"Where are my Oktoberfest shoes?" he called. Oktoberfest shoes? If that means nothing to you, then you are thankfully not among the 7 million who flock to Munich this time of year, sporting the standard ensemble worn by Americans and Australians alike at the 200 year old folk-festival turned Beer craze. The Oktoberfest, a.k.a as the Wiesn put little Munich on the map. The quintessence of the festival being Beer, it's ceremonious entry and unceremonious exit from the human body. An event at which people from all over the world converge eagerly, bent upon repeatedly testing their (in)ability to handle large amounts of alcohol. Lederhosen clad tourists coat the streets of Munich or lie around in undignified human piles.
Munich is bursting at the seams. Had it not been for the meticulous German measures and controls, the city would be catapulted into total drunken chaos. The strain of handling 5 to 6 times it's native population, most of which are in the form of intoxicated beer corpses, shows in everything from public transport and paramedics to the overloaded police force. It's all they do can to keep the security and sanity of the city. Even so, it is not uncommon that rape and even death are noted within the Oktoberfest premises or in its immediate proximity. Neither the obvious danger nor the already exorbitant and steadily rising prices at the Fest are a deterrent. The hordes of people keep flowing, as does the beer.
The Oktoberfest is an important part of the Bavarian culture, having been around so long. Still, one can't imagine they are completely comfortable watching their local costumes and traditional clothes reduce to something of a drunken uniform. How would it look if Indians only wore their Saris to eat rice and curry? Then have masses of toursits adorn Saris, as they consume bushels full of rice and curry! Germans are wearing their traditional alpine costumes like the Dirndl less and less - before and after the Oktoberfest that is - thereby not only supporting but also promoting their Oktoberfest image.
Ok, let's try another angle here. It's easy to hate the whole Wiesn Meshugaas and to vilify its faithful. It's harder to understand it's attraction though. Why people travel from all the corners of the earth and spend ridiculous amounts of money, recession or no recession, to drink themselves senseless at this one place? Unreasonable amounts of alcohol can be consumed in several, easier accessible locations. The economic motivators for the breweries and the city are obvious. According to some statistics each time the band in a beer tent encourages guests to clink their mugs, 1000 Litres of beer is consumed, which happens several times hourly, in 15 tents. 7,5 Million Mass (1 Liter beer mugs) are sold at the Wiesn, that's more than 1 Liter of beer per person on an average. Not even taking into account the hundreds and thousands of roasted chicken and other sorts of grease oozing goodies downed to counter the alcohol. The stats are mind-boggling, the Wiesn is ALWAYS a smashing success. More every year.
What's in it for it's patrons though? What brings them and keeps them? Viktor E. Frankl claims man is constantly in search for meaning in his life. Does the Oktoberfest celebrate the ones that have found it or console the ones that are still looking? Did Viktor get it all wrong, maybe all we are looking for is a pair of Lederhosen to drink the next Mass in. Prost!
Eyes
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
Wednesday, 27 June 2012
R.I.P Triops
His craze for Dinosaurs has lasted 3 years now. Before that it was Airplanes, duration of craze - also 3 years. Throw in the first year of babyhood and the expanse of his life has been accounted for. Yes, he's nothing if he's not consistent, and yes, my little boy turned 7 this year. Months in advance he had picked out his birthday gift - a Jurassic Expedition set, 'with REAL fossils' it said on the box. On his birthday, he impatiently tore off the last separation of gift wrapping to finally be united with his much longed for gift. Along with excavation kits with bits of plastic bone packed into soft clay and Dinosaur jigsaw puzzles was a teeeny tiny pouch labeled 'Triops eggs' and another comparatively big box labeled 'feed'.
Triops, a kind of crustacean, are among the longest lived species earning them the title of 'living fossils'. Their fossil record reaches back to as far as 350 million years, remaining virtually unchanged since the Triassic period. In short an exceptionally hardy, resilient piece of nature. Apparently my 7 year old son, and because of him all of us, would be able to conveniently observe the birth and life of these remarkable species in the domestic comfort of our home. Indeed, how very convenient!
We set out in childlike excitement to find a home for the precious eggs to hatch and grow. Only the most elaborate aquarium was good enough for our new guests. we brought home an 80 x 40 cm tank, to hold about 130l of water all fitted with trappings of air pump, heater, illumination, filter, automatic feeding mechanism. We were ready! Imagine, we were going to have our very own fossil pets! Who needed dogs or cats or birds in cages or nimbly gnawing hamsters or guinea pigs when we could experience the magic of life unfold as it did (with some minor alterations) 350 million years ago! Then the sand was washed and poured in and an ensemble of hand picked rocks and stones adorned the Aquarium floor. At last the precious eggs were immersed into the water! Let the transportation back in time commence! From that point onwards, all eyes were kept peeled on the aquarium for the slightest signs of movement in the blankness of this uninhabited water world. Two chairs seating two gaping kids were permanently parked at the aquarium from where their noses stayed glued to the glass. Air bubbles rushed out from the vent in a constant steady, monotonously reliable stream, the bright white tube light shone down in the water, never waning, never waxing. We waited, and we waited....and Voila!! Amidst the lifelessly floating bubbles, and sediments was a shivering white speck! Microscopically throbbing, as only life can, clearly distinguishable in it's vigour from the inanimate specks. A natural ebullience shone through to us from within the glass enclosure. They were hatched and they were here! As the count went, more than a dozen dinosaur shrimps. The 7 year olds quickly assumed an officious sense of responsibility for the new borns, instructions to the feed cycles were carefully studied. Duties were distributed and responsibly accepted.
Humans and their children were amused and entertained by yet another successful domestication.
As the hours and the days passed on, the micro millimeter jerks and jitters that are their natural movement got ever increasingly nervous...or was it just my imagination?! Their sudden entry into this world of changing constants, of always bright or always dark, always bubbling or always not, seemed to be somewhat overwhelming. Instinctively they appeared to be searching for something, someone to protect them, teach them to eat, to swim....to survive. All that space made for so much emptiness. Save the bubbles batting them around, other life there was none. They fought off the currents, and searched till they tired. In a day the population had depleted, in two there was just one lone confused fighter to be spotted, last fish swimming. In three days there were none. All gone. The hardiest, most resilient creatures undermined.
Now the young spectators marvel poignantly from their prime seats at the emptiness of bubbly water. "They're just hiding in the rocks" said one. "Yes, they'll come out in another 350 million years" said the other. R.I.P Triops.
Triops, a kind of crustacean, are among the longest lived species earning them the title of 'living fossils'. Their fossil record reaches back to as far as 350 million years, remaining virtually unchanged since the Triassic period. In short an exceptionally hardy, resilient piece of nature. Apparently my 7 year old son, and because of him all of us, would be able to conveniently observe the birth and life of these remarkable species in the domestic comfort of our home. Indeed, how very convenient!
We set out in childlike excitement to find a home for the precious eggs to hatch and grow. Only the most elaborate aquarium was good enough for our new guests. we brought home an 80 x 40 cm tank, to hold about 130l of water all fitted with trappings of air pump, heater, illumination, filter, automatic feeding mechanism. We were ready! Imagine, we were going to have our very own fossil pets! Who needed dogs or cats or birds in cages or nimbly gnawing hamsters or guinea pigs when we could experience the magic of life unfold as it did (with some minor alterations) 350 million years ago! Then the sand was washed and poured in and an ensemble of hand picked rocks and stones adorned the Aquarium floor. At last the precious eggs were immersed into the water! Let the transportation back in time commence! From that point onwards, all eyes were kept peeled on the aquarium for the slightest signs of movement in the blankness of this uninhabited water world. Two chairs seating two gaping kids were permanently parked at the aquarium from where their noses stayed glued to the glass. Air bubbles rushed out from the vent in a constant steady, monotonously reliable stream, the bright white tube light shone down in the water, never waning, never waxing. We waited, and we waited....and Voila!! Amidst the lifelessly floating bubbles, and sediments was a shivering white speck! Microscopically throbbing, as only life can, clearly distinguishable in it's vigour from the inanimate specks. A natural ebullience shone through to us from within the glass enclosure. They were hatched and they were here! As the count went, more than a dozen dinosaur shrimps. The 7 year olds quickly assumed an officious sense of responsibility for the new borns, instructions to the feed cycles were carefully studied. Duties were distributed and responsibly accepted.
Humans and their children were amused and entertained by yet another successful domestication.
As the hours and the days passed on, the micro millimeter jerks and jitters that are their natural movement got ever increasingly nervous...or was it just my imagination?! Their sudden entry into this world of changing constants, of always bright or always dark, always bubbling or always not, seemed to be somewhat overwhelming. Instinctively they appeared to be searching for something, someone to protect them, teach them to eat, to swim....to survive. All that space made for so much emptiness. Save the bubbles batting them around, other life there was none. They fought off the currents, and searched till they tired. In a day the population had depleted, in two there was just one lone confused fighter to be spotted, last fish swimming. In three days there were none. All gone. The hardiest, most resilient creatures undermined.
Now the young spectators marvel poignantly from their prime seats at the emptiness of bubbly water. "They're just hiding in the rocks" said one. "Yes, they'll come out in another 350 million years" said the other. R.I.P Triops.
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
Patriotism.
In the throes of Visa renewals again. If some could have their way, I would need a Visa to see the rest room at transit airports. The many delights of being the proud owner of an invaluable hand written Indian passport (Paradox?). Too bad the rest of the world can't appreciate the personal touches of cutely scribbled illegible Name, misspelt and hence non-existent address, random stranger's name for Husband, Mother's name swapped with Father's etc, on an official document of identity. Sloppiness and Cricket are our national sports. Facts that identity is defined by, become a matter of interpretation. In a way it is also a constant reminder of their ineffectiveness. I take no offense at the heaves and sighs of exasperation at passport control, at always slowing down the line. They will fumble, to my perverse pleasure, with my un-scannable passport and then resign begrudgingly to the primitiveness of manual entry.
I see this as a test. The more I travel, the more I am tested. Will I succumb to the ease of European citizenship? Will I submit to the convenience of sailing in and out of countries without any of the ritualistic drama ensuing when I produce proof of indecipherable identity? Oooooh the temptations of a scannable passport! What of National pride and Patriotism? Yes, What about Patriotism? Will I be letting down my country of 1.2 billion if one of me rejected my original Indian identity? I could flatter myself with my self-appointed importance.
Eventually it is not out of love for country and homeland that I cling on to my origins, rather something much more personal. Out of the need to believe in who I am, where I came from and what I am. It is not my nation I would defend and love with my last breath, it is myself.
Bring it on now, the demeaning interrogations and belittling processes, all aimed at determining if A.) I am going to plonk (save yourself the trouble, I already have!) or B.) I am a terrorist (investment here may well be worth the effort). For as long as there is self-mockery, I will be soothed and amused and my Indian handcrafted identity is alas the only one in it's sloppy uniqueness that truly represents me.
I see this as a test. The more I travel, the more I am tested. Will I succumb to the ease of European citizenship? Will I submit to the convenience of sailing in and out of countries without any of the ritualistic drama ensuing when I produce proof of indecipherable identity? Oooooh the temptations of a scannable passport! What of National pride and Patriotism? Yes, What about Patriotism? Will I be letting down my country of 1.2 billion if one of me rejected my original Indian identity? I could flatter myself with my self-appointed importance.
Eventually it is not out of love for country and homeland that I cling on to my origins, rather something much more personal. Out of the need to believe in who I am, where I came from and what I am. It is not my nation I would defend and love with my last breath, it is myself.
Bring it on now, the demeaning interrogations and belittling processes, all aimed at determining if A.) I am going to plonk (save yourself the trouble, I already have!) or B.) I am a terrorist (investment here may well be worth the effort). For as long as there is self-mockery, I will be soothed and amused and my Indian handcrafted identity is alas the only one in it's sloppy uniqueness that truly represents me.
Monday, 28 May 2012
The invitation.
'Come in' he said, when my husband was home.
'Come in and sit down, you look tired and worn'.
The table was set for him and one more, and no other.
Vanilla Sauce, apple pie. Laid out on a lace cover.
'Sit you down then' he said, to my befuddled husband.
'tis a somewhat odd story, so breathe in deep. It's all a little muddled'
The pie smelt delicious, the coffe was steaming
'That's my first Vanilla sauce', he said almost beaming!
'I am weary these days' said this man to my husband.
'I was glad for sociability, being so much on my own.
"Oh don't mope!" said your wife when we met at the store.
"Come by for some coffee and apple pie at Four".
'They are all away now, both your kids and their mother'.
'For you see when I came by, total mayhem was the order!
little girls in tutus were slipping on their ballet shoes,
"Watch my son! Stir the sauce! I'm running late", was her excuse.
The pie was in the oven, the timer would ring,
"Stick around" she called out "I'll be back before you blink".
'She was gone in a flash, amidst the smell of browning apples',
'And there was me in your home, the oven timer was my shackle'.
'As I gathered back my bearings, came a sense of foreboding,
your son, he was not helping. His suspicion kept on mounting.
I concentrated on the stirring, though that feeling kept recurring.
Then suddenly he was whisked off too, by a unknown lady in a whirring Subaru'.
As my husband heard him out, patient with his nervous recount.
How he got here, why he stayed, lost control and well-obeyed.
His thrifty wife had struck again, yet another will was slain.
He smiled and kicked his legs up. Leaning back, sipping his coffee cup.
'I'll be damned!' he beamed, with wicked satisfaction.
There ARE more fools than I to be had!
It's reassuring to know I'm not the only one thats mad!
'Come in and sit down, you look tired and worn'.
The table was set for him and one more, and no other.
Vanilla Sauce, apple pie. Laid out on a lace cover.
'Sit you down then' he said, to my befuddled husband.
'tis a somewhat odd story, so breathe in deep. It's all a little muddled'
The pie smelt delicious, the coffe was steaming
'That's my first Vanilla sauce', he said almost beaming!
'I am weary these days' said this man to my husband.
'I was glad for sociability, being so much on my own.
"Oh don't mope!" said your wife when we met at the store.
"Come by for some coffee and apple pie at Four".
'They are all away now, both your kids and their mother'.
'For you see when I came by, total mayhem was the order!
little girls in tutus were slipping on their ballet shoes,
"Watch my son! Stir the sauce! I'm running late", was her excuse.
The pie was in the oven, the timer would ring,
"Stick around" she called out "I'll be back before you blink".
'She was gone in a flash, amidst the smell of browning apples',
'And there was me in your home, the oven timer was my shackle'.
'As I gathered back my bearings, came a sense of foreboding,
your son, he was not helping. His suspicion kept on mounting.
I concentrated on the stirring, though that feeling kept recurring.
Then suddenly he was whisked off too, by a unknown lady in a whirring Subaru'.
As my husband heard him out, patient with his nervous recount.
How he got here, why he stayed, lost control and well-obeyed.
His thrifty wife had struck again, yet another will was slain.
He smiled and kicked his legs up. Leaning back, sipping his coffee cup.
'I'll be damned!' he beamed, with wicked satisfaction.
There ARE more fools than I to be had!
It's reassuring to know I'm not the only one thats mad!
Thursday, 29 March 2012
Real stars.
The world of celebrities has lately seen a trail of wasteful deaths: Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse and most recently Whitney Houston. People of phenomenal abilities, gifted with remarkable skills and good fortune with the power to draw and keep the attention of enraptured fans for decades...and then get knocked-out by the blow of stardom. Towering personalities, shrunken. Weakness overshadowed accomplishments, checked off easily in numbers, strings of consecutive no 1's, Grammy's, sold records. In the end, they couldn't be saved from themselves. Pure God-given wealth, trashed. Conveniently, there is always someone or something to blame. Whitney Houston's ill-fated marriage to Bobby Brown and descent into drugs, Amy Winehouse's hapless addiction to alcohol and drugs, Michael Jackson's...can't even a keep track of his apologies, and drugs.
It is enviable that some people are born to be effortlessly good at things. Born with the gift of beauty, unusual intelligence or skill. The especially genetically favoured! Are the rest sitting on their hands waiting for brilliance to kick in? Are cliffs being blocked off in a rush, to keep them from jumping off when they realise it won't? I'm referring to the stars of average existences that find a preternatural ability to forge on, the real stars of life.
The kind who hold the trusting hands of their dying child through the last year of her life. Knowing she will never go to school, never learn to swim, never fall in love, never feel a first kiss. Knowing she can never know. So they keep her smiling, playing, singing, while they watch her fade. Doing their crying in the rain.
Of the kind who throw on their business suits and stilettos, splash on the mascara, slap on the smile and head right back to the corporate grind, only hours after being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. The show goes on, the living continues while there is life. You feel your way along an unfamiliar path. Improvising, adapting because there are children to raise and bills to be paid.
And of the kind who left home on a happy holiday, to return as only half the couple and person they were. Ashes in place of what should be a person. Picking up the pieces and dropping them again, practicing till you learn to hold it together. Because you go on. Not out of a lack of options. Out of choice.
Choosing not to succumb to the temptation of self-pitying weakness. Choosing to generate outstanding grit.
I hereby declare myself an ardent fan, of real stars.
It is enviable that some people are born to be effortlessly good at things. Born with the gift of beauty, unusual intelligence or skill. The especially genetically favoured! Are the rest sitting on their hands waiting for brilliance to kick in? Are cliffs being blocked off in a rush, to keep them from jumping off when they realise it won't? I'm referring to the stars of average existences that find a preternatural ability to forge on, the real stars of life.
The kind who hold the trusting hands of their dying child through the last year of her life. Knowing she will never go to school, never learn to swim, never fall in love, never feel a first kiss. Knowing she can never know. So they keep her smiling, playing, singing, while they watch her fade. Doing their crying in the rain.
Of the kind who throw on their business suits and stilettos, splash on the mascara, slap on the smile and head right back to the corporate grind, only hours after being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. The show goes on, the living continues while there is life. You feel your way along an unfamiliar path. Improvising, adapting because there are children to raise and bills to be paid.
And of the kind who left home on a happy holiday, to return as only half the couple and person they were. Ashes in place of what should be a person. Picking up the pieces and dropping them again, practicing till you learn to hold it together. Because you go on. Not out of a lack of options. Out of choice.
Choosing not to succumb to the temptation of self-pitying weakness. Choosing to generate outstanding grit.
I hereby declare myself an ardent fan, of real stars.
Thursday, 8 March 2012
My James Bond moment.
(Surely!) Everyone has one such weakness. A faculty so underdeveloped, it borders on retardation. Since that's the case, I feel ok to reveal mine. With me it's my sense of direction, actually the non-existence of orientation in my case. Incidentally, I have been compensated, like with my ability to multi-task, which vastly surpasses that of average humans. Or so I believed. In any case, weaknesses, borderline retardation, exceptional abilities - all of these lead me to my James Bond moment.
It was her Birthday and I wanted my piece of the cake that morning, which was that she was fine. She was fine, and it hadn't been that way for weeks. The dark cloud had cleared for today, it was a party in my mind. I rushed through my morning routine to catch her before she left. Dashed out, jumped into the car and drove out. Phew, in comfortably good time! Can cruise along at ease. My familiar route to work. Roads I know like the back of my palm. The car is my least preferred mode of transport and I do avoid it as far as I can. Still I must have driven this route at least, what, 20 times in the last 5 years? Listening to uninterrupted radio is one of the few treats of driving. "Pa pa poker face, pa pa poker face", can't.. quite.. check out my Lady Gaga face in the rear view mirror.. bummer! "Can't read my, Can't read my, N'bdy can read my poker face" maybe if I stretch over a little bit more...seriously do I see another pimple?! What the..! Is there no other part of my youth that my body is capable of preserving, other than the sprouting of pimples? Hey, I wonder if the German's realise that the the radio churns out the same 5 songs ALL through the day, cyclically, in good German order, over and over and over again. The audience must particularly like just these 5 songs, how very peculiar they can be! There goes song #3 again, "Never mind I'll find someone like you-oo..". Huh? Did that board just say 'Unterhaching', crap! Where the hell is that, i.e, where the hell am I?? Must have overshot the exit! No matter, no worry, will just flip on the Sat nav and type in destination...was never very good at single handed steering. Should take me to the next escape hatch.....Song #2. Searching, searching, no GPS...still no FRIGGIN GPS!! Not too bad, hasn't got any worse. I didn't know where I was, still don't know where I am. Of all the things in all the world that we own, a functioning Sat nav isn't one of them! No matter, have myself a very savvy iphone, HA! Don't need no lousy SEARCHING Sat nav! My cellularly occupied schizophrenic eyes go from road....to Sat nav....to iphone. Running out of hands here, will just have to stay on this gear.........blinking red lights, did I just drive past blinking red lights? Much too low for traffic lights, blinking with a tourettic kind of insistence. 'Nbdy can read my poker face', song #2. I see a gate barrier coming down on me, I am driving on tracks. Help...another gate barrier in front of me, almost all the way down...almost home. I missed the bells, that's what level crossings with trains approaching do in India, they have bells that go 'Ding, Ding, Ding', you can't miss it. 'I wish nothing but the best for you'. I stood on the accelerator, not stepped, but literally stood on it, so help me God! I felt the barrier shave the back bumper, angry for missing the kill. The traffic across the barrier stood, as I did, in a daze, disoriented now more than ever before. I heard the train whizz past. Chaka chu chu, chaka chu chu. My 007 moment, James Bond of the day.
The sun shone warm for the first time since winter, not just bright providing light, but warm. The first day in the year that you shed the impediments of the cold, of coat and scarf and gloves and hat....and feel the sun. Nothing more between the sun and your skin. And you feel alive. When I hugged her I knew she was fine, and so was I. And so was I.
It was her Birthday and I wanted my piece of the cake that morning, which was that she was fine. She was fine, and it hadn't been that way for weeks. The dark cloud had cleared for today, it was a party in my mind. I rushed through my morning routine to catch her before she left. Dashed out, jumped into the car and drove out. Phew, in comfortably good time! Can cruise along at ease. My familiar route to work. Roads I know like the back of my palm. The car is my least preferred mode of transport and I do avoid it as far as I can. Still I must have driven this route at least, what, 20 times in the last 5 years? Listening to uninterrupted radio is one of the few treats of driving. "Pa pa poker face, pa pa poker face", can't.. quite.. check out my Lady Gaga face in the rear view mirror.. bummer! "Can't read my, Can't read my, N'bdy can read my poker face" maybe if I stretch over a little bit more...seriously do I see another pimple?! What the..! Is there no other part of my youth that my body is capable of preserving, other than the sprouting of pimples? Hey, I wonder if the German's realise that the the radio churns out the same 5 songs ALL through the day, cyclically, in good German order, over and over and over again. The audience must particularly like just these 5 songs, how very peculiar they can be! There goes song #3 again, "Never mind I'll find someone like you-oo..". Huh? Did that board just say 'Unterhaching', crap! Where the hell is that, i.e, where the hell am I?? Must have overshot the exit! No matter, no worry, will just flip on the Sat nav and type in destination...was never very good at single handed steering. Should take me to the next escape hatch.....Song #2. Searching, searching, no GPS...still no FRIGGIN GPS!! Not too bad, hasn't got any worse. I didn't know where I was, still don't know where I am. Of all the things in all the world that we own, a functioning Sat nav isn't one of them! No matter, have myself a very savvy iphone, HA! Don't need no lousy SEARCHING Sat nav! My cellularly occupied schizophrenic eyes go from road....to Sat nav....to iphone. Running out of hands here, will just have to stay on this gear.........blinking red lights, did I just drive past blinking red lights? Much too low for traffic lights, blinking with a tourettic kind of insistence. 'Nbdy can read my poker face', song #2. I see a gate barrier coming down on me, I am driving on tracks. Help...another gate barrier in front of me, almost all the way down...almost home. I missed the bells, that's what level crossings with trains approaching do in India, they have bells that go 'Ding, Ding, Ding', you can't miss it. 'I wish nothing but the best for you'. I stood on the accelerator, not stepped, but literally stood on it, so help me God! I felt the barrier shave the back bumper, angry for missing the kill. The traffic across the barrier stood, as I did, in a daze, disoriented now more than ever before. I heard the train whizz past. Chaka chu chu, chaka chu chu. My 007 moment, James Bond of the day.
The sun shone warm for the first time since winter, not just bright providing light, but warm. The first day in the year that you shed the impediments of the cold, of coat and scarf and gloves and hat....and feel the sun. Nothing more between the sun and your skin. And you feel alive. When I hugged her I knew she was fine, and so was I. And so was I.
Friday, 2 December 2011
I'll be home for Christmas.
Frank Sinatra is crooning 'Walking in the winter wonderland' in healthy competition with the whirring of the ceiling fans, gangs of barking dogs outside, the simultaneous chatter of mum, dad, children, us and whoever else breezes in and out. The weather is mild this time of year in Mumbai. 25℃ and pleasant, as the Mumbaikars are wont to say. The familiar, humidity enhanced, plasticky smell of the Christmas tree still in it's box mingles with the spicy Sorpatel wafting in as it simmers with contained fury on the fire. It's aging process underway. Frank Sinatra, completely in his element, proceeds to 'Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow'. Someone turns the volume up a notch. In a little while the tree will be assembled and the kids will be encouraged to decorate it and then get praised for what looks like a wind blown jumble of confused ornaments, all suspended around the same height and centered on one side of the tree. Giving it the unfortunate effect of one, flat dimension. All through the season it will stay like that, in respectful appreciation of the kids efforts. My mum will fiercely defend the arrangement against changes. Improvements are hastily un-improved to restore the original chaos. Later that night, Christmas will be ushered in with another couple thousand people at an open-air mass at midnight. It's a riot of colours and fashion and music, this mass. Vibrant, brocaded Sarees, tailor made dresses, children proud in shiny new Christmas clothes. The choir churns out impressively multi-linguistic carols in notoriously unmindful falsetto. Not only English and regional Indian languages, but also the German 'O Tannenbaum', mutilated beyond recognition! After mass, as tradition has it, my dear mum with her big Bambi eyes, will land me with a giant ball of crumpled gift paper and her 20 something gifts for grandchildren, children, husband, neighbour, friends, 44th cousin, dogs, etc., that elf-me toils the night away at. Mumbai is apparently Santa's last stop. Christmas morning is greeted with the ginormous hound, i.e house pet, feeding on some of the freshly wrapped pressies. It will go unnoticed, my mum is at her regally radiant best this morning, everyone is as happy as can be.
This is Christmas as I know and love it.
It will be traded in this year for Christmas with the charms of Europe. No deviously implausible scheme to flee it this time. Christmas preparations commenced at our European home in November to mitigate bouts of homesickness early on. There will be a real tree (steeling myself and kids for it's inevitable cremation afterwards), the romantic smell of pine, Frank Sinatra without competition, gambles over a white Christmas or no white Christmas, the real 'Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht' to a candle lit church gathering at an earthly hour of 04:00 in the afternoon. A quiet Christmas. This is a Christmas that I know now too, a kind I have learned to love.
Santa has just stopped by and headed on. I wonder....which elf will help with the heap of gifts in Mumbai tonight?
This is Christmas as I know and love it.
It will be traded in this year for Christmas with the charms of Europe. No deviously implausible scheme to flee it this time. Christmas preparations commenced at our European home in November to mitigate bouts of homesickness early on. There will be a real tree (steeling myself and kids for it's inevitable cremation afterwards), the romantic smell of pine, Frank Sinatra without competition, gambles over a white Christmas or no white Christmas, the real 'Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht' to a candle lit church gathering at an earthly hour of 04:00 in the afternoon. A quiet Christmas. This is a Christmas that I know now too, a kind I have learned to love.
Santa has just stopped by and headed on. I wonder....which elf will help with the heap of gifts in Mumbai tonight?
Friday, 21 October 2011
40 and counting.
In Westerheim you have grown,
in a quiet, idyllic country home.
From there you ventured on early
on many an adventurous journey.
From Augsburg and Memmingen.
From Munich to Mumbai.
You came, you saw, you rocked!
Had it not been for your skin colour,
the Indians would even call you brother!
So, what is your most winning asset?
Maybe it's just that you're cheerful to a fault.
Taking life like it is. That is all.
To one who smiles through winter's and fall,
What is 40 to you?
You'll just rock on!
Saturday, 8 October 2011
Slipping through my fingers.
They bring us up. They teach us. About freedom and simplicity, about magic sans a prefect illusion, about fantasy, about forgiveness and boundless love. I'm learning about unicorns and horses and dinosaurs. That mature miniature Stallions exist, and of Skewbalds and Golden Palomino's. I learnt that horses are measured in Hands. I learnt that the Apatosaurus kept rocks in its stomach to 'chew' vegetation that was swallowed whole. My living space is shared with a 3 feet high black plastic T-Rex skeleton, now an integral part of our family. It was T-Rex skeleton's birthday yesterday, all sorts of stuffed and glittery animals were invited. It was a special day for T-Rex, whose bony frame seemed plump with happiness.
They will grow up with or without me, my children. The will be adults and they will make their own mistakes. They may learn (or not) from them. I am dispensable, no illusions there. Only incidentally am I the parent. In return, I am enriched by the experience of observing minds and bodies develop. I get another go at childhood. I am honoured with the power of influencing it. It is a brief, intense experience and I'm trying to keep my eyes open, deflect distraction and pay attention. It will be my loss if I don't, not theirs. I would miss out on a precious, essential detail.
I overly dramatised their starting of school, crying my eyes out as the school musician strummed his guitar and sang Abba's 'Slipping through my fingers' at the welcoming ceremony thereby successfully, cunningly nailing every melting mother out there. Me, he got twice over, in succession, for each twin! My son's searching eyes were just a little annoyed when they looked and found me, among the collection of teary parents with trumpeting noses. 'Sometimes when people are really really happy, they start to cry', was my lame explanation later. Telling him only half the truth, the other half being that I was also sad. Sad that the beginning of the end of their innocence had commenced. The official training in preparation of the big, bad world was now underway. Over dramatising, admittedly. That and frustrated at my memory at not keeping up with all that should be documented, not being able to freeze dinosaur birthday parties for posterity.
'Don't worry mummy' she said then, 'even when I go to school, I'll never forget you. You will always be in my heart'.
They will grow up with or without me, my children. The will be adults and they will make their own mistakes. They may learn (or not) from them. I am dispensable, no illusions there. Only incidentally am I the parent. In return, I am enriched by the experience of observing minds and bodies develop. I get another go at childhood. I am honoured with the power of influencing it. It is a brief, intense experience and I'm trying to keep my eyes open, deflect distraction and pay attention. It will be my loss if I don't, not theirs. I would miss out on a precious, essential detail.
I overly dramatised their starting of school, crying my eyes out as the school musician strummed his guitar and sang Abba's 'Slipping through my fingers' at the welcoming ceremony thereby successfully, cunningly nailing every melting mother out there. Me, he got twice over, in succession, for each twin! My son's searching eyes were just a little annoyed when they looked and found me, among the collection of teary parents with trumpeting noses. 'Sometimes when people are really really happy, they start to cry', was my lame explanation later. Telling him only half the truth, the other half being that I was also sad. Sad that the beginning of the end of their innocence had commenced. The official training in preparation of the big, bad world was now underway. Over dramatising, admittedly. That and frustrated at my memory at not keeping up with all that should be documented, not being able to freeze dinosaur birthday parties for posterity.
'Don't worry mummy' she said then, 'even when I go to school, I'll never forget you. You will always be in my heart'.
Thursday, 6 October 2011
Du wirst nicht älter, sondern besser.
A little bit like cheese, and a little like red wine,
you get better and better with time.
Mature and not stinky, ...ok, maybe somewhat kinky!
Deep red, not cor(-/c)ky, with something like resveratrol to keep the heart happy.
Keep all that. Keep smiling. Cheers, and have Birthday's aplenty!
you get better and better with time.
Mature and not stinky, ...ok, maybe somewhat kinky!
Deep red, not cor(-/c)ky, with something like resveratrol to keep the heart happy.
Keep all that. Keep smiling. Cheers, and have Birthday's aplenty!
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
The pearl.
On a mission of sorts. A messenger of doom. The message, a concentrate of the absurd. She had the ground pulled under her. Now she was passing on the favour. To pull the ground from under another. Traveling light. 40 years of accumulated baggage to lug across 3 continents, so she was traveling light. It was the middle of the holiday season and the airport was oddly not buzzing with the usual bustle of traveler's hyperactivity. As if in respectful quiet of the loss being anticipated. Mourning in solidarity. With ample time on her hands she drifted absentmindedly through the airport formalities.
"Yes just one piece to check-in. Thank you".
Finding the right words to hand out a verdict without a trial was hard. The right words, nothing more to offer. She was going over her lines, discarding them, making new ones, discarding them. Nothing more to offer but the right words.
"No, no liquids M'am. No sharp objects. Can I have my shoes back?".
What was it about conflicts that made such a powerful claim on her allegiance? She could instead have just stayed with the passive side.
"YOUR PASSPORT PLEASE!" resonating out of the ether now, beaming her mind back into the present, for only as long as necessary. And then it wandered off again. Far off into the distance.
The sign-board said 'Raum für Gebete und Stille. Meditation and Prayer Room', complimented with the Ohm, the Buddhist wheel, the Cross, the Crescent moon and star, the Star of David and an arrow pointing up. Grateful now for the time at hand, she followed the directions almost in relief. The door led to a black walled corridor that wrapped around and led to a square room. The room itself had a white floor and was flooded with bright white light. There was a thick tree trunk in the center going from the floor through the ceiling with an array of inscriptions etched into it. Oriental kneeling rugs were stacked up on one side. She stepped into the room, and almost immediately stepped right back out again feeling uncomfortably exposed. Retreating instead back into the dark corridor, seating herself on a bench. Comforted by it's blackness. Happy for the solitude. She sat there a while and looked around, now dedicated to her thoughts without distraction. Breathing. Sitting there, not hearing, not noticing. And when she heard a voice say "Hello......what are you?", She almost instinctively responded with "Desperate". Instead she took a moment to register that she now had company in this room of Prayer. Another similarly aged woman, of fair skin and frizzy golden hair. Going by her bags and attire, also a traveler in transit. Her accent was elusive, pointing somewhere south of Europe. "What are you?" she repeated. Not pushy, not gentle, simply asking. Realizing now what her question meant, came the delayed response "Christian". "Here then, keep this". Her cupped palms opened to reveal a coiled white rosary. Nesting there, it shone with hope and strength and peace. A pearl.
"Yes just one piece to check-in. Thank you".
Finding the right words to hand out a verdict without a trial was hard. The right words, nothing more to offer. She was going over her lines, discarding them, making new ones, discarding them. Nothing more to offer but the right words.
"No, no liquids M'am. No sharp objects. Can I have my shoes back?".
What was it about conflicts that made such a powerful claim on her allegiance? She could instead have just stayed with the passive side.
"YOUR PASSPORT PLEASE!" resonating out of the ether now, beaming her mind back into the present, for only as long as necessary. And then it wandered off again. Far off into the distance.
The sign-board said 'Raum für Gebete und Stille. Meditation and Prayer Room', complimented with the Ohm, the Buddhist wheel, the Cross, the Crescent moon and star, the Star of David and an arrow pointing up. Grateful now for the time at hand, she followed the directions almost in relief. The door led to a black walled corridor that wrapped around and led to a square room. The room itself had a white floor and was flooded with bright white light. There was a thick tree trunk in the center going from the floor through the ceiling with an array of inscriptions etched into it. Oriental kneeling rugs were stacked up on one side. She stepped into the room, and almost immediately stepped right back out again feeling uncomfortably exposed. Retreating instead back into the dark corridor, seating herself on a bench. Comforted by it's blackness. Happy for the solitude. She sat there a while and looked around, now dedicated to her thoughts without distraction. Breathing. Sitting there, not hearing, not noticing. And when she heard a voice say "Hello......what are you?", She almost instinctively responded with "Desperate". Instead she took a moment to register that she now had company in this room of Prayer. Another similarly aged woman, of fair skin and frizzy golden hair. Going by her bags and attire, also a traveler in transit. Her accent was elusive, pointing somewhere south of Europe. "What are you?" she repeated. Not pushy, not gentle, simply asking. Realizing now what her question meant, came the delayed response "Christian". "Here then, keep this". Her cupped palms opened to reveal a coiled white rosary. Nesting there, it shone with hope and strength and peace. A pearl.
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
What we want.
It's not about the destination, but about the journey. It's not about the acquisition, but about the quest. It's not about the accomplishment, but about the challenge. It's not about the conquest, but about the fight. What we want is who we are. Desire of these, is fuel. Attainment results in a sluggishness, a disillusionment. Till the fuel of new desire is sparked again. It's a continual cat and mouse chase. Round and round, dizzying, spiraling, disorienting, lost?
Maybe not entirely. Maybe it's about nursing our own little bubble perceptions of our world. Built on the boundless freedom of fantasy. Precariously blown bubbles, elated into the illusions we want to nurture. Illusions we can't, don't want to differentiate from reality. To stay on the journey, to never arrive. To continue to acquire, to never have. To continue to fight, to never conquer, or be defeated. To continue to covet, to never posses. There is excitement in an elusive outcome. Something infinite. An endless sense of possibility. How final (and disappointing?) it is to posses your dream woman/man, your dream home, your dream car and realize they don't quite resemble your fantasy of them. It doesn't provide quite the kick you were anticipating. The dream in your mind was beautiful, perfect. The reality of real things, real people with real faults, bear but a distant resemblance to the bubble in your mind. Yearning was occupying, fulfilling. It's what makes the painful rejection of unrequited love so pleasurable, an image of continuos perfection, a one sided yet 'happy love' without any movement or action. Isn't the consummation of love where all love stories end? There is an analogy here to most things we seek. The glossy, exotic pictures of the dream holidays built in our minds that don't consider the reality of travel. To struggle and strive for the ultimate job, only to turn back and see the fun might already be over. Impossibility is intoxicatingly attractive. As long as it is impossible.
Wanting the impossible, wanting all our dreams to come true.
That is what we want. To want.
Maybe not entirely. Maybe it's about nursing our own little bubble perceptions of our world. Built on the boundless freedom of fantasy. Precariously blown bubbles, elated into the illusions we want to nurture. Illusions we can't, don't want to differentiate from reality. To stay on the journey, to never arrive. To continue to acquire, to never have. To continue to fight, to never conquer, or be defeated. To continue to covet, to never posses. There is excitement in an elusive outcome. Something infinite. An endless sense of possibility. How final (and disappointing?) it is to posses your dream woman/man, your dream home, your dream car and realize they don't quite resemble your fantasy of them. It doesn't provide quite the kick you were anticipating. The dream in your mind was beautiful, perfect. The reality of real things, real people with real faults, bear but a distant resemblance to the bubble in your mind. Yearning was occupying, fulfilling. It's what makes the painful rejection of unrequited love so pleasurable, an image of continuos perfection, a one sided yet 'happy love' without any movement or action. Isn't the consummation of love where all love stories end? There is an analogy here to most things we seek. The glossy, exotic pictures of the dream holidays built in our minds that don't consider the reality of travel. To struggle and strive for the ultimate job, only to turn back and see the fun might already be over. Impossibility is intoxicatingly attractive. As long as it is impossible.
Wanting the impossible, wanting all our dreams to come true.
That is what we want. To want.
Saturday, 21 May 2011
Qué será.
She's so intense, so deep and complex.
Ever so often, I'm left perplexed.
She's taking on more than her little palm can hold,
not quite 6, and far from ready to go.
"How will I live when I grow up?", she worries.
Here, let me get that....take you're time. We're in no hurry.
How can I tell her so she will believe?
Our lives are for living. And the living is free.
I cower under her annihilating ambition.
Undeterred, she continues on her mission.
"I want to be the best pianist, I want to be a painter,
I want to be a boss too, or will that come later?"
Ever so often, I'm left perplexed.
She's taking on more than her little palm can hold,
not quite 6, and far from ready to go.
"How will I live when I grow up?", she worries.
Here, let me get that....take you're time. We're in no hurry.
How can I tell her so she will believe?
Our lives are for living. And the living is free.
I cower under her annihilating ambition.
Undeterred, she continues on her mission.
"I want to be the best pianist, I want to be a painter,
I want to be a boss too, or will that come later?"
Shush, my baby. Slow down. I'm here.
Don't join the race yet. You're still holding my finger.
"When will I practice, how will I get better?"
She knows too much.....can't reach her.
Could I actually have been her mentor?
"Teach me the numbers tomorrow once more,
I'm still confused with 14 and 40, like before."
Good night, sleep tight, the morning is nigh.
"What will I be, Mummy?"
You will be just fine.
Sunday, 3 April 2011
The morning after.
We wake up this morning jubilantly hung-over. We play a sport and we are damn good at it, it's official. I've said this before in the context of another audience and another kind of ball, now it's been done again. The ball has united us, a much smaller one this time, accompanied by a bat, but it's power still unmistaken. Hindus, Christians, Muslims, Sikhs, Zoroastrians, Buddhists. Today we are all Indians, we have one religion - Cricket.
Experiencing this Cricket world cup in Germany was quite unforgettable. The 8 weeks of the world cup went all but unnoticed. The Germans remained fascinatingly indifferent to the charms of Cricket. Going about their normal lives and routine, as if nothing was happening. As if the curse of 28 years was not about to be lifted from 15% of the world's population. It was hard containing my excitement, especially as we drew hopefully closer to the coveted trophy. So I attempted to infect my surrounding with some of the Cricket fever. I discovered that I would have to start right at the very very beginning. I respectfully point out that the German's have no clue about Cricket, what-so-ever! Frequently compared to baseball and exasperatingly confused with Croquet (??!!). At the end of the first crash course I volunteered to my very congenial colleagues, I was just a tad disappointed when one of them pointed out how poorly things looked for India against Australia. It was the first Inning of the quarter finals, with Australia batting. The score stood at 70/1, interpreted as, Australia: 70, India: 1. I guess I'm not a very good teacher, so I went back to the very very beginning and tried again. After all, they seemed curious about the sport. I'd like to believe it had more to do with their genuine interest than submission to my irritatingly imposing excitement, and the need to share and celebrate it (I preserve the most annoying of Indian traits). Well, as the India Vs Australia game progressed, I was both touched and impressed to watch them follow the scores with better comprehension and yes, enthusiasm! Infection successful!!
On the morning of the D-day (yesterday), my English friends, the newly converted German cricket fans, my Brazilian friends, my half Australian friend, my South African friends, all moved me by swearing legions to India. Today they were also all Indians, the infection was becoming a pandemic! My German partner, fired with enthusiasm set out that morning with the resolve to learn, understand and support Indian Cricket as well. Alas, that fizzled out in an hour. He is programed for a 90 minute, maybe an extended 120 minute sport related excitement, so the rest of the 7 hours happend in spite of him. My children, their friends and our partners watched with concern and some fear as my dear South African friend and I spent hour after hour staring into the streamed broadcast of our collaborative performance (the Indian coach is South African) on a computer screen, letting out quaint sounds of pleasure and pain. The passing of each hour, increased those decibel levels. The last over was accompanied by our hysterical cacophony against the silent backdrop of a Munich suburb. All inhabitants had now taken cover, or had run. Then it came, the spectacular sixer that lead us to that glorious, dizzying victory!
My South African friend and I almost got 'help' from the neighbors when we ran out of the house screaming. Crazed with the happiness of success! One newly converted Cricket fan called to congratulate me on our winning 'home run'! Home run ??!! Oh well, you win some, you loose some ;-)!
Experiencing this Cricket world cup in Germany was quite unforgettable. The 8 weeks of the world cup went all but unnoticed. The Germans remained fascinatingly indifferent to the charms of Cricket. Going about their normal lives and routine, as if nothing was happening. As if the curse of 28 years was not about to be lifted from 15% of the world's population. It was hard containing my excitement, especially as we drew hopefully closer to the coveted trophy. So I attempted to infect my surrounding with some of the Cricket fever. I discovered that I would have to start right at the very very beginning. I respectfully point out that the German's have no clue about Cricket, what-so-ever! Frequently compared to baseball and exasperatingly confused with Croquet (??!!). At the end of the first crash course I volunteered to my very congenial colleagues, I was just a tad disappointed when one of them pointed out how poorly things looked for India against Australia. It was the first Inning of the quarter finals, with Australia batting. The score stood at 70/1, interpreted as, Australia: 70, India: 1. I guess I'm not a very good teacher, so I went back to the very very beginning and tried again. After all, they seemed curious about the sport. I'd like to believe it had more to do with their genuine interest than submission to my irritatingly imposing excitement, and the need to share and celebrate it (I preserve the most annoying of Indian traits). Well, as the India Vs Australia game progressed, I was both touched and impressed to watch them follow the scores with better comprehension and yes, enthusiasm! Infection successful!!
On the morning of the D-day (yesterday), my English friends, the newly converted German cricket fans, my Brazilian friends, my half Australian friend, my South African friends, all moved me by swearing legions to India. Today they were also all Indians, the infection was becoming a pandemic! My German partner, fired with enthusiasm set out that morning with the resolve to learn, understand and support Indian Cricket as well. Alas, that fizzled out in an hour. He is programed for a 90 minute, maybe an extended 120 minute sport related excitement, so the rest of the 7 hours happend in spite of him. My children, their friends and our partners watched with concern and some fear as my dear South African friend and I spent hour after hour staring into the streamed broadcast of our collaborative performance (the Indian coach is South African) on a computer screen, letting out quaint sounds of pleasure and pain. The passing of each hour, increased those decibel levels. The last over was accompanied by our hysterical cacophony against the silent backdrop of a Munich suburb. All inhabitants had now taken cover, or had run. Then it came, the spectacular sixer that lead us to that glorious, dizzying victory!
My South African friend and I almost got 'help' from the neighbors when we ran out of the house screaming. Crazed with the happiness of success! One newly converted Cricket fan called to congratulate me on our winning 'home run'! Home run ??!! Oh well, you win some, you loose some ;-)!
Sunday, 13 March 2011
Games we play.
Honesty, transparency and integrity are virtues not aspired by any politician or government. In this tumultuous past week, we have looked on as the world's most flourishing, high-tech economy is propelled into a state of subsistence. As nature brings on it's wrath on Japan, the astronomical damage to lives and property take on a new dimension with the ticking of nuclear reactors. As one goes off and others threaten to follow suit, the true state of the plants, their effects and consequences are being downplayed by the Japanese government and elude the worlds scientists. These formidable devices have been built to feed the wheels of our economies, now they are our Frankenstein's. We turn in desperation back to nature to quell our self-made demons. Salt water from the sea to cool them down, the Hail Mary pass. God let it work! This is now our predicament, to wait and watch because we can neither control nor predict where this is headed. Cover our bases is all that is left to do to curtail further loss inflicted to human existence. The environment, the ocean and all its inhabitants, assumed as collateral damage.
And what happened to Libya this week? Could they have had worse timing for a revolution? How conveniently it seemed to be working out for the West, who can now (justifiably) be distracted by the the colossal Japanese disaster. The Libyan air force is moving with swift ruthlessness as they brutally pound away at the opposition. The US and Europeans dabble and deliberate over the idea of a no-fly-Zone. To support or not to support? Almost bored by the task. In the meanwhile the key oil port of Ras Lanuf has fallen, the people continue to rapidly loose ground. As the US deems it 'unwise' to intervene on a political level, their stance seems significantly ironical considering that with Iraq and Afghanistan, the US were so self assured in their siege and conviction about the people needing liberation and improvement. That worked very well top down. How come this time around, the people are calling out for liberation and support and help, a revolution from the bottom upwards, and the US and Nato won't yield despite support from the Arab countries? Why is it the UK and France are the only ones showing some gumption? We can pretend it has nothing to do with cozying up to a functioning dictator that ensures profitable trade, as opposed to a new democracy with which the same would have to be renegotiated. We can also only hope that France's support of Libya has nothing to do with deflecting attention from its 80% dependency on nuclear energy - the highest in the world.
And what happened to Libya this week? Could they have had worse timing for a revolution? How conveniently it seemed to be working out for the West, who can now (justifiably) be distracted by the the colossal Japanese disaster. The Libyan air force is moving with swift ruthlessness as they brutally pound away at the opposition. The US and Europeans dabble and deliberate over the idea of a no-fly-Zone. To support or not to support? Almost bored by the task. In the meanwhile the key oil port of Ras Lanuf has fallen, the people continue to rapidly loose ground. As the US deems it 'unwise' to intervene on a political level, their stance seems significantly ironical considering that with Iraq and Afghanistan, the US were so self assured in their siege and conviction about the people needing liberation and improvement. That worked very well top down. How come this time around, the people are calling out for liberation and support and help, a revolution from the bottom upwards, and the US and Nato won't yield despite support from the Arab countries? Why is it the UK and France are the only ones showing some gumption? We can pretend it has nothing to do with cozying up to a functioning dictator that ensures profitable trade, as opposed to a new democracy with which the same would have to be renegotiated. We can also only hope that France's support of Libya has nothing to do with deflecting attention from its 80% dependency on nuclear energy - the highest in the world.
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
These are a few of my favorite things!
Red bows, red wrapping above green clover leaves,
"Mummy, my gift to you... all I don't need!"
These are a few of my favorite things!
When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
and then I don't feel so bad.
Gold and enamel with little pearl trimmings,
Spa treats, massages and rose scented creams."Mummy, my gift to you... all I don't need!"
These are a few of my favorite things!
When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
and then I don't feel so bad.
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Cheers!
Blow hot. Blow cold. But hold.
Live, love, loose. We choose.
Violins. Roses. Measured doses.
Thundering. Lightening.
Frightening. Delighting.
10 years. Some tears. No fears.
Cheers!
Live, love, loose. We choose.
Violins. Roses. Measured doses.
Thundering. Lightening.
Frightening. Delighting.
10 years. Some tears. No fears.
Cheers!
Sunday, 5 December 2010
And since we've no place to go...
There are two seasons in central Europe, the white winter and the green winter. The difference being, in the green winter even the heating is turned off. Winter is the true native state here, summer a divine grace that may befall it, if God so pleases. As you may well note, my obdurate refusal to cheer up about it only darkens the already dour tapestry that is winter. Sprigs of trees, bare shrubs and bushes, shades of grey and pale, somber mornings that pass into dull noons and finally linger into the darkness of the afternoon. Premature endings to days that have barely begun.
And yet, it is still magical, the first sight of it! Those wondrous flocks of floating fluffs, drifting lazily through the star studded, sea of black skies. I still remember the first time I looked up into the falling sprinkles and felt their tingling land on my face, suspend in my hair, when everything obediently went silent as if in honour of this enchanting presence. Time itself slowed down, too bewitched, too spellbound to move on. Every last insignificant, overlooked detail got crowned by it's pristine white presence, as only nature with it's eye for detail is capable of. Highlighting the overlooked, making significant the insignificant, changing the face of all that it rested on. And when the sun comes out again, if God so pleases, the stars that travelled down will now shine and sparkle on the sheets of white that cover the earth. A little bit of heaven for you and me. A little bit of heaven for those who don't believe.
...Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!
And yet, it is still magical, the first sight of it! Those wondrous flocks of floating fluffs, drifting lazily through the star studded, sea of black skies. I still remember the first time I looked up into the falling sprinkles and felt their tingling land on my face, suspend in my hair, when everything obediently went silent as if in honour of this enchanting presence. Time itself slowed down, too bewitched, too spellbound to move on. Every last insignificant, overlooked detail got crowned by it's pristine white presence, as only nature with it's eye for detail is capable of. Highlighting the overlooked, making significant the insignificant, changing the face of all that it rested on. And when the sun comes out again, if God so pleases, the stars that travelled down will now shine and sparkle on the sheets of white that cover the earth. A little bit of heaven for you and me. A little bit of heaven for those who don't believe.
...Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Sister mine.
I envied them, the giggly breed of sister clans. Doing each other's hair, sharing dolls and shoes and secrets. Eagerly practicing their motherly instincts on cute fluffy pets, bonding further with the experience. It often gave me the feeling of a stranger out in the rain, looking through the window at the warm happiness indoors. A merry fireplace that I was not part of. I have not one, not two, but three older brothers. Among the things we shared, were the mutilated remains of appendage-bare, plastic head and torso arrangements of dolls I owned. The pets they chose to nurture were the likes of Cobras (yes, the poisonous snake kind!). They were also partners in a blood pact for the many crimes they gleefully committed. As thick as thieves.
My parents were not going to have a fifth child, so with the minimum means available to me, I thought up my own ways to fill up my presumed obvious void. One of my early attempts was a young chick. Yes, I was taking the fluffy pet need to a new level! This one would double as a sister as well. I was still congratulating myself on the brilliance of my multi-purpose acquisition, when my little chick sister got lifted off by a big, fat crow during one of our (last) sisterly walks. Oh the cruelty of it! Supper for greedy Mr. Crow was sadly her last purpose! Already delirious with grief at the brutal loss of my new found soul mate, the collective efforts of my gallant bothers' gesture, of hunting down the crow and retrieving the limp remains of my sister had quite the opposite effect than they had intended. In an attempt to help in the only way they knew how, they had lead me to be beside myself with sorrow. Normally impatient with my emotional outbursts, this time I became the object of their tender concern and affection.
When I was quite over the heartbreak, I found myself another sister substitute. This one was a bitch (literally), and kind of fell into my lap. She was born to our own pet dog. Being evidently weak from birth and somewhat slow, we decided to keep her rather than give her away to some person that would find her cute enough as a pup, but might just shun her at some point for her mild retardation. Nearly immediately she became my personal pet and was introduced into my space. She seemed like a fair enough substitute for a while. We shared the same room, if not shoes. The secrets were rather one sided too, but nevertheless I had myself a canine, four legged sister. She actually can be described as my trusted shadow for the years that we spent together, so in that way the bond aspect had worked for me. Why belittle it with further inspection?
Along the years I grew out of my need for a sister. In that miniscule way, I matured. I never got inducted into the inner circle of my other siblings. As my parent's spy, my tattling and corrupted blackmailing repeatedly disqualified me. They did, however, self-appoint themselves to the protection of my honour. So, anything that was male, on two legs and had the cheek of showing any remote interest in me, had to meet their impossibly attainable standards or had to bear their indignant scorn. Should that not suffice, there was always the definite scare-tactic of the occasional exchange of punches and the sort. And yet I have had the good fortune to have found a fair share of soul mates for one lifetime.
A friend, in the prime of life, was served with a 'fight or perish' sentence three weeks ago for one of those diseases one doesn't wish upon the worst enemy. Dispersed over the globe though they might have been, the pack of sisters united in snap. All life, duty and responsibility outside of the sentence came to a stand still. Individual families were instantly put on hold. One being, one body, that's what they formed. To build a front together, to generate enough strength to compensate for the one that had none left. It's working. They will pull through because of each other.
I think back sheepishly at my quest for a sister substitute. The power of family, of siblings, of blood is not to imitate. It is the inner circle. I always belonged.
My parents were not going to have a fifth child, so with the minimum means available to me, I thought up my own ways to fill up my presumed obvious void. One of my early attempts was a young chick. Yes, I was taking the fluffy pet need to a new level! This one would double as a sister as well. I was still congratulating myself on the brilliance of my multi-purpose acquisition, when my little chick sister got lifted off by a big, fat crow during one of our (last) sisterly walks. Oh the cruelty of it! Supper for greedy Mr. Crow was sadly her last purpose! Already delirious with grief at the brutal loss of my new found soul mate, the collective efforts of my gallant bothers' gesture, of hunting down the crow and retrieving the limp remains of my sister had quite the opposite effect than they had intended. In an attempt to help in the only way they knew how, they had lead me to be beside myself with sorrow. Normally impatient with my emotional outbursts, this time I became the object of their tender concern and affection.
When I was quite over the heartbreak, I found myself another sister substitute. This one was a bitch (literally), and kind of fell into my lap. She was born to our own pet dog. Being evidently weak from birth and somewhat slow, we decided to keep her rather than give her away to some person that would find her cute enough as a pup, but might just shun her at some point for her mild retardation. Nearly immediately she became my personal pet and was introduced into my space. She seemed like a fair enough substitute for a while. We shared the same room, if not shoes. The secrets were rather one sided too, but nevertheless I had myself a canine, four legged sister. She actually can be described as my trusted shadow for the years that we spent together, so in that way the bond aspect had worked for me. Why belittle it with further inspection?
Along the years I grew out of my need for a sister. In that miniscule way, I matured. I never got inducted into the inner circle of my other siblings. As my parent's spy, my tattling and corrupted blackmailing repeatedly disqualified me. They did, however, self-appoint themselves to the protection of my honour. So, anything that was male, on two legs and had the cheek of showing any remote interest in me, had to meet their impossibly attainable standards or had to bear their indignant scorn. Should that not suffice, there was always the definite scare-tactic of the occasional exchange of punches and the sort. And yet I have had the good fortune to have found a fair share of soul mates for one lifetime.
A friend, in the prime of life, was served with a 'fight or perish' sentence three weeks ago for one of those diseases one doesn't wish upon the worst enemy. Dispersed over the globe though they might have been, the pack of sisters united in snap. All life, duty and responsibility outside of the sentence came to a stand still. Individual families were instantly put on hold. One being, one body, that's what they formed. To build a front together, to generate enough strength to compensate for the one that had none left. It's working. They will pull through because of each other.
I think back sheepishly at my quest for a sister substitute. The power of family, of siblings, of blood is not to imitate. It is the inner circle. I always belonged.
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Autumn.
One last time, in the grandest of splendor,
ablaze in a riot of golden yellow trimmings,
deep reds and greens at the core.
A testimony of grandeur, a memory meant to last.
For when the gold and red is shed,
and all is bared, stripped naked and exposed.
Remember, this is not all. There will be more.
ablaze in a riot of golden yellow trimmings,
deep reds and greens at the core.
A testimony of grandeur, a memory meant to last.
For when the gold and red is shed,
and all is bared, stripped naked and exposed.
Remember, this is not all. There will be more.
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
Jal.
Bearing the seeds of our proud origins, stimulating life from the times of Mohenjo-daro and Harappa all those centuries ago, Christened by the name it bears - we come from where the Indus flows. We are headed where the Ganges goes.
These great rivers, the Indus and the Ganges, of the abundantly fertile Indo-Gangetic planes carry the wealth of our civilization, transcending the boundaries that meddling politicians laid down. As the dust of separation settled, we had the geographical advantage to retain the Ganges, the largest river of the Indian subcontinent. It's might and divinity that we venerate for it's special cleansing powers actually even has some basis in science. An unusual ability to dissolve oxygen keeps the waters fresh for long periods of time. This, and the presence of Bacteriophage, viruses which kill bacteria, indeed empower it with an anti-bacterial, self-purifying nature. One that has helped a perpetually disease ridden nation like ours ward off water-bourn diseases like Dysentery and Cholera from turning into large-scale epidemics. While these rivers provide for life and preserve it, what do we, the devout, offer in return? Garlands of marigold and earthen lamps floating out in the setting sun as tokens of gratitude to the maker and keeper? Sadly, not only.
Our offerings to the most holy of all rivers also comprise of:
1.8 billion L (yes, that's a 'b'!) of untreated waste water. Every day. Downstream, in the holy city of Varanasi, the Ganges contains 60,000 faecal coliform bacteria per 100 millilitres, one hundred and twenty times the safe bathing — let alone drinking — limit. The reading goes some way to explain why 1,000 children die of diarrhoeal sickness a day in India. We are testing and trying the limits of her divinity, and we are winning. What are we proving?
Tanneries in the city of Kanpur, unscrupulously dump 30 million L of waste water contaminated with chemical byproducts and chromium. Every day.
Besides this systematic abuse, in seeking 'Moksha', Mother Ganga has been reduced to a liquid landfill to dump human and animal corpses. It is thought to save their souls and secure their passage to heaven. At whatever price.
We have obstructed and crippled her movement and flow. The Tehri dam, Jawaharlal Nehru's vision and hope of constructing 'temples of modern India' have only accentuated the 'troubles of modern India' in disrupting the underground sources of natural springs. Small towns and villages that were previously abundant in natural water resources are faced with severe shortage to the extent of now having to pump back the water that was channeled away from them.
The state and the fate of the Ganges is representative of numerous rivers in India.
So, what's plan B?
We increasingly rely on ground water for basic, household needs. In the last 50 years, 21 million wells have been dug, 30% of them in western India have been abandoned. The underground aquifers are drying out. We are already the largest users of ground water in the world, consuming 25% of the global total. We are successfully sucking the ground dry.
We had better have a plan C!
The prognosis is bleak. In the coming century, India risks to suffer the most from the lack of water and to a fair extent we have ourselves to blame. Modern middles-class India is plagued by avarice and a thirst for power and success, and I don't say this grudgingly. We are making the same mistakes that other countries did before us on their path to economic stardom, with perhaps one difference. The effects of our mistakes are catastrophically magnified by our numbers. Whilst there is undeniably a lot of pressure for India to develop its economic potential to raise incomes and living standards, these are proving to be inimical to the protection of it's environment and it doesn't come without limits or consequences. Arrogance and ignorance make us blissfully oblivious to the tangible ineffable consequences. For us the privileged ones, it should be easy enough to picture. How much longer will we let the water absentmindedly flow while we brush our teeth, or (have the maid) do the dishes? How much longer will we 'water jet' the outdoors clean?
...it was in autumn about a year ago in the milky grey water of the Ganges near the ancient city of Raja Karna in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh. Another splash confirmed the sighting of the Ganges River Dolphin. The shy, less famous and less graceful than it's marine cousins, almost blind, highly endangered beast is on course to suffer the fate of its favoured habitat. They are the apex species and indicative of the entire Ecosystem's health. The locals know, if you see a Dolphin you know the water is good enough to drink. They see one, there is hope. How far will it swim? Where is it headed?
These great rivers, the Indus and the Ganges, of the abundantly fertile Indo-Gangetic planes carry the wealth of our civilization, transcending the boundaries that meddling politicians laid down. As the dust of separation settled, we had the geographical advantage to retain the Ganges, the largest river of the Indian subcontinent. It's might and divinity that we venerate for it's special cleansing powers actually even has some basis in science. An unusual ability to dissolve oxygen keeps the waters fresh for long periods of time. This, and the presence of Bacteriophage, viruses which kill bacteria, indeed empower it with an anti-bacterial, self-purifying nature. One that has helped a perpetually disease ridden nation like ours ward off water-bourn diseases like Dysentery and Cholera from turning into large-scale epidemics. While these rivers provide for life and preserve it, what do we, the devout, offer in return? Garlands of marigold and earthen lamps floating out in the setting sun as tokens of gratitude to the maker and keeper? Sadly, not only.
Our offerings to the most holy of all rivers also comprise of:
1.8 billion L (yes, that's a 'b'!) of untreated waste water. Every day. Downstream, in the holy city of Varanasi, the Ganges contains 60,000 faecal coliform bacteria per 100 millilitres, one hundred and twenty times the safe bathing — let alone drinking — limit. The reading goes some way to explain why 1,000 children die of diarrhoeal sickness a day in India. We are testing and trying the limits of her divinity, and we are winning. What are we proving?
Tanneries in the city of Kanpur, unscrupulously dump 30 million L of waste water contaminated with chemical byproducts and chromium. Every day.
Besides this systematic abuse, in seeking 'Moksha', Mother Ganga has been reduced to a liquid landfill to dump human and animal corpses. It is thought to save their souls and secure their passage to heaven. At whatever price.
We have obstructed and crippled her movement and flow. The Tehri dam, Jawaharlal Nehru's vision and hope of constructing 'temples of modern India' have only accentuated the 'troubles of modern India' in disrupting the underground sources of natural springs. Small towns and villages that were previously abundant in natural water resources are faced with severe shortage to the extent of now having to pump back the water that was channeled away from them.
The state and the fate of the Ganges is representative of numerous rivers in India.
So, what's plan B?
We increasingly rely on ground water for basic, household needs. In the last 50 years, 21 million wells have been dug, 30% of them in western India have been abandoned. The underground aquifers are drying out. We are already the largest users of ground water in the world, consuming 25% of the global total. We are successfully sucking the ground dry.
We had better have a plan C!
The prognosis is bleak. In the coming century, India risks to suffer the most from the lack of water and to a fair extent we have ourselves to blame. Modern middles-class India is plagued by avarice and a thirst for power and success, and I don't say this grudgingly. We are making the same mistakes that other countries did before us on their path to economic stardom, with perhaps one difference. The effects of our mistakes are catastrophically magnified by our numbers. Whilst there is undeniably a lot of pressure for India to develop its economic potential to raise incomes and living standards, these are proving to be inimical to the protection of it's environment and it doesn't come without limits or consequences. Arrogance and ignorance make us blissfully oblivious to the tangible ineffable consequences. For us the privileged ones, it should be easy enough to picture. How much longer will we let the water absentmindedly flow while we brush our teeth, or (have the maid) do the dishes? How much longer will we 'water jet' the outdoors clean?
...it was in autumn about a year ago in the milky grey water of the Ganges near the ancient city of Raja Karna in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh. Another splash confirmed the sighting of the Ganges River Dolphin. The shy, less famous and less graceful than it's marine cousins, almost blind, highly endangered beast is on course to suffer the fate of its favoured habitat. They are the apex species and indicative of the entire Ecosystem's health. The locals know, if you see a Dolphin you know the water is good enough to drink. They see one, there is hope. How far will it swim? Where is it headed?
Sunday, 5 September 2010
Are you busy?
'..hard to change it. Hmm, I think so. Keep away, that's probably the best.'
Pause.
‘..with aggression.’
' It's going to be especially useful in my new job. Language skills like mine are rare.'
Silent listening.
'..to what end I say? I learnt English in school. Everyone does. Put in a lot of practice. It always comes in handy.'
Long pause.
'..yeah, five languages. Not common, if I say so myself. I seem to have a talent for them. Turkish was nearly solely 'by ear', thanks to my Turkish friends.'
Giggle.
'..you flatter me! Well there is Italian and Spanish too. Have learnt to control aggressions.'
Eyes dart around nervously.
'Five languages, surely gives me a head start.'
11:00 am on a Saturday morning on the Munich Metro heading to downtown. The middle-aged lady's cell phone conversation went on repetitively. She repeated every fifth sentence in almost the same order. She was talking so loud that one couldn't help but involuntarily eves-drop on the dull, unusually long (she never did hang up) one-sided monologue. All of this would have been in no way noteworthy. Loud lady on cell phone. But for one small detail. There was no cellular network on that Metro-line for at least another 6 stops to come. Obviously there was no-one on the other end. This increased my fascination about the conversation itself and the reason for the pretense. There was also that intermittent darting around of her eyes. As if in appeal....
But for us, the car was quite vacant at first. I kept my observation to myself and continued to note this odd behavior. Interestingly enough, my partner sitting beside me obviously noticed the lady on the phone as well, but didn’t doubt the reality of the conversation. Instead, puzzled he started to fish out all the cellular gadgets he had on him. He doubted them - his gadgets. THAT was odd, why the heck didn’t he have any reception?? The few people that trickled in after us all had the exact same reaction. She had herself surrounded by people with wrinkled brows and frowning faces, turning their cell phones on and off, looking around questioningly and then at each other and me, and back at her. Her conversation continued stoically. Her sentences repeated, her appeal fell on deaf ears. Whatever the message was, it was lost. Everybody that had noticed her was busy looking for an answer. Busy with why they didn’t have any reception. Busy with why their gadgets let them down. Busy with why they would need to wait 10 more minutes to use their cell phones again to surf the net and check mail and make calls, whilst hers already works. In a way, 10 less minutes of keeping busy, really.
Soren Kierkegaard said that ‘Busyness’ is a state of constant distraction that allows people to avoid difficulties and maintain self deceptions. We are in an age that makes it easier than ever before to remain busy in a Kierkegaard sense.
I think I saw a faint tinge of disappointment in her eyes before she got off. ‘..yeah five languages. Not common.’
Pause.
‘..with aggression.’
' It's going to be especially useful in my new job. Language skills like mine are rare.'
Silent listening.
'..to what end I say? I learnt English in school. Everyone does. Put in a lot of practice. It always comes in handy.'
Long pause.
'..yeah, five languages. Not common, if I say so myself. I seem to have a talent for them. Turkish was nearly solely 'by ear', thanks to my Turkish friends.'
Giggle.
'..you flatter me! Well there is Italian and Spanish too. Have learnt to control aggressions.'
Eyes dart around nervously.
'Five languages, surely gives me a head start.'
11:00 am on a Saturday morning on the Munich Metro heading to downtown. The middle-aged lady's cell phone conversation went on repetitively. She repeated every fifth sentence in almost the same order. She was talking so loud that one couldn't help but involuntarily eves-drop on the dull, unusually long (she never did hang up) one-sided monologue. All of this would have been in no way noteworthy. Loud lady on cell phone. But for one small detail. There was no cellular network on that Metro-line for at least another 6 stops to come. Obviously there was no-one on the other end. This increased my fascination about the conversation itself and the reason for the pretense. There was also that intermittent darting around of her eyes. As if in appeal....
But for us, the car was quite vacant at first. I kept my observation to myself and continued to note this odd behavior. Interestingly enough, my partner sitting beside me obviously noticed the lady on the phone as well, but didn’t doubt the reality of the conversation. Instead, puzzled he started to fish out all the cellular gadgets he had on him. He doubted them - his gadgets. THAT was odd, why the heck didn’t he have any reception?? The few people that trickled in after us all had the exact same reaction. She had herself surrounded by people with wrinkled brows and frowning faces, turning their cell phones on and off, looking around questioningly and then at each other and me, and back at her. Her conversation continued stoically. Her sentences repeated, her appeal fell on deaf ears. Whatever the message was, it was lost. Everybody that had noticed her was busy looking for an answer. Busy with why they didn’t have any reception. Busy with why their gadgets let them down. Busy with why they would need to wait 10 more minutes to use their cell phones again to surf the net and check mail and make calls, whilst hers already works. In a way, 10 less minutes of keeping busy, really.
Soren Kierkegaard said that ‘Busyness’ is a state of constant distraction that allows people to avoid difficulties and maintain self deceptions. We are in an age that makes it easier than ever before to remain busy in a Kierkegaard sense.
I think I saw a faint tinge of disappointment in her eyes before she got off. ‘..yeah five languages. Not common.’
Thursday, 26 August 2010
Blink.
Every morning I ride out along the river. The path runs through a couple subways that house a bunch of homeless people huddled up in their blankets. Most of them are still asleep, through the rain and in the cold. I ride by unblinkingly.
The last lap of the route is through an affluent, well manicured quarter of the city. There today, I passed a man sitting on the pavement. He was dressed in a grey suit. His shoes and belt were matched in the same tan brown. On the parapet wall behind him was propped an Attaché case, also in the same tan brown. His good suit was streaked in patches with mud and dirt. He had a head of blond curls sunk between his folded legs. I and a couple other cyclists rode past him. Not unblinkingly.
I stopped and rode back to him to ask him if he needed help. A handsome face rose from between those soiled grey pants and looked at me, confused. The look turned into a stare. The stare went on, and on............and on. It went on so long that I was half expecting it to end with a punch landing in my face! Instead it ended with his expression relaxing into a resigned kind of smirk. And a slow deliberate 'No.'. When I turned around I realised the other cyclists had stopped and waited. They carried on only when I did.
As I rode on I wondered how my mind sorts.
The homeless people that I pass by everyday need no help, they belong there.
A man in a good suit sitting on the pavement. Wrong.
The last lap of the route is through an affluent, well manicured quarter of the city. There today, I passed a man sitting on the pavement. He was dressed in a grey suit. His shoes and belt were matched in the same tan brown. On the parapet wall behind him was propped an Attaché case, also in the same tan brown. His good suit was streaked in patches with mud and dirt. He had a head of blond curls sunk between his folded legs. I and a couple other cyclists rode past him. Not unblinkingly.
I stopped and rode back to him to ask him if he needed help. A handsome face rose from between those soiled grey pants and looked at me, confused. The look turned into a stare. The stare went on, and on............and on. It went on so long that I was half expecting it to end with a punch landing in my face! Instead it ended with his expression relaxing into a resigned kind of smirk. And a slow deliberate 'No.'. When I turned around I realised the other cyclists had stopped and waited. They carried on only when I did.
As I rode on I wondered how my mind sorts.
The homeless people that I pass by everyday need no help, they belong there.
A man in a good suit sitting on the pavement. Wrong.
Sunday, 8 August 2010
Comme ci, comme ca.
Tuscany. Rolling hills, crispy sun and Italian charm. Every time I come back here, I love it more. The Italians have managed to strike the precarious balance between old world charm at modern day pace. In Tuscany that is teamed with natural beauty. Now tuft-like olive tree plantations forming checkered patterns on sprawling beige slopes. Now flat sunflower fields sometimes dry, some yet blooming. Now vineyards of Sangiovese, ripening in the rays of the Tuscan sun. You can nearly feel it roll between your tongue, the wine they are destined to be. Even the bales of parched dry hay rolled up neatly add their touch to perfecting this picture. At day it enchants its visitors with these in the countryside, while its cities work their wonders with the cultural wealth acquired since the beginning of the European Renaissance. At night its hilltops lined by star spangled skies beckon again. A voluptuous woman lying there, baring her curves with an irresistible willingness .
This enchanting place of magical romance and beauty works on people. Inspirationally.
In our explorations we reached the quaint lanes of Volterra (yes the city of the Volturi vampires in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series!). There we came across an even quainter sight. In the middle of the pedestrian path, flanked by little shops with offerings of ceramics and Murano glass on either side, was this circular mat that didn’t quite make a circle. It had a radius of about 3 feet, had it been complete. On the mat was a curious collection of…well, junk really! Odd bits and ends raided from an assortment of rubbish, all wired and strapped together to form even stranger looking contraptions. One of them consisted of two rusty metal rods each with a kink half way to from knees for the creature it was supposed to be. Fitted with large green hand-crafted bird feet. Some further coiled apparatus, whose purpose was yet unclear, protruded mid way. Pulled over the top was an orange latex household glove and a little below were some bulging wobbly eyes and yet further below a twisted length of long metal bent into a hand. A smiling man stood on the mat, surrounded by the rest of his entourage which consisted of similar such specimens. One had a shower head, an air balloon inflated out from under it and two green latex gloves on either side of what was meant to be its head - which alternately doubled as hair or antennae. There was certainly a freedom of imagination allowed. The other, a telescopic papemaché sunflower head connected to old shoes. All these were wired with little motors and thin rubber tubes. Supplying energy from various simple sources. An over-sized black hat placed at one end provided an explanation to the sight. ‘Circus comme si comme sa’.
He waited for a handful of people to gather till he ‘performed’. And what a show it was! These contraptions crafted so carefully from junk came to life, one after another. Walking, blowing, chattering, clanking. Forming chain reactions, triggering each other into motion. Painful precision must have gone into the conception, and building of each of these pieces of art. Yes, not junk, art! A German, he spoke neither Italian nor French. An inventor, a physicist, an entertainer, a comedian. He travels through the Tuscan towns providing street entertainment to anyone who would care to stop and watch. He says he lets his environment inspire him. For the rest, he believes in himself. In what he does. In creating art from junk. What pride he took in his work, how much pleasure he got from the successful mechanics of his creaky creatures.
People may stop, some may even appreciate it. However it turns out, success is already his.
A few streets ahead, at the Piazza dei Priori as we walked through the Cathedral, we were drawn by the strumming of strings, floating through the afternoon humidity, cooling the air it touched. In pursuit of the music, we walked out into the wide enclosure formed by the white and black stone striped Cathedral walls. There on the stone steps, hooked to a car battery, played a guitarist. Eyes closed and swaying with the waves of his own music. He created a one-man orchestra, strumming the melody and drumming the rhythm on the surface of his guitar in perfect harmony. Beside him and his car battery powered speaker, stood a plastic bottle of water and a lit cigarette - The only reasons he took a break from his strumming, other than to charm the kids around. His music was therapeutic. Beautiful in a spiritual way. An improvisation with elements of classical Spanish guitar with the virtuosity of Flamenco technique. His audience, anyone within earshot; his eyes remained closed to them. He was a Spanish musician, who had gone through a formal education as a classical guitarist in Germany. Now he tours with his guitar, selling his cd’s along the way. He is his own marketing concept. He is his product.
Enchanted as I may be with Tuscany, time and time again, what do I take home with me? Enough carbohydrates to stock up for my fictitious Tour de France? That may well count as an accomplishment, considering the weight gain in time available relation, no easy feat I can assure you! I am in awe and stay in that dumb struck, gaping mouth, awed state. And then I go home. End of Disneyland tour, the ride stops. This is where everyone gets off. Either I stand back in line for another ride, or head home. To the easy comfort of middle class routine.
Would it matter to the musician or the circus artist if they were in Tuscany or Timbuktu? They are their inspiration. To wait for the person or place that would finally inspire us, is to live in the guilt of perpetual procrastination. Guilty as charged!
Monday, 12 July 2010
Faded 'Love'.
My legal love affair. The cool morning mist does nothing to prevent the pearls of pleasurable sweat you cause me. The places you take me when I sit on top of you. Of flowing rivers and wide chestnut trees, of chirping birds and fragrant flowers . Your strong reliable frame, sturdy below me. Keeping pace to my rhythm, moving in sync to my body. Thrilling yet safe. You and I are so good together.
The bell still rings out shrill and loud. After all this time. Although the bright red heart that stood for 'Love' is all but faded and gone, still the rest of the words are clear and bold as ever. Only we know how it reads, what it means. 'I my bike'. Our secret kept.
The bell still rings out shrill and loud. After all this time. Although the bright red heart that stood for 'Love' is all but faded and gone, still the rest of the words are clear and bold as ever. Only we know how it reads, what it means. 'I my bike'. Our secret kept.
Saturday, 3 July 2010
History is written by the victors
So sing with me.
Chorus:
Don't cry for trounced Argentina
The truth is they played like crap
All through the ball game
Their sad performance
They'll mourn their existence
And as for fortune, and as for fame
The German's invited them in
Now the world has seen they have got what it takes
It's not an illusion
They are the force they promised to be
The talent was here all the time
I love them and you'll love them too!
Chorus:
Don't cry for trounced Argentina
The truth is they played like crap
All through the ball game
Their sad performance
They'll mourn their existence
And as for fortune, and as for fame
The German's invited them in
Now the world has seen they have got what it takes
It's not an illusion
They are the force they promised to be
The talent was here all the time
I love them and you'll love them too!
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Withdrawal.
Drooling frothy foam, drawing closer to home.
Snarling intermittently, (gasp) it's coming for me!
Beast or ogre, let this be over.
Go for your kill, have your fill.
Squinting through the blinding light,
was I here today? Will I stay the night?
Tomorrow isn't what yesterday predicted.
This is the truth, I am addicted.
Plunging head first, into the ravine.
Serpent infested, the water looks divine!
Chilling and hissing.
Now I'm reveling in what I was missing.
Another day gone by, only a lifetime ahead.
Inching closer to the sky?
Or plummeting further to the dead?
Snarling intermittently, (gasp) it's coming for me!
Beast or ogre, let this be over.
Go for your kill, have your fill.
Squinting through the blinding light,
was I here today? Will I stay the night?
Tomorrow isn't what yesterday predicted.
This is the truth, I am addicted.
Plunging head first, into the ravine.
Serpent infested, the water looks divine!
Chilling and hissing.
Now I'm reveling in what I was missing.
Another day gone by, only a lifetime ahead.
Inching closer to the sky?
Or plummeting further to the dead?
Monday, 28 June 2010
The evil egg.
The doted upon only child was diagnosed with a protein deficiency. The doctor said she needed some kind of animal protein. This would be fairly easy for the most of us, but for Gujarati Jains this was like a bad joke. Let me provide some background here. Gujarati's are an Indo-Aryan ethnic group that originate in the state of Gujarat, in India. They are traditionally staunch vegetarians and can be religiously either Hindu or Jain. I won't elaborate about Hinduism. Jainism, is an ancient religion of India that prescribes a life of extreme non-violence and peaceful co-operative co-existence. In food terms, that means they are not only vegetarians, but do not even consume root vegetables like potatoes, onions, garlic etc, since these are the source of life and would need to be killed to consume these foods. If truth be spoken, this maybe the main focus of many practicing Jains in modern India, the rest being a lot more work. So the food part of it is fanatically, obsessively observed. These intricate differences, incidentally, are the decisive factor why modern day Indians still refer to origins and castes while choosing a partner. Imagine the complex institue of marriage being further challenged by Garlic butter fights!!
Ok, background provided. Are you getting why the need for animal protein for a Jain is a bad joke? But these were reasonable educated people, work had brought them to a modern thinking metropolitan like Bombay. They were good parents and now they had to provide their precious child with animal protein.
An egg, that was the solution! A neatly 'packaged' protein, it won't have to be handled, didn't have a raw messy, bloody form. They were told you could just drop the whole thing, as it is, into a pot of boiling water and it's done. So an egg was procured. A single egg to start with. It was brought home and then sat alone, in the never used circular slots in the door of the refrigerator. They didn't break the word to the elders in the family about the new addition to the pantry. That would have to be done gently. They were not ready to prepare it either, that would have to wait as well - till enough courage was mustered.
Ethnic groups, like everywhere in the world, tend to live in closely knit communities. India consists of such varying ethnicities internally, that the metropolitans, though consisting of few real foreigners, have similar communities. They are usually perfectly functioning social networks where people look out for each other, far from their cultural origins. Also a place where nothing goes unnoticed. It wasn't long before word trickled out about the egg amongst them. Other fellow Jains passed on muffled whispers about the 'impure' possession. Less and less neighbours came by on casual calls. Their friends found lame reasons not to dine at their home anymore. There was more, the elders in the house had caught on as well. There would be a lot of answering to do. As the good Jain family watched on, their popularity was fading fast, they were losing both family and friends. The egg was taking charge, silently and surely, taking control of their lives. Now every time the refrigerator door opened it stared back at them smugly. Sitting there, reigning coolly. While their world was turning upside down. If there ever was a doubt, this was proof of what such blasphemous behaviour brings upon. It was clear what had to be done. The protein deficiency was the devil in disguise. The egg it's evil accomplice. It had to go.
God bless the nice egg-eating colleague at work, there's no saving him anymore anyway! The evil egg was destroyed (and devoured) in egg hell, a sizzling hot pan!
Ok, background provided. Are you getting why the need for animal protein for a Jain is a bad joke? But these were reasonable educated people, work had brought them to a modern thinking metropolitan like Bombay. They were good parents and now they had to provide their precious child with animal protein.
An egg, that was the solution! A neatly 'packaged' protein, it won't have to be handled, didn't have a raw messy, bloody form. They were told you could just drop the whole thing, as it is, into a pot of boiling water and it's done. So an egg was procured. A single egg to start with. It was brought home and then sat alone, in the never used circular slots in the door of the refrigerator. They didn't break the word to the elders in the family about the new addition to the pantry. That would have to be done gently. They were not ready to prepare it either, that would have to wait as well - till enough courage was mustered.
Ethnic groups, like everywhere in the world, tend to live in closely knit communities. India consists of such varying ethnicities internally, that the metropolitans, though consisting of few real foreigners, have similar communities. They are usually perfectly functioning social networks where people look out for each other, far from their cultural origins. Also a place where nothing goes unnoticed. It wasn't long before word trickled out about the egg amongst them. Other fellow Jains passed on muffled whispers about the 'impure' possession. Less and less neighbours came by on casual calls. Their friends found lame reasons not to dine at their home anymore. There was more, the elders in the house had caught on as well. There would be a lot of answering to do. As the good Jain family watched on, their popularity was fading fast, they were losing both family and friends. The egg was taking charge, silently and surely, taking control of their lives. Now every time the refrigerator door opened it stared back at them smugly. Sitting there, reigning coolly. While their world was turning upside down. If there ever was a doubt, this was proof of what such blasphemous behaviour brings upon. It was clear what had to be done. The protein deficiency was the devil in disguise. The egg it's evil accomplice. It had to go.
God bless the nice egg-eating colleague at work, there's no saving him anymore anyway! The evil egg was destroyed (and devoured) in egg hell, a sizzling hot pan!
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Find your mojo. Dare to be more.
Few things unite the world like the ball. The fever, nail biting suspense and the spirit of the whole event have gripped even the ones most indifferent to football at the best of times, i.e me. Now I'm in. Hook, line and sinker!
And I'm glad I am. I'm not going to attempt making a recount or analysis of something I barely understand. The part I'm enjoying the most is how this event is serving to be a show case of daring defying expectation.
The so called stoney faced, expressionless North Koreans unapologetically cried their eyes out at the sound of their national anthem. Tears of pure unbridled joy. Probably the only 'real' team in the event, albeit for all the wrong reasons. Uncorrupted by all the commerce of profits and losses involved and insanely paid players. They were there to play football and took immense pride and pleasure in it. Resurfaced on this arena after 44 years, at the very best half a fight was probably expected of them. They gave the visibly self-confident Brazilians a run for their time. A swarm of red flies through the game, they fought tirelessly and passionately. But for a few chinese waving the North Korean flag, no other fans or supporters were apparent. What drove them? What is their mojo? Belonging to a cage of a country with a crazed ruler? Whatever it is, they have found it and they are using it.
Spain certainly had everything going for them, or so we believed. What happened to their mojo? Granted the Germans, as expected, sailed through against the Aussies to an almost effortless, hands down victory. What happened to them against the already defeated Serbians? Was it an overconfident underestimation of your supposedly weak opponent? What better advantage can an opponent be given? Sure enough the Serbs rose to the challenge and turned their reputation around, holding their ground against the mighty Germans. They dared to be more.
In spite of being knocked out (practically) senseless, the Aussies weren't wallowing in defeatism. Their bouncing right back and charging through the game, even with a reduced team, caught Ghana entirely off guard. They gave all they had, and then they gave more.
There's less than a month left of this unique atmosphere. Of peaceful international fighting. Of learning that the ball is round and everything is possible. As long as you dare.
And I'm glad I am. I'm not going to attempt making a recount or analysis of something I barely understand. The part I'm enjoying the most is how this event is serving to be a show case of daring defying expectation.
The so called stoney faced, expressionless North Koreans unapologetically cried their eyes out at the sound of their national anthem. Tears of pure unbridled joy. Probably the only 'real' team in the event, albeit for all the wrong reasons. Uncorrupted by all the commerce of profits and losses involved and insanely paid players. They were there to play football and took immense pride and pleasure in it. Resurfaced on this arena after 44 years, at the very best half a fight was probably expected of them. They gave the visibly self-confident Brazilians a run for their time. A swarm of red flies through the game, they fought tirelessly and passionately. But for a few chinese waving the North Korean flag, no other fans or supporters were apparent. What drove them? What is their mojo? Belonging to a cage of a country with a crazed ruler? Whatever it is, they have found it and they are using it.
Spain certainly had everything going for them, or so we believed. What happened to their mojo? Granted the Germans, as expected, sailed through against the Aussies to an almost effortless, hands down victory. What happened to them against the already defeated Serbians? Was it an overconfident underestimation of your supposedly weak opponent? What better advantage can an opponent be given? Sure enough the Serbs rose to the challenge and turned their reputation around, holding their ground against the mighty Germans. They dared to be more.
In spite of being knocked out (practically) senseless, the Aussies weren't wallowing in defeatism. Their bouncing right back and charging through the game, even with a reduced team, caught Ghana entirely off guard. They gave all they had, and then they gave more.
There's less than a month left of this unique atmosphere. Of peaceful international fighting. Of learning that the ball is round and everything is possible. As long as you dare.
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Air.
Her eyelids were so heavy, she could barely keep them open. She stood at the entrance of the tube car grasping the pole tight with her boney hands, her brittle skin stretching over the clasping fist. A little more and it could just split. Her feet were unsteady while she stood, her feather weight too much to carry. She was clearly no drunk, just very sick, and travelling the tube. All her possessions were in the bag strung on her shoulders, a mammoth task for this feeble body, nearly buckling under the strain of it. She must have been about 60, she looked like 80. Nameless and faceless. A nice clear vacant radius of space was maintained, distancing her from the others. The people.
Peak rush hour at 8:00 in the morning, yet this space must be spared. Her lips kept twitching, sometimes curling up, forming a nauseous expression. The radius grew. She took her time getting off the car when the tube halted at the next station. The vacant space started filling up instantaneously. I waited till she was safely off before I alighted. She startled, eyes suddenly wide and alert when I touched her shoulder. Our eyes locked for a moment before I asked her if she was okay, if she needed any help. For a fleeting moment there, she actually looked fine. 20 years younger. Her face lit up, her nauseously curled lips straightened out into a smile. Just for a moment, before her eyes welled up with tears. The hospital was just around the corner, that's where she was headed. They were expecting her, they would take care of her she assured me, between profuse expressions of gratitude. Gratitude for what? For seeing her? For touching her?
Embarrassed and ashamed, I watched her totter on. Diminishing. No ones's sister, no one's mother, no one's daughter, no one's friend, no one's nothing. Air.
Peak rush hour at 8:00 in the morning, yet this space must be spared. Her lips kept twitching, sometimes curling up, forming a nauseous expression. The radius grew. She took her time getting off the car when the tube halted at the next station. The vacant space started filling up instantaneously. I waited till she was safely off before I alighted. She startled, eyes suddenly wide and alert when I touched her shoulder. Our eyes locked for a moment before I asked her if she was okay, if she needed any help. For a fleeting moment there, she actually looked fine. 20 years younger. Her face lit up, her nauseously curled lips straightened out into a smile. Just for a moment, before her eyes welled up with tears. The hospital was just around the corner, that's where she was headed. They were expecting her, they would take care of her she assured me, between profuse expressions of gratitude. Gratitude for what? For seeing her? For touching her?
Embarrassed and ashamed, I watched her totter on. Diminishing. No ones's sister, no one's mother, no one's daughter, no one's friend, no one's nothing. Air.
Monday, 24 May 2010
The moon is made of clouds.
Out of the mouth of babes comes the innocent, uncensored truth. Not vengefully, not intentionally. The simple truth, because it is. Isn't that just wonderful? Let's listen and learn.
A 4 years old's take on death:
My daughter returned home one day from Kindergarden, scared and confused, looking to me for reassurance. Her play-mate in Kindergarden had lost a grand parent and had been crying frequently about never being able to see her Grandma again. My little girl sat on the bathroom floor that evening, as we were going through the bed-time routine, and suddenly broke into sobs. Trying as best she could with her 4 years of experience and wisdom, to articulate the fear that the first encounter with death had triggered in her. 'Daddy should never die' she said (at this point I resist the 'Hey, what about Mummy??' reaction. Big of me, eh?). 'Because if daddy dies, I will have no Daddy and I don't want to have no daddy' she continued, between sniffles. At a loss for words, I take a moment to take stock of the situation. To come up with an explanation that would be as close to the truth as possible without upsetting her further. My very practical son who was playing the passive bystander till now, unexpectedly speaks. 'Why don't you and Daddy just die on the same day then? That way you won't have to live without him'. I gape on dumbfounded.
If in a diabolically benevolent way, he produced a cogent argument that I couldn't refute. My little girl sobbed on even louder and now her brother was confused as well about the continued fuss in spite of his fool-proof solution!
Accepting things you cannot change. Taught to me by a 4 year old:
It had been raining for 4 weeks on end, form April into May. Incessant, persistent, depressing rain. I was down to my last bit of cheerfulness, letting the lousy weather start to get the better of me. My 4 year olds must have been noting this, just as they note everything. One of these rainy miserable days, we arrive home, the three of us partially drenched and cold. I indulge myself in yet another rant about the weather and the rain and why it can't just stop!
Again, my wise 4 year old looks straight at me between his rain soaked black curls and says 'You know mummy, it rains in spring. That's how it is'. The part he left out was, 'The sooner you accept that, the better off we will all be'.
A 4 year old's understanding of emotions:
This was one of those times when the other parent was travelling on work. Four days into single parenting and juggling work, and I'm still determined, come what may, I shall not loose my cool. There was no one else the kids could turn to for refuge if I go ballistic on them. So I vowed to keep myself in close check, pull out all those hidden reserves of patience. That evening, while I busied myself with dinner, my daughter had painted her hand and finger nails with felt pens. Paper was apparently too boring. Then, she washed her hands (but not quite) so that the colours merely mixed with the water to form a kind of a green, blue slurry that trailed in several streaks down the white door that she had handled and was presently dripping the rest into her dinner, the rice that she was about to tuck into.
I sit there and look at her, giving her a long, dagger stare. I didn't say a word. She holds my gaze courageously, defiantly for a while and then says, 'Mummy, my heart is hurting'. I reply cooly, yet sternly 'Really baby, why is that?'. 'Because you broke it!'. She had seen through me, my cover was blown!
A 4 year old's take on Romance:
I was rushing back home one evening, as I am always rushing around, with my son in tow. It was dark, and the moon was full and smoky in it's celestial beauty. He gazes at it for a while with me coaxing him on. He then stops, looks up at me and says, 'The moon is made of clouds'. Just like that, simple and true. Not a question, but a fact. Shaking me out of my stupor, enlightening me.
Now I know too. The moon is made of clouds.
A 4 years old's take on death:
My daughter returned home one day from Kindergarden, scared and confused, looking to me for reassurance. Her play-mate in Kindergarden had lost a grand parent and had been crying frequently about never being able to see her Grandma again. My little girl sat on the bathroom floor that evening, as we were going through the bed-time routine, and suddenly broke into sobs. Trying as best she could with her 4 years of experience and wisdom, to articulate the fear that the first encounter with death had triggered in her. 'Daddy should never die' she said (at this point I resist the 'Hey, what about Mummy??' reaction. Big of me, eh?). 'Because if daddy dies, I will have no Daddy and I don't want to have no daddy' she continued, between sniffles. At a loss for words, I take a moment to take stock of the situation. To come up with an explanation that would be as close to the truth as possible without upsetting her further. My very practical son who was playing the passive bystander till now, unexpectedly speaks. 'Why don't you and Daddy just die on the same day then? That way you won't have to live without him'. I gape on dumbfounded.
If in a diabolically benevolent way, he produced a cogent argument that I couldn't refute. My little girl sobbed on even louder and now her brother was confused as well about the continued fuss in spite of his fool-proof solution!
Accepting things you cannot change. Taught to me by a 4 year old:
It had been raining for 4 weeks on end, form April into May. Incessant, persistent, depressing rain. I was down to my last bit of cheerfulness, letting the lousy weather start to get the better of me. My 4 year olds must have been noting this, just as they note everything. One of these rainy miserable days, we arrive home, the three of us partially drenched and cold. I indulge myself in yet another rant about the weather and the rain and why it can't just stop!
Again, my wise 4 year old looks straight at me between his rain soaked black curls and says 'You know mummy, it rains in spring. That's how it is'. The part he left out was, 'The sooner you accept that, the better off we will all be'.
A 4 year old's understanding of emotions:
This was one of those times when the other parent was travelling on work. Four days into single parenting and juggling work, and I'm still determined, come what may, I shall not loose my cool. There was no one else the kids could turn to for refuge if I go ballistic on them. So I vowed to keep myself in close check, pull out all those hidden reserves of patience. That evening, while I busied myself with dinner, my daughter had painted her hand and finger nails with felt pens. Paper was apparently too boring. Then, she washed her hands (but not quite) so that the colours merely mixed with the water to form a kind of a green, blue slurry that trailed in several streaks down the white door that she had handled and was presently dripping the rest into her dinner, the rice that she was about to tuck into.
I sit there and look at her, giving her a long, dagger stare. I didn't say a word. She holds my gaze courageously, defiantly for a while and then says, 'Mummy, my heart is hurting'. I reply cooly, yet sternly 'Really baby, why is that?'. 'Because you broke it!'. She had seen through me, my cover was blown!
A 4 year old's take on Romance:
I was rushing back home one evening, as I am always rushing around, with my son in tow. It was dark, and the moon was full and smoky in it's celestial beauty. He gazes at it for a while with me coaxing him on. He then stops, looks up at me and says, 'The moon is made of clouds'. Just like that, simple and true. Not a question, but a fact. Shaking me out of my stupor, enlightening me.
Now I know too. The moon is made of clouds.
Sunday, 16 May 2010
How does a bad day end?
I'll tell you how a bad day begins.
First I leave the house in the morning with stilettos and no coat. In denial of the spring that never came, of the cold, damp 10°C outside. I know you're probably thinking 'What hit her on the head?', how come I keep making the same mistakes? You see, I'm a slow learner but at least I'm consistent - you have to give me that! Maybe a coat is a necessity here, but I still view it as just a cumbersome accessory (and I also let myself get misleadingly inspired by a toughened friend who's chosen to entirely drop the coat in May).
How does a bad day progress badly?
I am a conscientious worker. I say this unabashedly. Today was one of those days at work, that in addition to doing my job and focusing on doing it well, I was given the very rewarding task of justifying why I do the job I do. Very motivating, makes you want to just drive on! In the middle of doing that, I skipped lunch, headed downtown to acquire an especially large bag of especially large clothes for an especially big, very special persons' birthday.
At the end of the work day, as is most often the case, I head for my kids. Everything has to run like clockwork from this point onwards. There's no room for any dilly-dallying. I am lugged with with lap-top-stuffed-into-hand-bag, oversized shopping bag with goods-for-special-person, no umbrella (which I forgot at work), no coat, totally impractical stilettos, bad weather, empty stomach and my undeterred quiet resolve. 10 minutes into the 35 minute commute, we get thrown out of the sub-way. There had been a fire on the line and the tube had been indefinitely shut-down. We were all instructed to resort to 'alternate' modes of transport. 'Alternate' modes of transportation did they say? Once spat out into the daylight, out of the sub-way gut of the city, we realize that the main roads and all the roads around leading to it are blocked because of this big Christian event - The Ecumenical Church day. No buses, no taxis or anything on wheels was accessible (yes it is rapidly abating now, that quiet resolve I mentioned earlier). Hordes of people were trudging stoically down the 3 km long road, using the only 'alternate' mode of transport - their feet. I had 20 minutes more till the child-care closes, 10 km to cover, and not the faintest clue how I was going to do it (Thank you for wishing me luck). So I did the only thing there was to do. I walked.
An hour later, not much closer to my destination and entirely bereft of calm, I was still walking.
And then, she descended. My savior, my angel! She swooped down to my rescue, my kids already in her shelter and took me too under her wing.
Thank you for wishing me luck, for luck did come my way.
How did a bad day end? Miraculously well.
First I leave the house in the morning with stilettos and no coat. In denial of the spring that never came, of the cold, damp 10°C outside. I know you're probably thinking 'What hit her on the head?', how come I keep making the same mistakes? You see, I'm a slow learner but at least I'm consistent - you have to give me that! Maybe a coat is a necessity here, but I still view it as just a cumbersome accessory (and I also let myself get misleadingly inspired by a toughened friend who's chosen to entirely drop the coat in May).
How does a bad day progress badly?
I am a conscientious worker. I say this unabashedly. Today was one of those days at work, that in addition to doing my job and focusing on doing it well, I was given the very rewarding task of justifying why I do the job I do. Very motivating, makes you want to just drive on! In the middle of doing that, I skipped lunch, headed downtown to acquire an especially large bag of especially large clothes for an especially big, very special persons' birthday.
At the end of the work day, as is most often the case, I head for my kids. Everything has to run like clockwork from this point onwards. There's no room for any dilly-dallying. I am lugged with with lap-top-stuffed-into-hand-bag, oversized shopping bag with goods-for-special-person, no umbrella (which I forgot at work), no coat, totally impractical stilettos, bad weather, empty stomach and my undeterred quiet resolve. 10 minutes into the 35 minute commute, we get thrown out of the sub-way. There had been a fire on the line and the tube had been indefinitely shut-down. We were all instructed to resort to 'alternate' modes of transport. 'Alternate' modes of transportation did they say? Once spat out into the daylight, out of the sub-way gut of the city, we realize that the main roads and all the roads around leading to it are blocked because of this big Christian event - The Ecumenical Church day. No buses, no taxis or anything on wheels was accessible (yes it is rapidly abating now, that quiet resolve I mentioned earlier). Hordes of people were trudging stoically down the 3 km long road, using the only 'alternate' mode of transport - their feet. I had 20 minutes more till the child-care closes, 10 km to cover, and not the faintest clue how I was going to do it (Thank you for wishing me luck). So I did the only thing there was to do. I walked.
An hour later, not much closer to my destination and entirely bereft of calm, I was still walking.
And then, she descended. My savior, my angel! She swooped down to my rescue, my kids already in her shelter and took me too under her wing.
Thank you for wishing me luck, for luck did come my way.
How did a bad day end? Miraculously well.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
My India.
It makes me feel vaguely powerful. Being able to predict their questions before they are posed. I am one step ahead. I know from experience they can be any of six. That's India in a nut shell. India summed up in the frame of six stereotypical questions. How they read, here in order of preference (and descending order of tact):
Q1. - How does the caste system in India work?
This one is a timeless favourite. While there is some suspense left in the posing or not of the others, this one is as boringly predictable as they come. So much so, that I want to answer it even before I'm asked. The caste system has officially been illegal for over 50 years.
Q2. - How come I speak (tolerably good) English? Do I speak 'Indian'?
One may recall 'the fish on the bicycle' comparison in one of my first posts. Incidentally, the fact that the British had occupied India since the 16th Century might have something to do with it. My speaking English is one of the few pleasant side effects.
Q3. - (somewhat enviously) Is Gandhi as popular in India as he is outside of it?
What can I say? We had Gandhi. They had Hitler. How long does a political legend or villain last?
Q6. - Did I have a very impoverished childhood?
In the defense of my hosts, India is new to the Germans. It is a country, unlike England and the US, that has had a low influx and thus very little experience with foreign cultures. The Indian sub-continent has practically only recently been discovered on the map, mainly because of the so-called 'Green-Card' that was introduced ten years ago to attract skilled IT professionals.
Now, I don't claim to be extensively knowledgeable about other cultures and countries either. I am, in fact, vastly ignorant. And am I as tactless about it? I sure hope not!
Lets quickly go through the some basic current facts about India. A population of 1.2 billion, the second most populous country and THE most populous democracy. There exist 22 officially recognised regional languages, several of which have their own script, of which I speak 2 (and a half maybe). I virtually cannot communicate in many parts of India. So do I speak 'Indian'? What's your guess?
Of the 9 religions that co-exist in India (4 of which originated there), Christians comprise of roughly 3%. That's 35 (odd) million. Probably comparable to the population of Christians in any European country. So what are the chances you can be Indian and Christian? Hope that one's answered.
My India comprised of a typical middle-class environment, normal and boring. Hardworking parents, striving to offer their kids all that they were deprived of. Immersing themselves to their neck in debt trying to do so. Moulding their kids futures was their sole and only purpose in life. Trying to ensure that the prerequisites were in place for their children to earn a good life and living. In that way, we may in fact be different. In how the Indian parent obsesses with the future and achievements of their children. So, did I have an impoverished childhood? No, I was definitely privileged.
The point is, while India may be all of the above, yet it is much much more. A 'typical Indian' does not exist, for that the country is too vast and the cultures and religions within it too varying and diverse. One might need to invest some effort and time to know and understand it, till such time why not desist pressing the whole of the sub-continent into a mould?
We will slowly be seen as more than the picture the media paints of us. The picture of the soiled, barely clothed child with the snotty nose. We are slowly gaining the confidence to deal as equals on the global platform, to dare to be taken seriously.
India's planning commission has recently revised it's statistics to add 100 million to the ranks of the impoverished (who can't spend $10 on basic goods every month). Raising the proportion to 37%. My brother, a bit of a choleric, fumed at the negative publicity, west bashing east. Only our failings get dragged out in the spot light, he said.
That doesn't make it less of a fact. There is some truth in stereotyping after all.
Q1. - How does the caste system in India work?
This one is a timeless favourite. While there is some suspense left in the posing or not of the others, this one is as boringly predictable as they come. So much so, that I want to answer it even before I'm asked. The caste system has officially been illegal for over 50 years.
Q2. - How come I speak (tolerably good) English? Do I speak 'Indian'?
One may recall 'the fish on the bicycle' comparison in one of my first posts. Incidentally, the fact that the British had occupied India since the 16th Century might have something to do with it. My speaking English is one of the few pleasant side effects.
Q3. - (somewhat enviously) Is Gandhi as popular in India as he is outside of it?
What can I say? We had Gandhi. They had Hitler. How long does a political legend or villain last?
Q4. - What do I think about Bride burning (Sati)?
Sati was actually banned in 1829. 1829, for the love of God! Can't we talk about something a century more current?
Well if I must, the British did eventually pass the law banning Sati because that's what rulers get to do - make or break laws. But contrary to popular belief, they were not it's campaigners, for fear of bearing the wrath of the Indian Brahmins. Instead, they had actually chosen to tolerate this inhuman practise and look the other way for years on end. The initiative that finally lead to the law was driven by Rammhoan Roy (1772-1833), a Brahmin scholar.
Q5. - Why don't I wear the 'red spot'?
This one is actually a trap, I'm tempted to just go 'Oh, I forgot to!'. Knowing that answering this one with details like the significance of the 'red spot' or how I am Catholic in the first place and the 'red spot' being a hindu custom, would simply unleash a torrent of other questions. Like, 'Are there Christians in India?'.
In the defense of my hosts, India is new to the Germans. It is a country, unlike England and the US, that has had a low influx and thus very little experience with foreign cultures. The Indian sub-continent has practically only recently been discovered on the map, mainly because of the so-called 'Green-Card' that was introduced ten years ago to attract skilled IT professionals.
Now, I don't claim to be extensively knowledgeable about other cultures and countries either. I am, in fact, vastly ignorant. And am I as tactless about it? I sure hope not!
Lets quickly go through the some basic current facts about India. A population of 1.2 billion, the second most populous country and THE most populous democracy. There exist 22 officially recognised regional languages, several of which have their own script, of which I speak 2 (and a half maybe). I virtually cannot communicate in many parts of India. So do I speak 'Indian'? What's your guess?
Of the 9 religions that co-exist in India (4 of which originated there), Christians comprise of roughly 3%. That's 35 (odd) million. Probably comparable to the population of Christians in any European country. So what are the chances you can be Indian and Christian? Hope that one's answered.
My India comprised of a typical middle-class environment, normal and boring. Hardworking parents, striving to offer their kids all that they were deprived of. Immersing themselves to their neck in debt trying to do so. Moulding their kids futures was their sole and only purpose in life. Trying to ensure that the prerequisites were in place for their children to earn a good life and living. In that way, we may in fact be different. In how the Indian parent obsesses with the future and achievements of their children. So, did I have an impoverished childhood? No, I was definitely privileged.
The point is, while India may be all of the above, yet it is much much more. A 'typical Indian' does not exist, for that the country is too vast and the cultures and religions within it too varying and diverse. One might need to invest some effort and time to know and understand it, till such time why not desist pressing the whole of the sub-continent into a mould?
We will slowly be seen as more than the picture the media paints of us. The picture of the soiled, barely clothed child with the snotty nose. We are slowly gaining the confidence to deal as equals on the global platform, to dare to be taken seriously.
India's planning commission has recently revised it's statistics to add 100 million to the ranks of the impoverished (who can't spend $10 on basic goods every month). Raising the proportion to 37%. My brother, a bit of a choleric, fumed at the negative publicity, west bashing east. Only our failings get dragged out in the spot light, he said.
That doesn't make it less of a fact. There is some truth in stereotyping after all.
Friday, 30 April 2010
Live again. Love again.
I heard his raspy breathing as the last of life ebbed out of him. He was gone. You had loved and now you had lost.
You were strong for him through all of it, strong enough for the both of you. Fielding off all the negativity, saving up every ounce of your strength to spend it on him. It's anyone's guess where or how you recharged your rapidly drained out cells. In the privacy of your pain. And then he was gone.
It's been a long painful journey, two years. You traveled it. You have arrived.
Last night I celebrated your Birthday with you. Your rebirth, in a way. I watched you laugh, dance. The spark in your eyes has returned, you are more beautiful because of it. We had waaaaaay too much to drink, there was so much to celebrate.
Happy Birthday my dearest friend, I am so proud of you. You live again, you will love again.
You were strong for him through all of it, strong enough for the both of you. Fielding off all the negativity, saving up every ounce of your strength to spend it on him. It's anyone's guess where or how you recharged your rapidly drained out cells. In the privacy of your pain. And then he was gone.
It's been a long painful journey, two years. You traveled it. You have arrived.
Last night I celebrated your Birthday with you. Your rebirth, in a way. I watched you laugh, dance. The spark in your eyes has returned, you are more beautiful because of it. We had waaaaaay too much to drink, there was so much to celebrate.
Happy Birthday my dearest friend, I am so proud of you. You live again, you will love again.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Ticket, please!
Standing across the tram tracks on the opposite side, was a rather odd group of four. They were discussing most intently, something that seemed to be of deep common interest. Two portly, middle aged Bavarian men, a young attractive lady and a little girl of about four, riding impatiently in circles around the trio.
I had just got off work. I drop my pen when the clock strikes four to head to my kids, the race with time follows. I welcomed what promised to be a wee bit of entertainment in transit.
She was reassuring them, smilingly 'The ticket must be here somewhere, It can't just disappear. We just have to search everything thoroughly'. The men, obviously the ticket controllers, equally good-naturedly ushered her to the metal seats at the stop and held on to her belongings while she poured the contents out from her purse, scouring through each bit of paper chaos. She kept insisting, amid the increasing pile on her lap, most calmly that all the older tickets were right there, the current must be in there too, somewhere. One of the men watched over the little girl calling out to her not to ride too close to the tracks or too far off from her mother. At one point he even reached out for her little pink fairy rucksack and went through all the trinket trailing zippers, making sure the ticket wasn't mistakenly put in there.
I'm sure anyone who has lived in the proximity of a city has commuted by public transport, and is well aware that commuters are frequently, and randomly checked by ticket controllers. It's one of those things, depending on how well or badly your wallet or handbag is organised, could result in a minor stress situation. Invariably I'm fumbling through the contents of mine when I'm caught, as much to avoid the embarrassment of getting pulled up as the €40 fine attached to it.
Here unfolding before me was the similar situation between 3 total strangers and a child, yet neither authority nor stress seemed to be playing a part. Was it because the lady was so pleasant and not to mention lovely and attractive? Even so, there truly is no dearth of attractive, easily flustered, nasty women. She did remain monumentally unfazed and cheerful through out, and maybe because of it, drew the same reactions from what would have been her oppressors (ok, couldn't resist that exaggeration). I have certainly never come across a nice ticket controller. I seem to infuriate them with each extended second I may need to locate my ticket, while I get that condescending 'Give up the act' look!
She, seemed to be bringing out the best in them. I wonder how she does that?! I would have liked to learn, just then my tram rolled in. The race with time followed.
I had just got off work. I drop my pen when the clock strikes four to head to my kids, the race with time follows. I welcomed what promised to be a wee bit of entertainment in transit.
She was reassuring them, smilingly 'The ticket must be here somewhere, It can't just disappear. We just have to search everything thoroughly'. The men, obviously the ticket controllers, equally good-naturedly ushered her to the metal seats at the stop and held on to her belongings while she poured the contents out from her purse, scouring through each bit of paper chaos. She kept insisting, amid the increasing pile on her lap, most calmly that all the older tickets were right there, the current must be in there too, somewhere. One of the men watched over the little girl calling out to her not to ride too close to the tracks or too far off from her mother. At one point he even reached out for her little pink fairy rucksack and went through all the trinket trailing zippers, making sure the ticket wasn't mistakenly put in there.
I'm sure anyone who has lived in the proximity of a city has commuted by public transport, and is well aware that commuters are frequently, and randomly checked by ticket controllers. It's one of those things, depending on how well or badly your wallet or handbag is organised, could result in a minor stress situation. Invariably I'm fumbling through the contents of mine when I'm caught, as much to avoid the embarrassment of getting pulled up as the €40 fine attached to it.
Here unfolding before me was the similar situation between 3 total strangers and a child, yet neither authority nor stress seemed to be playing a part. Was it because the lady was so pleasant and not to mention lovely and attractive? Even so, there truly is no dearth of attractive, easily flustered, nasty women. She did remain monumentally unfazed and cheerful through out, and maybe because of it, drew the same reactions from what would have been her oppressors (ok, couldn't resist that exaggeration). I have certainly never come across a nice ticket controller. I seem to infuriate them with each extended second I may need to locate my ticket, while I get that condescending 'Give up the act' look!
She, seemed to be bringing out the best in them. I wonder how she does that?! I would have liked to learn, just then my tram rolled in. The race with time followed.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
It's finally starting to settle, the ash and the dust. The European skies are gradually starting to open up again to the much missed giant metal birds. Their assumed might, so easily undermined by something as unassuming as ash. After a six day long flight ban that brought all air travel, sans exceptions, to a grinding halt, airlines can only barely begin to clear the backlog.
I myself transitioned into a single working parent indefinitely, not sure when the other parent would finally make it back home from the other end of the world, by whatever uncertain means. Through all the chaos and disruption and immense frustration of hundreds of thousands of passengers, I couldn't help but smile. Not out of schadenfreude. I am, I admit, amused at the matchless power of nature and our utter helplessness towards it.
Earthquakes and Tsunami's and yes, even Volcanic eruptions itself are forces that can wipe out huge areas almost instantaneously, causing equally huge losses. Them, one reckons with. Ash on the other hand, seems rather harmless, don't you think? Airlines are looking at losses of up to $2 Billion for a six day ban. How did we get here? When did it become normal to actually commute to work by air? Commute by air I say, the chronic idiocy of it!! How many of us live so far away from our workplace that we would need a plane to get to work and back. Or travel across the globe for one meeting, rather than pick up the phone? Or holiday in exotic locations thousands of miles away, before discovering our own territories? Why people??
I'm at a loss for answers. Have a good flight my friends!
I myself transitioned into a single working parent indefinitely, not sure when the other parent would finally make it back home from the other end of the world, by whatever uncertain means. Through all the chaos and disruption and immense frustration of hundreds of thousands of passengers, I couldn't help but smile. Not out of schadenfreude. I am, I admit, amused at the matchless power of nature and our utter helplessness towards it.
Earthquakes and Tsunami's and yes, even Volcanic eruptions itself are forces that can wipe out huge areas almost instantaneously, causing equally huge losses. Them, one reckons with. Ash on the other hand, seems rather harmless, don't you think? Airlines are looking at losses of up to $2 Billion for a six day ban. How did we get here? When did it become normal to actually commute to work by air? Commute by air I say, the chronic idiocy of it!! How many of us live so far away from our workplace that we would need a plane to get to work and back. Or travel across the globe for one meeting, rather than pick up the phone? Or holiday in exotic locations thousands of miles away, before discovering our own territories? Why people??
I'm at a loss for answers. Have a good flight my friends!
Monday, 19 April 2010
So, what's the score?
It can't be changed, that's just the way it is. The ones we love the most, are the ones we hurt the most. What brings about this almost naturally schizophrenic behaviour? Maybe it is nature's rule and we just don't know it. That would explain a lot.
So what are we measuring here? Endurance? Depth? Density? Intensity? And what do our results tell us? How are our caring suckers scoring? The ones that do pass our tests are sadly the ones that will continue to be grueled so long, till they finally succumb and get flung onto the pile of other victims. The remains of the people who have loved us.
So how big is your pile? What's your score?
So what are we measuring here? Endurance? Depth? Density? Intensity? And what do our results tell us? How are our caring suckers scoring? The ones that do pass our tests are sadly the ones that will continue to be grueled so long, till they finally succumb and get flung onto the pile of other victims. The remains of the people who have loved us.
So how big is your pile? What's your score?
Saturday, 17 April 2010
Happy Easter, heathen.
It's turned into a kind of Easter tradition now. We pack our things, kids and all, and drive down to this quaint apartment in the town of Lindau with our favorite friends. The good thing about Easter as opposed to Christmas is, that there's less hype, less pressure attached to it. A more 'humble' festival, if you may. Much less is expected of Easter, and it seems to be quite content in being merely second most favorite holiday. Quite like the quiet resignation of the middle child. You are special, just not the most special. Unwittingly however, we for one, do seem to have a much more relaxingly happy time with each other, than we do on any other holiday. This may have a lot to do with our expectations not being set to the moon. (Why not make a note of this wisdom?)
Anyway, the tradition does go further and the kinky part about it, actually started quite by chance. I was brought up to be a god fearing Catholic. In India, belonging to a religion is like being one or the other sex, you must belong to one and you must know which one it is. Then you practice it with fervor, so as not to be left out. Being in Europe for so long has dulled that Indian effect some, but by no means diminished it. I am a god fearing something now, for want of a better option, that something is a half-baked Catholic.
So, come Christian festival, I seek the contact to the church and mass. Our first Easter in Lindau, no one took me seriously. I was in the company of 3 (+2) other Germans. They were confused, if anything, by the mention of mass at Easter. I earned their worried looks, like I would need help if I continued to show these symptoms. So I gathered that I'd have to figure out the organisational details on my own, and yet never got around to doing it! On Easter morning, I wake up with a start, realizing I still hadn't figured out my Easter service and for all I know, it might be being performed while I'm busy startling here. So I jump out of bed in a rush, pat my hair down, throw on a spaghetti-strapped summer dress (they're the quickest to put on when in a hurry!), forget to change my flip-flops, jump into the car, forget my coat (it was 4°C that morning), stop at the first steeple, charge out, get hold of the first nice old lady with church bag in hand and interrogate her, between chattering teeth, about the service timings. I realize only then, by the look on her face what a sight I must have been. The perfect deranged destitute, an Indian one at that, looking for a church! My purpose was served nevertheless. I had about a half hour to wake, dress and motivate my 3 year old twins and self to Easter service. Which I do, also managing to quickly prepare my Easter basket with my decapitated Easter lamb cake (traditions, traditions!), an assortment of the Easter eggs that we had coloured the previous night, to get blessed by the priest atEaster mass. The proper Catholic way.
We get there just in time, and stroll in with ease, feigning a no-sweat-getting-here-on-time stance. We walk down the center isle. I notice the old lady from before in one the pews and smile gushingly. I seat my kids in the pew ahead of her, staying close to a familiar face, while I proudly continue to the altar with my Easter basket in hand. Wait a minute, there are no other baskets at the altar, is everyone with a basket late for mass? I place my lone basket insistingly, confidently at the altar and return to the kids.
Yes, something seemed very wrong, because something was. It was an Evangelical church, an Evangelical community and of course an Evangelical service. They don't have the heathen Easter basket tradition. After the service when the priest wished me and my children on the way out, he looked sympathetically, deep into my eyes, clutching my hand and basket handle tight between both of his, and said to me 'I wish you all the best, the very best'.
The experience was so special and unique that every Easter, I go back there. To that very same church and attend the very same service. Never forgetting my Easter basket, the only one at the altar always. It will never get blessed.
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