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!
Monday, September 27, 2004
Thursday, September 16, 2004
The wonderful world of local trains
Read an article in the newspaper that bhajan singers are to be banned form Mumbai local trains because of 'nuisance value'. I personally, can't vouch for their value - nuisance or otherwise, my experience of local trains being restricted to West Bengal.
As a trainee, in my first job with an NGO working with disabled children, I had to commute extensively by local trains and that was my first exposure to the incredible world that is local trains in West Bengal and infact, in India.
There was the daily rush of commuters who knew each other, had specific seats (squatter's right), the players (cards), the knitters (in gaudy colours for the mild winter), the gossipers (at top of their voices), the sleepers, the buyers and the eaters. The last two were very active and were helped the by the incredible array of merchandise being hawked by an endless stream of vendors. Perhaps because of the novelty of it all, I found it all very interesting, despite the incredible crush and the ear splitting din.
Suddenly the crowded compartment would be filled by the smell of oranges, a temporary respite from the rank odour of a thousand sweaty passengers. Men would sell beads and baubles, safety bins and bobby clips, roasted peanuts and what not, each screaming his wares in such a way so as to be heard over the tremendous din. I still remember a kid selling peanuts. He had a well practiced, low voice, that was so powerful that his words rang inside my ears and I was really taken aback to find it issuing from a kid not 10 years of age. Like the airwaves, these vendors chose different pitches to shout. The acoustics at play, was simply incredible.
There are beggars and singers as well. These range from the off-key beggars singing to eke out a living to the really melodious ones that one hears as one enters Baul country (in and around bankura). I had the pleasure of listening to one baul after another on a trip to Santiniketan. Most were quite well known to the passengers and even did requests. I think that they alone are worth the effort of going up and down the Santiniketan express even if one doesn't actually go to Santiniketan!
And then there are so many other little experiences good, bad and downright bizzare that make Indian railways quite an experience.
On Satna express, we were frightened out of our wits by a snake charmer who wanted to do his snake trick right in our bogey! It took our collective persuasive skills (and my uncle’s frightful hindi) to dissuade him!
Another time on our way to Ghatshila, very early on a wintry morning, a hijra dressed in a ghagra-choli and hair done up in a big bun came around singing a popular hindi film song 'Mera Naam hai chameli' in a hoarse, nasal voice. The hijra accompanied his singing by stomping his ghungroo tied feet and then stopping at each seat for some money. Instantly, we feigned deep comatose sleep although all of us were shaking with silent laughter. (Don't think me heartless to laugh at a enuch singing his way to a living. His nasal voice was really really funny and combined with his bejewelled self everyone in the compartment was in spilts). I had covered my head with a shawl, and just when the hijra reached our row, the chap seated next to me, reached quietly from behind and pulled off my shawl with a jerk, so that I was staring at the hijra with a horrified expression while my body was convulsed with laughter. Oof...
And in another incident, a friend and I took a local train to Icchapur where we stood out, dressed in our fashionable city clothes. A hawker was selling bengali to english vocabulary books and was having a tough time finding buyers and as a result, his frustration was showing. His voice rose higher and higher and he kept getting sarcastic about people spending money on clothes and frivolous stuff while his book could be life saver. "It’s not enough to send your children to english medium schools if your basics are not correct. Do you know the different words to describe a tiger's anatomy” and he kept circling us, growling menacingly like a hungry tiger, having zeroed in on us being obviously fluent in english or pretending to be. P and I stood back to back, the cynosure of all eyes (passengers and the Hawker), feeling terribly sorry and guilty (for being able to speak in English and thereby depriving the hawker of Rs 4/- , the price of the book he was selling) and kept imagining that at any moment, the locals would turn up as one and say Kill them...they know the names of tiger's body part in english!!
I am not sure of how good or bad these bhajan singers are, perhaps they are really bad. But if this were to set an example then Indian railways would be poorer. It’s just so much a part and parcel of Indian Railways. (Unlike abroad where everything is so quietly efficient. Three of my friends had the same reactions while travelling by the public transport abroad - where's the funeral?).
As a trainee, in my first job with an NGO working with disabled children, I had to commute extensively by local trains and that was my first exposure to the incredible world that is local trains in West Bengal and infact, in India.
There was the daily rush of commuters who knew each other, had specific seats (squatter's right), the players (cards), the knitters (in gaudy colours for the mild winter), the gossipers (at top of their voices), the sleepers, the buyers and the eaters. The last two were very active and were helped the by the incredible array of merchandise being hawked by an endless stream of vendors. Perhaps because of the novelty of it all, I found it all very interesting, despite the incredible crush and the ear splitting din.
Suddenly the crowded compartment would be filled by the smell of oranges, a temporary respite from the rank odour of a thousand sweaty passengers. Men would sell beads and baubles, safety bins and bobby clips, roasted peanuts and what not, each screaming his wares in such a way so as to be heard over the tremendous din. I still remember a kid selling peanuts. He had a well practiced, low voice, that was so powerful that his words rang inside my ears and I was really taken aback to find it issuing from a kid not 10 years of age. Like the airwaves, these vendors chose different pitches to shout. The acoustics at play, was simply incredible.
There are beggars and singers as well. These range from the off-key beggars singing to eke out a living to the really melodious ones that one hears as one enters Baul country (in and around bankura). I had the pleasure of listening to one baul after another on a trip to Santiniketan. Most were quite well known to the passengers and even did requests. I think that they alone are worth the effort of going up and down the Santiniketan express even if one doesn't actually go to Santiniketan!
And then there are so many other little experiences good, bad and downright bizzare that make Indian railways quite an experience.
On Satna express, we were frightened out of our wits by a snake charmer who wanted to do his snake trick right in our bogey! It took our collective persuasive skills (and my uncle’s frightful hindi) to dissuade him!
Another time on our way to Ghatshila, very early on a wintry morning, a hijra dressed in a ghagra-choli and hair done up in a big bun came around singing a popular hindi film song 'Mera Naam hai chameli' in a hoarse, nasal voice. The hijra accompanied his singing by stomping his ghungroo tied feet and then stopping at each seat for some money. Instantly, we feigned deep comatose sleep although all of us were shaking with silent laughter. (Don't think me heartless to laugh at a enuch singing his way to a living. His nasal voice was really really funny and combined with his bejewelled self everyone in the compartment was in spilts). I had covered my head with a shawl, and just when the hijra reached our row, the chap seated next to me, reached quietly from behind and pulled off my shawl with a jerk, so that I was staring at the hijra with a horrified expression while my body was convulsed with laughter. Oof...
And in another incident, a friend and I took a local train to Icchapur where we stood out, dressed in our fashionable city clothes. A hawker was selling bengali to english vocabulary books and was having a tough time finding buyers and as a result, his frustration was showing. His voice rose higher and higher and he kept getting sarcastic about people spending money on clothes and frivolous stuff while his book could be life saver. "It’s not enough to send your children to english medium schools if your basics are not correct. Do you know the different words to describe a tiger's anatomy” and he kept circling us, growling menacingly like a hungry tiger, having zeroed in on us being obviously fluent in english or pretending to be. P and I stood back to back, the cynosure of all eyes (passengers and the Hawker), feeling terribly sorry and guilty (for being able to speak in English and thereby depriving the hawker of Rs 4/- , the price of the book he was selling) and kept imagining that at any moment, the locals would turn up as one and say Kill them...they know the names of tiger's body part in english!!
I am not sure of how good or bad these bhajan singers are, perhaps they are really bad. But if this were to set an example then Indian railways would be poorer. It’s just so much a part and parcel of Indian Railways. (Unlike abroad where everything is so quietly efficient. Three of my friends had the same reactions while travelling by the public transport abroad - where's the funeral?).
Monday, September 06, 2004
You can fool some people all the time...
I had gone to drop A off at the Sealdah Station. After his train left, I made my way to the taxi stand through a long snaking line of taxis. Usually there is a sizeable crowd in the taxi stand but yesterday evening Sealdah itself was curiously un crowded. A young chap sat on a stool at the begining of the line, next to the first taxi. There was just one more passenger who was haggling about something.
The chap on the stool asked me where I wanted to go and I told him.
He handed me two slips and said Four Rupees please and pointed me to the next taxi. Something didn't quite seem right. I have never seen a taxi stand where one had to buy slips of paper except the Pre-paid stand where one had to pay the entire fare ahead.
What is this for? Some sort of a taxi stand fee or something?
No. No. (with a loud laugh which had everyone turning to look at us). We are collecting money for the Vishwakarma puja.
What? You never told me. I thought it was some sort of a pre-paid taxi fee.
Well you can take back your four rupees if you don't want to give it.
I felt like such a fool. I had actually gone to him and asked him "how much", after all he was just sitting there. And four rupees is not all that much to make a hoo-haa about. (It was just the principle of it but somehow making one's point is easier if the sum involved is larger). Oof the embarrassment. I gnashed my teeth silently (not vocally) since the cab driver had been witness to the entire thing!
Now that I think about it, I can't help admiring the smooth cool way they had devised to collect funds for the puja - perhaps for the taxi stand. And he was not asking for a lot, just 4 paltry rupees!
The chap on the stool asked me where I wanted to go and I told him.
He handed me two slips and said Four Rupees please and pointed me to the next taxi. Something didn't quite seem right. I have never seen a taxi stand where one had to buy slips of paper except the Pre-paid stand where one had to pay the entire fare ahead.
What is this for? Some sort of a taxi stand fee or something?
No. No. (with a loud laugh which had everyone turning to look at us). We are collecting money for the Vishwakarma puja.
What? You never told me. I thought it was some sort of a pre-paid taxi fee.
Well you can take back your four rupees if you don't want to give it.
I felt like such a fool. I had actually gone to him and asked him "how much", after all he was just sitting there. And four rupees is not all that much to make a hoo-haa about. (It was just the principle of it but somehow making one's point is easier if the sum involved is larger). Oof the embarrassment. I gnashed my teeth silently (not vocally) since the cab driver had been witness to the entire thing!
Now that I think about it, I can't help admiring the smooth cool way they had devised to collect funds for the puja - perhaps for the taxi stand. And he was not asking for a lot, just 4 paltry rupees!
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Lessons learnt at the Railway Reservation Counter
I went to the Eastern Railway booking office this morning and learnt the following:
West Bengal is ahead in women's liberation stakes. There were four counters with a sizeable crowd in each but unlike elsewhere including capital Delhi, no "women-only" counter! Women are obviously considered at par with men, and up to standing for long hours in hot stuffy reservation queues, shoulder to shoulder with the men. Don't know if this is quite what we wanted.
Road to Salvation is through the queues at the Eastern Railway reservation counter. An elderly vaishnavite monk in saffron robes and chandan marks on his forehead and down his nose was taking an inordinately long time at the ticket counter. He finished and then we had just moved a place forward when he returned to the window once more. The others were obviously not very happy about it but let him through where he exchanged angry words with the clerk who kept telling to go to another counter. Turned out they kept giving him a side berth which he did not want because of "disturbances" due to a constant stream of passengers going to and fro from the toilets as well as attendants and vendors. Quite lost his cool. Looked quite odd for the swamiji to lose his cool so. But perhaps the Indian Railways are enough to rile even the wisest sage. And who knows maybe his order sent him here as some sort of a final test!!
The third one pertains to Murphys law (I think) - the slowest line is always the one you are in. A and I stood in different lines (one of us was bound to reach the window before the other). Two old ladies took their time at the counter fumbling over their reservation form. The clerk kept returning their half filled form and pointing out errors or something they had missed. And they kept clucking and smiling. The clerk took his time counting and recounting the money. The sighs and occasional grunts of impatience had by now grown to a loud murmur. A young chap was quite vocal. One of the two old biddies asked him to pipe down because they couldn't hear what the clerk was saying. The young chap asked them to use an hearing aid. The biddies then indulged in 'today's youngsters, how rude, what is this country coming to' for another 5 minutes with much clucking and seeking support from other old people in the line.
But this (Being in the slowest line) is not necessarily a bad one, as I (nearly) found out. We were making very slow progress when some one realized that the 2nd counter was closing for an half hour for lunch at 11am. Counter no. 3 was closing at 11.30 and the counter no 4 at 12.30. So people in line 2 got really mad; those in line 3 got panicky and those in line 4 looked smug for having made a wise decision! (Counter 1 simply gave out train forms). By this time, I was making pretty good progress and kept wondering if the people would get wild if I called A from his line. This was after all, a sort of cheating. Most people came by themselves and had to wait out in a single line.
We had quite forgotten about the monk in this discovery about lunch hours when some one spied him inside, behind the counter. An officer was listening to his problem and then walked up to our clerk and told him to attend to the monk first and solve the problem. Any sympathy for the monk evaporated instantly.
I felt thunderclouds gathering and not all of it in the skies. Thankfully, both A and I reached our respective windows at the same time and I was saved the hassle of calling him out from his line to mine and surely having to face the Bengali public's wrath (which can be quite amusing if you are just a bystander...the Bengali vocabulary is wonderful and so is their wit in any given situation; but obviously its not quite the same if you are in the receiving line).
West Bengal is ahead in women's liberation stakes. There were four counters with a sizeable crowd in each but unlike elsewhere including capital Delhi, no "women-only" counter! Women are obviously considered at par with men, and up to standing for long hours in hot stuffy reservation queues, shoulder to shoulder with the men. Don't know if this is quite what we wanted.
Road to Salvation is through the queues at the Eastern Railway reservation counter. An elderly vaishnavite monk in saffron robes and chandan marks on his forehead and down his nose was taking an inordinately long time at the ticket counter. He finished and then we had just moved a place forward when he returned to the window once more. The others were obviously not very happy about it but let him through where he exchanged angry words with the clerk who kept telling to go to another counter. Turned out they kept giving him a side berth which he did not want because of "disturbances" due to a constant stream of passengers going to and fro from the toilets as well as attendants and vendors. Quite lost his cool. Looked quite odd for the swamiji to lose his cool so. But perhaps the Indian Railways are enough to rile even the wisest sage. And who knows maybe his order sent him here as some sort of a final test!!
The third one pertains to Murphys law (I think) - the slowest line is always the one you are in. A and I stood in different lines (one of us was bound to reach the window before the other). Two old ladies took their time at the counter fumbling over their reservation form. The clerk kept returning their half filled form and pointing out errors or something they had missed. And they kept clucking and smiling. The clerk took his time counting and recounting the money. The sighs and occasional grunts of impatience had by now grown to a loud murmur. A young chap was quite vocal. One of the two old biddies asked him to pipe down because they couldn't hear what the clerk was saying. The young chap asked them to use an hearing aid. The biddies then indulged in 'today's youngsters, how rude, what is this country coming to' for another 5 minutes with much clucking and seeking support from other old people in the line.
But this (Being in the slowest line) is not necessarily a bad one, as I (nearly) found out. We were making very slow progress when some one realized that the 2nd counter was closing for an half hour for lunch at 11am. Counter no. 3 was closing at 11.30 and the counter no 4 at 12.30. So people in line 2 got really mad; those in line 3 got panicky and those in line 4 looked smug for having made a wise decision! (Counter 1 simply gave out train forms). By this time, I was making pretty good progress and kept wondering if the people would get wild if I called A from his line. This was after all, a sort of cheating. Most people came by themselves and had to wait out in a single line.
We had quite forgotten about the monk in this discovery about lunch hours when some one spied him inside, behind the counter. An officer was listening to his problem and then walked up to our clerk and told him to attend to the monk first and solve the problem. Any sympathy for the monk evaporated instantly.
I felt thunderclouds gathering and not all of it in the skies. Thankfully, both A and I reached our respective windows at the same time and I was saved the hassle of calling him out from his line to mine and surely having to face the Bengali public's wrath (which can be quite amusing if you are just a bystander...the Bengali vocabulary is wonderful and so is their wit in any given situation; but obviously its not quite the same if you are in the receiving line).
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Oh Calcutta!
Kolkata has to be my most favourite arrival in the whole wide world. Not the clammy weather, neither the crowd, the terrible civic amenities nor pollution can change that. The legend 'Kolkata', 'Kolikata' in English and Bengali atop the airport building has never failed to thrill me. But this time I was in for a surprise as well, when I landed in Kolkata one night couple of weeks ago. Everything was quiet and the rain had washed everything down and the air was deliciously cool. And the ride home was the usual catching up on family gossip with Ma and R. and so rapt we were that it was only when the interiors filled in with steam and I thought we were all going to die of exhaust fumes, that I noticed that our old rickety Amby was now fitted with an AC! Ah possibly that is why Calcutta felt so cool and comfortable! (Turned out the AC was too much for the old radiator and heat up frequently).
In the clear of day I realized it was not a dream after all. Calcutta looked and felt cleaner, neater, spruced up. In the past two weeks, I have been noting with pride the enormous improvements in places. To a visitor it would still look dingy and crowded. But a seasoned Calcuttan like me can appreciate the finer nuances of an entire footpath or one pothole less. The roads under the newly constructed highways are all clean and functional; most roads have large and prominent signboards as do houses of famous people. In case you are wondering what is so great about all this, well I’d have to say you have never been to Calcutta ever or lived here for any stretch of time. If you had, then you would have understood! The New Hooghly Bridge and the maze of roads which led up to and ran down from it all have large boards showing the different directions. It had led many a motorist, a merry dance up and down those roads before they found themselves half way down the GT road and down to Bangladesh! Because when the spanking new bridge was inaugurated, the signs were not up!
I am both delighted as well as apprehensive about all these improvements: What if the person responsible for all this be replaced or retired.
There are other changes too. New shopping arcades, multiplexes, restaurants and popular hangouts. Wonder if anyone goes to the century old 'New Market' anymore. Cal is studded with some beautiful old houses, a hodge podge of colonial and Bengali style. Most are coming down to be replaced with more practical but ugly modern apartment blocks. Some however manage to resist the temptation to modernify.
And that's not all. Apart from the new architecture, the city seems to have been taken over by young, smart things strutting about, hanging about in new sprung up places discussing new stars, new idols and in the process making me feel outdated. Afterall I was strutting about myself out here a few years ago. Was it really 4 years ago? Feels like 40.
A few things however remain the same. The wonderful feeling of waking up in my old room, swapping ghost stories (ma and R are big fans) with them, solving Bengali crossword of the The Statesman with baba.
Being away has made me appreciate my family and home much more than I ever did. I always took the whole comfort factor for granted. I am relishing in it, relaxing, savouring and lapping it all up. What? Just being around them doing the mundane things that families do. Get on with their daily lives. But with one difference. My parents and R alongside. Of course they are constantly surprised that I am actually around and not running off to some adda session with my friends or somewhere else.
I am home. Kolkata. I still think of it as my home and not my parents! Its still feels great to be back home...even if for a short while.
In the clear of day I realized it was not a dream after all. Calcutta looked and felt cleaner, neater, spruced up. In the past two weeks, I have been noting with pride the enormous improvements in places. To a visitor it would still look dingy and crowded. But a seasoned Calcuttan like me can appreciate the finer nuances of an entire footpath or one pothole less. The roads under the newly constructed highways are all clean and functional; most roads have large and prominent signboards as do houses of famous people. In case you are wondering what is so great about all this, well I’d have to say you have never been to Calcutta ever or lived here for any stretch of time. If you had, then you would have understood! The New Hooghly Bridge and the maze of roads which led up to and ran down from it all have large boards showing the different directions. It had led many a motorist, a merry dance up and down those roads before they found themselves half way down the GT road and down to Bangladesh! Because when the spanking new bridge was inaugurated, the signs were not up!
I am both delighted as well as apprehensive about all these improvements: What if the person responsible for all this be replaced or retired.
There are other changes too. New shopping arcades, multiplexes, restaurants and popular hangouts. Wonder if anyone goes to the century old 'New Market' anymore. Cal is studded with some beautiful old houses, a hodge podge of colonial and Bengali style. Most are coming down to be replaced with more practical but ugly modern apartment blocks. Some however manage to resist the temptation to modernify.
And that's not all. Apart from the new architecture, the city seems to have been taken over by young, smart things strutting about, hanging about in new sprung up places discussing new stars, new idols and in the process making me feel outdated. Afterall I was strutting about myself out here a few years ago. Was it really 4 years ago? Feels like 40.
A few things however remain the same. The wonderful feeling of waking up in my old room, swapping ghost stories (ma and R are big fans) with them, solving Bengali crossword of the The Statesman with baba.
Being away has made me appreciate my family and home much more than I ever did. I always took the whole comfort factor for granted. I am relishing in it, relaxing, savouring and lapping it all up. What? Just being around them doing the mundane things that families do. Get on with their daily lives. But with one difference. My parents and R alongside. Of course they are constantly surprised that I am actually around and not running off to some adda session with my friends or somewhere else.
I am home. Kolkata. I still think of it as my home and not my parents! Its still feels great to be back home...even if for a short while.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Not quite objets des arts
I am terribly envious of people who manage to, during their stays abroad, pick up souvenirs that they later display in their salons. I have seen many collections – African, Egyptian, Indonesian, Indian …and had mentally resolved to, god willing, one day, have a collection of my own.
Well, three years and umpteen trips later, I too have a collection of my own but not quite the one I had envisaged.
A print of an old map of France with the various nobilities marked out, so creased and dented from being in a suitcase that I suspect it quite looks like the real thing instead of a mere print!
A lamb wool carpet from Crete (or so the lady selling it said and I have to take her word for it since I cant distinguish between goat or lamb wool), which I have rarely used for fear of it becoming dirty. Once I took it out when a friend came for lunch and promptly stepped on it and left black shoe polish streaks. A was highly amused since I didn’t let him step on it making him tiptoe on the edges (the big carpet swallowed up our tiny floor space leaving very little room around to tiptoe on).
Wrapped up in the carpet is a terracotta plaque of a fresco from the Palace of King Minos at Knossos, too delicate, I am paranoid it will break before I find some place to hang it...which doesn’t seem to be a possibility in the near future. Then there is the coin box shaped like the house of Claude Monet but frankly I could pass it off as the house of anyone - Marie Antoinette or Napolean and no one will be wiser out here. 2 paintings - the first a large old advertisement of Chocolat meunier with a bright eyed young girl staring...very chic and tres french but no place to hang it up, as yet. Same problem with a Chinese painting on a some sort of a leaf with a very heavy frame, which I very happily bought but now, am not so sure about it. Whoever heard of anyone buying a mass-produced Chinese painting bought in France?
And to finish, the coup de grace! An umbrella but not just any old umbrella! A bright yellow, hundred percent original tour de France umbrella which I picked up not at any store selling tour de France memorabilia but at the tour itself last year when it came to my town for the first (and I suspect the last) time. A in one of his expansive moods, nearly gifted it away to a relative and I had to summon up all my guts to intervene. No, no, not that please. Take anything else...but not that umbrella. It’s very precious to me. But having said all that (and felt very bad for being possessive about an umbrella for heavens sake), I am like the dog in the manger. I haven’t been able to use it yet although I never forget to carry an umbrella every time I step out of the house. It’s a very large umbrella (a tad smaller than a golf umbrella). I have these horrific visions of me striding down the road with it with little kids yelling and trailing after me (like when a circus comes to town) followed by stray dogs nipping at my heels and barking their heads off!
And if the past trend is a sign of things to come, then it foretells more shifting and living out of suitcases for us.
After my French sejour, I don’t own a single "Chat Noir" poster or the Jane Avril posters by Toulous Lautrec, although my gifts grace the homes of a few friends and relatives. I don’t even have the Claude Monet / Van Gogh coasters, not a single Eiffel tower key chain or I love Paris T-shirt. But I do have my umbrella, the old print and the French advertisement which I occasionally take out of my suitcase and stare and put it back like some art collectors who keep their art works in vaults and stare at them in secret?
I live in the hope that perhaps one day in the future, some one will discover these 'relics' of a bygone age from a dusty suitcase and marvel and fight over great grandma's wonderful, if a bit strange collection!
Well, three years and umpteen trips later, I too have a collection of my own but not quite the one I had envisaged.
A print of an old map of France with the various nobilities marked out, so creased and dented from being in a suitcase that I suspect it quite looks like the real thing instead of a mere print!
A lamb wool carpet from Crete (or so the lady selling it said and I have to take her word for it since I cant distinguish between goat or lamb wool), which I have rarely used for fear of it becoming dirty. Once I took it out when a friend came for lunch and promptly stepped on it and left black shoe polish streaks. A was highly amused since I didn’t let him step on it making him tiptoe on the edges (the big carpet swallowed up our tiny floor space leaving very little room around to tiptoe on).
Wrapped up in the carpet is a terracotta plaque of a fresco from the Palace of King Minos at Knossos, too delicate, I am paranoid it will break before I find some place to hang it...which doesn’t seem to be a possibility in the near future. Then there is the coin box shaped like the house of Claude Monet but frankly I could pass it off as the house of anyone - Marie Antoinette or Napolean and no one will be wiser out here. 2 paintings - the first a large old advertisement of Chocolat meunier with a bright eyed young girl staring...very chic and tres french but no place to hang it up, as yet. Same problem with a Chinese painting on a some sort of a leaf with a very heavy frame, which I very happily bought but now, am not so sure about it. Whoever heard of anyone buying a mass-produced Chinese painting bought in France?
And to finish, the coup de grace! An umbrella but not just any old umbrella! A bright yellow, hundred percent original tour de France umbrella which I picked up not at any store selling tour de France memorabilia but at the tour itself last year when it came to my town for the first (and I suspect the last) time. A in one of his expansive moods, nearly gifted it away to a relative and I had to summon up all my guts to intervene. No, no, not that please. Take anything else...but not that umbrella. It’s very precious to me. But having said all that (and felt very bad for being possessive about an umbrella for heavens sake), I am like the dog in the manger. I haven’t been able to use it yet although I never forget to carry an umbrella every time I step out of the house. It’s a very large umbrella (a tad smaller than a golf umbrella). I have these horrific visions of me striding down the road with it with little kids yelling and trailing after me (like when a circus comes to town) followed by stray dogs nipping at my heels and barking their heads off!
And if the past trend is a sign of things to come, then it foretells more shifting and living out of suitcases for us.
After my French sejour, I don’t own a single "Chat Noir" poster or the Jane Avril posters by Toulous Lautrec, although my gifts grace the homes of a few friends and relatives. I don’t even have the Claude Monet / Van Gogh coasters, not a single Eiffel tower key chain or I love Paris T-shirt. But I do have my umbrella, the old print and the French advertisement which I occasionally take out of my suitcase and stare and put it back like some art collectors who keep their art works in vaults and stare at them in secret?
I live in the hope that perhaps one day in the future, some one will discover these 'relics' of a bygone age from a dusty suitcase and marvel and fight over great grandma's wonderful, if a bit strange collection!
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Living Mindfully
I am a great fan of all those books which tell us to slow down, live mindfully, how to live life the zen way etc. How many times have I chanced upon such a book convinced that within its pages was the answer to all the problems in my life. "Open your eyes to the wonder all around you", "101 ways to eat a mangoes" (not in the culinary sense), "illuminate your corner of the world", :highway to heaven" to name a few!
But I have been too busy to actually apply any of it to my life. And infact am not very sure it is applicable. Things always turn out nice and neat in books don't they?! Not in my life. For example, I read somewhere that while cooking, I should pay deep attention to what I was doing; I should notice the shape, the texture, the colour of the food, draw pleasure from their variety, their aroma. I tried to, while cooking bhindi (okra). I was convinced that it would be delicious. It turned out as usual...with A complaining at the blandness of it. Yet another book instructed me to rub grains of rice in my palm and feel their texture and think about the goodness of it while washing it before cooking. All it did was to increase the time I spent in cooking it. Can't say it tasted any different! And yet another book told me to repeat a word of thanks while cooking! I did (felt a bit silly to mutter over my pots and pans). But perhaps in my case the thanks was not so much for the food we received as much for my cooking skills! Then there have been other instructions on how to get up in the morning (slowly, and not jumping out at the last minute and three page full of other stuff to do), how to sweep and clean, how to take a walk.....The message I guess was 'There is magic in everything, slow down to see it, experience it". I somehow got too much caught up in the 'how to' of it to see the end result.
And now out here, without even intending to, I have slowed down. The lack of options, the daily domestic routine, reduced mobility are responsible. I find myself doing all sorts of 'zen' things. My life revolves around the comings and goings of the water supply, the maid, meal times and of course the power. I am not free to move around as I would do if I were in France or in dear old Kolkata.
So I have taken to plucking yellowed leaves, watching the wax and wane of the flora, the antics of the fauna, the children flying kites, the women walkers.
The pink blossoms curl into tight buds every evening and unfurl in the morning. The orange blossoms were coming along very nicely when all of a sudden, a hoard of black beetle or is it a variety of wasps, with red wings striped in black, desecnded on them and literally are sucking the life out of them. And when these wasps fly, their wings whirr around making them look like tiny helicopters.
There is a crow with a very long upper beak which curls down under the lower beak. The monkey chief is lame. There are thick brown slugs inching across the narrow path in the park looking curiously like brown leaves, so slow is their movement and more often than not, end up in a pulp.
So am I not taking life each moment by moment? I am living life mindfully and slowing down to really notice my surroundings, ...as compared to my earlier lifestyle when I didnt have time to breathe. But instead of overflowing with bliss and contentment, all this slowing down is making me feel sorry for myself! Living unmindfully was better. It was so much fun being out of breath!!
But I have been too busy to actually apply any of it to my life. And infact am not very sure it is applicable. Things always turn out nice and neat in books don't they?! Not in my life. For example, I read somewhere that while cooking, I should pay deep attention to what I was doing; I should notice the shape, the texture, the colour of the food, draw pleasure from their variety, their aroma. I tried to, while cooking bhindi (okra). I was convinced that it would be delicious. It turned out as usual...with A complaining at the blandness of it. Yet another book instructed me to rub grains of rice in my palm and feel their texture and think about the goodness of it while washing it before cooking. All it did was to increase the time I spent in cooking it. Can't say it tasted any different! And yet another book told me to repeat a word of thanks while cooking! I did (felt a bit silly to mutter over my pots and pans). But perhaps in my case the thanks was not so much for the food we received as much for my cooking skills! Then there have been other instructions on how to get up in the morning (slowly, and not jumping out at the last minute and three page full of other stuff to do), how to sweep and clean, how to take a walk.....The message I guess was 'There is magic in everything, slow down to see it, experience it". I somehow got too much caught up in the 'how to' of it to see the end result.
And now out here, without even intending to, I have slowed down. The lack of options, the daily domestic routine, reduced mobility are responsible. I find myself doing all sorts of 'zen' things. My life revolves around the comings and goings of the water supply, the maid, meal times and of course the power. I am not free to move around as I would do if I were in France or in dear old Kolkata.
So I have taken to plucking yellowed leaves, watching the wax and wane of the flora, the antics of the fauna, the children flying kites, the women walkers.
The pink blossoms curl into tight buds every evening and unfurl in the morning. The orange blossoms were coming along very nicely when all of a sudden, a hoard of black beetle or is it a variety of wasps, with red wings striped in black, desecnded on them and literally are sucking the life out of them. And when these wasps fly, their wings whirr around making them look like tiny helicopters.
There is a crow with a very long upper beak which curls down under the lower beak. The monkey chief is lame. There are thick brown slugs inching across the narrow path in the park looking curiously like brown leaves, so slow is their movement and more often than not, end up in a pulp.
So am I not taking life each moment by moment? I am living life mindfully and slowing down to really notice my surroundings, ...as compared to my earlier lifestyle when I didnt have time to breathe. But instead of overflowing with bliss and contentment, all this slowing down is making me feel sorry for myself! Living unmindfully was better. It was so much fun being out of breath!!
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
For whom the bell rang
The bell rang in mid-morning. Everyone was so busy in the usual hurrying and scurrying to take a bath / meditate /cook /get out of the maid's way and a hundred other things that one does out here, so I went to answer the door bell ouside the main gates. It turned out to be a stranger and so I gave my normal 'Nahi chahiye' (I dont want whatever that you are selling). Only this guy didnt look like a hawker. He was wearing white dhoti and kurta and had a red tilak on his forehead marking him out to be a member of some religious sect or the other.
'I am not selling anything. I just want to inform you that there will be a 'prabachan' on Shirdi Sai baba (Guru of Sai baba of the afro hairdo fame) at saket tomorrow. Please come with your family members'. I should have ended the conversation then and there since we wont be going to any prabachan, not today and definitely not tomorrow and even if we did, Saket was on the other end of the world. But somehow I didn't. And he continued, outside the iron gates and me inside the main doors with only my head sticking out.
- Have you heard of Shirdi Sai baba?
- Yes. ( I drove down to Shirdi with some friends from aurangabad in 1997, I think...not so much because I wanted to, but because my friends, incidentally my hosts, wanted to. It was the usual thing. Buying some sweets, flowers, incense sticks to be given as prasad, queuing up for a darshan...but not being able to manage more than couple of seconds in front of Shirdi Sai baba, because of the rush. The only interesting thing that happened was when a hushed sort of buzz went around: It seems Dawood Ibrahim's henchman was there for a darshan as well. A stout, middle aged gentleman with green eyes, wifey and daughter. Dont quite know why or how it went around, but all of us were trying our best to look at them without seeming to! Who knows if he was or wasnt...but it was sort of interesting to think he was).
- OK. There is some good news coming your way by the 16th of August. So if you are planning a trip to Shirdi, dont go before the 16th.
(Interesting....)
- And Behena (sister in hindi), I see saturn's shadow over you. (So a hundred odd pandits and astro have told my ma), so dont wear any black clothing (I dont....or atleast rarely). And behena, your parents havent raised you like a daughter (they havent? Sob, sob). They have raised you like a son. (I wonder why?). And are you married? Yes? So your wedding must have taken place suddenly. You must have....
And just as he was (I am sure) about to tell me about me finding my personal pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, our fascinating conversation, sorry monologue was cut short since my bro-in-law came up behind me and said rather loudly 'what is all this bakwas (nonsense)?'. I gave a hasty nod cum namaskar to the chap and shut the door.
I wonder would he have said the same thing to my m-i-l / f-i-l/ b-i-l /maid had they opened the doors? or am I being cynical and should have more faith in miracles?! Hehe...time will tell.
August 16th isn't so far away is it?...I might even blog about it.....
Monday, July 12, 2004
A curious hobby
I have a new hobby, interest, pastime; call it what you may...it is a bit unusual and infact I feel a trifle silly writing about it. But it is really most addictive and I find myself indulging in it often, despite the horrible weather when, most who have the option, stay indoors. Yes its an outdoor hobby. My in-laws have a small garden in the front with a assorted bunch of shrubs, ivies and plants and three trees all growing in a kind of wild tangled profusion. Orange blossoms, pink and white flowers of the madhabi lata, white 'bel', white nayantara, red hibiscus and a few more. And ofcourse the varied green of the leaves of each of these. These interest me. In between the green foliage, there are a few leaves that have turned yellow. Touch them and they come away from their branch. You don't even have to pluck them out. I have spent many a hot and clammy hour collecting the yellow leaves and then throwing them away. I have to be careful ofcourse not to over do it otherwise I will have to wait for quite some time till more leaves yellow!
Most evenings, I go for a walk to a park across the road. I usually take a brisk 8 rounds (2 kms) in about 15 minutes or so. But now it takes me longer because on each round, I stop in mid-stride to pluck out a leaf from a shrub. At first, I would choose the shrubs at the corners and when there was no one passing by, but now I stop whenever I choose and ignore the curious on-lookers! Its kind of like bursting the bubles in a bubble wrap!
If hobbies reflect the persona...then I shudder to think what mine must be telling you all about me...the heat, the domesticity, my joblessness must be taking its toll, what?!
Most evenings, I go for a walk to a park across the road. I usually take a brisk 8 rounds (2 kms) in about 15 minutes or so. But now it takes me longer because on each round, I stop in mid-stride to pluck out a leaf from a shrub. At first, I would choose the shrubs at the corners and when there was no one passing by, but now I stop whenever I choose and ignore the curious on-lookers! Its kind of like bursting the bubles in a bubble wrap!
If hobbies reflect the persona...then I shudder to think what mine must be telling you all about me...the heat, the domesticity, my joblessness must be taking its toll, what?!
Friday, July 09, 2004
Our Menagerie
When we say India is the 2nd most populous country in the world after China, we are not referring to people alone...but to domestic lizards and cockroaches too! Infact we would come out on top beating all other nations hollow! Looks like our tropical weather is high fertility inducing in more than one species!!
Normally, cockroaches would make a tasty snack for lizards, but in our house, they seem to have struck a deal and stick to their well defined territories and ignore each other,
the cockroaches concentrating their energy and efforts to the kitchen and around food stuff and even inside the refridgerator while the lizards are content to creep around the light fixtures.
One more point on this fascinating topic - the lizards are quite plump and largish as compared to those in kolkata(perhaps the pollution out there, stunts their growth) but I would say smaller than their brethren in Mumbai. Now how do I know this? Well I do. My Uncle (dad's bro) on each of his visits to Kolkata would spend some quality time in comparing Kolkata with Mumbai and ofcourse Kolkata would come out very badly in all respects...civic amenities, work culture, pollution etc etc. But not content with that, our dear uncle would even come up with special points:- You (meaning us poor kolkatans) have petty thieves; We (the lucky mumbaikars) have Mafia. You call these lizars?! Ha! Ha! Should see ours...They are dinosaurs!!
Hmmph!
Normally, cockroaches would make a tasty snack for lizards, but in our house, they seem to have struck a deal and stick to their well defined territories and ignore each other,
the cockroaches concentrating their energy and efforts to the kitchen and around food stuff and even inside the refridgerator while the lizards are content to creep around the light fixtures.
One more point on this fascinating topic - the lizards are quite plump and largish as compared to those in kolkata(perhaps the pollution out there, stunts their growth) but I would say smaller than their brethren in Mumbai. Now how do I know this? Well I do. My Uncle (dad's bro) on each of his visits to Kolkata would spend some quality time in comparing Kolkata with Mumbai and ofcourse Kolkata would come out very badly in all respects...civic amenities, work culture, pollution etc etc. But not content with that, our dear uncle would even come up with special points:- You (meaning us poor kolkatans) have petty thieves; We (the lucky mumbaikars) have Mafia. You call these lizars?! Ha! Ha! Should see ours...They are dinosaurs!!
Hmmph!
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
The Mango Festival
There was a mango festival this weekend at the stadium, a 10 minute walk from home. There were yellow green boards all over the town announcing the 4th mango festival.
We in this part of the world, I dare say, know about mangoes more than others. I used to make such a show of being a connoisseur of mangoes while in France! I would pick one up, peer at it, sniff it and then put it back with a shake of my head. No sir, this isn't a good 'Mangue'!! And there was no one out there to tell me otherwise. But this festival put in my place and proper! I realized that I knew only three of four varieties and that too, only their names - Alfonso, langra, chausa, himsagar and a few more. I cannot identify them for the life of me! The wide variety had me jaw dropped! There were 348 varieties spread out on 6 long tables.
There were the ones which looked amazing :-
Nazuk pasand (delicate choice, roughly translated) a regular mango but with an ear like flap sticking out at one end.
Chitla - banana yellow smallish mangoes with green specks.
Kalmi Bela - same banana yellow but with green stripes.
Tota pari asli - (Tota is hindi for parrot) - each mango ends in the most astonishing pointed beak.
Gola (Cannon ball) - is large and heavy.
Laila ki Unglian (Laila's fingers) - really slender tiny mangoes some one and a half inch in size!
Then the variety
Papita - large heavy mango looking exactly like Papayas.
Button - tiny plum sized perfectly formed mangoes
Malika - Long sensuous ones
Husn Ara - A lovely delicate golden colour
Maharani - about the size of a lime.
Then there were the ones with the odd names. I would have liked to ask the organisers about their origin but for the mad rush.
Mishti Sona (roughly translated, sweet darling, in bengali)
Padriwala - The Priest
Bhutto - After Ex-Pak PM Butto?
Mr Ford - (Mind boggles at the name)
Then there were the Bhog, rasgolas, amrit kalash all named after Indian deserts. And lastly there was 'Laila Majnu' a pair of medium mangoes in a dish!
We have been to so many food exhibitions in our little town back in France...all serving their specialites - pate, sausages, breads, biscuits in bite sized portions. So, we were expecting some sort of samples here as well. Alas, these were only for viewing and not for tasting. There were stalls selling mangoes by the crate (roughly 4 kilos per crate) which one had to buy using one's mango buying prowess or like in our case, a wild hunch.
I consoled myself by saying that if they started to give out samples out here, the would a) go bankrupt b) there'd be a wild stampede c) or both!!
Later on I found out that there indeed is a much larger festival in Talkotra in delhi where there they give out mangoes to sample. Well anyhow, this wasn't too bad and the mangoes we bought were quite sweet!
We in this part of the world, I dare say, know about mangoes more than others. I used to make such a show of being a connoisseur of mangoes while in France! I would pick one up, peer at it, sniff it and then put it back with a shake of my head. No sir, this isn't a good 'Mangue'!! And there was no one out there to tell me otherwise. But this festival put in my place and proper! I realized that I knew only three of four varieties and that too, only their names - Alfonso, langra, chausa, himsagar and a few more. I cannot identify them for the life of me! The wide variety had me jaw dropped! There were 348 varieties spread out on 6 long tables.
There were the ones which looked amazing :-
Nazuk pasand (delicate choice, roughly translated) a regular mango but with an ear like flap sticking out at one end.
Chitla - banana yellow smallish mangoes with green specks.
Kalmi Bela - same banana yellow but with green stripes.
Tota pari asli - (Tota is hindi for parrot) - each mango ends in the most astonishing pointed beak.
Gola (Cannon ball) - is large and heavy.
Laila ki Unglian (Laila's fingers) - really slender tiny mangoes some one and a half inch in size!
Then the variety
Papita - large heavy mango looking exactly like Papayas.
Button - tiny plum sized perfectly formed mangoes
Malika - Long sensuous ones
Husn Ara - A lovely delicate golden colour
Maharani - about the size of a lime.
Then there were the ones with the odd names. I would have liked to ask the organisers about their origin but for the mad rush.
Mishti Sona (roughly translated, sweet darling, in bengali)
Padriwala - The Priest
Bhutto - After Ex-Pak PM Butto?
Mr Ford - (Mind boggles at the name)
Then there were the Bhog, rasgolas, amrit kalash all named after Indian deserts. And lastly there was 'Laila Majnu' a pair of medium mangoes in a dish!
We have been to so many food exhibitions in our little town back in France...all serving their specialites - pate, sausages, breads, biscuits in bite sized portions. So, we were expecting some sort of samples here as well. Alas, these were only for viewing and not for tasting. There were stalls selling mangoes by the crate (roughly 4 kilos per crate) which one had to buy using one's mango buying prowess or like in our case, a wild hunch.
I consoled myself by saying that if they started to give out samples out here, the would a) go bankrupt b) there'd be a wild stampede c) or both!!
Later on I found out that there indeed is a much larger festival in Talkotra in delhi where there they give out mangoes to sample. Well anyhow, this wasn't too bad and the mangoes we bought were quite sweet!
Thursday, June 24, 2004
The Ambassador
I spied an Ambassador today and was really surprised. A private one at that. The car, and not the embassy head. Imagine!
Time was when the mighty Ambassador ruled the Indian roadways. There were a few others cars. Fiat was one. But Ambassador was The car for many a decade when a tiny car - Maruti -appeared on the Indian car scene and changed its face for ever. Now we have a huge range of Indian cars as well as foreign ones to choose from. Ambassadors are still being manufactured but mostly for ministers, IAS officers, other governmnet officials and taxi cabs. I have not heard of anyone and I mean anyone going and buying one!
How simpler life was back then. I should know. We are in the process of buying a car and the decision making is taking forever. Everyone has his or her own favourite. Zen, Santro, Honda City, Maruti etc etc. Which one looks better, which one gives better mileage and so on and so forth. But no one mentions the Ambassador. I wonder what will happen should I suggest it as my choice? Everyone will surely keel over.
And yet, this sturdy Indian car cannot be dissmissed so easily. It has something in common with - Rolls Royce no less! Till very recently, these two were entirely hand assembled and not rolled off some assembly line! But for entirely different reasons:- Rolls Royce...well because its a Rolls silly and not just another car; and the Ambassador, because thats just how they did it in the begining and never bothered to change! Maybe they haven't changed and are being hand assembled even as I write!
Time was when the mighty Ambassador ruled the Indian roadways. There were a few others cars. Fiat was one. But Ambassador was The car for many a decade when a tiny car - Maruti -appeared on the Indian car scene and changed its face for ever. Now we have a huge range of Indian cars as well as foreign ones to choose from. Ambassadors are still being manufactured but mostly for ministers, IAS officers, other governmnet officials and taxi cabs. I have not heard of anyone and I mean anyone going and buying one!
How simpler life was back then. I should know. We are in the process of buying a car and the decision making is taking forever. Everyone has his or her own favourite. Zen, Santro, Honda City, Maruti etc etc. Which one looks better, which one gives better mileage and so on and so forth. But no one mentions the Ambassador. I wonder what will happen should I suggest it as my choice? Everyone will surely keel over.
And yet, this sturdy Indian car cannot be dissmissed so easily. It has something in common with - Rolls Royce no less! Till very recently, these two were entirely hand assembled and not rolled off some assembly line! But for entirely different reasons:- Rolls Royce...well because its a Rolls silly and not just another car; and the Ambassador, because thats just how they did it in the begining and never bothered to change! Maybe they haven't changed and are being hand assembled even as I write!
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Pressing Business
Unlike in France where one does everything, hired help is the norm in India. In India, almost everyone has hired help. Atleast one for most, to many, for the affluent. M-i-l does most of the cooking, there is a woman to do the washing and another who does the floors and dishes. So what was it that I could do? The answer was :- 'Ironing'! I could iron mine and A's clothes. Yes.
M-i-l thought it would be easier if I just gave it to the 'press-walla'. I ignored her advice and struggled bravely with my ironing, in between the power cuts. Without an ironing board, I had to squat by the bed side to iron and the ceiling fan has to be switched off to keep the clothes from flapping. So by the time I finished, I was drenched, hot and bothered and my clothes half creased, no better than before ironing. In the meanwhile, our press walla worked wonders on my in-laws' clothes. Every neighbourhood has one. His shop is just a shack with a back wall formed by stacking bricks in between pillars of the park railings. Bamboo sticks covered with tarpaulin forms the roof, an oven to heat his iron which has a small tray on which glowing embers are put.
No fancy laundry starch, no latest iron with multi faceted options. His ironing board is a rickety wooden table- no doubt a cast off. And yet with these bare infrastructure…he presses and folds our clothes with the precision that would have you swear it was from the best laundry in town. What sharp creases, perfect folds, wrinkle free collars.
After pooh-poohing the need of the press walla, I couldn’t stop ironing all of a sudden and so I began sneaking off one or two of our clothes along with the in-laws’ bundles and yesterday, I boldly marched off with a whole bunch of my own. No more sweating, no more creased clothes, no more getting hot and bothered, wielding a heavy iron and what’s more his rates are really cheap - Re 1/- per clothing and Rs 3/- for a sari. Much less than my electricity bill…if the power happens to be there that is!
Now, I am a frequent visitor. I dont even have to mention my address. He knows it although he never greets me. He merely gives the briefest of nods or if he is in an unusually good mood, he grunts. His tiny bird like wife accompanies him as do his 2 kids – a tiny, solemn little girl. I have tried to speak to her and smile at her, in vain. Perhaps she gets it from her taciturn father. She usually brings the ironed clothes folded across her tiny arms and yells out ‘Press’and waits till someone comes and takes the clothes…she being too tiny to open the main gates let alone ring the bell. She is usually followed by her toddler brother who in contrast is very friendly as he toddles unsteadily up and down the road. He smiles at everyone and stretches out his tiny arms if he sees someone approaching with clothes in their arms!
The press-walla is very important and I suspect he knows it. He is there everyday ironing clothes with that heavy iron from 9.30am till sundown and a normal fixture of the neighbourhood normally that one gets used to. People take little notice of his presence but if he were to be absent even for a day, practically the whole of the neighbourhood would sit up and take collective notice!
M-i-l thought it would be easier if I just gave it to the 'press-walla'. I ignored her advice and struggled bravely with my ironing, in between the power cuts. Without an ironing board, I had to squat by the bed side to iron and the ceiling fan has to be switched off to keep the clothes from flapping. So by the time I finished, I was drenched, hot and bothered and my clothes half creased, no better than before ironing. In the meanwhile, our press walla worked wonders on my in-laws' clothes. Every neighbourhood has one. His shop is just a shack with a back wall formed by stacking bricks in between pillars of the park railings. Bamboo sticks covered with tarpaulin forms the roof, an oven to heat his iron which has a small tray on which glowing embers are put.
No fancy laundry starch, no latest iron with multi faceted options. His ironing board is a rickety wooden table- no doubt a cast off. And yet with these bare infrastructure…he presses and folds our clothes with the precision that would have you swear it was from the best laundry in town. What sharp creases, perfect folds, wrinkle free collars.
After pooh-poohing the need of the press walla, I couldn’t stop ironing all of a sudden and so I began sneaking off one or two of our clothes along with the in-laws’ bundles and yesterday, I boldly marched off with a whole bunch of my own. No more sweating, no more creased clothes, no more getting hot and bothered, wielding a heavy iron and what’s more his rates are really cheap - Re 1/- per clothing and Rs 3/- for a sari. Much less than my electricity bill…if the power happens to be there that is!
Now, I am a frequent visitor. I dont even have to mention my address. He knows it although he never greets me. He merely gives the briefest of nods or if he is in an unusually good mood, he grunts. His tiny bird like wife accompanies him as do his 2 kids – a tiny, solemn little girl. I have tried to speak to her and smile at her, in vain. Perhaps she gets it from her taciturn father. She usually brings the ironed clothes folded across her tiny arms and yells out ‘Press’and waits till someone comes and takes the clothes…she being too tiny to open the main gates let alone ring the bell. She is usually followed by her toddler brother who in contrast is very friendly as he toddles unsteadily up and down the road. He smiles at everyone and stretches out his tiny arms if he sees someone approaching with clothes in their arms!
The press-walla is very important and I suspect he knows it. He is there everyday ironing clothes with that heavy iron from 9.30am till sundown and a normal fixture of the neighbourhood normally that one gets used to. People take little notice of his presence but if he were to be absent even for a day, practically the whole of the neighbourhood would sit up and take collective notice!
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Local Fauna
The monkey menace continues. They don’t visit us everyday - what a relief. They come and check out the fruits on the guava and pomegranate trees and return only when the fruits are just right for plucking and eating. They eat some, throw some, while we sit behind the safety of the screen doors and gnash our teeth. The other day a whole herd descended. Mothers with babies clinging to their underbelly, skippy young adults, old ones along with the alpha male leader who sat on a low branch and surveyed all around him placidly while the rest made a mess of our backyard. They threw all our laundry from where they were hung to dry, tore some of them and bizarrely, left my father-in-law's shirt intact on the line. Perhaps a sense of respect from one head of a house to another?! We made threatening noises, brandished a stick but they paid little attention. They came and left at their own will and for a while, and in a neat reversal of roles ...it was us humans behind bars and they out in the open!
Today, I read in a newsletter that our sector's Resident Welfare association publishes that the monkey menace has increased with some kid being mauled by them and yet we haven’t done anything about it while some of the other sectors have found a suitable solution:- they have hired the services of a langur walla (for those of you who aren’t familiar...these are larger simians with a long tail and black faces) and all he has to do is walk around the monkey infested areas with his langur and all the monkeys simply run away.
And as if this weren’t enough, the newsletter also announces that stampeding cattle in a nearby sector has caused considerable damage to cars parked on the road! Phew what exciting times...
As I am slowing getting acquainted with my neighbourhood...my blogs will now be full of details about it and like this post...you will come to know just how exciting and fun a time I am having!
Today, I read in a newsletter that our sector's Resident Welfare association publishes that the monkey menace has increased with some kid being mauled by them and yet we haven’t done anything about it while some of the other sectors have found a suitable solution:- they have hired the services of a langur walla (for those of you who aren’t familiar...these are larger simians with a long tail and black faces) and all he has to do is walk around the monkey infested areas with his langur and all the monkeys simply run away.
And as if this weren’t enough, the newsletter also announces that stampeding cattle in a nearby sector has caused considerable damage to cars parked on the road! Phew what exciting times...
As I am slowing getting acquainted with my neighbourhood...my blogs will now be full of details about it and like this post...you will come to know just how exciting and fun a time I am having!
Monday, June 14, 2004
SHAME
The olympic torch came and left. We sure have a unique way to show our interest in the Olympic games. Filmstars and big brand sponsorship. I was in the vicinity on that day and the place was awash with posters of a cola giant and an electronic brand some sort of sponsors of the event. And the line-up of celebrities who would carry the torch were filmstars and couple of sports persons bizzarely from cricket which is not one of the sports in the Olympics. At the end of it all, one would have been forgiven for thinking that it was a film world event sponsored by a popular cola.
A lot of people have protested against this mainly in the letters to editors of various news papers and one of them even suggested that there was a brighter side of using filmstars to carry the torch. Atleast it got people interested in the what, where and why of the Olympics! The Union minister for sports said it was not the centre's fault that we had film stars and not sports men and women carrying the torch after it arrived back in India after 4 decades. Where were PT Usha, Leslie Claudius, Milkha Singh.....Instead we had Rani Mukherje, Aishwariya, Vivek Oberoi....
Well the state of affairs is well represented in our showing at the Olympics....
What a shame. Maybe our sports persons should all emigrate to some other country where they value their sportspersons and do not reduce one of the most hallowed sporting events into a cheap tamasha. I feel tremendously ashamed for this and I as an Indian apologise to each and every Indian sports person.
A lot of people have protested against this mainly in the letters to editors of various news papers and one of them even suggested that there was a brighter side of using filmstars to carry the torch. Atleast it got people interested in the what, where and why of the Olympics! The Union minister for sports said it was not the centre's fault that we had film stars and not sports men and women carrying the torch after it arrived back in India after 4 decades. Where were PT Usha, Leslie Claudius, Milkha Singh.....Instead we had Rani Mukherje, Aishwariya, Vivek Oberoi....
Well the state of affairs is well represented in our showing at the Olympics....
What a shame. Maybe our sports persons should all emigrate to some other country where they value their sportspersons and do not reduce one of the most hallowed sporting events into a cheap tamasha. I feel tremendously ashamed for this and I as an Indian apologise to each and every Indian sports person.
Friday, June 11, 2004
A suitable job
Last couple of weeks have been really hectic. Apart from a quick heat stroke and stomach upset, I had some good news – job interviews! One after the other. Imagine. I spend the better part of my stay in France applying to jobs and getting rejected. Infact I received so many reject letters that I could have honestly stuffed a mattress with them! And out here, within a month, I get three!
The first of these were with a to be launched magazine. They are looking for free lancers and liked some of my posts from this blog and asked me to submit some articles and take it from there. Alas…the minute I walked out of the interview, writer’ (or not yet writer but soon to be) block struck. I haven’t been able to pen a single word of the article I am to submit to them!
Next came an offer from a famous publisher’s. This is one job I’d like. Imagine someone paying me to read! I was duly asked for an editorial test. And it wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be! How is an omlette spelt? Omelette or ommelette? Ocassion or occasion? And so on and so forth. There were 8 progressively tougher excercises in all and I felt terribly drained at the end of it which I blamed on the heat stroke ofcourse. I am still keeping my fingers and toes crossed!
And just this week, I appeared for and got a job (albeit a short lived one) with a famous artist who wanted some research assistant. I spent two dreary days doing really boring administrative tasks…waiting for things to settle so that things could be explained to me better…and it was, yesterday, in a way. It got really late last night and instead of explaining my role and responsibilities, the artist kept asking me If I shared his concerns (about what may I ask?), did I feel connected with him (what ever does it mean?) and how was I feeling about it all? ‘Chaotic’ was my answer which I guess left him a wee bit disappointed. He wanted to discuss it over dinner…just the two of us which I declined (putting it mildly) and didn’t report to work this morning and wont be in future! Phew!
Wish me luck that I do get the publishing job or something nice…
The first of these were with a to be launched magazine. They are looking for free lancers and liked some of my posts from this blog and asked me to submit some articles and take it from there. Alas…the minute I walked out of the interview, writer’ (or not yet writer but soon to be) block struck. I haven’t been able to pen a single word of the article I am to submit to them!
Next came an offer from a famous publisher’s. This is one job I’d like. Imagine someone paying me to read! I was duly asked for an editorial test. And it wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be! How is an omlette spelt? Omelette or ommelette? Ocassion or occasion? And so on and so forth. There were 8 progressively tougher excercises in all and I felt terribly drained at the end of it which I blamed on the heat stroke ofcourse. I am still keeping my fingers and toes crossed!
And just this week, I appeared for and got a job (albeit a short lived one) with a famous artist who wanted some research assistant. I spent two dreary days doing really boring administrative tasks…waiting for things to settle so that things could be explained to me better…and it was, yesterday, in a way. It got really late last night and instead of explaining my role and responsibilities, the artist kept asking me If I shared his concerns (about what may I ask?), did I feel connected with him (what ever does it mean?) and how was I feeling about it all? ‘Chaotic’ was my answer which I guess left him a wee bit disappointed. He wanted to discuss it over dinner…just the two of us which I declined (putting it mildly) and didn’t report to work this morning and wont be in future! Phew!
Wish me luck that I do get the publishing job or something nice…
Monday, May 31, 2004
The Great Change
One of the first things that I did on my arrival in India was to have my palms read by a famous astrologer. My m-i-l is very keen on astrology and I am not too unkeen myself! It's like visiting a cheap shrink: Instant dose of courage and optimism!
This astrologer is an elderly lady with a piercing gaze and a very blunt manner of speaking. Unlike others, her charges are very low and she is quite accessible despite the fact that her clientele is mostly the rich and famous including our ex-PM and at the time I visited her, the general elections had just ended and a new government was being formed. She was beset with urgent visits by wives of politicians!
Anyway, she told me that a great change was headed my way and soon. It's been nearly two weeks since then and while we wait for the big change, we find that all the appliances in our house seem to have chosen this moment to collapse. The inverter (the batteries and the machine), the air conditioner, the television, the old car which was recently sold. And just this morning, m-i-l’s glasses broke as did the handle to our bedroom door. Things are breaking down almost as fast as we are replacing the old ones! Things around us at home are changing bit by bit. This then must be the ‘Great Change’ in my life, that she was talking about?!
This astrologer is an elderly lady with a piercing gaze and a very blunt manner of speaking. Unlike others, her charges are very low and she is quite accessible despite the fact that her clientele is mostly the rich and famous including our ex-PM and at the time I visited her, the general elections had just ended and a new government was being formed. She was beset with urgent visits by wives of politicians!
Anyway, she told me that a great change was headed my way and soon. It's been nearly two weeks since then and while we wait for the big change, we find that all the appliances in our house seem to have chosen this moment to collapse. The inverter (the batteries and the machine), the air conditioner, the television, the old car which was recently sold. And just this morning, m-i-l’s glasses broke as did the handle to our bedroom door. Things are breaking down almost as fast as we are replacing the old ones! Things around us at home are changing bit by bit. This then must be the ‘Great Change’ in my life, that she was talking about?!
Friday, May 28, 2004
Dust Rules
Dust Rules. Dust is king; at least it is, here. Not the oily soot of Kolkata, but a fine dust which silently creeps in and covers everything and everyone. Look into the deepest corner of your wardrobe farthest from a door or a window…sure enough…you will find some. Where does it all come from? Neighbouring Rajasthan? Or perhaps from the endless construction work all around. There are plenty of trees and plants all around, lining the roads, in gardens, but all dulled by dust.
Dust the furniture and it will be back not by evening, but within couple of hours! So the only recourse is to keep the windows and doors shut and boil inside. Atleast you are dust free. Somwhat that is. That helps to keep the bulk of the mosquitoes out too. Only a few 100 make their way in. So mosquito nets are de rigueur! Thankgod for air conditioners.
But no, wait. Once, and only once you are neatly tucked in your beds under the mosquito nets and the room has cooled down and the drone of the air con is lulling you to sleep, off goes the power. Creep out of the bed (stealthily so that the mosquitoes don’t get in) and switch off the air con, switch on the overhead ceiling fan and creep back in (hopefully the inverter is working otherwise the fan won't work) and try to sleep while the room gets progressively stuffy, hot and clammy. Somedays, the powers goes off and comes back 2 or 3 times and so the whole process is repeated as many times…till one finds it time to get up! Luckily, I can catch up on my sleep in the afternoons!
On some days, the skies darken and I feel so thrilled that I am going to experience a good and proper Indian thunderstorm. Not really. Its more likely to be a dust storm. Two days back, there was this really big dust storm all night long which played havoc with the buckets, brooms and other paraphernalia in the backyard creating quite a racket, while we sweated sleeplessly inside and did I mention the power went off!
The premonsoons are here (I hope I haven’t spoken too soon)…things are much cooler now.
Our maid has gone on leave and mother in law (mil) and I have tackled the cleaning, dusting, wiping, sweeping of our large bungalow and were congratulating ourselves on a job well done and before we could even put our brooms and buckets and dusters aside, WHOOOOSH there arose another dust storm and covered up everyone and everything in sight.
Did I mention? Dust rules?
Dust the furniture and it will be back not by evening, but within couple of hours! So the only recourse is to keep the windows and doors shut and boil inside. Atleast you are dust free. Somwhat that is. That helps to keep the bulk of the mosquitoes out too. Only a few 100 make their way in. So mosquito nets are de rigueur! Thankgod for air conditioners.
But no, wait. Once, and only once you are neatly tucked in your beds under the mosquito nets and the room has cooled down and the drone of the air con is lulling you to sleep, off goes the power. Creep out of the bed (stealthily so that the mosquitoes don’t get in) and switch off the air con, switch on the overhead ceiling fan and creep back in (hopefully the inverter is working otherwise the fan won't work) and try to sleep while the room gets progressively stuffy, hot and clammy. Somedays, the powers goes off and comes back 2 or 3 times and so the whole process is repeated as many times…till one finds it time to get up! Luckily, I can catch up on my sleep in the afternoons!
On some days, the skies darken and I feel so thrilled that I am going to experience a good and proper Indian thunderstorm. Not really. Its more likely to be a dust storm. Two days back, there was this really big dust storm all night long which played havoc with the buckets, brooms and other paraphernalia in the backyard creating quite a racket, while we sweated sleeplessly inside and did I mention the power went off!
The premonsoons are here (I hope I haven’t spoken too soon)…things are much cooler now.
Our maid has gone on leave and mother in law (mil) and I have tackled the cleaning, dusting, wiping, sweeping of our large bungalow and were congratulating ourselves on a job well done and before we could even put our brooms and buckets and dusters aside, WHOOOOSH there arose another dust storm and covered up everyone and everything in sight.
Did I mention? Dust rules?
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Monkey Business
The heat is incredible. Now I understand why it was called 'The Burning Plains'. I am stuck indoors (by choice till sundown even though the that does nothing to bring the temperature down.
However, I am more tired of answering the same two questions - Arent you a teeny bit sad at leaving France? And isn't the heat too much for you? No, No. I am not even a teeny bit sad....it was nice when we were there and now we are not. Period. And the heat is equally bad for all of us....even though I have just returned from a mild spring weather... I have lived through La Canicule in France last year - more of the same is expected this year as well.
Our house and neighbourhood is over run by monkeys who are upto what they do best - monkey business. Tearing up our prized potted plants....cutting up our neighbour water pipes which then caused a huge seepage in our common wall. We go upstairs to the terrace armed with something handy to take a swipe at them (they can be vicious). But like A remarked - where do they go? This was their home before we moved in and they were pushed more and more and now they have no where else to go...
However, I am more tired of answering the same two questions - Arent you a teeny bit sad at leaving France? And isn't the heat too much for you? No, No. I am not even a teeny bit sad....it was nice when we were there and now we are not. Period. And the heat is equally bad for all of us....even though I have just returned from a mild spring weather... I have lived through La Canicule in France last year - more of the same is expected this year as well.
Our house and neighbourhood is over run by monkeys who are upto what they do best - monkey business. Tearing up our prized potted plants....cutting up our neighbour water pipes which then caused a huge seepage in our common wall. We go upstairs to the terrace armed with something handy to take a swipe at them (they can be vicious). But like A remarked - where do they go? This was their home before we moved in and they were pushed more and more and now they have no where else to go...
Thursday, May 13, 2004
My last note from France!
Bon, je pars! Mais…je vous promis, je reviendrais bientôt, bien sûr !
Shortly, our PC will go, followed by our net connection and phone line!
By Sunday, I will be back 'en Inde'! I will take sometime to settle down and hopefully be back with my Notes from India. So till we meet again,
Au Revoir, mes amis!
Shortly, our PC will go, followed by our net connection and phone line!
By Sunday, I will be back 'en Inde'! I will take sometime to settle down and hopefully be back with my Notes from India. So till we meet again,
Au Revoir, mes amis!
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….
Saturday, May 01, 2004
New posts to my other blogs:
My other English blog
A bigger EU
Lily of the valley for the 1st of May
My bengali blog
পয়লা মে
My other English blog
A bigger EU
Lily of the valley for the 1st of May
My bengali blog
পয়লা মে
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
The Mona Lisa smile
Mona Lisa or La Joconde as she is know here in France has the curators of Louvre worried, although they did say they didn’t want to minimise or exaggerate « ni minimiser ni dramatiser », their worries about what is possibly the most famous painting in the world. The poplar wood panel on which Mona Lisa is painted is more ‘warped than previously’. The museum has launched a study. Fortunately (for tourists) the painting will remain in view throughout the period. Leonardo Da Vinci painted it sometime between 1503 and 1506 and it is said to be the portrait of the wife of a Florentine gentleman Francesco di Bartolomeo di Zanoli del Giocondo and therefore, in France, she is known as La Joconde.
The Louvre is an enormous museum with three floors and 4 wings and it is very easy to get lost and should some one really set out to see it properly, it would take a week, or maybe a fortnight or even longer. And yet, we all know what the big draw is. La Joconde. Past the entrance through the crystal pyramid and beyond the ticket counter, there are, at regular intervals, prints of Mona Lisa with a red arrow pointing the way to the where she is, in a large room, with 2 and a half walls to herself. I guess the authorities have grown tired of asking people not to film or photograph her. There are officials present who try to dissuade people from taking photos but are totally ineffective since the minute they turn their attention towards someone, some one takes the opportunity of this diversion to quickly take a snap! Infact, the hall through which one has to go through to reach the Mona Lisa, is split into two by a thick rope: One side for entering the room and the other for exiting. This is a pity because the hall contains some wonderful paintings including Da Vinci’s Virgin on the Rocks. But the huge line of people will impatiently shove you forward if you linger in front of the photos. And Mona Lisa herself is surrounded by people at all times 10 deep if not more. So more often than not, one ends up with a photo of a several heads all with cameras and a dark brownish picture! The painting has taken on a brownish cast due to the accumulation of dust and dirt and chemical changes to the varnish covering its surface. And then it is covered by a thick piece of glass for protection against a million flashes. It seems that the painting was originally larger and two coloumns one on the left and on the right have been cut away and so we don’t see Mona Lisa sitting on a terrace. The painting was damaged by acid in 1956 and took several years to restore. Louvre has so far resisted pressure to restore the painting to its original colours.
Da Vinci came to France at the invitation of Fracois 1er, spent his last days here. He sold the painting to him where it toured the chateaus of Versailles, Fontainebleau and for a time, hung in Napoleon’s bedroom and finally came to Louvre. It was stolen on August 21, 1911 by an Italian painter Vincenzo Peruggia, who wanted to return it to the country of origin. But the picture was found in Italy about two years later. Earlier, in the 60’s and 70’s, it was taken to New York, Tokyo and Moscow, but now any journey has been ruled out!
The Louvre is an enormous museum with three floors and 4 wings and it is very easy to get lost and should some one really set out to see it properly, it would take a week, or maybe a fortnight or even longer. And yet, we all know what the big draw is. La Joconde. Past the entrance through the crystal pyramid and beyond the ticket counter, there are, at regular intervals, prints of Mona Lisa with a red arrow pointing the way to the where she is, in a large room, with 2 and a half walls to herself. I guess the authorities have grown tired of asking people not to film or photograph her. There are officials present who try to dissuade people from taking photos but are totally ineffective since the minute they turn their attention towards someone, some one takes the opportunity of this diversion to quickly take a snap! Infact, the hall through which one has to go through to reach the Mona Lisa, is split into two by a thick rope: One side for entering the room and the other for exiting. This is a pity because the hall contains some wonderful paintings including Da Vinci’s Virgin on the Rocks. But the huge line of people will impatiently shove you forward if you linger in front of the photos. And Mona Lisa herself is surrounded by people at all times 10 deep if not more. So more often than not, one ends up with a photo of a several heads all with cameras and a dark brownish picture! The painting has taken on a brownish cast due to the accumulation of dust and dirt and chemical changes to the varnish covering its surface. And then it is covered by a thick piece of glass for protection against a million flashes. It seems that the painting was originally larger and two coloumns one on the left and on the right have been cut away and so we don’t see Mona Lisa sitting on a terrace. The painting was damaged by acid in 1956 and took several years to restore. Louvre has so far resisted pressure to restore the painting to its original colours.
Da Vinci came to France at the invitation of Fracois 1er, spent his last days here. He sold the painting to him where it toured the chateaus of Versailles, Fontainebleau and for a time, hung in Napoleon’s bedroom and finally came to Louvre. It was stolen on August 21, 1911 by an Italian painter Vincenzo Peruggia, who wanted to return it to the country of origin. But the picture was found in Italy about two years later. Earlier, in the 60’s and 70’s, it was taken to New York, Tokyo and Moscow, but now any journey has been ruled out!
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!!
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Happy New Year!
The Bengali New Year 1411 begins today on the 1st day of the month of Boishak which falls somewhere between 13th and the 14th of the Gregorian calendar. It’s a day of mishtis, new clothes and general merry making! The day would typically start with phone calls to near and dear and Subho nabo barsho or the more formal shubho nobo barsher priti subhecha janai. Lots and lots of sweets. Bengalis and sweets are inseparable.
The shops open their new ‘Hal Khata’ (accounts) and every customer is treated to sweets. In fact, it is a tradition to go visit your friendly neighbour store to wish them and naturally, eat sweets! This tradition happily continues even today as confirmed by my mother despite the hot and humid weather. I had rung her up to wish her and she told me that she had gone to a jewellery store to pick up something and was treated to the traditional sweets and given the weather, ice cream!
New year is always a time for hope, a time for a new beginning (at least in the mind), new resolutions etc. Luckily for us, we get two chances each year! Those of us, who couldn’t keep their January 1st resolutions, can still renew them now or add new ones! The weather out here (in France) is just perfect. Everything is literally turning a new leaf, birds are chirping, mild weather, fluffy clouds and all that! Very new yearish!
Subho Naba barsha one and all!
The shops open their new ‘Hal Khata’ (accounts) and every customer is treated to sweets. In fact, it is a tradition to go visit your friendly neighbour store to wish them and naturally, eat sweets! This tradition happily continues even today as confirmed by my mother despite the hot and humid weather. I had rung her up to wish her and she told me that she had gone to a jewellery store to pick up something and was treated to the traditional sweets and given the weather, ice cream!
New year is always a time for hope, a time for a new beginning (at least in the mind), new resolutions etc. Luckily for us, we get two chances each year! Those of us, who couldn’t keep their January 1st resolutions, can still renew them now or add new ones! The weather out here (in France) is just perfect. Everything is literally turning a new leaf, birds are chirping, mild weather, fluffy clouds and all that! Very new yearish!
Subho Naba barsha one and all!
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Ever wonder about trams in Kolkata?
I was reading Nice guy Hemanth’s article Ever wonder about Trams in Madras. It had me wondering about trams in Kolkata where till recently, you could ride one. On my last trip in Dec 2003, I noted that most of the overhead tram cables were removed to make way for the mushrooming flyovers. The Kolkatans assure me that these flyovers are sorely needed and have helped to ease the traffic jams. And yet, I can’t help rueing the phasing out of one of the oldest tram lines in the world.
When I first came to Kolkata in 1988, the front bogey was 50paisa and the second one (called the second class) was 40 paisa and was a boon to the poor. It was not an uncommon sight to see the first bogey nearly empty while the second one bursting at the seams. And it was not the poor alone who profited. The elderly too preferred the stately progress of the trams and could avoid the perilous ascent and descent from a public bus. (The seasoned kolkatan is a champion of running ascent and descent. The buses don’t halt, only slow down fractionally)!
The trams had their share of problems. There were frequent power failures and technical problems with the old trams and often one would stop and others would pile up behind it and often blocking roads and adding to the general congestion.
But that was a small price to pay compared with the gains. They were possibly the only mode of public transport that didn’t add to the already dangerous levels of pollution in Kolkata (Scroll down to the bottom of the hyper linked pages for the alarming facts on air pollution in Kolkata). There was this Norwegian who would once a year, at his own expense, take out huge full-page ads in both the English language dailies The Statesman and The Telegraph requesting the state government not to remove the trams.
But its too late to think about that. What with the state government’s inability to implement the conversion of buses to natural gas, inept pollution control board, bad sewage system, I cannot imagine the state governments losing much sleep over the bad effects of the removal of the trams. The flyovers have altered the once familiar Kolkata landscape forever and the tram tracks are now over grown with grass. Very soon, all we will have are our recollections and photos as we huff and cough our way through the smog filled roads of Kolkata.
When I first came to Kolkata in 1988, the front bogey was 50paisa and the second one (called the second class) was 40 paisa and was a boon to the poor. It was not an uncommon sight to see the first bogey nearly empty while the second one bursting at the seams. And it was not the poor alone who profited. The elderly too preferred the stately progress of the trams and could avoid the perilous ascent and descent from a public bus. (The seasoned kolkatan is a champion of running ascent and descent. The buses don’t halt, only slow down fractionally)!
The trams had their share of problems. There were frequent power failures and technical problems with the old trams and often one would stop and others would pile up behind it and often blocking roads and adding to the general congestion.
But that was a small price to pay compared with the gains. They were possibly the only mode of public transport that didn’t add to the already dangerous levels of pollution in Kolkata (Scroll down to the bottom of the hyper linked pages for the alarming facts on air pollution in Kolkata). There was this Norwegian who would once a year, at his own expense, take out huge full-page ads in both the English language dailies The Statesman and The Telegraph requesting the state government not to remove the trams.
But its too late to think about that. What with the state government’s inability to implement the conversion of buses to natural gas, inept pollution control board, bad sewage system, I cannot imagine the state governments losing much sleep over the bad effects of the removal of the trams. The flyovers have altered the once familiar Kolkata landscape forever and the tram tracks are now over grown with grass. Very soon, all we will have are our recollections and photos as we huff and cough our way through the smog filled roads of Kolkata.
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
Sunday, March 07, 2004
Holi Hai
Another Holi has come and gone. For me it was just another Samedi here. Except for a few holi greetings and R’s email, it would have, for me, passed away unnoticed. Instead, I spent the afternoon, thinking about the holis past.
The last time I played with colours, was when we had first moved into our apartment in a newly constructed building. We were young, full of energy and enthusiasm, with a building full of new friends.
The holi would be announced by kids in the next building, dropping the inevitable water balloons on unsuspecting passers-by, five flights below. Our building was enclosed within our parking space and therefore did not have access to the main road itself robbing us of this pleasure. Notices in big prints would appear all over the house ‘No colours beyond this point’. It was ignored ofcourse. On the day itself, the main gates would be shut with only the solitary guard at his post, the drivers all absent, it being a holiday. The youngest would be the first to start. They hid behind bushes and sprayed each other with their pitchkaris and more often than not, the guard, when they tired of each other. There was no one else around. We’d come down later, around 10.30 or 11ish and within a few minutes to turn into absolute frights…black or dark green being our favoured colours!! And finally we’d dunk each other with buckets of water and then drag our weary limbs upstairs and finish off with the most important ritual of scrubbing out the colours. We’d be very proud of those last obstinate tinges which would refuse to budge and go to our schools or offices the next day proudly displaying these as proof of how much fun we’ve had!
In the last few years, many of our friends moved away for higher studies or with new jobs. New people had moved in. We could no longer summon up enthusiasm for the half hours of playing and 2 hours of scrubbing the paint off. The last couple of years before I came to France, I did not play holi. It was like any other holiday for me
Thinking over the years of different holis in different places, with different sets of friends, one memory resurfaced from deep down, crystal clear, every detail replaying itself as if I was there and it was happening now.
I was four and in Assam. We were living happily in a small bungalow. My nanny was very occupied with R who was just a baby. Her eldest daughter Manjudidi was my enlisted to make sure I kept out of trouble. She was in her late teens and although I was quite unaware of it then, she must have been quite an attractive girl. Passers by would stare at her, pass comments and once a cyclist swerved right onto us and tried to grab her. She picked up a stone from the roadside and flung it at him and he pedalled away furiously.
During those years, R and I didn’t play holi. Ma and baba did. They would be back by noon, take a bath and scrub off their colours, have lunch and since it would be a holiday, retire for a siesta. The same thing happened that day too. I was as usual, left to my own devices. Suddenly the drowsy silence was broken by a loud commotion from the courtyard. There was a small gate in the wall behind our bungalow from the covered courtyard. 4 men had entered quietly and grabbed Manjudidi and was dragging her toward the door. She put up a tremendous fight, screaming shouting, flailing her limbs. Her shrieks brought all of us outside. Our cook ran out with a heavy ladle in his hands followed by his helper. My nanny and ma too joined in and only when baba came out and shouted did the men leave her and make a hasty exit through the gate. By that time, Manjudidi had managed to bite and scratch them properly. The door was firmly bolted and everyone retired indoors for hushed conversations. R slept peacefully through it all. I was ignored by all. It must have been over in a couple of minutes at the most but to me it seemed like an eternity. No one explained to me about what happened. But the sight of those men pulling her remained imprinted on my brain for days afterwards.
Soon afterwards, we moved into a larger bungalow, just across the road. I had loads to keep me occupied. I was going to a new big schools and had many friends. Our new house was a veritable orchards with a much bigger garden. I spent a lot of time among the mango, grape fruit, jackfruit, litchi, tamarind trees, among the beds of pineapples, vegetable gardens behind, flower beds or simply on the green lawns.
Manjudidi herself was no longer with us, having gone to Delhi with a family to look after their baby.
Next holi, I heard our cook and my nanny whispering and pointing outside. Those men were back, restlessly prowling around our old bungalow across the road. They looked puzzled to find a new family there. They sat on a fallen log and stared at the house for a long time. Late in the evening, they gave up and went away.
A year later, we left Assam. And bit by bit, the terror went away. We have had many holis since then, some fun, some tiresome but once in a while, a twinge, a sudden unexplained feeling of unease would flash across me. Perhaps, it was this memory of my first holi, a horrible one, forgotten for the moment, but never gone.
This year, sitting so far away with not a single thing to show that half way across the world, an entire sub-continent is awash with colours and screams of ‘holi hai’ in the air….I wonder where you are my dear Manju didi. Are you playing holi this year with your family and kids? Or are you thinking about that horrible holi so long ago. I hope you have forgotten all about it, and are enjoying yourself.
Glossary Indian words
Holi - Indian festival of colour
pitchkaris - A sort of water pistol to spray coloured water during holi
didi - elder sister
The last time I played with colours, was when we had first moved into our apartment in a newly constructed building. We were young, full of energy and enthusiasm, with a building full of new friends.
The holi would be announced by kids in the next building, dropping the inevitable water balloons on unsuspecting passers-by, five flights below. Our building was enclosed within our parking space and therefore did not have access to the main road itself robbing us of this pleasure. Notices in big prints would appear all over the house ‘No colours beyond this point’. It was ignored ofcourse. On the day itself, the main gates would be shut with only the solitary guard at his post, the drivers all absent, it being a holiday. The youngest would be the first to start. They hid behind bushes and sprayed each other with their pitchkaris and more often than not, the guard, when they tired of each other. There was no one else around. We’d come down later, around 10.30 or 11ish and within a few minutes to turn into absolute frights…black or dark green being our favoured colours!! And finally we’d dunk each other with buckets of water and then drag our weary limbs upstairs and finish off with the most important ritual of scrubbing out the colours. We’d be very proud of those last obstinate tinges which would refuse to budge and go to our schools or offices the next day proudly displaying these as proof of how much fun we’ve had!
In the last few years, many of our friends moved away for higher studies or with new jobs. New people had moved in. We could no longer summon up enthusiasm for the half hours of playing and 2 hours of scrubbing the paint off. The last couple of years before I came to France, I did not play holi. It was like any other holiday for me
Thinking over the years of different holis in different places, with different sets of friends, one memory resurfaced from deep down, crystal clear, every detail replaying itself as if I was there and it was happening now.
I was four and in Assam. We were living happily in a small bungalow. My nanny was very occupied with R who was just a baby. Her eldest daughter Manjudidi was my enlisted to make sure I kept out of trouble. She was in her late teens and although I was quite unaware of it then, she must have been quite an attractive girl. Passers by would stare at her, pass comments and once a cyclist swerved right onto us and tried to grab her. She picked up a stone from the roadside and flung it at him and he pedalled away furiously.
During those years, R and I didn’t play holi. Ma and baba did. They would be back by noon, take a bath and scrub off their colours, have lunch and since it would be a holiday, retire for a siesta. The same thing happened that day too. I was as usual, left to my own devices. Suddenly the drowsy silence was broken by a loud commotion from the courtyard. There was a small gate in the wall behind our bungalow from the covered courtyard. 4 men had entered quietly and grabbed Manjudidi and was dragging her toward the door. She put up a tremendous fight, screaming shouting, flailing her limbs. Her shrieks brought all of us outside. Our cook ran out with a heavy ladle in his hands followed by his helper. My nanny and ma too joined in and only when baba came out and shouted did the men leave her and make a hasty exit through the gate. By that time, Manjudidi had managed to bite and scratch them properly. The door was firmly bolted and everyone retired indoors for hushed conversations. R slept peacefully through it all. I was ignored by all. It must have been over in a couple of minutes at the most but to me it seemed like an eternity. No one explained to me about what happened. But the sight of those men pulling her remained imprinted on my brain for days afterwards.
Soon afterwards, we moved into a larger bungalow, just across the road. I had loads to keep me occupied. I was going to a new big schools and had many friends. Our new house was a veritable orchards with a much bigger garden. I spent a lot of time among the mango, grape fruit, jackfruit, litchi, tamarind trees, among the beds of pineapples, vegetable gardens behind, flower beds or simply on the green lawns.
Manjudidi herself was no longer with us, having gone to Delhi with a family to look after their baby.
Next holi, I heard our cook and my nanny whispering and pointing outside. Those men were back, restlessly prowling around our old bungalow across the road. They looked puzzled to find a new family there. They sat on a fallen log and stared at the house for a long time. Late in the evening, they gave up and went away.
A year later, we left Assam. And bit by bit, the terror went away. We have had many holis since then, some fun, some tiresome but once in a while, a twinge, a sudden unexplained feeling of unease would flash across me. Perhaps, it was this memory of my first holi, a horrible one, forgotten for the moment, but never gone.
This year, sitting so far away with not a single thing to show that half way across the world, an entire sub-continent is awash with colours and screams of ‘holi hai’ in the air….I wonder where you are my dear Manju didi. Are you playing holi this year with your family and kids? Or are you thinking about that horrible holi so long ago. I hope you have forgotten all about it, and are enjoying yourself.
Glossary Indian words
Holi - Indian festival of colour
pitchkaris - A sort of water pistol to spray coloured water during holi
didi - elder sister
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