Epigone

D was an ambitious twenty-year-old. His mornings were spent at Prakash General Stores – the three longest hours of his day, where he played delivery boy, salesman and shop-owner’s personal punching bag. Mr P, though not an evil man, was a bit of a misanthrope. Like the eye of Sauron, his presence was piercing and pugnacious.

As soon as the clock struck noon, D would rush over to his other job as a part-time hair-stylist’s assistant, at Gazelle Beauty Parlor – an up-market establishment that offered to bring out the inner woman in you, or so it said. It is widely rumored that all women secretly believe that they can look like Angelina Jolie, given half the chance. And they chase after this mirage with unrelenting determination. For a whole battery of professionals, technicians, researchers, retailers and surgeons, this notion proves to be the butter on their baguette.

D’s profile was to cut and trim. But he ached to also crimp, color, perm, straighten and curl – his hands would itch whenever a woman having a bad hair-day walked through the door. His ambition didn’t end there. He envisaged himself as a hair-consultant. Lift a strand here, feel a lock there – and know exactly whether it should be sent for scalp-cleansing or follicle-strengthening. The hair industry beckoned him – it was his calling. But the climb was uphill.

Thus spluttered the lorry of D’s life – a vector without much speed. And then - he saw her. V turned up in his life like a jack-in-the-box and hit him squarely on the jaw. She came into the shop and asked for a note-book. Violins played, bells jangled. D never recovered from the assault.

The days after that passed-by in a blur. He followed her home. He peeked in through her window. He even threw a stone and bolted. His nights were feverish and days pregnant - with wait. He discovered he knew a friend of hers and plotted to somehow get himself introduced. After that, D was sure his natural magnetism, years of observation and careful planning would win home the bacon. He knew to the punctuation how he would persuade her to go out with him. He would take her to one of those Salman flicks at Galaxy, on his neighbor’s rickety Honda; he would buy the popcorn during the interval and regale her with funny stories. To clinch the deal, he would take her to Rajesh Khanna Park where they would stroll around talking, and upon getting tired, would park their asses on a bench. And then he would open his heart out to her.

That little imp that we call - luck - was probably looking the other way. And so, his plans fell into place.

Location – Rajesh Khanna Park. Ambience – Fresh breeze and verdant greenery. Him – Clean-shaven, spanking new and moony-eyed. Her – Fragrant, tinkely-voiced and coy as a beetroot. They sit there looking at each other, hope in their eyes and moths in their stomachs. V seems as afflicted as D. Her hands are fidgeting with her handkerchief. He is wondering whether to take the next step. He steels himself, clears his throat and is about to spew forth, when he notices a strand of hair – blowing across her face. His right hand shoots forth to put that errant strand back in its place. He notices that it, the hand, is trembling. Her mouth is slightly open – the moment is magical. His hand makes contact with her hair and runs the length of it lightly; he finds himself saying – You have split-ends, you need a hair-cut.

City-speak

I was reading something yesterday and it was about different cities having distinct characteristics – like people. That set me thinking, how I would describe all the cities that I have lived in -

Kolkata – My first love

Warm, blustering, forgetful, intellectual. The Argumentative Indian. Would prefer brainstorming about life, the arts, death, the universe and taxes; over struggling towards making just that much more money. With the times - albeit with a lag; he is an enthusiastic, bespectacled, avuncular old man, having seen it all – Michael Jackson to Mango Soufflé; but whose senses still remain infused with the incense of the Durga Puja pandals and the quintessential Mishti Doi.

Mumbai – The Enchantress

She knows what she wants and is willing to pay her pound of flesh. Ambitious, independent and upwardly mobile, she flirts, pouts, and even blows you kisses. But don’t be mistaken, my friend – she could crush you under her stilettos in a minute.
A bank clerk supporting a family of five, a tycoon’s wife marrying business and page three in an evening’s entertainment, a housewife saving for that pagdi on the ridiculously expensive accommodation or a struggling starlet planning her rise to superstardom over the wreckage of countless failures - she has determination in her soul and dark circles under her eyes – coz Mumbai never sleeps.

Pune – For keeps

She is the girl next door. Pretty, sensible and sweet. Always a breath of fresh air; she can make the effort and play the sultry seductress too - just for a lark. Before you know it, you want to marry her.

Bangalore – The Chameleon

Difficult to say. Many things to many people. My own experiences have been diverse. Hard taskmaster when I just started to work – a veritable Aunt Agatha. An upbeat, pleasant, affectionate character when I was studying there – a modern-day Aunt Dahlia? Have heard from people about her innocence in the days before she met her danna – Mr Murthy. The grand moll of geekland in her hey-days, was she used and abused? Some say she still holds that power; all said and done, she is the mother of the new India – the provenance.

Disclaimer – For the people who disagree with any of the above - kindly pardon the innocent meanderings of an over-active imagination. I simply have nothing to do.

The Brucke over the Inn

Our next stop was Innsbruck in Austria. Ski-slopes and the Swarovski theme park (Kristallwelten), plus a couple of Winter Olympics – a must-not-miss destination for every Eurotripper worth his Eurorail pass.

The one thing for which I shall forever be thankful to Innsbruck - my first experience of snow. We took a cable car to the top of the Hafelekar (2,334 m) mountain range and the view during the climb and while on top, of the Innsbruck valley and town is etched in my memory. It was only October and hence the mountains had very little of snow, that too residual. That didn’t stop us making the most of it though. I was a snow-virgin no more.

The town was as pretty as any other European town. The city-center chock-full of tourists. Picture this – quaint cobblestone pavements, populated with artists drawing, sketching and painting everything in sight for a few euros; pedestrian roads full of people milling around – some who are trying to absorb all the history around them, with buildings to look at and guides in their sonorous tones to listen to; and some who have zipped up their digicams for the moment and picked up spoons instead – contributing to the top-lines of those many road-side cafes.

We contributed our bit and then bumped into one of the four boys I had originally come to France with (he was not with us on this particular trip, having had some other plans). It may seem like a coincidence conspired by the Gods to some, but it is not really so. Out of the 200-odd IIM-freaks crawling across the European subcontinent, most would have decided to head to Austria after doing the rounds of the Oktoberfest.

After the trip to the mountain and back, we decided to take it easy and spent the evening in a pub. It had a hot-hot-hot bartender, who was also extremely charmant. I feel it necessary to mention these lustful cravings, because they were rare. Another little factoid - at the beginning of the trip, Chandan and I had decided to flick a coaster from each of the pubs we went to, just to have a souvenir – unique and free-of-cost. Due to constraints like - not all pubs having coasters, and us not always being in a condition sober enough to flick one from the ones that did - this plan did not fulfill its true potential. Nevertheless, I do have some coasters lying around.

So that was Innsbruck – the bridge (brucke) over the Inn. I later came to know that the seed for A Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy had been sown inside Douglas Adams’ psyche while he had been lying in one of the fields in Innsbruck, staring up at the stars. Had I know it then, I would have been tempted to try it too. When was the last time a multi-million-dollar-best-selling-award-winning idea struck me?

All that rhymes..

I am not good at writing poetry. Have always thought so. And at different points of time, have come up with different reasons as to why it is so. Let me figure this out once and for all. So, let us have a look at the poetry that has had some impact on me over the years.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening – Robert Frost – an all-time favorite because I have, in some way, internalized the last few lines. I used to have them on a poster in my room and am pretty sure all my future rooms will have them too.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I also like the fact that Jawaharlal Nehru had these lines inscribed on his desk, and they were discovered after he died. I don’t particularly like the man, but I like the fact. These lines have history, they have character.

The Road not Taken – Robert Frost - for the sheer emotion behind it. I read somewhere that it is the story of his life. He chose the road less traveled. Have a look at these lines -
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
The irony and beauty of life – condensed in rhyme.

Mending Wall – Robert Frost - for the message. And because it’s funny, in a dark sort of way. The last line of the poem –
.. He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Platitudes, adherence to meaningless tradition, resistance to change – mainstays of our black-box-white-noise lives.

La Belle Dame sans Merci – John Keats – The woman without any mercy. A story of intense pain, heart-wrenching agony, and all that; but also the story of supposedly-competent men losing their rocker on beholding a beautiful woman. To be fair, most men would look askance at such a woman (with her wild wild eyes and faery’s song), but some never outgrow their adolescence. And serves them right that she ain’t got no mercy!

The Walrus and the Carpenter – Lewis Carroll – Delightful! From one of my favorite books – Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Finds There. Dear readers, go read this poem, if you haven’t already. It will tickle you to the bone.

A Visit to the Dentist – Ogden Nash (could not find it online) – As I recollect,
Some pains are physical and some pains are mental
A pain that is both – is definitely the one that is dental..
Wit at its best. And I like people whose names start with an ‘O’. Just.

O Captain! My Captain! – Walt Whitman – I like this poem because it taught me the meaning of the word – Allegory. The poem is actually about Abe Lincoln and the fact that he was assassinated before he could savor the peace that prevailed in his country after the Civil war and other elements. I have always liked Abe Lincoln. There are enough inspirational stories about him and as a young impressionable girl – I would get goosebumps at the mention of them.

Mind without Fear – Rabindranath Tagore
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high – into that heaven of Freedom, let me always reside.

So what is the common factor in all this poetry? What is good poetry? Depth? Emotion? Brevity? Thought-provocative nature?

All of these perhaps. Good poetry rhymes, great poetry resonates.

Inane

Who is to say, what’s right
What’s not
For a body-builder
Carbohydrates are rot

For a commercial sex worker
Legality rocks
For a saint or a priest (barring the ones who are pedophiles)
It just plain old shocks

For the doc - euthanasia’s right
To end a coma too long
For the patient’s wife
It’s a life taken wrong

For a business man
IPL is huge money & fame
For a true cricket fan
It’s the end of the game

For lovers intense and young
The world will not matter
But when there’s no bread in the bin
Will not love - shatter?

The believer has his faith
Faith is a strong teacher
For the science man, the atheist
Reason’s above any fictional preacher

And for a king in days of yore
Twas duty to plunder & maraud
So, my friends, who is to really say
What is even, and what is odd?

Eis

From Vienna, we moved onto Austrian cities renowned for their scenic beauty – Salzburg and Innsbruck.

Salzburg – the city of Mozart, where cigarette-lighter to chocolate-box – every bit of merchandize has him staring at you, in his white-powdered-wig; Salzburg – the city of the Von Trapp family with Sound of Music tours galore; its claim to fame are many.

The one thing I remember vividly and that deserves mention here is the expedition to the ‘Ice Caves’. These caves are sub-zero voids inside the Tennengebirge Mountains, at a height of around 1600 meters and have ice formations in various interesting shapes – all natural. We took a train ride to this place called Werfen and set-out in search of the bus – the first leg of the journey to the caves. Werfen was one of the prettiest places I saw in Europe. Austrian Alps in all their magnificent glory, the brightly shining sun illuminating the vast expanse of mountain, valley and brook.

After the bus deposited us, we bravely decided to foot the next five-hundred-meters-almost-vertical climb (in lieu of the cable car, may I add).

That climb made me realize how unfit I really was. The air around was pure mountain – the freshest possible; it got rarer as we climbed and my panting got more pronounced in direct proportion. But I am glad to put on record that I was not the laggard in my group – Rajgaria trailed behind me, putting blame to a fear of heights. On the other hand, Somdev was like a mountain goat, he climbed, jumped, and twisted his way around bramble and fern with the nimble-footedness of one. Bobby and Chandan, in that order, occupied the ranks between us.

I went along doggedly, not-all-that-slowly but very surely. After that excruciating climb got done with, we came to a sort of rest area populated with a restaurant and a souvenir shop. Not hanging around, we went ahead to avail of the next mode of transport – the cable car to take us over the unclimbable portion (although I later heard that some of the monkeys in our B-stable did attempt that climb too). Even after that cable car regurgitated us, we had some significant meters of vertical ascension remaining, to be done on foot. By this time, I was fed-up of the whole thing and rueing my decision to come at all. Somehow I made it to the entrance of the caves and we all sat there, gasping, a couple of hours after we had started – enjoying the rest.

But, not for long.

A 75-minute-tour inside the caves was next on the agenda. While we were waiting for it to start, a party of school children, no doubt on one of their field-trips came sauntering by. And I mean that. Around 7 to 8 winters old, it seemed as if no exertion was too much for them. Born in the mountains, with fresh air, wholesome food and hardy exercise, they would have made Sir Edmund proud. Be that as it may, the jaw actually dropped when post-fifty oldies started dotting the landscape! And they did not seem to be having half the trouble I was. Kudos. Going by this, I shudder to think of what I will be at 60. Probably on the catheter.

The tour started and I couldn’t wait for it to get over. It involved moving around in sub-zero temperatures and zero luminosity with only a few lanterns for ocular assistance, on wooden boards, through serpentine passageways, with railings on either side to prevent falling on the slippery ice. The going was slow, as one had to be careful, with so many people, especially kids ahead and behind of you. The domino-effect seemed probable. At one point, the whole file of us climbed a set of stairs that was at an angle of 45 degrees to horizontal propriety, as was informed to us by the guide.

This guide character was one helluva marvelous thing. Skating along on the ice, he was another authentic made-in-Austria product.

So anyway, that disaster of a tour finally came to an end. We felt liberated. The remaining of Salzburg was also quite interesting. We met avid travelers from the other IIMs and I explored the enchanting city of Salzburg on my own as the lazy-bums – R, S, B and C got late – they were probably doing their faces and tying each other’s corsets up. Bah!

It was a good time of the year. Mid October – the air was chilly, but the sun was out in full force. If you ask me, the Alps probably never looked better.

Jetsam and Flotsam

I have recently been reading a compilation of short stories by O’ Henry. O’ Henry was an American author, real name being William Sydney Porter. He specialized in twist-endings. I am sure, all of us, at some point or the other, have heard that one where the woman sells her crowning glory - her hair and buys a chain for the man’s prized watch with the money, while the man sells that same coveted watch to get a set of combs for her, or similar versions of it. This can be attributed to none other than big O. So anyway, I came across a delightful little thing from his stable the other day. The name of the story is – While the Auto Waits.

Here is a link – enjoy - http://www.literaturecollection.com/a/o_henry/238/.

On a very different and hugely disturbing note - I stumbled across something yesterday that made me let out a silent scream. It seems that kids in Australia, the UK and other places (thankfully not India yet - atleast the article didn’t say so) are trying out this game – the choking game – where they enjoy the kind of high they get out of semi-asphyxia (or partial suffocation and semi-unconsciousness due to lack of oxygen to the brain) and hence indulge in choking each other or one-self, albeit stopping half-way of murder or suicide. I cannot imagine anything worse.

It is so difficult to bring up kids in the times that we live. I kind of understand why parents so joyfully celebrate birthdays – they are just so relieved that the kid has managed to survive one full year more, given the kind of dangers that lurk – not only in places far away and outside their areas of direct supervision, but perhaps just around the friendly neighborhood shop, or worse - even in their own bedrooms, on the computer screens. It is a failure of our society, of the lifestyles that we live and of the values that we ourselves have, or those that we fail to instill into our children.

At times like these when I am forced to ponder over such heinous trends, I catch myself thinking – all I want for my children is that they grow up into persons who are reasonable in their thinking and capable of discerning right from wrong. And the onus lies on me, as a parent, to ensure that happens.

Speaking of children, and again on a complete antithesis of a note - I saw a delightful movie yesterday – Life is beautiful. Life was, indeed, beautiful in that movie. So charming was the protagonist – Guido (Roberto Beningni) as the father stretching his fertile imagination to the utmost to ensure that his child is spared the mental trauma where he has to deal with things no human being should have to; racial discrimination, torture, separation from loved ones and death - that it made my day. Also, having watched – The Pianist, the day before, the way in which both these movies tackle similar situations – of survival in those infamous concentration camps and ghettos, is vastly different. The Pianist is hard-hitting, based on a true story, whereas LIB is more of a fairy-tale as is so rightly mentioned at the beginning of the movie.

So, with movies, books, stimulating conversations with all – ranging from my mother to old and new friends, and physical exercise – I fill my days. Like I was telling somebody a few days back – I am trying to expand my intellectual horizons and contract my physical ones (LOL). All these activities lead to an avalanche of thoughts, some of which I plug back into those afore-mentioned activities. The spillage, however, I mop up by presenting them in the form of blog entries - for public consumption.

Cutting Chai

From Munich, we moved onto Austria. Vienna was our first stop. We reached there at 6 in the morning and were soon out on the streets, walking towards the City Center as usual.

The streets were so pretty. Early morning, no crowds, beautifully arranged shop windows and yellow-flower-strewn roads. Perfection. We ambled along, breathing in the fragrance, breathing deeply and stopping every few minutes to peer into a particularly eye-catching display.

I would like to say at this juncture that my long-standing disdain for Aishwarya Rai thawed a bit. I have always maintained that she gets more than is her due - as an actress, because she is ethereally beautiful. Well, all over Europe, she ended up being the only Indian actor/celebrity who had her mug on hoardings and advertisements, that being rare too, but nevertheless, there. I concede that yes, she does command a certain respect in the International arena and inspite of my aversion to that feeling of collective patriotism and pride that all us Indians have the copyright to, it felt nice to see her.

So anyway, it was a fruitful morning; we crammed in a few palaces and gardens, encountered a bus-load of tourists from Italy and took several ‘aesthetic’ photographs (courtesy Rajgaria and Bobby J). Around noon it struck us that Bratislava, the capital city of Slovakia, was just a half hour away from Vienna.

Now, every Eurotripper worth his backpack has seen the movie – The Eurotrip – where a bunch of kids from the States go to Europe and fall into all sorts of interesting situations. A part of the movie depicts them stumble into Bratislava, where they realize that the streets may be dirty, but there is no limit to what a dollar can buy.

We people decided to follow in their footsteps. Off we went to Bratislava. It was interesting - the currency was much more peaceful than the Euro and the city was decrepit. A mere half hour from Vienna in all its classic European glory; Bratislava had the quintessential Eastern European look – beggars, filth, cabs-drivers out to take you for a ride. We got into a bus, went to the city center and decided to spend our few hours at one of these swanky new malls. We walked around, downed a few drinks and also shopped at the supermarket – we stocked up on stuff we figured we would need – chocolates, water but mostly booze.

Many days later, while having a conversation with a Slovak exchange student from our class and from reading a bit, I gathered that Slovakia, and perhaps, the entire of Eastern Europe is kinda like a hot-bed for development and new business; hence it displays the kind of diversity that we find here in India too – a creak-a-minute public transport system alongside super-fast highways leading you to the Meccas of capitalism – the malls. The country’s political ideology is changing and it is in a state of constant flux.

So, here’s wishing all the emerging economies of the world - all the labor, enterprise and capital that they can dole up – May every Bhelpuri wala in Bambai dream of double-storied plush interiors, head-waiters and Crores that are crisper than cutting-chai.

Life's like this

I am currently taking a break from all the travel related talk. Current events dictate that I spend some time mulling over them. Well, the cloud may be cumulonimbus, but the lining is a big fat chunk of authentic silver!

Jug Suraiya says that all of our food grain problems will be solved if the politicos could turn our national inclination towards fasting into an obsession. I have spoken before about the way we Indians fast, and his article hit home. We fast for any and every reason – religious, political, personal, et al. Hunger strikes have been popular since the time of Mr Gandhi and fasting is often the most favored instrument of bribery as far as all things divine go. On a slightly more serious note, I agree with him that various factions – the RBI, the government etc are trying to curb inflation by flattening demand. What about increasing supply?

I chuckled a bit at the latest Absolut Vodka advertisement and the ruckus it has created in the US of A. Apparently, in an ‘Absolut’ world, half of the southern states of America would fall on the other side of the Mexican border, as was the case in the 1800s. This has not gone down well with the Yankees; most of them do not know that such a time ever existed when the map of the USA looked a little different from what it does now. ‘Absolut’ly American.

Dear readers, let me disgust you a little. Apparently, the most expensive coffee in the world is one that is an amalgamation of two kinds of beans – the premium Jamaican Blue Mountain (JBM) and another exotic-sounding one (have forgotten the name). So what, you say. All clear - so far. Well, as Barney-wait for it-Stintson would say, the second bean is not just added to the first, oh no Sir – we may be strange, but mundane we are not! It is, in fact, fed to certain even more exotic-sounding cats (yes, cats), then picked from their excreta, added to the JBM and lo and behold! The most expensive and mouth-watering coffee blend in the world. Say cheers.

We Asians like to differentiate. Whether is it cheap Chinese furniture - delivered to your door-step, or Tourist-guides outside the Taj Mahal with their Toothy smiles, we like to go the extra mile. Like this South Korean astronaut – Ki, who will not only celebrate South Korea’s first mission to space by breaking into a song when that final frontier is crossed, but will also spice it up a couple of notches by taking authentic Korean fare (customized for space travel, of course) along with her. Both these are first-time initiatives; and I will say again – joie - my friends, is the essence of life.

To end this series of the insane and the absurd – here’s the cream that gave the cat a cholesterol problem. A photographer (whose name I forget) specializes in clicking naked people and he wants to shoot 2008 (yes, that’s two thousand and eight) naked people in a stadium in Vienna, as a promotion for Euro 2008! He has made an announcement which says that 2008 naked men and women, strictly on a first-come-first-serve basis, will be given the chance to get their posteriors recorded for posterity. Isn’t that fant-ASS-tic?

Wolf

Many thoughts jostle for mindspace – the situation is worse than the 9 am Churchgate local.

My father says – the biggest failure, in today’s time and age, is when two people can’t find a way to understand each other and co-exist peacefully. We are debating whether a certain divorce should happen in the realms of the extended kith and kin. Well, it’s not always that simple. Sometimes, circs are beyond control and then, say I, why should one make this gargantuan effort to compromise? Doesn’t one deserve the kind of happiness which comes out of resonant co-existence? Pat comes the thought – When we take a concept like divorce as a lil more than the last armageddonish resort, the process - wherein we are trying to understand the other person - becomes half-hearted.

Perhaps, it is so. Perhaps, we squeal ‘Wolf’ too easily.

Today I realized that one has to work at everything. Attitude is not something you are born with, it is a matter of choice.

You can chose to be positive, or let yourself go to pieces. It is hard work, you know - trying to achieve that degree of optimism that makes you notice all the good things that are there around you. Because they are there - just a question of coming out of this self-induced state of self-pity and glancing around.

Today, I chose to glance around and was surprised.

Oktoberfest - in India?

Our next trip was to Munchen – Munich, for the Oktoberfest, and then onto Austria. This trip was one that took huge amounts of planning since we were trying to coordinate with a friend from Germany as well.

Oktoberfest was great – people really get into the mood for it there. And the gear as well. Bavarian men and women dotted the landscape, whichever direction you looked in. As usual, the women had unleashed all creativity on their outfits and there were Bavarian tops with leather pants, denim miniskirts, knee high boots, et al. The fair itself was like one of our ‘Appu ghars’, nothing more, nothing less. As usual, it was the exuberance of the people which made it different. Masses of junta from all over the world, the tents were overflowing, as were the beer mugs. Revelers dancing and swaying to music – mostly German songs, played live by groups of musicians. Different breweries had their own tents and each one had a different atmosphere. We went through all of them (were there six in all?) and chose on one that looked most fun. We managed to get a table for half an hour (strictly) and ordered beer. The beer tasted just as bad, but the excitement was infectious, and even though we didn’t know the songs, or understand the words, we got onto our benches and jigged a little.

Afterwards, we walked a bit through Munich. The best thing about these European cities is that they are all pretty and small. They have picturesque ‘city-centers’ and a whole bunch of people legging it. Quite touristy and easy on the pockets too. We went to Karl Platz , Mariann Platz, Eglise Garden and also managed to hop into a lounge bar and have a few drinks. This was the first of our many, many bar, pub and discotheque sagas. We people liked our spirits high.

For the night, we had booked ourselves at a hostel in Regensberg – an outskirt. It took us a couple of hours to get there – and I also recall there being a train strike in Munich that day! We reached somewhere near midnight, tired and ready to hit the sack – when the true import of backpacking smote us between the eyes. The owner of the hostel didn’t open the door, I suppose there was a deadline to the place that we had overshot, and we were left stranded into the cold chilly night.

That night was easily one of the more painful ones in Europe. We were cold and sleepy; and although there were a couple of over-priced hotels around, like true shoe-stringers, we decided to rough it. The upholsteries of Mac D’s, a local doner shop and Burger King were the beds beneath our butts that night.

See, things are much better organized in Europe. While, a fair of the magnitude of the Oktoberfest is planned to the tee and executed almost without hitches, where the motto is to leave no stone unturned to make it a memorable and ‘come-back-for’ experience and beer maidens are hired by the thousands; it also so happens that five tired travelers don’t get entry into a private hostel, the owner living just around, since they missed the deadline. Well, I think that one is not possible without the other.

While our India is represented by the ‘chaotic, everything goes, any and every mistake is pardoned if you have - enough money/are from the same state/are a girl/are apologetic enough’ kinda ethos, firangland begs to differ. For one – atithi is clearly not the apple of everyone’s eye and although I had to suffer for it – I would rather learn from my mistakes and toe the line than live in an India where an Oktoberfest in its full glory, is not possible.

Paris

Back to my travels and travails. The first weekend – we went to Paris. And I fell in love with the city.

With the metro – with its never-ending passageways linking one platform to the other, with its seemingly complicated routes and directions, the completely unpronounceable names of some of the stations, and the extremely familiar ones of some of the others, but most of all, with the people – blacks and whites, melting into a mass of smartly dressed Parisians.

With the streets – everything one has ever imagined about Paris – it’s all that and more. Roadside cafes, Parisians sitting outside at busy intersections, sipping wine at 3 in the afternoon – completely oblivious to the city zooming past.

With the Seine – and the way it winds its way through the city – like a grand artery.

With the art – that permeates every corner of the city. You can walk from the Notre Dame Church to the Louvre Museum, both imposing structures and brilliant architectural marvels, passing various roadside sketch-artists along the way. The way these well-preserved and historical guardians of the culture of yore gel-in with the contemporary is amazing. You will find palaces and policemen in the same breath.

With the breathtakingly beautiful Eiffel and the heart-stopping view of Paris from the top.

Paris is the romantic capital of the world – two-penny musicians, literally singing for their supper, turn up unexpectedly - at stations, inside the trains, on the streets. Sometimes struggling for attention from people hurrying; at times – surrounded by an audience – encouraging, applauding, and even joining in.

We stayed in this hotel, four of us in the same room, the first of the many, many bunk-bed adventures we experienced – it was great fun. We bought wine, apples and cheese from a supermarket and had that for breakfast. We went to the Louvre, tried to make sense of the masses of paintings and sculptures and clicked pictures of the over-hyped (as per me) MonaLisa. We spent the second night at the station waiting for our early-morning train, and slept on wooden benches in the waiting room. Those were the best of times.

I will come back to Paree, was the last thought inside my head, as the train pulled out of Gare Montparnasse.

The flying Dutchman

Carrying on with my discourse on Europeans – here are some interesting tid-bits -

The average French is petite, dressed in black, raven-haired and inky-eyed. The typical French man does not look good – reminds one of a well-bred chimp with a silly crew-cut. The woman too is not one of the prettiest across Europe – but the way she carries herself and her clothes, with her delicate build, pale complexion and ebony hair – she looks sassy, sexy and how do you say it in French – yes, chic.

The German is huge and blond – shaggy haired and broad, he walks brisk and speaks guttural, not in the la-di-dah manner of his Gallic neighbor. The woman too - ditto. The German loves his sausage – hundreds of thousands of types, flavors and varieties. Well, too much meat leads to bad breath. Ouch.

The Scandinavians are tall, broad and blond. The average woman on the street tends to be obese and the younger, more look-conscious counterpart will just be described as voluptuous – Swedish blondes - are supposed to be something else. When I was there, they were someplace else – I didn’t encounter any. One more thing about them – they seemed very startled to see us brown people – I suppose one does not get too many tourists from other parts of the world in Scandinavia. I recall a particular episode where an old woman followed us around Helsinki. She seemed very puzzled by us J

If you want to see good looking men, you should go to Italy. Eye-candy galore. The women there are nice too, but the real sizzlers are in Greece. I saw so many exquisite women in Greece – they were perfect. Apparently the term – Greek Goddess – has its roots in reality. The men in Greece are burly with hooky noses and huge shaggy eye-brows. Good looking, but not Roman-aquiline.

The Spaniards are o-so-hawt. Sunburnt and juicy – like their fruit. They dance well, speak with a delightful accent and are total paisa-vasool. Btw, I am talking about the men here, did not pay too much attention to the women – a girl has to have her priorities right.

There were a lot of Turks (is that what people from Turkey are called?) and Moroccans all over Europe. Dotting the landscape with their doner (a kind of sandwich with huge slices of bread and chicken and salad stuffing) shops, the Turkish people provided gastric relief to us. We met the Moroccans in various night-clubs and they seemed to know quite a bit about India – one was enamored by Shahrukh Khan and kept singing his songs the whole night through. SRK, if you are reading this, your NRI movies have infiltrated into the NRNI (Non-Resident-Non-Indian) section of society too. You must thank Karan Johar in your acceptance speech.

Apart from these episodes with the Moroccans, the most popular Indians there turned out to be – the elder Mr Gandhi, Mr Nehru and Mrs. Sonia Gandhi. Apparently, the Indian political circus makes its presence felt in foreign lands too.

Well, nowadays blogs spark off controversies, and worse – lawsuits. Let me mention hence, that these opinions are just that – opinions. Meant to offend none, harm none. And I completely accede to the fact that they may just be half-baked, given the somewhat limited time-frame of ninety days of observation.

Oo La La!

Let me deviate a little – visited 18 countries, met the ‘natives’ there – there are certain threads which run common to all Europeans and certain straits that make them very different and distinctive…here are some things I noticed about the French…

• Are most inefficient – love to waste time; case in point - they have two-hour lunch breaks everyday
• Are garrulous once they start talking – will talk in that broken faltering English of theirs till you feel like you were born to finish half sentences
• Are a little duh – not a people known for their enterprise
• Are quite steeped in etiquette – love the way they greet - the guys and the girls kiss on the cheeks. I feel human contact always helps especially when one is trying to make new friendships
• People there use the magic words – “Sorry, thank-you, good morning and good night” with alarming frequency – to the drivers, cleaning men and women, shopkeepers, random people on the street and so on…
• They are an extremely helpful people and will spend endless amounts of time trying to, lesse - locate a particular street for you (you - somebody they have never even met before) while business and any other work they may have been doing in the meantime takes the proverbial hike
• Are always dressed up to their eyes – they are a slim and svelte race and wear their threads well. Not for nothing, is French fashion one of the reasons that that country continues to be able to support its people
• Know a lot about the softer things in life – art, music, perfume, movies and wine – yes, it’s true – they are obsessed with wine – we kept getting lessons on how to select good wine from all and sundry around us
• Gesticulate a lot. And some of their impressions and sound effects are really funny
• Are a gallant race. The men are taught to be chivalrous and they are. They know how to make their women, or any woman, feel special.

I am in the process of marshalling some of my other observations on the Europeans into something that can be put on paper. Think about it, we Indians – vary so immensely in culture, habits, language, appearance and nature across the length and breadth of the country. So, is the case with the Europeans – a Norwegian is as different from a Greek as is chalk from cheese and the same is the case with a Spaniard and a Slovak. And like ours, in their case too, political ideologies differ - many of these countries have fought with each other on opposite sides of three of the biggest European wars of the last century – the First, the Second and the Cold.

Although unlike ours, most of these countries seem headed for the economic doldrums. Western Europe is the old world and unless it sits up and reforms, it will keep getting older.

Exchange Part III - Western tip of France

We reached Brest sometime in the evening, and it was the quaintest, most darling place I had ever seen. The roads were narrow, sedulous and super-clean, the buildings were small and toy-like, with no two of them having similar architecture, most of them had verandahs with flowers hanging out of them; the city, rather town, was lit up by neon and it was such a relief to see boards with Mac Donalds, Subway, Burger King etc blinking down at us. Perhaps, we had expected something rustic and smaller, less inhabited – and were surprised to see that it was a big swanky town with lots of people and vehicles all around.

That first night was memorable. We were starving, and we decided to hit the nearest Mac Ds for filling-up. Have I ever waxed eloquent about the Mac Ds being the pinnacle of globalization? Be it the foothills of the Swiss Alps or a rustic village in Kerala – Mac Ds are there.

We set out in search of it, various people gave us directions; we had just landed, we wanted to get the feel of the land, and absorb the atmosphere – hence we decided to walk. We walked, and walked and walked; encountered some false alarms along the way, a sighting of the ‘Golden Arch’ here, a glimpse of the neon ‘M’ there – finally stumbled upon our Mecca (did I mention we were ravenous?) close to the witching hour…and it was open, as only a Mac Donalds can be.

Ohh, and did I mention that for the first one week, we were putting up at this hotel – called Balladins. That hotel, was like all other things French (including the people), made to perfection – not an inch of superfluous space! My room was so small, three people would be a crowd and the bathroom - believe me – when I say – a honeymooning couple would NOT be able to play out all their fantasies in that bath – due to the severe lack of space! Well, I was paying forty Euros a night for this and before you convert that inside your heads (faster than one can say Merci Beaucoup I am sure - we Indians are good at math) let me tell you – had I wanted to save money, I would have gone for a trip to Faridabad instead of France.

Thus ended my first day. Things were so different, right from the radio and walkie-talkie enabled cabs to the rolling vistas of space with fewer humans in sight than there are cows here. But you know, someone has very wisely pointed out – the more some things change, the more they remain the same. We shall see.

Exchange - Part II - the journey to Brest

Now the purpose of this series is not that the junta eagerly waiting to hear about my exchange escapades is able to satiate its curiosity. I am well aware of the fact that there may not be any of the afore-mentioned junta in existence…

I just want to have an account of my experiences – for posterity’s sake. For when I am old and bald, for when I cannot remember where my dentures are, for then - when I stumble across these memoirs and smile in fond remembrance.

N the junta, if any, is most welcome to amuse itself.

So we set out. The journey to Paris via Dubai was normal, as it is wont to be. Dubai airport is huge though. And the duty-free section is delightful. We bought a lot of booze meant to last us for the duration of our stay.

Paris is where the game began.

Paris airport (Charles de Gaulle - CDG) seemed normal. Huge and everything. There were the metro lines and the inter-city lines (Grandes Lignes) on different floors. Brest was supposed to be a few hours from Paris. We figured out the timings of the train that would take us there and that we would have to stop enroute at a place called Rennes to reach Brest. You see, you may have heard of the super fast TGVs which run in France at the speed of 300 kmph and all, but these trains do not run from Paris to Brest – they have been introduced only along select routes. We had to make use of the ordinary sounding RER.

It turned out that our train to Rennes was just around fifteen minutes away and we had to find our platforms, lugging around forty kilos of luggage, simultaneously. We somehow got separated and I found myself on the platform – hoping it was the right one.

The train stopped. I tried to haul in my forty kilos, no prizes for guessing – it was near impossible. Ah, but never fear, when the French are near! A nice French boy standing in the doorway got my luggage in; he offered to drop it to my seat. Midway, I realized I didn’t have the bag which had some of my money and my passport! That moment – was undoubtedly the worst moment during all of my stay there. I went back-tracking my route along the train and found the bag.

Heaved a sigh, found my compartment, thanked the French boy, settled in - Loved the scenery, the clouds, the meadows, the cows. So green, so country. Met my gang – they too had had their share of adventures.

I pondered. I have always suffered from the ‘Superwoman complex’. I think I am great, mighty capable, never needing help, my natural resourcefulness at run-time ensuring all inconsequential screw-ups are ironed out. But today, in a foreign country, where people don’t understand the languages I speak, where my passport is my identity, security and safety – I should have ensured that screw-ups never happened in the first place.

Forty kilos – shout all the slogans you want, burn all the bras you can get your hands on – sometimes empowerment is about knowing when you may need help and ensuring it is around.