of waterlogging, which roads to avoid etc, all from the safe confines of his first floor apartment.
Next rings Dinesh, our driver. Waist-deep water. Ashbo? (shall I come).
2 of my friends were to drop in this afternoon. The first cant risk it the pond have overflown onto the road. The second stays far away and can't obviously make it.
- 'Ok, We'll eat up all the kebab R was going to grill this afternoon'.
- 'Kebabs? Isn't there a metro station close to your place? I shall give it a try!'
A rainy day automatically means 'Khichudi' for most Bengalis: Khichdi accompanied by a host of fries (fish fry, fried brinjal, vegetables fritters).
So we have a very cozy, happy-family cooking session - Ma, R and me. Baba will chip in with his critical comments during lunch (my parents have been married for 36 years and yet during each lunch, without fail, baba will have some direction or the other to give about the cooking).
I am lucky enough to savour it all. No plodding through ankle/knee/waist deep water running errands or rushing to work. I look out of the window, the palm tree now grown to a giant size, its frond nodding just under our 5th floor window. Calcutta looks so fresh, nice and washed and I can see the Hooghly Bridge and its cables clearly, the dome of the Victoria Memorial, the lightening exaggerated by our windows of frosted glass.
Normally the tap-tap of raindrops on shutters, against panes, the rushing sound of the palm fronds, lulls me to sleep when an ominous plop wakes me up. Our roof is leaking at places where there is a ceiling fan or a light fixture.
I look up and see the yellow pail hung from a 'S' from the ceiling next to the ceiling fan. This simple but effective idea which collects all the water and prevents a short circuit is a brainwave of my engineer dad who is happiest tinkering around the apartment and I suspect when things break down, as they frequently do, so that he can fix them.
But it keeps me wide wide awake for fear of the pail getting to heavy and flying off the 'S' and crashing into the rotating blades and onto our heads (the bed is just underneath).
* The goddess durga's festival is in a few days time. This 9 day pageant (with fantastic lighting, exotic pandals and enormous crowds thronging to see them) is the chief festival of the bengalis.
Most of us are stuck indoors, an unofficial rainy day, making the most of it, ringing up relatives and friends to gleefully discuss how much of which road is under water. Its lapping at our door step; the pond has over flown onto the road etc.
Mama(ma's older brother) is the first to ring up and gives a gleeful account of the state of waterlogging, which roads to avoid etc, all from the safe confines of his first floor apartment.
Next rings Dinesh, our driver. Waist-deep water. Ashbo? (shall I come).
2 of my friends were to drop in this afternoon. The first cant risk it the pond have overflown onto the road. The second stays far away and can't obviously make it.
- 'Ok, We'll eat up all the kebab R was going to grill this afternoon'.
- 'Kebabs? Isn't there a metro station close to your place? I shall give it a try!'
A rainy day automatically means 'Khichudi' for most Bengalis: Khichdi accompanied by a host of fries (fish fry, fried brinjal, vegetables fritters).
So we have a very cozy, happy-family cooking session - Ma, R and me. Baba will chip in with his critical comments during lunch (my parents have been married for 36 years and yet during each lunch, without fail, baba will have some direction or the other to give about the cooking).
I am lucky enough to savour it all. No plodding through ankle/knee/waist deep water running errands or rushing to work. I look out of the window, the palm tree now grown to a giant size, its frond nodding just under our 5th floor window. Calcutta looks so fresh, nice and washed and I can see the Hooghly Bridge and its cables clearly, the dome of the Victoria Memorial, the lightening exaggerated by our windows of frosted glass.
Normally the tap-tap of raindrops on shutters, against panes, the rushing sound of the palm fronds, lulls me to sleep when an ominous plop wakes me up. Our roof is leaking at places where there is a ceiling fan or a light fixture.
I look up and see the yellow pail hung from a 'S' from the ceiling next to the ceiling fan. This simple but effective idea which collects all the water and prevents a short circuit is a brainwave of my engineer dad who is happiest tinkering around the apartment and I suspect when things break down, as they frequently do, so that he can fix them.
But it keeps me wide wide awake for fear of the pail getting to heavy and flying off the 'S' and crashing into the rotating blades and onto our heads (the bed is just underneath).
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Ma Nuit Blanche!
I left Paris on Sunday after 3 days with an artist friend of mine (yes the same one of the pan masala fame). (A had earlier left for India on Friday). She lives in an artist's colony in the 20th arrondissement. Her apartment is a very crazy hodge podge of all sorts of absurd things, which had it been mine, would have surely looked like a 'kabarikhana' (junk shop) but over there, it was undeniably artistic.
She shares her flat with her daughter P (who once taught me French at AF) and have their own schedules and lives and communicate with each other via notes propped on the kitchen table!
The 3rd Nuit Blanche (an all whole night cultural event organised by the Mayor of Paris) coincided with 3 painting exhibitions where her work was showing (including one at a gallery in Mont Marte where there would be a jazz concert afterwards)! P invited me to go around Paris on Nuit Blanche. It was going to be an interesting 3 days. I had dashed of a joyous email to A About my plans He wrote a very cautious ' enjoy yourself...but not too much'!
To avoid the tedium of hopping onto a metro to go to Mont marte which is ALWAYS packed, I thought I’d attend the one on Rue de la Marre (the one closest to her’s and there I would meet P and then check out nuit blanche)! But fate had entirely something else in store for me. A ‘nuit blanche’ all right for I was up for most of the night.
She had told me several times to take a right at the crossing between Rue du Bagnolet and Rue des Pyrenees. I could take a bus or enjoy the walk. I set out at 7pm to enjoy the walk and promptly forgot all about it. I asked an old Arab who (surprisingly) said he didnt know any French! A chirpy lady very confidently pointed to the left and I took it with every step walking unknown to me further away from my destination. I kept trying to 'enjoy' the walk like she had told me to, stopping to ask people frequently. 2 people told me I was on the right track and a third didn’t help with the directions but asked if I was an Indian and then said I had a nice smile. He was from Guadeloupe and do I know where that is. When I said yes I do, he said he hoped that I didn’t think that they are all savages. No I don’t. Of course I don’t.
When I passed what looked like 15 bus stops, realization dawned that perhaps I had taken a wrong turning?. A passerby kindly set me right. Retrace your step all the way to the crossing and then walk a similar distance on the other side (all uphill). Irritation, exasperation, anger, not to forget perspiration...I was feeling all sorts of things, apart from feeling very foolish and hot. I was wearing a goose feather jacket (despite the mild weather. Quite a few passersby stared curiously at me, perspiring and walking unsteadily). All my resolutions about not caring two hoots about who thought what about my clothing went up in perspiration.
My joy at finally finding the elusive Rue de l'ermitage, was tinged with dismay. I had to take the steep stairways half way down it to Rue de la cascade and then down a very steep gradient to Rue de la Marre. This whole area was very old, with quaint narrow paved streets and very arty. But I was had little time to admire it all especially my knees and soles of my feet were not enjoying the paved steep road. (I had a mild attack of vertigo, standing at the top of the steep alley!).
At the gallery, there was a small bunch of people...mostly artists. I went panting upto her and P, took a cursory look at the art work and left for the 3eme Nuit Blanche with P and her friend Y. He took us through 4 rounds of that place (uphill and downhill, never a flat road) till he located the Japanese joint, where everyone elegantly picked at their food (raw fish) with chopsticks while I made a mess of the elegant japanese portions with a fork and knife. Then we went through the same place and passed it twice before we located our first halt. A bar overflowing with people talking, drinking, staring and all sorts of things while a chorus was going full scale doing all sorts of choral stuff with lots of bam-bam-ba sort of singing. The wore all sorts of black and white, cow patterned stuff, ears and tails and what not. P spent the entire time talking to friends to find out what was happening and where to go. I tried to look inconspicuous and failed badly.
Y tried very hard to keep me in good spirits. C'est ta derniere nuit, ici a paris? oui. T'emu? Non. (what I meant to say was I don't know where we will be next and might just be back and soon and am therefore not 'emu' , instead the non crept out).
Tu a fait quoi, ici, pendant 4 ans? lire. Juste lire? Ah bon. Even he gave up after that. Argh. Here was my chance at some scintillating conversation. France gave me the chance to faire un pause, to rest, to reflechir un peu....to find out the meaning of life, to get in touch with my inner self.....but I didnt say all that. Just a plain, boring, 'non'. I could have said I took up an old hobby like painting...but I didnt and in hindsight, thank god I didnt, what if Y started talking litho and woodcut and etching and acrylic and huile sur toile like everyone else at the gallery?
I said goodbye and retraced the long long distance home. Spent the night tossing and turning. Its three flights and the wooden stairs up and down kept creaking, (the walls were so thin) that the each time a neighbour flushed his loo, it seemed some one was in ours. P rang up once at 1am to say she would be late and then again at 3am to ask me to let her in! Needless to say, I was wide awake. Like when she says after an age, one simply cant do Nuit Blanches. But that certain age seems to have come really early, for me.
She shares her flat with her daughter P (who once taught me French at AF) and have their own schedules and lives and communicate with each other via notes propped on the kitchen table!
The 3rd Nuit Blanche (an all whole night cultural event organised by the Mayor of Paris) coincided with 3 painting exhibitions where her work was showing (including one at a gallery in Mont Marte where there would be a jazz concert afterwards)! P invited me to go around Paris on Nuit Blanche. It was going to be an interesting 3 days. I had dashed of a joyous email to A About my plans He wrote a very cautious ' enjoy yourself...but not too much'!
To avoid the tedium of hopping onto a metro to go to Mont marte which is ALWAYS packed, I thought I’d attend the one on Rue de la Marre (the one closest to her’s and there I would meet P and then check out nuit blanche)! But fate had entirely something else in store for me. A ‘nuit blanche’ all right for I was up for most of the night.
She had told me several times to take a right at the crossing between Rue du Bagnolet and Rue des Pyrenees. I could take a bus or enjoy the walk. I set out at 7pm to enjoy the walk and promptly forgot all about it. I asked an old Arab who (surprisingly) said he didnt know any French! A chirpy lady very confidently pointed to the left and I took it with every step walking unknown to me further away from my destination. I kept trying to 'enjoy' the walk like she had told me to, stopping to ask people frequently. 2 people told me I was on the right track and a third didn’t help with the directions but asked if I was an Indian and then said I had a nice smile. He was from Guadeloupe and do I know where that is. When I said yes I do, he said he hoped that I didn’t think that they are all savages. No I don’t. Of course I don’t.
When I passed what looked like 15 bus stops, realization dawned that perhaps I had taken a wrong turning?. A passerby kindly set me right. Retrace your step all the way to the crossing and then walk a similar distance on the other side (all uphill). Irritation, exasperation, anger, not to forget perspiration...I was feeling all sorts of things, apart from feeling very foolish and hot. I was wearing a goose feather jacket (despite the mild weather. Quite a few passersby stared curiously at me, perspiring and walking unsteadily). All my resolutions about not caring two hoots about who thought what about my clothing went up in perspiration.
My joy at finally finding the elusive Rue de l'ermitage, was tinged with dismay. I had to take the steep stairways half way down it to Rue de la cascade and then down a very steep gradient to Rue de la Marre. This whole area was very old, with quaint narrow paved streets and very arty. But I was had little time to admire it all especially my knees and soles of my feet were not enjoying the paved steep road. (I had a mild attack of vertigo, standing at the top of the steep alley!).
At the gallery, there was a small bunch of people...mostly artists. I went panting upto her and P, took a cursory look at the art work and left for the 3eme Nuit Blanche with P and her friend Y. He took us through 4 rounds of that place (uphill and downhill, never a flat road) till he located the Japanese joint, where everyone elegantly picked at their food (raw fish) with chopsticks while I made a mess of the elegant japanese portions with a fork and knife. Then we went through the same place and passed it twice before we located our first halt. A bar overflowing with people talking, drinking, staring and all sorts of things while a chorus was going full scale doing all sorts of choral stuff with lots of bam-bam-ba sort of singing. The wore all sorts of black and white, cow patterned stuff, ears and tails and what not. P spent the entire time talking to friends to find out what was happening and where to go. I tried to look inconspicuous and failed badly.
Y tried very hard to keep me in good spirits. C'est ta derniere nuit, ici a paris? oui. T'emu? Non. (what I meant to say was I don't know where we will be next and might just be back and soon and am therefore not 'emu' , instead the non crept out).
Tu a fait quoi, ici, pendant 4 ans? lire. Juste lire? Ah bon. Even he gave up after that. Argh. Here was my chance at some scintillating conversation. France gave me the chance to faire un pause, to rest, to reflechir un peu....to find out the meaning of life, to get in touch with my inner self.....but I didnt say all that. Just a plain, boring, 'non'. I could have said I took up an old hobby like painting...but I didnt and in hindsight, thank god I didnt, what if Y started talking litho and woodcut and etching and acrylic and huile sur toile like everyone else at the gallery?
I said goodbye and retraced the long long distance home. Spent the night tossing and turning. Its three flights and the wooden stairs up and down kept creaking, (the walls were so thin) that the each time a neighbour flushed his loo, it seemed some one was in ours. P rang up once at 1am to say she would be late and then again at 3am to ask me to let her in! Needless to say, I was wide awake. Like when she says after an age, one simply cant do Nuit Blanches. But that certain age seems to have come really early, for me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Read if you will
