I lived in Meaux for two years around 2003 - 2004.
Showing posts with label france. Show all posts
Showing posts with label france. Show all posts
Monday, May 23, 2016
For whom the bells tolled, pealed and madly so ...
The Cathedrale Saint-Etienne was very close to our house, possibly the tallest structure in Meaux and can be seen from miles around. It has a bell tower which clangs to announce - you would think - the hour? Well, it rang at 1/4 past every hour, 10 minutes before every hour and sometimes much more than the hour it was supposed to announce! I'd catch myself gnashing my teeth ever so often and then stop as these were after all god's bells.
I lived in Meaux for two years around 2003 - 2004.
I lived in Meaux for two years around 2003 - 2004.
Monday, September 27, 2004
Last Tango in Paris
Well hello Paris, once again.
I arrived yesterday after a 18 hour flight across half the world with stops at Dhaka, Riyadh, Rome and then Paris and 6 meals (5 inflight and 1 in transit) and emerged into a still and hushed France. The whole place seemed like a nature mort painting or something similar; Such a shock it was especially after 3 months in India and the last week aboard a train to and returning from Mumbai.
How did I ever manage to survive here for three years? Its beautiful, functional and living standards are high and all that....but where's the life?
Anyhow, this is just to say that my blogging will be a bit patchy till I return to Kolkata...and I have heaps to blog about, which I will, maybe in a week's time or two!
à Bientôt!
I arrived yesterday after a 18 hour flight across half the world with stops at Dhaka, Riyadh, Rome and then Paris and 6 meals (5 inflight and 1 in transit) and emerged into a still and hushed France. The whole place seemed like a nature mort painting or something similar; Such a shock it was especially after 3 months in India and the last week aboard a train to and returning from Mumbai.
How did I ever manage to survive here for three years? Its beautiful, functional and living standards are high and all that....but where's the life?
Anyhow, this is just to say that my blogging will be a bit patchy till I return to Kolkata...and I have heaps to blog about, which I will, maybe in a week's time or two!
à Bientôt!
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Poverty of Nations
Poverty is always a sobering sight. In India, poor people on the road are a common enough sight and naturally the western press is so full of poverty in the 3rd world country.
In contrast, the only poor people we see or hear about, here, are the SDFs (Sans domicile fixé). But most of these are winos or drug addicts or hobos. Many seem quite content to live on the road or wayside and in the metros even. One guy we meet all over the place, travels by train and carried a backpack with a fat cat balancing on it and an equally fat Labrador at his heels. Not the India kind of poverty. So imagine my surprise when I encountered it here, in France.
The branch of Red Cross in our town is open only on Tuesday afternoons. A and I went around 2pm with some of our clothes and my big black coat (my post of Sunday, February 01, 2004), most of which were in mint conditions. We have just outgrown them (girth wise). A big crowd was already there, behind the big iron doors, waiting patiently in a line. Couldn’t figure out if they were donors or donees. We hesitated a bit and then some one asked me if he could help. I recognised him…have seen him several times…a blind man. I told him I had some clothes to donate and where could I keep them. He told me that there should be a carton somewhere there. Sure enough there was one. The crowd obediently parted while we dumped our clothes into the box. They didn’t immediately crowd over the box. We left and then I remembered that I had to ask if they took utensils as well and so returned. They had all crowded around the box and were looking at our clothes. There was a long queue up the stairs to the office. They let me go through to ask a rather grumpy lady in the office upstairs, if I could give my utensils. No I couldn’t. I walked back. Our clothes were being minutely examined by various people.
These other kind of poor people, who live on donations of others', I met for the first time. And to my surprise, these were not unfamiliar faces. I have met them on several occasions … walked past them, or on a bus.
Naïve of me to think there would be no poor people out here…but I could be forgiven for thinking so…It is a land of plenty…, with a good social support structure or atleast it seems so, compared to India!
In contrast, the only poor people we see or hear about, here, are the SDFs (Sans domicile fixé). But most of these are winos or drug addicts or hobos. Many seem quite content to live on the road or wayside and in the metros even. One guy we meet all over the place, travels by train and carried a backpack with a fat cat balancing on it and an equally fat Labrador at his heels. Not the India kind of poverty. So imagine my surprise when I encountered it here, in France.
The branch of Red Cross in our town is open only on Tuesday afternoons. A and I went around 2pm with some of our clothes and my big black coat (my post of Sunday, February 01, 2004), most of which were in mint conditions. We have just outgrown them (girth wise). A big crowd was already there, behind the big iron doors, waiting patiently in a line. Couldn’t figure out if they were donors or donees. We hesitated a bit and then some one asked me if he could help. I recognised him…have seen him several times…a blind man. I told him I had some clothes to donate and where could I keep them. He told me that there should be a carton somewhere there. Sure enough there was one. The crowd obediently parted while we dumped our clothes into the box. They didn’t immediately crowd over the box. We left and then I remembered that I had to ask if they took utensils as well and so returned. They had all crowded around the box and were looking at our clothes. There was a long queue up the stairs to the office. They let me go through to ask a rather grumpy lady in the office upstairs, if I could give my utensils. No I couldn’t. I walked back. Our clothes were being minutely examined by various people.
These other kind of poor people, who live on donations of others', I met for the first time. And to my surprise, these were not unfamiliar faces. I have met them on several occasions … walked past them, or on a bus.
Naïve of me to think there would be no poor people out here…but I could be forgiven for thinking so…It is a land of plenty…, with a good social support structure or atleast it seems so, compared to India!
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Doony et Beignet
I having been stuffing myself silly with all the French goodies that I won’t get back home. All of them are not gourmet stuff. Top of the list is the humble donut (known as 'Doony' in France) and their hole-less brethren ‘beignet’. They are wonderful. And much better than any I have tasted elsewhere including those in the US. So, any of you planning to visit France, do see the monuments, the musées but don’t forget to bite into a delicious doony or beignet (or indeed why not both)!
Monday, May 10, 2004
A apology to Claude Francois
I guess I owe an apology to all fans of Claude François. Clo-Clo as he is known in France is still a very very big star although he passed away in 1978, at the height of his fame. I had earlier written some stuff about Clo-clo in my post of Sunday, February 15, 2004 THE GREAT DIVIDE ….I was miffed with the reactions of the French audience to a hindi classic ‘Sahib bibi aur ghulam’ and it was my way of getting back…childish. I accept.
So what made me change my mind? I found out yesterday (so very belatedly) that it was Claude François who had composed the music and co-wrote the lyrics for Comme d’habitude in 1967, which was later to become My Way (Paul Anka, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley). Comme d’habitude (As usual) was a sad love song and while the english version had the same music, the text of My Way was very different.
Later on came a Spanish version mi manera by Michel Sardou, a german version by Herald Juhnke. Clo-Clo himself sang the Italian version come sempre and ironically, just a few months before his death, the English version... “now, the end is near and so I face the final curtain...”
I think all explanations are unnecessary.
Lyrics to the French, English, german version and Spanish version HERE.
So what made me change my mind? I found out yesterday (so very belatedly) that it was Claude François who had composed the music and co-wrote the lyrics for Comme d’habitude in 1967, which was later to become My Way (Paul Anka, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley). Comme d’habitude (As usual) was a sad love song and while the english version had the same music, the text of My Way was very different.
Later on came a Spanish version mi manera by Michel Sardou, a german version by Herald Juhnke. Clo-Clo himself sang the Italian version come sempre and ironically, just a few months before his death, the English version... “now, the end is near and so I face the final curtain...”
I think all explanations are unnecessary.
Lyrics to the French, English, german version and Spanish version HERE.
Saturday, May 08, 2004
Aab dilli door nahin!
Another 7 days and our French sojourn ends. Back to India. In the earlier days, how I used to pine to go back…but now that it’s going to be a reality, I think I am going to miss this place. The tranquillity of it all. Back to the hustle bustle, the heat and the dust and the cacophony that is India. Make no mistake…I am not complaining that I am going back. After all, it’s home. But a bit of me will miss France. Each time I go out, I pay special attention to every road, every house, every shop, nook and cranny…perhaps this'll be the last time I'll be seeing them! We are just back from our Saturday marché (the farmers market or what we call ‘haat’ in Bengali). I felt like saying goodbye to the friendly chicken seller, the Arab vegetable vendor, the white jacketed seller of grilled chicken. I wont be seeing them again. But I just made small talk. A goodbye is so final!
There is so much to be done. How clutter piles up. Packing is almost over. With a steely heart, I threw away anything that I won’t be using in India. That includes letters and cards that I got from friends(I re-read them all over again…you’d be surprised how small things can add up to the dreaded ‘excess baggage’), old clothing (if you haven’t worn something for 1 year or so..you wont ever… no matter how much you promise yourself that you will diet and fit into those jeans), books (once you have read them…you are not going to read them again…except perhaps a few classics)…the list is a big one!
But I am not literally throwing them out with the garbage. I walked down to the cathedral and got a list of places to donate stuff to. I was surprised to find that a small place like our town is so well organised. The two old ladies at the cathedral were most helpful and pointed out who would like what while giving me the list. La Croix Rouge (Red Cross) would probably take our old clothes, Accueil des personnes sans domicile fixé or Reception of homeless persons would take our pillows, blankets and possibly mattresses, and lastly (and one which makes me very happy) my well stocked kitchen I can donate to Restos Du Coeur (Restuarants of the heart) which runs an open kitchen through donation of food stuff from donors. Books are going to a friend to whom I will possibly donate my Bengali spices – radhuni, panch phoron or Bengali five spice, posto – poppy seeds or khus khus in hindi, kalonji seeds, mustard seeds, ajwain etc. (the French wouldn’t know what to do with them – they use cumin, coriander and haldi which is known as the mouthful ‘circuma’). Furniture (what little we have) is going to be sold at La Trocante – this huge depot of mind boggling array of second hand stuff…anything you can think of, they have it hat stand to CDs, to books to oak chests!
Notifying the electricity board – EDF, our insurance (home and medical), France Telecom for our telephone. And only four days (Monday to Thursday) to do it all. The dreaded ‘l’etat des lieux’ is scheduled for Friday. The house agents will be coming to check the state of our apartment before we finally hand in the keys. Its strange how two people with the occasional guest can manage to smear, blot, stain walls and floors and how! And ofcourse it is helped by the heavy Indian cooking. This despite my mania of cleanliness (A claims it makes him tired just to see me cleaning, washing and dusting)!!
No matter….I am ready to attack it all…with special bleaches, brushes etc.
I will try and post…but if not, I will be back soon with ‘Notes from India’!
PS - AAB DILLI DOOR NAHIN! - Delhi is not so far, now.
There is so much to be done. How clutter piles up. Packing is almost over. With a steely heart, I threw away anything that I won’t be using in India. That includes letters and cards that I got from friends(I re-read them all over again…you’d be surprised how small things can add up to the dreaded ‘excess baggage’), old clothing (if you haven’t worn something for 1 year or so..you wont ever… no matter how much you promise yourself that you will diet and fit into those jeans), books (once you have read them…you are not going to read them again…except perhaps a few classics)…the list is a big one!
But I am not literally throwing them out with the garbage. I walked down to the cathedral and got a list of places to donate stuff to. I was surprised to find that a small place like our town is so well organised. The two old ladies at the cathedral were most helpful and pointed out who would like what while giving me the list. La Croix Rouge (Red Cross) would probably take our old clothes, Accueil des personnes sans domicile fixé or Reception of homeless persons would take our pillows, blankets and possibly mattresses, and lastly (and one which makes me very happy) my well stocked kitchen I can donate to Restos Du Coeur (Restuarants of the heart) which runs an open kitchen through donation of food stuff from donors. Books are going to a friend to whom I will possibly donate my Bengali spices – radhuni, panch phoron or Bengali five spice, posto – poppy seeds or khus khus in hindi, kalonji seeds, mustard seeds, ajwain etc. (the French wouldn’t know what to do with them – they use cumin, coriander and haldi which is known as the mouthful ‘circuma’). Furniture (what little we have) is going to be sold at La Trocante – this huge depot of mind boggling array of second hand stuff…anything you can think of, they have it hat stand to CDs, to books to oak chests!
Notifying the electricity board – EDF, our insurance (home and medical), France Telecom for our telephone. And only four days (Monday to Thursday) to do it all. The dreaded ‘l’etat des lieux’ is scheduled for Friday. The house agents will be coming to check the state of our apartment before we finally hand in the keys. Its strange how two people with the occasional guest can manage to smear, blot, stain walls and floors and how! And ofcourse it is helped by the heavy Indian cooking. This despite my mania of cleanliness (A claims it makes him tired just to see me cleaning, washing and dusting)!!
No matter….I am ready to attack it all…with special bleaches, brushes etc.
I will try and post…but if not, I will be back soon with ‘Notes from India’!
PS - AAB DILLI DOOR NAHIN! - Delhi is not so far, now.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
These are a few of my favourite things!
A list of my favourite things about our town. Its been nearly 3 years out here, but its coming to an end, soon.
Brie–Yes that delicious soft creamy cheese. Put it in the frigo and 'wow' the ripe smells!
The River front (very wishful sounding this is). For La Marne as it flows through our town is but a couple of 100 metres wide. But its beautiful with the 5 bridges spanning it. Each bridge with different flowers hanging from pots on the lampposts. And wonderful houses on either side. The swathe of green at the river’s edge and last but not the least, the quaint boats(not the flashy Riviera variety) moored.
The ugliest house – A rose tree artfully planted so that its branches droop at the ground floor and first and second floor levels and covers the ugly cemented façade of the tiny three storied house standing cheek by jowl along the usual lovely houses. And like now, a sudden burst of rose covers the house from top to bottom. What a sight!
La Fôret: On the opposite end of the river, the foret is a very mild friendly sort of a place. A broad dirt road winds its way through it. A big green swathe run parallel just outside A favourite place for kids, joggers, cyclists and dog walkers. The whole thing is obviously very carefully done up to look like the real thing!
Avenue Clemenceau and Rue Gambetta: Full of the most wonderful houses with the most beautiful gardens. How often have I crept by, Alice-like, looking for the key to the gardens. Alas, never did find those keys! (Very common names these, for roads here in France, much like MG Road in India).
Place Henri IV – A square paved area in the middle of Centre Ville, with trees and benches. A favourite place for geriatrics. And where we often spend the evenings in summer, waiting for our west facing flat to cool down. Would have been romantic except for the tiny almost invisible insects that descend in hoards on everyone and everything in summer.
La Moulin – Our favourite eatery. Its got solid, comfortable French home fare. The daily menu chalked on the blackboard outside the door. The chef, the owner and maitre d’, the bar man all come out and shake hands with us and go through the small routine of “ça va? Oui, ça va”! Many a pleasant meal we have had there.
Rue long Perrier – A road, entirely unremarkable but for the high wall which runs alongside, with a veritable garden hanging over. Last time I passed by, I counted 6 shades of green, rust, deep marron, great big purple blossoms, white flowers. Marvellous but can be a bit risky (try walking with your head turned upwards on a busy road)!
The curious shopping arcade behind the only cinema hall in Place du Theatre – its domed tiled roof is of black flint with white metal trimmings looking very much like the cover of an ornate wine decanter!
The wonderful paysage (countryside). Undulating fields of every shade of green, brilliant mustard, deep brown of freshly mown earth, dotted here and there with clumps of red tiled houses and tall church spires. One can never get enough of it. Never.
This list is by no means over! I will probably turn up with more things tomorow. Apologies if you should find it boring. But this is really for myself... a list to keep the memories fresh in my mind, once I have gone….
Brie–Yes that delicious soft creamy cheese. Put it in the frigo and 'wow' the ripe smells!
The River front (very wishful sounding this is). For La Marne as it flows through our town is but a couple of 100 metres wide. But its beautiful with the 5 bridges spanning it. Each bridge with different flowers hanging from pots on the lampposts. And wonderful houses on either side. The swathe of green at the river’s edge and last but not the least, the quaint boats(not the flashy Riviera variety) moored.
The ugliest house – A rose tree artfully planted so that its branches droop at the ground floor and first and second floor levels and covers the ugly cemented façade of the tiny three storied house standing cheek by jowl along the usual lovely houses. And like now, a sudden burst of rose covers the house from top to bottom. What a sight!
La Fôret: On the opposite end of the river, the foret is a very mild friendly sort of a place. A broad dirt road winds its way through it. A big green swathe run parallel just outside A favourite place for kids, joggers, cyclists and dog walkers. The whole thing is obviously very carefully done up to look like the real thing!
Avenue Clemenceau and Rue Gambetta: Full of the most wonderful houses with the most beautiful gardens. How often have I crept by, Alice-like, looking for the key to the gardens. Alas, never did find those keys! (Very common names these, for roads here in France, much like MG Road in India).
Place Henri IV – A square paved area in the middle of Centre Ville, with trees and benches. A favourite place for geriatrics. And where we often spend the evenings in summer, waiting for our west facing flat to cool down. Would have been romantic except for the tiny almost invisible insects that descend in hoards on everyone and everything in summer.
La Moulin – Our favourite eatery. Its got solid, comfortable French home fare. The daily menu chalked on the blackboard outside the door. The chef, the owner and maitre d’, the bar man all come out and shake hands with us and go through the small routine of “ça va? Oui, ça va”! Many a pleasant meal we have had there.
Rue long Perrier – A road, entirely unremarkable but for the high wall which runs alongside, with a veritable garden hanging over. Last time I passed by, I counted 6 shades of green, rust, deep marron, great big purple blossoms, white flowers. Marvellous but can be a bit risky (try walking with your head turned upwards on a busy road)!
The curious shopping arcade behind the only cinema hall in Place du Theatre – its domed tiled roof is of black flint with white metal trimmings looking very much like the cover of an ornate wine decanter!
The wonderful paysage (countryside). Undulating fields of every shade of green, brilliant mustard, deep brown of freshly mown earth, dotted here and there with clumps of red tiled houses and tall church spires. One can never get enough of it. Never.
This list is by no means over! I will probably turn up with more things tomorow. Apologies if you should find it boring. But this is really for myself... a list to keep the memories fresh in my mind, once I have gone….
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Catching Up
We had guests last week. The first ones this year. We get about 4 sets of visitors per year and we look forward to these visits especially if it happens to be a relative or a close friend like M. I had last met her 8 years back when she had just got engaged to AK. They were impossibly young, certainly too young, in my opinion to contemplate marriage. Back then, I too was a different person, energetic, ever enthusiastic, single, happy go lucky extrovert. Not this married, mature adult that I am now! (Little did I know how much I had changed).
It was in february that M had sent me an email about their forthcoming trip to paris in April and could they stay with us. AK had to attend a conference on Anesthelogy. One would imagine that two months would be sufficient to prepare one for guests and yet I found myself with a messy apartment and only 24 hours before my guests arrived. Before each visit, I go into a frenzy cleaning, wiping every possible surface. I wonder why I bother. The guests get about 2-3 minutes to take into the sparkling cleanliness before baggage and other paraphernalia takes over! However, it does give me a good excuse to de-clutter.
For two months, I have been counselling them on the finer points of visiting Paris, the seasoned Parisian that I am. And yet within minutes of their landing, they found that I had been wrong about quiet a few things. The last few days we were having marvellous sunshine and M had come prepared for mild spring weather. Instead they froze (especially their four year old T who had to be swathed in M’s clothes) while firstly we went round in circles on the wrong airport shuttle trying to locate our bus stop and then waiting for nearly an hour in the cold bus stop only to find out that the last bus had left at 9pm. We had to settle for a taxi who luckily did not kick up a fuss about 4 passengers plus 1 kid and even joked that A should sit behind with us and T should sit in front for a better fit. Within one hour, they not only froze but also were 63E lighter, thanks to me. And yes, we couldn’t pay our share (we did later), because a day earlier the ATM had swallowed A's card and I rang to have it blocked and managed to block my card as well.
Thank god, this happened after our Saturday marché otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to stock up on food and our guests (and us) would have to go hungry. Between the 2 of us, we had 15E enough to see us through till Monday when the banks reopened but we felt so uneasy, so vulnerable! For not for long. I suddenly did a "mother-saving-money-from-grocery-in-sugar pot-trick" and hey presto, found 90E in one of my several handbags! Phew!
I took them around on the first day so that they got used to the Metro and public transport system. And while I was at it, I took them to Notre dame, the Left bank, the boquinistes, eiffel tower etc. They loved everything and filmed and shot everything in sight. After having waxed eloquent about the beauty of Paris, I am afraid, I put up a very bad show. I was terribly impatient with them, shooing them like a crusty old nanny...not letting them linger in any one place for too long! (When you have been to each of these places at least 10 times, the novelty wears off). But I must say they took it in good humour. The next day onwards, they were on their own, leaving early each morning when I would anxiously ply them with do's and don’ts and returning late at night when they'd fill me on the nice people they met and who helped them out and had long conversations with. Ah bon? They even managed to hitch a ride from the station to our home...something we have never done, in fact never tried, sure to be turned down. OK that sort of hesitant “I-am-alien-out-here” behaviour is strictly mine to A's eternal disgust.
Earlier M had asked us about our social life/circle. Ooh we have loads of things to do...but it is limited to the two of us. What’s more, we two are extremely settled, content with our life and our routines and don’t miss having the wide friend circle we did previously! We explained how the language was a barrier etc. Didn’t seem to be a problem with M and AK. M of course consoled me by saying its easier to strike up a conversation when one has a baby in tow! OK, then that explains it. Once we have children, the whole world and his brother will be knocking at our doors!
The only thing I was correct about was one I didn’t feel any sort of pleasure in being correct about. I had asked M to not bring T along but to leave him behind with his grandparents. It would be too tiring, and totally uninteresting for him. True. Each morning, he would sadly ask M 'are we going to see more paintings?'! Poor thing. He would somehow drag himself in each night, but even then taking of his shoes and socks and clothes and putting them away neatly, while M would try to shove spoonful of food into his mouth.
The seven days simply whizzed by. And its only now that they flat is empty, I think about how nice it was having them here. How both of them grown up into mature adults, with two lovely kids. AK, no longer the shy medical student but a full-fledged doctor in the Indian Army. And me? As M and AK discovered (and indeed so did I with surprise and dismay) I was no longer the energetic, ever enthusiastic, single, happy go lucky extrovert I was back then. I had been replaced with this insular, hyper, nagging, person with a cleanliness mania!
It was in february that M had sent me an email about their forthcoming trip to paris in April and could they stay with us. AK had to attend a conference on Anesthelogy. One would imagine that two months would be sufficient to prepare one for guests and yet I found myself with a messy apartment and only 24 hours before my guests arrived. Before each visit, I go into a frenzy cleaning, wiping every possible surface. I wonder why I bother. The guests get about 2-3 minutes to take into the sparkling cleanliness before baggage and other paraphernalia takes over! However, it does give me a good excuse to de-clutter.
For two months, I have been counselling them on the finer points of visiting Paris, the seasoned Parisian that I am. And yet within minutes of their landing, they found that I had been wrong about quiet a few things. The last few days we were having marvellous sunshine and M had come prepared for mild spring weather. Instead they froze (especially their four year old T who had to be swathed in M’s clothes) while firstly we went round in circles on the wrong airport shuttle trying to locate our bus stop and then waiting for nearly an hour in the cold bus stop only to find out that the last bus had left at 9pm. We had to settle for a taxi who luckily did not kick up a fuss about 4 passengers plus 1 kid and even joked that A should sit behind with us and T should sit in front for a better fit. Within one hour, they not only froze but also were 63E lighter, thanks to me. And yes, we couldn’t pay our share (we did later), because a day earlier the ATM had swallowed A's card and I rang to have it blocked and managed to block my card as well.
Thank god, this happened after our Saturday marché otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to stock up on food and our guests (and us) would have to go hungry. Between the 2 of us, we had 15E enough to see us through till Monday when the banks reopened but we felt so uneasy, so vulnerable! For not for long. I suddenly did a "mother-saving-money-from-grocery-in-sugar pot-trick" and hey presto, found 90E in one of my several handbags! Phew!
I took them around on the first day so that they got used to the Metro and public transport system. And while I was at it, I took them to Notre dame, the Left bank, the boquinistes, eiffel tower etc. They loved everything and filmed and shot everything in sight. After having waxed eloquent about the beauty of Paris, I am afraid, I put up a very bad show. I was terribly impatient with them, shooing them like a crusty old nanny...not letting them linger in any one place for too long! (When you have been to each of these places at least 10 times, the novelty wears off). But I must say they took it in good humour. The next day onwards, they were on their own, leaving early each morning when I would anxiously ply them with do's and don’ts and returning late at night when they'd fill me on the nice people they met and who helped them out and had long conversations with. Ah bon? They even managed to hitch a ride from the station to our home...something we have never done, in fact never tried, sure to be turned down. OK that sort of hesitant “I-am-alien-out-here” behaviour is strictly mine to A's eternal disgust.
Earlier M had asked us about our social life/circle. Ooh we have loads of things to do...but it is limited to the two of us. What’s more, we two are extremely settled, content with our life and our routines and don’t miss having the wide friend circle we did previously! We explained how the language was a barrier etc. Didn’t seem to be a problem with M and AK. M of course consoled me by saying its easier to strike up a conversation when one has a baby in tow! OK, then that explains it. Once we have children, the whole world and his brother will be knocking at our doors!
The only thing I was correct about was one I didn’t feel any sort of pleasure in being correct about. I had asked M to not bring T along but to leave him behind with his grandparents. It would be too tiring, and totally uninteresting for him. True. Each morning, he would sadly ask M 'are we going to see more paintings?'! Poor thing. He would somehow drag himself in each night, but even then taking of his shoes and socks and clothes and putting them away neatly, while M would try to shove spoonful of food into his mouth.
The seven days simply whizzed by. And its only now that they flat is empty, I think about how nice it was having them here. How both of them grown up into mature adults, with two lovely kids. AK, no longer the shy medical student but a full-fledged doctor in the Indian Army. And me? As M and AK discovered (and indeed so did I with surprise and dismay) I was no longer the energetic, ever enthusiastic, single, happy go lucky extrovert I was back then. I had been replaced with this insular, hyper, nagging, person with a cleanliness mania!
Friday, April 16, 2004
Le printemps
Another lovely spring day. I have been watching the transformation with amazement. From the stark (but beautiful) winter, to the fresh new blossoming all around.
Sitting on my sofa, in winter, I could barely see the treetops, bare and brown through the windows in my apartment. One day, I thought the trees look taller and a softer newer brown. Then nodes appeared on the tips, these burst into small multicoloured leaves and then came the flowers. The leaves on trees grew a bit thicker each day and each morning I would find the bareness a little more covered. Now I can barely see the large diocese building behind them.
By the roadside, the big trees are putting on their clothing bit by bit. Some are already covered, others are half covered and a few still bare. Somehow all of the trees are looking so happy when at it! Like they are throwing their heads back and spreading their arms after a deep sleep!
And what colours. Am constantly surprised at the range of it. A small tree bursting with tight white blossoms. Another pink one. And what shades of green. I can’t get enough of it. I stroll down neighbours’ lawns gazing at them and yet taking care not to loiter! They are very private and I don’t think would kindly to a stranger staring. Day before yesterday, on a long walk I spied this marvellous house, a bit outside the town, standing all by itself. Surrounded by an amazing array of trees, all different shapes and colours. On second thoughts, the house itself was an ordinary one. But peeping out between those trees made it look wonderful. I caught myself thinking jealously about the lucky denizens of the house. A little later I passed a marvellous tiny garden outside a very nondescript house in a road filled with similar boring houses. But the owner had done wonders in that tiny place not more than 10 square feet. I had to pretend to tie my shoes laces to get a good look at it!!
So it is spring. And so what? The big deal is that I happened to spend my teenage in the deserts of the middle east and thereafter in Calcutta where perhaps a few stubborn trees still exist despite the best intentions otherwise of the pollution. And the fact that there is no spring over there. Summer and a mild winter! Not so, here.
I am making the most of it knowing that this change will not stop here. It will keep on and as spring gives way to summer, these will be replaced by the heavier greens of summer.
Meanwhile, I keep checking out the greenery, the neighbours lawns and gardens! I keep thinking that one day the people will get together and report this skulking foreigner, circling our houses and staring at our gardens!!
Sitting on my sofa, in winter, I could barely see the treetops, bare and brown through the windows in my apartment. One day, I thought the trees look taller and a softer newer brown. Then nodes appeared on the tips, these burst into small multicoloured leaves and then came the flowers. The leaves on trees grew a bit thicker each day and each morning I would find the bareness a little more covered. Now I can barely see the large diocese building behind them.
By the roadside, the big trees are putting on their clothing bit by bit. Some are already covered, others are half covered and a few still bare. Somehow all of the trees are looking so happy when at it! Like they are throwing their heads back and spreading their arms after a deep sleep!
And what colours. Am constantly surprised at the range of it. A small tree bursting with tight white blossoms. Another pink one. And what shades of green. I can’t get enough of it. I stroll down neighbours’ lawns gazing at them and yet taking care not to loiter! They are very private and I don’t think would kindly to a stranger staring. Day before yesterday, on a long walk I spied this marvellous house, a bit outside the town, standing all by itself. Surrounded by an amazing array of trees, all different shapes and colours. On second thoughts, the house itself was an ordinary one. But peeping out between those trees made it look wonderful. I caught myself thinking jealously about the lucky denizens of the house. A little later I passed a marvellous tiny garden outside a very nondescript house in a road filled with similar boring houses. But the owner had done wonders in that tiny place not more than 10 square feet. I had to pretend to tie my shoes laces to get a good look at it!!
So it is spring. And so what? The big deal is that I happened to spend my teenage in the deserts of the middle east and thereafter in Calcutta where perhaps a few stubborn trees still exist despite the best intentions otherwise of the pollution. And the fact that there is no spring over there. Summer and a mild winter! Not so, here.
I am making the most of it knowing that this change will not stop here. It will keep on and as spring gives way to summer, these will be replaced by the heavier greens of summer.
Meanwhile, I keep checking out the greenery, the neighbours lawns and gardens! I keep thinking that one day the people will get together and report this skulking foreigner, circling our houses and staring at our gardens!!
Thursday, April 08, 2004
The French Paradox
It refers to the paradox of the rich French cuisine and yet the slender build of the populace. You do have the occasional fat person but it’s not an epidemic like say in the USA. The secret it seems is in the tons of red wine that the French imbibe. (Actually the statistics note that on an average, the French drink less wine per person than they did couple of decades back).
A was thrilled to bits with this bit of information. He takes his food very, very seriously (I don’t mind it either). Unfortunately, his tastes run to fatty food, fries in every type of cuisine. (He insists that pork is not red meat). Each time I kicked up a fuss, he would point out that red wine would cut down on the cholesterol and fat intake. (Pulverise it down the toilet bowl that is). This has spiralled out of control.
We note down places by the meals we have taken there and not by famous landmarks! The restaurants are our guiding lights! Whenever we decide on a trip, just after we book our tickets, and before we check out places of interests in a guide book, A checks out restaurants not to be missed. On our weekend in Rome, we tried 5 different places (4 of them Italian) and the 5th or should I say the 1st was an all-american steak joint (A wanted to eat a juicy fat steak), hours after we landed in Rome. He however insists that it was me who ate so much that I had the waiters saluting me. When I say I didn’t notice that, he says obviously, you were busy stuffing your face!
Shortly afterwards, in Crete, we took a 3 hour bus trip to eat at Plaka, a tiny fishing village bustling in summer but a deserted town during our trip in December. We practically forced the elderly owners to open up and cook for us. But it was one of the best meals we have had.
Last year in August, in the middle of the heat wave, I developed blisters on the soles of my feet searching for all those must eat places, in Nice. I did however manage to squeeze in a city tour and the magnificent Matisse collection. We took a 2-hour boat ride to St.Tropez where we didn’t waste time or money on a boat ride to Bridget Bardot’s house like most tourists. We went in search of a restaurant rated three stars, which unfortunately was closed in the afternoon and open for dinner by when we had to return to Nice.
Even within France, we still talk about the gem of a restaurant we discovered in Fontainbleau. The Chateau and forests were very nice but thank god the restaurant we chose at random had a fabulous menu. Oh the sinful tarte aux pommes. I shall remember it to my dying day. And the ‘rhubarb quiche’ at the café in Musée d’Orsay. (Of course the impressionist collection had me impressed too). A swears that we have to go back to Provins because we didn’t eat at any of the auberges on our last trip which was a picnic with his French class students. The list is endless…but I guess you get the picture.
The French themselves are quite amused by this “French paradox” theory and pooh-pooh it away and claim (and probably correctly), “Eat sensibly”! Which is what we should do since the weighing scales do not lie! The French paradox is not working for us. Perhaps it works only for the French!!
A was thrilled to bits with this bit of information. He takes his food very, very seriously (I don’t mind it either). Unfortunately, his tastes run to fatty food, fries in every type of cuisine. (He insists that pork is not red meat). Each time I kicked up a fuss, he would point out that red wine would cut down on the cholesterol and fat intake. (Pulverise it down the toilet bowl that is). This has spiralled out of control.
We note down places by the meals we have taken there and not by famous landmarks! The restaurants are our guiding lights! Whenever we decide on a trip, just after we book our tickets, and before we check out places of interests in a guide book, A checks out restaurants not to be missed. On our weekend in Rome, we tried 5 different places (4 of them Italian) and the 5th or should I say the 1st was an all-american steak joint (A wanted to eat a juicy fat steak), hours after we landed in Rome. He however insists that it was me who ate so much that I had the waiters saluting me. When I say I didn’t notice that, he says obviously, you were busy stuffing your face!
Shortly afterwards, in Crete, we took a 3 hour bus trip to eat at Plaka, a tiny fishing village bustling in summer but a deserted town during our trip in December. We practically forced the elderly owners to open up and cook for us. But it was one of the best meals we have had.
Last year in August, in the middle of the heat wave, I developed blisters on the soles of my feet searching for all those must eat places, in Nice. I did however manage to squeeze in a city tour and the magnificent Matisse collection. We took a 2-hour boat ride to St.Tropez where we didn’t waste time or money on a boat ride to Bridget Bardot’s house like most tourists. We went in search of a restaurant rated three stars, which unfortunately was closed in the afternoon and open for dinner by when we had to return to Nice.
Even within France, we still talk about the gem of a restaurant we discovered in Fontainbleau. The Chateau and forests were very nice but thank god the restaurant we chose at random had a fabulous menu. Oh the sinful tarte aux pommes. I shall remember it to my dying day. And the ‘rhubarb quiche’ at the café in Musée d’Orsay. (Of course the impressionist collection had me impressed too). A swears that we have to go back to Provins because we didn’t eat at any of the auberges on our last trip which was a picnic with his French class students. The list is endless…but I guess you get the picture.
The French themselves are quite amused by this “French paradox” theory and pooh-pooh it away and claim (and probably correctly), “Eat sensibly”! Which is what we should do since the weighing scales do not lie! The French paradox is not working for us. Perhaps it works only for the French!!
Monday, April 05, 2004
Gentleman Cambrioleur (Burglar)
Arsène Lupin, the french contemporary of Sherlock Holmes (but of different genre) was known by this epithet. The stylish, extremely rich and refined gentleman mingled with high society and robbed them and helped the poor. On my way to Paris on saturday, I was suddenly reminded of him or rather 'gentleman cambrioleur'.
It happened just after I got into a crowded metro at Gare De l'est. A tall young chap was standing with a large suitcase between his knees, blocking most of the entrance. The compartment itself has standing room only and barely at that. Just as the doors began to close, I heard a woman shout out 'No, No' in a brit accent. Startled, we looked around to see a fat lady prise open the door and lunge out and immediately the tall young chap who had been standing at the door (and had obviously gotten out before the doors shut) turn around and calmly hand her wallet back to her and walk away. She grabbed and lunged back in again. This whole thing must have taken seconds since the automatic doors had already started closing and one can only hold it up for only so much time. The doors shut for a second time and the train rolled on. The tourist shook her head and people raised eyebrows and shot slanting smiles at each other!! Near Miss for both of them. Phew!!
It happened just after I got into a crowded metro at Gare De l'est. A tall young chap was standing with a large suitcase between his knees, blocking most of the entrance. The compartment itself has standing room only and barely at that. Just as the doors began to close, I heard a woman shout out 'No, No' in a brit accent. Startled, we looked around to see a fat lady prise open the door and lunge out and immediately the tall young chap who had been standing at the door (and had obviously gotten out before the doors shut) turn around and calmly hand her wallet back to her and walk away. She grabbed and lunged back in again. This whole thing must have taken seconds since the automatic doors had already started closing and one can only hold it up for only so much time. The doors shut for a second time and the train rolled on. The tourist shook her head and people raised eyebrows and shot slanting smiles at each other!! Near Miss for both of them. Phew!!
Saturday, April 03, 2004
A very private matter
Spring is here. It is unbelievably idyllic. The sky is Blue dotted with puffy white clouds. The grass is Green. Warm yellow sunshine bounces off the red tiled roofs and highlights the green and yellow mosaic pattern atop the cathedral. The neighbours' fat cat (it is enormously fat) stretches lazily on their lawn. Pigeons flutter and coo, birds chirp and I guess one could even hear buds opening.
And yet, I can’t stand at the window and soak it all up. The woman in the downstairs apartment, quickly downs her shutters seeing me at my window. Quite ridiculous this since she has placed a row of plants on her window sill and the shutter is down up to the plants anyhow. What could I possibly see from across the yard and two flights up? Nevertheless, she downs the shutters couple of inches more. The lady who popped her head out of the attic windows pops down again as she catches my eyes. The old man pottering about in his garden, looks up at me quizzically as if to say ‘what are you staring at?’ Guiltily, I turn away.
Yesterday, I heard loud and angry shouts coming out of the attic window and I popped my head out to see what it was all about. Sounded really serious. I couldn’t see anyone. I turn the other way and see the old man gardener staring at me-staring-at the attic windows. Eeps. I felt like a peeping Tom!
********
There is this amazing ‘privacy’ thing here in France. You can't stand at your window without someone pulling the curtains, downing shutters, slamming doors. You can't make eye contact with anyone on public transport…which is okay by me really. But, if you find yourself in the doctor's chambers, other patients will wish Bonjour and Au revoir while entering and exiting. Not to you, but generally, let it hang in the air! They will open doors for you and thankyou if you do the same. They will stop their cars for pedestrians and smile when you say merci. But you cant stand at your window and look out. It’s the same in metros. If your arms are full, someone or the other will open the door for you, people in the side seats politely stand up to make room during rush hours. But they will not talk or make eye contact with anyone. They read, look up at the celing or look down, anywhere but make eye contact.
Sometime back, A and I had gone for a weekend to Rome. The minute I stepped off the plane, I fell in love with Rome. It was enchanting. Rome, eternal city. With millennia of history, the colosseum, the pastel coloured buildings, the classical architechture….I could go on about why I love Rome. But A things the only reason I find rome so enchanting is that it is a noisy chaotic place and the Italians are a voluble lot! Perhaps! I miss all the noise and chaos amid all these symmetry and orderliness quietness!!
And yet, I can’t stand at the window and soak it all up. The woman in the downstairs apartment, quickly downs her shutters seeing me at my window. Quite ridiculous this since she has placed a row of plants on her window sill and the shutter is down up to the plants anyhow. What could I possibly see from across the yard and two flights up? Nevertheless, she downs the shutters couple of inches more. The lady who popped her head out of the attic windows pops down again as she catches my eyes. The old man pottering about in his garden, looks up at me quizzically as if to say ‘what are you staring at?’ Guiltily, I turn away.
Yesterday, I heard loud and angry shouts coming out of the attic window and I popped my head out to see what it was all about. Sounded really serious. I couldn’t see anyone. I turn the other way and see the old man gardener staring at me-staring-at the attic windows. Eeps. I felt like a peeping Tom!
********
There is this amazing ‘privacy’ thing here in France. You can't stand at your window without someone pulling the curtains, downing shutters, slamming doors. You can't make eye contact with anyone on public transport…which is okay by me really. But, if you find yourself in the doctor's chambers, other patients will wish Bonjour and Au revoir while entering and exiting. Not to you, but generally, let it hang in the air! They will open doors for you and thankyou if you do the same. They will stop their cars for pedestrians and smile when you say merci. But you cant stand at your window and look out. It’s the same in metros. If your arms are full, someone or the other will open the door for you, people in the side seats politely stand up to make room during rush hours. But they will not talk or make eye contact with anyone. They read, look up at the celing or look down, anywhere but make eye contact.
Sometime back, A and I had gone for a weekend to Rome. The minute I stepped off the plane, I fell in love with Rome. It was enchanting. Rome, eternal city. With millennia of history, the colosseum, the pastel coloured buildings, the classical architechture….I could go on about why I love Rome. But A things the only reason I find rome so enchanting is that it is a noisy chaotic place and the Italians are a voluble lot! Perhaps! I miss all the noise and chaos amid all these symmetry and orderliness quietness!!
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Get your hair done in English
I was idly leafing through a magazine when I came across this ad “Get your hair done in English”. Sounds funny doesn’t it? Had I read it couple of years ago, I wouldn’t have laughed. I would have cried…tears of relief!!
I need to get my hair trimmed. Its shoulder length now…the longest it has been in 6 years. I am just postponing it out of sheer laziness. Honest. Nothing else. Now I can manage my trip to the coiffeur’s quite well thank you. Once every three months, I get a trim. I go there and tell them I want my hair cut. They ask me to wait and then shampoo, then they ask how do I want it…très court (very short). They cut it, blow dry it, I pay, tip and leave. Five sentences in all, a nice hair cut. That’s it.
The coiffeuse are friendly enough but somehow I can't converse with them or should I try, my French comes out all wrong!! I remember the happy times I spent chattering with Mario, the English speaking Italian with a Japanese wife, my first coiffeur here. He would chatter away while trimming my hair. The first thing he said to me was that the red stuff in my hair (my sindoor...afterall I was newly wedded then) had been shampooed away. I told him not to worry about it, I had loads more. He wanted to know why it was red. Why didn’t I apply various colours? And he finished and said if you don’t like it at home, then send your head back with your husband (A’s office was right next door) and I do something different with it!! Ah Mario. Unfortunately, I had to let Mario go because he made me look just like Amitabh Bacchan!
Once I joined Alliance Française, I summoned enough courage to try out the chic salon next doors, run by E, the slim terribly pale man always in black. I asked him for “quelquechose nouveau” (something new). A had a fright when he saw me. He couldn’t believe I had just paid 225F + tips for a “widow’s hack”. Luckily for me, the hack settled down to a très chic cut in couple of days. I was so pleased with it that I took R there when she came visiting shortly afterwards. Now R who has a head full of thick luxurious tresses was taken with the idea of getting a Parisian hair do. Mr E was very nice with her and tried to speak to her in English and I was served wonderful coffee and ginger biscuits while I waited for her! Half an hour later, she was done. But it didn’t look anything different. She could have got her hair done anywhere. Kolkata, Delhi, Mumbai, Paris or Jhumritalaiya!! But Mr E and his assistants were so nice to us. We smiled and pretended that it was the best thing that could happen to R! And then the nice Mr E asked me if I wanted to try some “maquillage”(make up). I didnt and so he turned toR and she couldn’t manage to say no and agreed to it. It consisted of this pretty young thing applying lipstick on R for 25F. That too didn’t look anything different and she could have done that herself. The two of us managed to keep a straight face while we settled the bill and added the compulsory hefty tip. Once outside, we collapsed and laughed till we had tears running down our cheeks.
"Get your hair done, in English” is not bad grammar but a perfectly reasonable suggestion!
I need to get my hair trimmed. Its shoulder length now…the longest it has been in 6 years. I am just postponing it out of sheer laziness. Honest. Nothing else. Now I can manage my trip to the coiffeur’s quite well thank you. Once every three months, I get a trim. I go there and tell them I want my hair cut. They ask me to wait and then shampoo, then they ask how do I want it…très court (very short). They cut it, blow dry it, I pay, tip and leave. Five sentences in all, a nice hair cut. That’s it.
The coiffeuse are friendly enough but somehow I can't converse with them or should I try, my French comes out all wrong!! I remember the happy times I spent chattering with Mario, the English speaking Italian with a Japanese wife, my first coiffeur here. He would chatter away while trimming my hair. The first thing he said to me was that the red stuff in my hair (my sindoor...afterall I was newly wedded then) had been shampooed away. I told him not to worry about it, I had loads more. He wanted to know why it was red. Why didn’t I apply various colours? And he finished and said if you don’t like it at home, then send your head back with your husband (A’s office was right next door) and I do something different with it!! Ah Mario. Unfortunately, I had to let Mario go because he made me look just like Amitabh Bacchan!
Once I joined Alliance Française, I summoned enough courage to try out the chic salon next doors, run by E, the slim terribly pale man always in black. I asked him for “quelquechose nouveau” (something new). A had a fright when he saw me. He couldn’t believe I had just paid 225F + tips for a “widow’s hack”. Luckily for me, the hack settled down to a très chic cut in couple of days. I was so pleased with it that I took R there when she came visiting shortly afterwards. Now R who has a head full of thick luxurious tresses was taken with the idea of getting a Parisian hair do. Mr E was very nice with her and tried to speak to her in English and I was served wonderful coffee and ginger biscuits while I waited for her! Half an hour later, she was done. But it didn’t look anything different. She could have got her hair done anywhere. Kolkata, Delhi, Mumbai, Paris or Jhumritalaiya!! But Mr E and his assistants were so nice to us. We smiled and pretended that it was the best thing that could happen to R! And then the nice Mr E asked me if I wanted to try some “maquillage”(make up). I didnt and so he turned toR and she couldn’t manage to say no and agreed to it. It consisted of this pretty young thing applying lipstick on R for 25F. That too didn’t look anything different and she could have done that herself. The two of us managed to keep a straight face while we settled the bill and added the compulsory hefty tip. Once outside, we collapsed and laughed till we had tears running down our cheeks.
"Get your hair done, in English” is not bad grammar but a perfectly reasonable suggestion!
Monday, March 15, 2004
Poll Time
Our town goes to the polls soon for the regionals; with half of France voting on the 21st and the rest on the 28th. I have watched with interest the build up to the elections. Alas, I can’t vote not being a French citizen. Neither can I participate in the forthcoming Indian polls, them being limited to Government of India employees who can cast their vote at their nearest Indian embassies. That effectively rules A and me out.
For weeks now, party workers have been handing out flyers to the public, mainly at the Gare (station) and at the marchés (local markets). The well funded ones employing people to do their distribution while the poorer ones doing their own distribution. The flyers too differ in the quality. Glossy, multicoloured many pages flyers with prominent photos for the rich parties contrasting with the cheap Black and white A4 xeroxes of the poor ones. Most parties also carry photos and words of ‘soutien’ or support of their party bigwigs in favour of the local candidates. For example, the UMP-UDF candidate of our town has the support of Jean François Copé who is the porte-parole (spokesperson) of UMP (Chirac’s party). These differences apart, most carry their agenda, their concrete goals with respect to chief concerns like unemployment, housing, education, security, transport, taxes etc.
The real worry here is not enough people voting. (No fear of that in India, is there? Never a vote wasted!). There have been several TV campaigns asking people to cast their vote and refrain from abstaining. Debates range on how to get people to vote. A popular satire had this innovative and possibly successful idea if ever it could be carried out: A gorgeous lady intones in a husky voice ‘I like a man who votes’!! The ladies have their enticement in the form of a hunk rasping out ‘I love a woman who votes’ and in a theatrical aside ‘I also love a woman who cooks and cleans’!!!
Bernard Kouchner founder of 'Medecins sans Frontieres' suggested making the vote obligatory as in Belgium and a few other countries. Others differ. Despite voting made obligatory, there is as much as 10% abstention in these countries with people preferring to pay fines up to 100E rather than make the trip to the booth.
Yesterday in a panel discussion on TV, a panelist said its not as if the French and especially the youth are not uninterested in politics. Everytime he entered a bar or a café, he heard political conversations. It is rather, the parties themselves who are to blame. They have failed to address the demands of the public and who have therefore decided to keep away.
A few orderly boards have been put up to display posters of the various parties and candidates. There have been a few meetings but not in open spaces (obviously given the population, a hall should suffice), no loudspeakers blaring, no huge cut outs of leaders, no traffic jamming processions and above all, no Rath Yatras!
For weeks now, party workers have been handing out flyers to the public, mainly at the Gare (station) and at the marchés (local markets). The well funded ones employing people to do their distribution while the poorer ones doing their own distribution. The flyers too differ in the quality. Glossy, multicoloured many pages flyers with prominent photos for the rich parties contrasting with the cheap Black and white A4 xeroxes of the poor ones. Most parties also carry photos and words of ‘soutien’ or support of their party bigwigs in favour of the local candidates. For example, the UMP-UDF candidate of our town has the support of Jean François Copé who is the porte-parole (spokesperson) of UMP (Chirac’s party). These differences apart, most carry their agenda, their concrete goals with respect to chief concerns like unemployment, housing, education, security, transport, taxes etc.
The real worry here is not enough people voting. (No fear of that in India, is there? Never a vote wasted!). There have been several TV campaigns asking people to cast their vote and refrain from abstaining. Debates range on how to get people to vote. A popular satire had this innovative and possibly successful idea if ever it could be carried out: A gorgeous lady intones in a husky voice ‘I like a man who votes’!! The ladies have their enticement in the form of a hunk rasping out ‘I love a woman who votes’ and in a theatrical aside ‘I also love a woman who cooks and cleans’!!!
Bernard Kouchner founder of 'Medecins sans Frontieres' suggested making the vote obligatory as in Belgium and a few other countries. Others differ. Despite voting made obligatory, there is as much as 10% abstention in these countries with people preferring to pay fines up to 100E rather than make the trip to the booth.
Yesterday in a panel discussion on TV, a panelist said its not as if the French and especially the youth are not uninterested in politics. Everytime he entered a bar or a café, he heard political conversations. It is rather, the parties themselves who are to blame. They have failed to address the demands of the public and who have therefore decided to keep away.
A few orderly boards have been put up to display posters of the various parties and candidates. There have been a few meetings but not in open spaces (obviously given the population, a hall should suffice), no loudspeakers blaring, no huge cut outs of leaders, no traffic jamming processions and above all, no Rath Yatras!
Saturday, March 13, 2004
India vs Pakistan ODI or A vs Me
It is saturday and so we got up late . Dommage. By then Indian innings was 3/4's over and Pakistan had nicely settled in and was hammering Kartik properly by the time we returned from the Saturday marché. 'Chatu baniye diyeche' (beaten to a paste) according to A.
Personally, I prefer matches like this...fiercely fought and which could go either way right down to last ball, to tame matches where the outcome is a foregone conclusion half way through.
We could have seen the match live in one of English or Aussie pubs in Paris but it was a bit too late. Ofcourse these pubs would show India vs Pakistan match provided it did not clash with one of their cricket or rugby matches.
Once, we very nearly did, but changed our minds at the last moment. Thankgod. It was an India-Australia final. Australia hammered us silly. We two would surely have been the only Indians around. So much for patriotism!
Now, we follow the score on the net, more often than not, on rediff.com. We take turns to sit in front of our PC and hit the refresh button. R ofcourse, keeps sending emails with highlights (which player did what and who said what and her analysis) and side lights(our driver wants a day off).
It was my turn to sit first, while A gobbled up his lunch...grilled chicken from the marché while firing questions and comments at me:
- Whats the required run rate?
-'Kichu bojho naa’ (You don’t understand a thing). ETC, ETC
- Cricket kheleycho konodin? (Ever played cricket?)
‘YES I DID. ONCE. When I was 8, the only girl in an all boy team. Only, the boys wouldnt let me lift the bat to score a run. I had to drag it along the ground. And ofcourse they didn’t bowl slowly and so I didn’t score and left in a huff’.
‘OK OK, my 'goonda' rani’.
Then it was his turn. And his responses to mykoto holo? (whats the score) were cryptic one liners like:-
- Khub pittachey (really scoring runs)
- Onek holo (a lot)
- Arey kichu hoi ni etc. (nothings happened) ETC, ETC, ETC.
This was my turn to let him know what I thought of his cricketing talents if he couldn’t even read the score.
India is winning / no it isn’t / Pakistan will make it, Remember Miandad’s 6 off the last ball of the last over? /we lack the will / our bowlers are pathetic ETC. The atmosphere was as tense out here, as was in the Indian dressing room, I bet. And so on….till the last ball of the last over, when Pakistan lost by just 5 runs. I even felt a bit sorry for them. Am happy that India has won but not that gloating kind of happiness usually associated with India – Pakistan matches.
And now peace reigns in our little household. India won, all our tensions eased, A is taking his siesta…further analysis on hold till the next ODI.
Glossary French Words
Dommage - Pity
Personally, I prefer matches like this...fiercely fought and which could go either way right down to last ball, to tame matches where the outcome is a foregone conclusion half way through.
We could have seen the match live in one of English or Aussie pubs in Paris but it was a bit too late. Ofcourse these pubs would show India vs Pakistan match provided it did not clash with one of their cricket or rugby matches.
Once, we very nearly did, but changed our minds at the last moment. Thankgod. It was an India-Australia final. Australia hammered us silly. We two would surely have been the only Indians around. So much for patriotism!
Now, we follow the score on the net, more often than not, on rediff.com. We take turns to sit in front of our PC and hit the refresh button. R ofcourse, keeps sending emails with highlights (which player did what and who said what and her analysis) and side lights(our driver wants a day off).
It was my turn to sit first, while A gobbled up his lunch...grilled chicken from the marché while firing questions and comments at me:
- Whats the required run rate?
-'Kichu bojho naa’ (You don’t understand a thing). ETC, ETC
- Cricket kheleycho konodin? (Ever played cricket?)
‘YES I DID. ONCE. When I was 8, the only girl in an all boy team. Only, the boys wouldnt let me lift the bat to score a run. I had to drag it along the ground. And ofcourse they didn’t bowl slowly and so I didn’t score and left in a huff’.
‘OK OK, my 'goonda' rani’.
Then it was his turn. And his responses to mykoto holo? (whats the score) were cryptic one liners like:-
- Khub pittachey (really scoring runs)
- Onek holo (a lot)
- Arey kichu hoi ni etc. (nothings happened) ETC, ETC, ETC.
This was my turn to let him know what I thought of his cricketing talents if he couldn’t even read the score.
India is winning / no it isn’t / Pakistan will make it, Remember Miandad’s 6 off the last ball of the last over? /we lack the will / our bowlers are pathetic ETC. The atmosphere was as tense out here, as was in the Indian dressing room, I bet. And so on….till the last ball of the last over, when Pakistan lost by just 5 runs. I even felt a bit sorry for them. Am happy that India has won but not that gloating kind of happiness usually associated with India – Pakistan matches.
And now peace reigns in our little household. India won, all our tensions eased, A is taking his siesta…further analysis on hold till the next ODI.
Glossary French Words
Dommage - Pity
Friday, February 27, 2004
Neighbourhood Watch
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
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
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?
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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