Rien de Spécial

Standing at the fag end of the weekend, I smile as the warmth of content spreads slowly but steadily through my tired body, making me forget how sleep deprived and exhausted I am and that an extremely tiring week lies ahead of me...so what did I do this weekend? Rien de spécial - a visit to one of my favourite places in the city, i.e. the Khadki cemetery(which is also hopefully the first of several such visits in the Pune Darshan plan for a new friend), efficient and quick shopping expeditions for friends, rambling conversations, drinks and a midnight meal of Maggi with friends, Dhansak and Salli boti at Dorabjee's café with Extempore who is here to help Landmark shift across the road to a much larger space with a hugely improved stock which makes it difficult to resist the urge to splurge which obviously means new books, in this case two new books by Gerald Durrel (whom I blogged about here) both of which I'm most eager to start reading...

As I said, rien de spécial - just an extremely satisfying week-end :)

Tchin Tchin

From 2004 to 2009, I've attended five 14 juillet soirées organised by Alliance Française de Poona. I started the journey in 2004 as a new student lost in the crowd, painfully awkward and bored stiff due to lack of company. A year later, I still didn't know many people but sure had fun with Kitana and PJ. The following year saw me in a new position as a professor, but back in the old shoes where I found myself isolated since I didn't know any of my colleagues well enough to spend time with them and ended up spending the evening on the dance floor with students...it was also the first time I condescended to drinking beer! A couple of years later, things have changed so much. For one, the party was not on 14 juillet but (for a bunch of strange reasons) on the 1st of August. Secondly, I now enjoy glugging beer. Thirdly, our party was a complete disaster in comparison to the rocking parties we've had in the past. There was no music and I never got around to eating so I can't comment on the food. Yet for some strange reason I had a great time - I was on my turf, flitting from one group of students to the other, stopping in between to gossip with P, N and K. Times like this, I am most tempted to pinch myself and check if this butterfly is the same Plain Jane who would not so much as indulge in small talk with people, leave alone flirt outrageously, tease mercilessly and refuse to let anyone get bored or feel lonely. I think I quite like the butterfly, so let's drink to that, shall we?

Because...

...I was grounded today because of the most severe stomach upset I've had since February 2006, I am going to ramble once again.

I absolutely hate having a stomach upset. It unhinges me like little else, leaving me feeling mightily crabby and out-of-sorts. A nasty cold with a running nose, sore throat accompanied by a spell of sounding sexy and husky (read, braying like a donkey) and congestion that leaves me with palpitations and breathing problems - now that I can handle. I may claim that I'm dying atleast five times a day, but I can keep moving and more importantly, teaching. But a stomach upset like this, leaves me drained and forces me to cancel class. I do not like. At all.

In a house that increasingly resembles a zoo with two little brats we had a little incident a few days ago that tickled my funny bone immensely once the initial trauma had subsided. I was cleaning the chicken for dinner when the elder of my two nephews came running out of his room bawling his lungs out. My mother, sister-in-law and I came running from the different corners of the house and were just standing there in mute horror, aghast at the sight of my nephew's bleeding mouth (or so it seemed to us), till one of us sprung into action and got ice from the fridge and the other ran to get some ghee for some desi treatments. While they were busy trying to calm his wailing, I went to investigate and what should I discover but a brand new razor with some soft hair lodged between the blades. My four year old nephew had decided that he needs to shave like his father! I emerged from my brother's room chortling with unbridled amusement and proceeded to chuckle over it for the rest of the evening. Boys can be such monkeys!

Every once in a while I come across a student that presses the wrong buttons and sends my blood pressure shooting by the mere fact of having opened his/her mouth. But I have never come across somebody who is so skilled in accomplishing this feat, that not a single class goes by without me wanting to exterminate him à la manière de SG who once threatened to incinerate his students. Not only is this student too big for his boots and extremely irritating, his abysmal lack of manners makes me want to throw him out of my class (after slapping him and if possible breaking his teeth).

I Wanted...

...to go for a long drive in this glorious weather. So I put it down in my diary of "wants" - sure enough it came true! I went for a long drive (three hours, if you please!) - to freaking Phursunghi (don't even ask) with a doddering old lady to meet "intelligent" engineers who wanted to know if it was possible to "shrank" a course that requires 150 hours of teaching down to 45 hours of teaching and think that they can actually be able to converse with engineers in French about work at the end of this "shrank" course in French! HELP! What did I do to deserve this?

...to bake a date and walnut cake for the birthday of senior colleague for whom I have the deepest admiration and respect, even if he is a complete madcap. I've learnt much from him - including, I think, my recent penchant for the exaggeration and drama! Well, after a day that started at 5am and a wonderfully productive trip to Phursunghi (no, really, don't ask) I was exhausted to the point of wanting to just collapse on my bed. End result? I forgot to buy the dates, and have been forced to settle for a chocolate cake. It's still delicious and will still melt in his mouth and is packed with dollops of love (corny corny) but it isn't what I promised to make! Gah!

...to go for lunch at Prems this Sunday with E Vestigio, sit in those plastic chairs with my feet crossed, allowing the breeze to play havoc with the hair which has been recently cut and is quite wild, drink lots of beer and talk through the afternoon. This was after wanting to go to Tinsel Town for her birthday, a plan which got cancelled when she said she's coming to the hamlet instead, which also didn't happen, so I couldn't be with her once again for her birthday!:(

...

Looking back...

...I sometimes wonder how I did it all without asking for anybody's advice or help. And when I did ask for help, none was forthcoming so in the end, I ended up doing it all myself. Seeing my compatriotes go through the paces with constant guidance, I don't know whether I envy them or am proud of myself for having done it all independantly. It was a huge risk and I knew I couldn't blame anyone if it had been a mistake since every last (little or big) decision was mine and mine alone - from deciding to finance my entire stay with my own money to deciding to settle for a Diplôme in lieu of a Masters and choosing the University Stendhal and refusing to even consider Sorbonne to deciding my entire itinerary and fixing my accomodation - not once did I ask anyone what to do or how to do it. Yet another sign of my stubborn nature and that streak of independance and refusal to admit that I need help. It didn't backfire this time, luckily. No regrets either, but sometimes I wonder where this facet of my personality will take me.

Lungi v/s Veshti

Crash course on the difference between a Lungi and a Veshti

Special class conducted in Dijon by our unique prof Meenakshi! :)

Addicted to...

...love?

You wish.

I'm addicted to the virtual world of emails, inane faceless chat conversations on instant messengers and (horror of horrors) status messages on Facebook! I sign in eagerly every morning, afternoon and evening to see if I have new email, chat with friends (sometimes just an hour after having met them or spent the entire day with them) and waste so much precious time on Facebook. Sure I also work online and am constantly browsing and looking for more erudite things to read, but when I think of the time I spend in front of my laptop simply idling away time or waiting for that one email, I am most appalled! The peak of my addiction to the Internet was in 2000 when I would spend all day online, sometimes even skipping meals to chat with friends in the US. Reality hit big time when I fell ill and I cut down on my Internet time drastically. I wouldn't say I was disconnected but the importance I had given the Internet in my existence had definitely been put in the right perspective.

Cut to 2009 and I find myself leading a pretty solitary existence where very often the only conversations I had in the whole day were virtual...and the devil rose it's head again. Six months later, I find myself unbelievably addicted to the Internet...so much that I sometimes spend the entire afternoon in bed with my laptop on my lap, shift to the table in the evening only to be back in bed after dinner - once again with my laptop for company...and I find another day has gone by without my having so much as touched the books piling up on my bedside table and in my bookshelves waiting to be read.

Last week, I spent the entire day with the girls. The morning spent in a flurry of activity didn't leave me the time to login (thankfully) and I got back in the evening with a pleasant after glow that only comes after a wonderful day chatting, giggling, window-shopping and seeing an absolutely crazy film with friends...and I immediately got online! It was a beautiful day, the rain coming down in sheets - ideal for an evening snuggled in a cozy blanket with a book and a huge much of hot chocolate or coffee! But what did I do? I spent it in front of the laptop! I was going to do the same this afternoon, only to pull myself up. My excuse in France was the lack of any company/alternate activity, especially in the initial months when it was too bitterly cold to be doing much outside the haven of the heated room. Can I dare hide behind a similarly concocted excuse now?

I wish...

But since we've already established that wishes do not exactly work the way we want them to work, I had to run a reality check and reprimand myself for being so weak and giving in to the temptations of the darker pleasures! And so I got into bed with A History of the French Language Through Texts and spent a delightful few hours lost in the history of the language. This evening I sternly put aside the little box once I had finished the task at hand and settled down to watch an old favourite Sister Act, before seeing to my dinner.

The first step has been taken. There will be withdrawal symptoms and temporary setbacks, but I know I can do it. *Patting myself encouragingly on the back* :-)

Currently listening to Shout from the OST of Sister Act

Lessons Learnt...

For the past few weeks, people across the city have been experiencing water shortage and complaining about not having enough water. Fortunately we didn't have the same problems since our building which still doesn't have full occupancy and thus the water we get from the corporation combined with the borewell water was more than sufficient for us. So everytime somebody complained about water problems I'd just smile indulgently....till yesterday!

We woke up to find our taps dry. After the initial panic, we realised that there was plenty of water in the tank at ground level. The problem was in the pumping mechanism which allowed the water to be pumped up to the reservoir on the building's terrace. Unfortunately, knowing the problem doesn't mean that one has the solution at hand. With nobody to repair the pump at 06:30, I was forced to brush my teeth, wash and bathe in a bare minimum of water,i.e. 1 bucket of water, which had to be lugged up from the borewell to our flat! I might as well have been living in a village or be out camping in the forest. I thought the problem would have been solved by the evening, but much to my dismay dusk fell but the motor had not been repaired. Facing the sight of dirty utensils from the previous night piled up in the kitchen, my mother decided to set me the task of washing at least the basic stuff, once again in a record amount of water - 1 bucket of water for 5 dinner plates, 4 quarter plates, 3 bowls, 3 saucepans, 8 glasses/cups and assorted cutlery. I had to repeat the minimal bathing and washing feats again this morning, which made me realise a couple of things...

I have an alternate profession lined up incase AFP decides they no longer need me - domestic help! ;-) More importantly - if I could achieve so much in such little water, I must be wasting a colossal amount of water otherwise. I always thought I was careful about not wasting water (except for my insistence of taking a shower instead of a bucket bath), but I don't think I can say that anymore...lessons have been learnt. Can we please have water running through the taps by this evening? I'd really like to wash my hair tomorrow morning and it's a little difficult to do that in 1 bucket of chilly water. :-(

If only...

There are times when I feel so tied down by our traditions and culture, which force us to maintain relations with people with whom we share nothing but the same extended family. I fail to understand why we are obliged to regularly meet, pretend to like and respect people who neither deserve respect nor love and would themselves never wish us any good. Do family ties build real relationships? The elders of the family threaten to disown children who don't toe the line...I'd really like disown several people for being an embarassment and a real pain in the wrong place! Sigh, if only...

Currently listening to : No Son of Mine - Genesis

Make me a Memory...

It's no secret that I love the rains...I've grown up watching my city get drowned in a deluge every year. The months of June, July and August during school always spelt afternoons and evenings spent cuddled in a blanket with a mug of coffee or hot chocolate cradled in one hand while the other held a book in which I lost myself. As the years slipped by and I entered college, I built new memories of the monsoon madness in Bombay. Memories of getting wet on the rock beach in Versova and tipsily composing a silly poem with K and A that went something to the tunes of "It's raining in paradise, you are my fire, I am your ice..." (No that wasn't inspired by several bottles of alcohol, we were just drunk on the rain). Memories of folding my jeans upto the knees and screwing up my nose as I stepped gingerly in ankle-deep water on my way to college / university. Memories of getting drenched to the skin at Bandstand, again with K and A and coming back home to mugs of hot coffee and midnight conversation with them. Memories of sipping garam masala chai with A, while watching the waves lash the beach. Memories of walks and meandering conversations with M after dinner, discussing the travails of adolescence, puppy love and our favourite songs as the rain fell pitter-pittar and fed the greedy earth. Memories of walking down streets lined with trees showering me with water, hours after it had stopped raining. Memories of those crazy afternoons spent in South Bombay when A and I dug into the most delicious bhel at Marine Drive, got wet and then had that softy at Churchgate station when I apparently got away with a bigger scoop because of my wet (white) tee-shirt! Memories of the city drowning in 2006 and being marooned at K's house, using the opportunity to shamelessly extend my stay in my favourite city and catch up with friends.

It was raining the day we left Bombay for Pune...the first rains of the year. 7th June 2004. Five years later, I have many many memories that will keep me connected to this city forever, even if I move on and move away. Memories of langourous, sultry summer afternoons spent drinking chai or nimbu pani and wrangling with a friend. Memories of the long days of oppressive heat when I felt my soul stir restlessly, seeking something more. Memories of chilly winter mornings, going to PIFF or AFP bundled up in a sweater and scarf. Memories of cozy autumn evenings when the cool breeze caressed my arms and made me yearn for the forbidden.

But I have no memories that link monsoon and me with this city. Even after all these years, I still think of Bombay during the rains and inevitably slip into nostalgia. I want to make new memories this year. Memories of the rains that bring with them a welcome relief from the unbearably heat of an endless summer. Memories of the rains which quench the thirst of the parched earth of the Deccan Plateau and leave that heady fragrance, which I so love, lingering in the air . Memories that tie the rains and me to Pune.

Get out of my face...

“Nakedness reveals itself. Nudity is placed on display. The nude is condemned to never being naked. Nudity is a form of dress.” – John Berger ,Ways of Seeing

Way before I read Berger’s classic essay on the female body and the male gaze, I never really considered nudity as vulgar. The human body, beautiful or ugly, is an oeuvre d’art that can not be surpassed and if the artist chooses to make it his subject, I think he is justified. What put me off was the flagrant use of nudity to seek attention and make a statement. After being exposed to nudity on the beaches of France, where I saw male and female bodies of all sizes, ages and conditions spread out on a display like the wares of a garage sale even that ceased to bother me. Walking down the roads of Barcelona I was treated to the sight of a naked (and extremely virile) man, with tattoos all over his body strolling down the road nonchalantly with not so much as a fig leaf to cover himself! Once I overcome my initial shock and amusement, and discovered that he roams around the city like that for as long as the weather permits him I couldn’t help but ask how the city reacted to him. The tourists of course were amused and fascinated and couldn’t stop taking photographs. I was informed that somebody had filed a case against him for obscene exposure and indecent behaviour and that the person has lost when the man turned around and said that he was just walking around in his natural state and far from doing something to hurt others he was subject to endless offensive remarks and thus he was the aggrieved party!

What exactly is this pontification about you wonder? Well simply to say that nudity doesn’t offend me and I fail to see (without getting into our mythology, rah rah and rah) why we kick such a fuss about it in this country. Why persecute the poor man or woman who can not afford to cover his body with adequate clothing when there are jerks roaming around the streets of the country servicing themselves in open view? Yep, you got it right…this morning crossing a posh area of Pune on my way to work, I crossed a man who was openly jerking off right there in the middle of the road. Not a homeless man. Definitely not drunk or stoned. He looked perfectly sober and probably had a job working as a delivery man in some shop. And he was just standing there on the pavement servicing himself in broad daylight. This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered something of this sort. Yes this too is natural and nothing particularly aberrant as a practice…but really in public places? At least find yourself a bush, (a fig leaf won't do the trick in this case) whatever, just get out of my face! This morning I wanted to first cover that man up with a sheet, then have him arrested for lewd behaviour. How come men get away with such atrocious behaviour? I don't get it...if we turn a blind eye to such things, why not permit public displays of affection, or for that matter public copulation? And why make such a big deal about nudity? I'd much rather see naked people than be subjected to jerks of this sort.

I want to be wild again...

Mid-year resolutions...yes, I made several today, including shedding that brooding mantle of self-doubt that has been dogging me. New anthem for the moment : I want to be wild again. I haven't crooned that song since I stopped going for morning walks / jogs on saat bungala beach, way back in school and college. Fits the current mood. Plain Jane is going to let the world get a glimpse of the naughty me that hides inside! Amen!

PS I'm hoping that putting this up in virtual ink will make me stick to the resolution, but don't be surprised if I put up a dark post within a few days or disappear back into my cocoon!

Legally Gay

In a world where we dream of homogenous societies where differences between men would cease to exist, why have we attached such a pejorative signifcation to the word "homo"? I fail to understand why we, as a society, attach so much importance to the gender of the person with whom somebody decides to go to bed. Is homosexuality an abnormality? I've heard the scientifc arguments, the theological arguments, the sociological/anthropological arguments as well as the plain incredulously ridiculous arguments that brand homosexuality as abnormal and /or immoral, but I've never really bought any of those arguments. If the Greek gods could sleep with all and sundry, man or animal, same sex or different, surely it can't be all that abnormal and immoral? In my ideal (and homogenous) world, all of mankind had the same origins before we decided to don our respective skins and cultures that marked us as different. So the argument that Greek mythology is not Indian mythology and thus what may not be abnormal in the occidental world is not necessarily the case here just fails to impress me.

I tried hard to resist the urge to join the bandwagon of people unleashing the spate of write-ups reacting to the recent amendment to the Article 377 which has finally legalised homosexuality in India, but I finally decided I don't want to hold my silence anymore.

One of my closest friends is not straight, and every time someone realises this, I'm subjected to the strangest and most intrusive questions which leave me amused, horrified and more often than not, plain disgusted with the person asking me the questions. The idiotic stereotypes leave me wishing I could send the people cracking those ridiculous jokes for an MRI scan, for surely there has to be something seriously wrong with their cerebral organ for them to come up with such incredible nonsense. As for the perverse interest in somebody's sex life, it leaves me with a acrimonious taste in the mouth and makes me wonder who is abnormal one in the equation. Heterosexual couples probably indulge in just as much (if not more) kinky sex, but do people interrogate them about what they do behind closed doors? So what's with the obssession with how homosexuals do it?

The amendment in the law that had labelled homosexuality as a criminal offence for ages is a big step forward for our country, but I wonder when people's attitude will change. I still remember the day my friend finally came out to me - I had of course suspected it for quite a long time but I never really felt that it was important whether my friend chose to be with somebody of the opposite sex or the same sex. I'm not sure how my friend expected me to react, but I remember wondering if this revelation was expected to change anything between us. If anything, I am actually more secure in our friendship, since everytime one of my heterosexual friends has entered a relationship, there is always a fear of losing the friend, especially when the friend is a man. Over the years I've often been asked why I am such a staunch defendor of gay rights. Perhaps the fact that my closest friend is not straight and I now have several friends who are not straight, all of whom are the most wonderful people and of whom I am very fond, has made me more aware of the mariginalisation they have to go through and how difficult it is to first accept that you aren't following society's norm and then live in the closet for most of one's life, to never be able to come out to one's family because of the fear of rejection. What enrages me the most, however, are not the people who are anti-gay for I merely think of them as unenlightened idiots, of which there are plenty scurrying over this planet. What truly gets my blood boiling are those people who are apparently "cool" with homosexuality but see all gay people as just "gay" and have little interest in them as people. Why can't we see beyond their homosexuality and see the person? I hope this change in the law will slowly open people's eyes, but I question how many of my homosexual friends will be able to tell their families about their preference even after this law. I know homosexuals across the country are celebrating the dawn of a new era, but I wonder how long it will take for the sun to truly rise in our blindfolded society.

Convicted...

I've been developing a theory using my wonderfully convoluted theories on life and I'm getting increasingly convinced about the applicability of this current theory. I am increasingly convinced that a parenthood test should be imposed on every couple planning or expecting a baby and people who fail should not be allowed to bring a child into this world.

Without mincing any words, I think that people who have children because of family or societal pressure when they are incapable of bringing up children, have no particular affinity towards children, have nothing in common and are merely sharing a roof and fooling themselves that they have a marriage / living out a farce of a relationship knowing fully well that what they are living is nothing but a lie, should be slapped for their weakness of character or flogged for their selfishness (depending on the case) and then thrown into a dungeon for the rest of their lives.

How can people play with a child's life just because they don't have the guts to stand up to society or face the fact that they can never provide the right atmosphere and upbringing to child when they are completely incapable of doing that? How can they play with a child's life when they aren't even good for each other, leave alone a third person? How can they gamble with somebody else's life in the vain hope that it might miraculously create a relationship for them and make the family / society happy?

Talking without being in those shoes - isnt that what you are thinking? Valid accusation. I accept it. I have only observed people. closely and suffered because of their mistakes, but not yet been in those shoes. But did I mention that I've had the most wonderful parents and I could not have had better role models than my father and mother? And that I don't think I could do even half as good a job and wonder then, with my own high standards, if I will ever have children...

Rah rah I know I'm being harsh and unreasonable and over-idealist, but I'm really sick of seeing screwed up relationships and bad parents play with their child's life....sick to the point of wanting to throw up on their faces before dragging them by their hair and throwing them into a dark dungeon.

Ok I'm done. Now that I've said this and put up my impossible and super convoluted theory up for all and sundry to read and dismiss, I feel much better. Of course I still hold the above mentioned people in deep contempt and would gladly slap them and tell them exactly what I think of them, but alas that will not fix the problem. It will not undo the mistake and it will not stop that child from growing up emotionally disfunctional and probably repeating his parent's mistake. And it will not make people better parents.

If only wishes were horses...I would probably choose a different race to run, but well...

Mélange de Pensées

Searching high and low for Plain Jane circa 2005. Craving a nice and hot pizza. And dahi bata puri at Chandru's. With A. Reading again. Where are the rains? Miss the langorous summer afternoons at SK. Should I study more? Waiting for N to come. Intensely irritated with the way the B1 group reacted this morning. Conversations at dawn. At dusk. At noon. I want to turn back the clock. Empty. Lonely. Remember that first winding converstion? Restless. Bored. If only I had a magic wand... I really need to learn driving and get myself a licence. I want. Can't tell you what. Wondering what time has against me. Will miss those two when they leave in a few months. Arthur's Theme, November 2007. That lunch was one of the best ever. Wondering what would have happened if I hadn't stopped playing with my buttons. Will I sign that contract anytime soon? The Rubicon has been crossed. Build me the bridge to return. The wedding was fun. Or not? I could have done with more alcohol. Hate thinking about money all the time. I want to re-live the winter of 2007-2008. And the summer of 2005. Why didn't I get that bourse? I want to go back and hold time still. Should I wear a skirt to class this weekend? Some people just don't get the hint. Will not compromise. Not even for your happiness. Want them to be proud of me Will they? Are they? I want. Can't tell you what. At large and at small - Confessions of a Literary Hedonist. A must read. Want to walk in the woods. And see the sun set behind the lake. Need to purge the hatred from my system, but I really don't understand why some people continue to exist. I missed Bones last week. I miss K, even though he is still just a phone call away. I miss Papa all the time. Will I ever stop missing you? Ever? I won't.
I want. Can't tell you what.

We Live and We Learn...

True knowledge lies not in textbooks but in experiences. Personal growth comes not from passing exams, but through living and passing the test of life. I firmly believe in this and attach very little importance to exams. The thrill of doing well in an exam, however jubilant and heady fades fast with me, just like the bookish knowledge I have gleaned. What rests are the imprints of the lessons that were translated into something meaningful and the innumerable experiences from which I have learnt and grown. When I embarked on this trip to France this time, with serious academic ambitions, I know I would learn a lot while I was in class. But more than that, I counted on the abundance of experiences outside class which would broaden my horizon, force me to look beyond the horse blinkers and learn new things. I have learnt a lot, not just under the tutelage of my professors but also from my interactions with my classmates, encounters with French administration / bureaucracy, ennui of solitary existence in a foreign country and my many trips and excursions. My travelling aspirations had to be limited because of financial constraints this time. Nevertheless I have travelled quite a bit – and my brain is crammed with images, anecdotes, historical and cultural trivia, not to mention experiences that make me feel that even if my course had been unsatisfactory, I wouldn’t have gone back empty-handed. 

I made my last trip with CUEF this weekend to Marseille and Aix-en-Provence. A memorable day accented with the warm glow of the Mediterranean exuberance and a million images cramming for space in my head. I may have cursed my stupidity in leaving behind the memory card for my camera all day yesterday, but looking back I know that no amount of photos can possibly capture the true thrill of finally visiting a city I have read so much about, a monument that sends me back to the hours I spent devouring classics as a child. No photo could possibly capture the pulsating rhythm of a city that embodies all that denotes Mediterranean culture. And no photo could possibly capture what my eyes and brain have absorbed yesterday.

 Leaving you with a collage of snapshots from the three excursions I made with the institute : Chamonix / Mont Blanc, Orange / Avignon / Pont du Gard and finally Marseille / Aix-en-Provence.

Another One Bites The Dust

I hate it when I make a mistake. I hate it even more when it's a mistake in judging people or a mistake that has affected a relationship. And I hate admitting that I failed. But I have failed. So completely. I don't know where I went wrong and why I was so badly misunderstood. But I can't take it anymore. Time to give up and back off...

Rewind 2007

Anybody who has been following my blog for the past few years or knows me even a little bit would have definitely either read or heard about my suitcase saga, which started in Lyon and ended up with a compensation check. Of the various events in my life that have left permanent imprints, that incident is perhaps one of the most prominent.

I still get nightmares about it or dream of walking into that dreadful Charles de Gaulle airport and seeing my suitcase standing in the middle of a runway, or find myself thinking back to the way events had unfolded and re-plan my itinerary in a way that my bag would have found its way back to me. I, inevitably, come back to ground with tears in my eyes, anger burning its way through my usually cold heart and the urge to burn the airport down. People often ask me if I got a compensation check and when I answer in the affirmative and add that I'd gladly give back the money even today if the airlines gave me back my suitcase with my most treasured things intact, they look at me like I need to check in to an asylum. At one point, it hurt terribly that I returned without any gifts for my friends and family, but now I know it's just those things that Papa had given me and of course the dozen odd rolls of films waiting to be developed into photographs, i.e. memories of all the trips I'd made in the one month that I'd stayed in Montpellier.

One of those many trips was to Avignon - an absolutely magical city in Provence, which was the Papal capital till the great Papal Schisme, when the Pope shifted to Vatican. The city hosts the renowned Festival du Théâtre and I was fortunate enough to be in Avignon during the festival - to say that I was completely enraptured by the city wouldn't be an exaggeration. The air was buzzing with the animated activity all around the Palais des Papes. I spent an idyllic day in the city, exploring the Palace, walking up to the Rocher des Doms for a panoramic view of the valley and walking down the Pont d'Avignon (Avignon Bridge) while one of our guides played the tune of the famous "Sur le pont d'Avignon" on his flute and the other sang and danced to it...I had also picked up most my souvenirs / gifts from the city.

When I got an opportunity to re-visit Avignon during this trip, I hesitated initially, telling myself it's foolish to spend money to visit a city I've already seen. But as luck would have it, I managed to get aboard without paying a penny - the icing on the cake was the visit to Pont du Gard (an aquaduct constructed by the Romans in 50 AD) and the cherry was the visit to the ancient Roman theatre in Orange. So, off I went to refresh my memories and create new ones. Even though this isn't the month of the Festival du Théâtre, the city still charmed me. I spent the few hours we had in the city, retracing my steps. I wanted to do every single thing I did last time, see everything (and more), buy the same things I bought last time from the same shops, almost as though it would help me to finally close that painful chapter. I did it all - will it help to finally heal those wounds that few people understand? I don't know. What I do know, is that I had a wonderful day, reliving 14th July 2007, am delighted with my purchases and have returned with more memories. Memories that I shall cherish for the rest of my life...this time of course, I can also go back to the photographs I took during the day :-)

I leave you with a collage, that attempts vainly to capture all that I saw day before yesterday :-)

Ab Bahut Ho Gaya. Ghar Chalein?

People get amused when I tell them I'm homesick after just 3 months of being in France. They are tickled pink when I tell them that I've started counting down to my last day in Grenoble - four weeks away. How do I explain to them how difficult it is not having any friends in the city and being so utterly alone at the end of the day? It's the feeling of being on the outside and looking in - almost like someone standing at the window, looking into a house filled with people laughing enjoying. Get the sentiment? That's how I feel - everytime I look out of my window I see similar windows but inside I usually see more than 1 person. On the 1st floor there's a couple waltzing - it's like a scene from a movie! On the 2nd floor directly above this couple, was another couple kissing passionately till they disappeared. I'm assuming they fell on the bed...there's a party on the 3rd floor. On the 4th floor somebody is playing a guitar and there are 2 girls perched on the window...today all day there was a group of people near the swimming pool with a barbeque set-up. They started their barbeque party at noon and they are still there at nearly 21h30...

And I'm sitting cross-legged on the chair all by myself with my dinner in my hand, staring out of the window and into their lives, like I have done almost every evening since I arrived, till I decide to pull the curtain and shut myself in my own world with my laptop, my assignments and virtual conversations for company.

I don't like being on the outside. I don't like cooking and eating by myself every day. I don't like being alone. And most of all I don't like feeling like my life is stuck in a limbo.

I want to go back home.

And you thought the passage of time had nothing to do with religion...

On a recent trip to Conflans, a charming medieval town close to Albertville (which hosted the Winter Olympic games in 1992) I found myself rivetted to this clock. On first sight, there is nothing extra-ordinary about the clock. But if you observe carefully, you will notice something out of the ordinary in the Roman numbers as we know them, i.e. I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII so on and so forth...

The Roman number IV, here, is written as IIII. My curiosity piqued, I set off to get a reasonable explanation, because this could obviously not be a human error. This is what I discovered :

Clocks first started appearing on the walls of churches and thus, the 12 hours marked on the clock were to represent the Trinity, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, each getting equal importance. If you divide the digits above into 3 groups you get I,II,III / IV,V,VI,VII,VIII / IX,X,XI,XII. Notice how the 2nd group has more digits, thus more importance, i.e. the son gets the maximum importance. Unacceptable, so the church modified the Roman number IV to be written as IIII so each one of the Trinity got equal importance!

Apparently most clocks in medieval towns / churches have this unique characterisitic. Fascinating piece of cultural / historical trivia isn't it?