Adieu...

A journey that started over six years ago has finally come to an end. I started GeeBaby in a vain attempt to understand myself better, perhaps to find the person that lay behind the facade of the Plain Jane who penned post after post...having finally found her, it's time to say Adieu.

As a last post on Geebaby, I quote lines once recited to me by a friend with whom I have traversed many a mile...

Ab ke hum bichde to shaayad kabhi khwaabon mein mile jis tarah sookhe huye phool kitaabon mein mile...

Rudderless Again

I never wanted to teach. Every time somebody reacted to my choice of English Literature as a majoring subject by saying I'd end up a teacher, I used to bristle with anger and stamp out any such ridiculous notion. On that front, the only thing I can say in my defense is that I am not teaching English Literature or even English for that matter. I took on teaching as an experiment, when I was quite completely rudderless and lost. That it proved to be the only anchor in my life for the longest time is perhaps one of the reasons why I am so stubbornly passionate about it. I should be fair, it has brought me immense pleasure and satisfaction. There is little else that makes me feel as happy as I do after a good class and the satisfaction of seeing a class pass from my class and go on to a higher level is difficult to beat. And of course there is the undeniable joy of students staying in touch...

Today for the first time in 4 years, I am forced to question my decision and wondering if it isn't time to change tracks and perhaps move on. The sense of fatigue, defeat and disillusionment is so great I almost don't feel like going back into class tomorrow. I hate this feeling and it makes me hate the people who are taking away the one joy I could count on, replacing it with doubts and uncertainty, almost as if I was rudderless and adrift. Again.

Cut To The Chase Babe...

Cut to the chase babe...

In three sentences if you can please?

Make this one short and sweet kiddo!

You need to evolve beyond this Victorian style of writing and learn how to leave out the unnecessary details. People have neither the time nor the patience for sentences that are a paragraph in themselves.

How many times have I heard that and fumed over the lack of appreciation of my personal style? I ramble. I provide details. I love to build a story, so yes, I love indulging in that long and winding preamble. I absolutely revel in long, winding sentences that unfold new nuances with each pause, sentences that dip and rise and linger on my tongue. And I hate being brief and concise. The only time I succeeded in actually sticking to the point and wrapping up in a minimum of words, sticking to the bare necessary bones and flesh required to cover the subject was in my exams at the B.A and M.A level. I could never write more than four pages for my assignment during my days as a Literature student.

Last week, correcting a pile of assignments written by my students of the intermediate level, i.e. level 2, I suddenly understood what my friends and critics have been grumbling about all these years! Faced with a convoluted sentence that started on the second line of the page and wound its way half way down the page, I frowned in compounded frustration as I struggled to comprehend just exactly what my student was trying to say (just like you are probably doing right now!)...and gritting my teeth, almost pulling my hair out in frustration, I brusquely wrote on the page, "Faut que tu sois bref!" (You should be brief!) ;-)

Julie and Julia

A Meryl Streep film is showing at the cinema and you know you just have to go watch it. So off I went this afternoon to watch Julie and Julia, dragging an unwilling friend along with me. There were loud protests of being dragged for a chick’s flick though I think the said friend secretly suspected it had one of my favoured subverted, depressing feminist storylines…as you guessed correctly neither of us had a clue about the film, apart from the fact that Meryl Streep was in it!

Two hours later, we walked out with smiles on our face, content with an afternoon spent well. My friend, refusing to give me any credit for having chosen a good film for us, reiterated the fact that you can’t go wrong with Meryl Streep! I, for one, am completely delighted with the film and am going to get Extempore to procure Julie Child’s book for me!

Based on two real stories about Julia Child, the lady who revealed the secret of French cooking to American women and Julie Powell who found a passion in life after rediscovering Julie Child’s recipe book and starting the blog The Julie/ Julia Project in which she pledges to successfully try out all the 524 recipes in 365 days. Smoothly intertwining the two lives of Julia Child in the 1940s and Julie Powell in the 21st century in a classic palimpsest, the film whets the appetite, amuses and warms the heart.

The story starts in 1946, Julia Child, lands in Paris with her husband Paul Child, a diplomat working with the American Embassy. After trying unsuccessfully to engage herself in various activities organised for the wives of the American diplomats, Julie finally finds her calling in The Cordon Bleu, a school for professional cooks. Despite the scepticism from those around her, Julia soon masters the art of French cooking, investing in it the same love and passion that she invests in her marriage. She goes on to publish a book of recipes in collaboration with her friend Simone Beck and Louisette Bertholle,

Fifty years later, Julie Powell, a government employee and failed writer who enjoys cooking launches the Julie/ Julia project in which she signs up for a deranged assignment of making each and every one of the dishes in Child’s book and blogging about her experiences. Over a series of adventures and misadventures in her tiny kitchen in an apartment above a pizzeria in Queens, Julie’s project grows from a tiny, unknown fledgling to a proud swan that not only brings her fame but also helps her realise her dream of finally becoming a published author.

The inimitable Meryl Streep is perfect as Julia Child. Her Americanised “Bon Appétit” is still ringing in my ears and I find myself chuckling every time I remember the scene in which Paul returns home to find her chopping onions. The lady is pure genius all the way from She Devil to The Devil Wears Prada and now this film. She is complemented wonderfully by her co-actor of The Devil Wears Prada, Stanley Tucci, who plays the role of Paul Child, her loving and supportive husband. The younger Julie Powell, played by Amy Adams, who struggles to successfully try out each and every one of the recipes in Child’s masterpiece, is delightful as well, especially in the scenes when she has to kill the lobster and when she fails to truss a chicken!

A film about the passion and conviction to follow a dream to the end, this gourmet film is perfect to complete a lazy Sunday afternoon…a must watch :-)

An Afternoon Well Spent...

...is not an easy task when you are me and work 7 days a week and thus have a precious few afternoons to spare. This last month, I've rediscovered the perfect recipe of an afternoon well spent.

Ingredients:

• A film - preferably a good one, but even a strange film does the trick.
• Some good food - it does not have to be fancy, even the most basic food at a place completely devoid of ambiance can work like magic if the ingredients are mixed well.
• The company of a good friend - some would say that this is optional, but nothing works for me more than the certitude of a good conversation over that cuppa tea.
• A lovely warm Sunday afternoon with a gentle breeze fanning the face, keeping the droplets of perspiration at bay and gently whistling through my hair even as it makes the skin on my arms break into goosebumps.

Method:

Toss all the ingredients together in a large bowl and serve warm :-)

My Students and Other Animals...

Times a plenty when I find myself wondering why people must insist on behaving like the lesser evolved species and display a complete lack of culture befitting a cow or worse a bull. It doesn't help that I have been chased twice by a cow, making me not the least bit fond of this animal, sacred or not. If you ask me, it's a dumb creature with some seriously disgusting eating habits. And then I walk into class and see a student's jaw moving in a circular motion and I see the student metamorphosing into a bovine creature and when the student says "Bonjour," I hear "Mooo!" I'm referring to the abhorrent habit of chewing gum which always reminds of masticating cow. I'm forced to ask the human cows to go and spit out the gum, more out of my intense disgust at this image, than because of their obvious and dismal lack of manners which permits them to chew gum in the presence of a professor.

But human cows aren't the only animals that inhabit my classes. For the longest time, I was teaching in a classroom (where I still have to teach every once in a while) which had boxes and boxes of the last decade's archives (read junk which should be either sold or simply burnt) belonging to the Alliance Française de Poona. Now cartons and boxes provide perfect nooks and corners for spiders and other vague insects and creepy crawlies to thrive and where there are creepy crawlies, there must be reptiles, or at least lizards...and thus every now and then, a lizard would decide to come and attend class. And of course the lizard would just *have* to be the more ardent of my students and had to come padding its way closer to me, while my insides squirmed in disgust and I tried my best to restrain the urge to jump over to the other side of the class like a skittish foal!

The appearance at my classroom window, of the occasional crow who tries his level best to drown out my voice, much to the mirth of my students isn't quite as comforting to my teacher's ego...but little beats the damage done by my canine friends. On one occasion when I was teaching and fifteen minutes into class, the door was suddenly pushed open. Turning around expecting to see a student and prepared to ask "Pourquoi es-tu en retard?" I was puzzled when my eyes didn't fall on any face...searching, my eyes fell further down, to encounter a muzzle...the owner pushed the door further and in walked Monsieur Deshpande, the local dog. He proceeded to saunter right to the center of the classroom and settled there with a rather questioning look on his face! I had a tough time getting him out of class - and much to my chagrin, I was forced to acknowledge that this was not one of my fans, for he was there not to gain the seeds of knowledge or bask in my enthralling presence, but to inquire about the source of his daily dose of Parle G biscuits!

Recently, I had to teach once again with a canine friend in class - much to my disgruntled amusement, this one also didn't seem to find my pedagogic practices particularly interesting for once he'd rubbed himself against my calves and got himself petted, he proceeded to stretch, yawned straight into my amused face...and then stretched himself at my feet and promptly fell asleep! I continued to teach, hopping over him and moving around him till he finally roused himself from his power nap some thirty minutes later, threw me a bored look and sauntered out of class once again!

I've now been teaching for nearly four years and just when I thought I'd seen all sorts of creatures stroll through my class, with the strangest of mannerisms and gaits, I have yet another visitor...one who walks sideways. A handicap, I'd say but this fellow moved with amazing speed and accuracy, making his way across the room speedily towards me. Spotting him from the corner of my eye, I paused in the middle of explaining the conjugation of a verb, and turned my head to ensure that I wasn't hallucinating...and it truly was a crab that was racing across the floor towards me! Funnily enough, despite my alarm, I continued in almost the next breath, calmly as though I was still talking about the verb, "Il y a un crabe dans la salle..." I leave you to imagine the chaos that followed my declaration!

After calming my students, who had succeeded in making the crab take refuge amongst the wires in a corner of the podium at which I was standing, I continued teaching, keeping a wary eye on the crab that crawled out a few minutes later and settled himself a few inches away from me. The crab insisted on scurrying after me every time I moved, leaving me quite pleased by his devotion to French. Now if only I inspired such devotion in my human students! Sigh...

P.S If you found my experiences even remotely interesting and/or amusing, you'll definitely enjoy this book.

Whisk Me Away...

The recent trips seem to have stirred the wander-lust in me for I find myself strangely restless, unable to focus on work for long and amazingly enough loath to spend time at home. I find myself building castles in the air about trips I'd like to make later this year - Aurangabad for another visit to the Ajanta-Ellora caves and Bangalore to *finally* visit Hampi with Umelette (she seems to be the only one who has not yet been there)...

So it is that in the middle of planning a new class or slogging my way through a translation I suddenly find myself wondering what is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?

Flights of fancy apart, I've been drowning myself anew in the world of literature (or atleast attempting to do so) and thus the pile of books on my bedside table is becoming taller and increasingly precarious as I pull out a different book every night, depending on my mood, and proceed to drench myself in a world vastly different from mine. Joyce Carol Oats, Gerald Durrel, Michel Tournier, Franz Kafka or Sue Rose - every night I'm whisked away to a new world and slip blissfully into a wonderful dreamless sleep. :)

Now if only, someone would organise a magic carpet that could truly whisk me away!

Appreciating the Female Nude...

While I've always admired and appreciated art, not until very recently did I start understanding it and learning to read a painting and see what the artist is trying to say. Obviously in my less informed days, I expected all art to be beautiful in a gentle, pleasing manner and anything that was raw, asymetrical or unconventional failed to inspire me. So it is hardly surprising that my favourite artists were all Impressionists. I did however admire a few other artists, Edgar Degas being one of them. Very often recognised as an Impressionist, Degas infact worked more often in the studio than in the natural light and his subjects and techniques differed slightly from those of his contemporary Impressionists. I've always appreciated Edgar Degas' series of women at their toilette, finding the voyeur's perspective fascinating and sensual at the same time. That was perhaps my first step towards appreciating nudes in art.

As I slowly discovered other works with the female nude as their subject, I began to analyse them further. For instance, none of Degas' women meet their viewer's eye, unlike Velazquez's Venus (1644-48) who coyly looks at her viewer through the mirror held up for her toilette by an angel.

The sensuality of Ingres' Odalisque (1840) who looks over her shoulder and meets the viewer's eyes with an open frankness and not the slightest hint of coyness stole my breath, even if the proportion of the back in comparison to the rest of the body was a little skewed. Or maybe it was that sensual curve of her back that added to her appeal?

Odalisque with a Slave, in stark contrast presented a frontal view of Odalisque stretched out sensually while a slave played music for her pleasure and another one stood at guard. Obviously influenced by Ingres' study of Oriental culture, it is an incredibly sensual work of art, but I personally prefered Georgione's Venus Asleep (1510). The casual indolence with which Venus is stretched, demurely covering her sex with her hand is far more sensual than the obvious sensuality of the Ingres' Odalisque.

But if Georgione's Venus hand covering her sex is a demure gesture, when one sees Titian's Venus of Urbino (1538-39)covering her sex, it seems almost like an after-thought as she stares straight into the eyes of the viewer. The dog curled at her feet and the familiar household scene in the background seem to add to the erotic nature of the painting. However, she still seems demure, despite the openness of her look.

On the other hand, Manet's Olympia (1865), reposing on her bed while similarly covering her sex is anything but demure. The bold look invites the (male) viewer to enter her private chambers and sample what's very obviously on offer. The blatant sexuality of this work scandalised the public in the 19th century. While the nudity itself no longer shocks, the intent of the painting when considered in its contemporary social setting does indeed shock me as well. But I must profess to hugely admiring this particular work of art and all that it suggests, whether subtly or obviously.

Whatever be the intent and the style, none of these have truly bared the female sex to the viewer as do the modern works of art. Call me prudish or conventional, but I prefer this sensual representation of the female nude in comparison to the deconstructed nude which holds little as sacred (and the female sex is definitely not sacred for the modern artist). If I had to have a print of any one of these works of art in my house, I'd reach out for Olympia without batting an eyelid.

Diasporic Angst...

I remember the first time I went back to Bombay in June 2004 - my heart was singing from the moment we crossed the toll naka in Vashi, my eyes soaking in the sights of the familiar roads, rolling down the windows to take deep, gulping breaths of that salty wind. It was the same each and every time I disembarked from the plane on my way back home from Germany/France. Muggy, disgustingly hot even in the middle of the night or not, breathing in the air of Tinsel Town put a spring in my step. Bombay, I have always maintained, has a unique smell that only a true blue Bombayite can appreciate. My trips to Bombay decreased in frequency over the years, but the feeling of going back home everytime didn't change...till this time.

This time, for the first time, I felt out of place. The humidity and heat made me feel almost sick the first evening - the squalor and dirtiness of the streets made me wonder when the city had turned into a gigantic garbage dump - the smell pervading the streets made me screw up my nose in disgust - the ambitious metro project which is being awaited eagerly by everybody struck me as a huge eyesore. Of course work is still under way and what I saw of it, was just dug up roads, leading to mucky roads and massive traffic confusion, but it hasn't appealed yet. The worst was the feeling that I no longer recognise the city. The shopping centers and malls cropping up at every corner make me feel rather lost, when I can't locate the familiar landmarks.

Yet, I can not deny that the city still rocks my boat, like little else. Is it merely because nothing better exists or because my city truly does rock, mugginess, squalor et al?

Impressions of a Sunrise

Have you ever woken up before the crack of dawn and sat in the dark listening to the sounds of silence envelopping you in their silvery embrace?

Have you ever heard the adhan from the neighbouring masjid or the crowing of the roosters announcing the dawn of a new day?

Have you ever seen the fiery rays of the rising sun streak across the sky and set it aflame? Or watched as stars twinkling against the inky blackness of the night slowly fade as the sky became progressively lighter?

Have you ever started your day with nothing for company but a mug of tea/coffee, your myriad thoughts and the strains of the santoor strummed by none other than the great maestro Shiv Kumar Sharma?

If you haven't, you must, for I have mere words which don't even come close to describing the pleasure of these experiences.

Claude Monet - Impression du Soleil Levant (1873)

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?

Desperately Seeking Hypnos

I’ve always taken sleep for granted. You lie down. You read for a while. You think about the day that has passed and the one approaching. You fall asleep. You dream sometimes. You wake up refreshed. Exactly the way it is described in the FLE text books : Je me couche. Je lis un roman pendant une demie heure. Je pense à ma journée et je m’endors. Je rêve des vacances, des belles journées, de mes amis etc et je me réveille le lendemain en pleine forme.

Simple as that !

Not really.

After having been through a spell of insomnia where I slept barely 2 to 3 hours a day for several months, and had to drive myself to the brink of collapsing from sheer fatigue, in order to fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, and yet find myself awakened rudely just a couple of hours later because of a nightmare that left me in cold sweat, I have a new-appreciation for sleep. I know how precious it is and what a delight it is to be able to sleep through the night without being disturbed by nasty thoughts and nastier nightmares that come creeping up on you and plant fears that are difficult to shake off.

Since I’ve come here, the nightmares have reduced, and most nights I fall asleep soon after getting into bed. But I still don’t sleep like I used to sleep; I still don’t sleep like a baby. My sleep is fraught with the stress of pending work, of expectations I have from myself, of wrong decisions, of unfinished work, of unrealised dreams, of regrets for the past and fears for the future. My sleep is fragmented with wisps of the nightmares from last year and strange, illogical dreams that make me wonder what my unconscious and sub-conscious are trying to tell me – for instance, the other night I dreamt of a friend, with whom I used to love arguing and of course we were arguing in the dream. Only, we were both sporting grey hair and very obviously in our 60s! I was berating my friend’s choice of film, grumbling about having being dragged to yet another terrible film with Abhishek Bacchan (don’t ask me) and Mahima Chaudhary (I’m just as flabbergasted as you) and not having learnt the lesson after Dus (that was the last Bollywood flick I saw with this friend)… I woke up just as I started beating up my friend in the dream! Now tell me what to make of that!

Last night as well, my sleep was broken several times during the night because I knew I had a pile of work waiting for me and when I finally had to get up at 6 am, I couldn’t drag myself out of bed because I was still feeling exhausted. Perhaps more so…

Is there some special fast or prayer we can chant to please the gods of sleep? If there is, please tell me! I’m willing to change my stance on these dogmatic rituals if it brings back my sleep.

Artistic Perambulations

I’ve always appreciated art from a purely subjective point of view, depending on whether the oeuvre pleased my limited aesthetic senses or not. Even in my relatively deeper knowledge of the Impressionists, there was a vast ignorance. I could easily identify an Impressionist painting and most of the time, even identify the artist. However, if you asked me to describe the work objectively and analytically, I’d fail completely. So when I was offered the opportunity to take up a course entitled “Initiation to the History of Art” I jumped at the opportunity. I must admit feeling very lost in the first two classes, having absolutely no clue what the professor was rambling about and staring almost morosely at the works she presented. It was only the presence of 2 sessions on Impressionism in the course programme that held me back. Two months, i.e, 8 sessions, later I’m so incredibly glad I stuck with the course, for I now understand and appreciate art better and I can finally talk about it without sounding like a dim-witted blonde gasping about how pretty a painting is, like it was a mannequin on 5th avenue!

We’ve worked our way through Classicism, Rococo, Neo-classicism, Romanticism and Realism, touching briefly on the reflection of the various periods and style on architecture and sculpture before reaching Impressionism. My excitement last week when the professor showed us a slide of Monet’s “Impression of a Sunrise” followed by Renoir’s “Luncheon of a Boating Party” was almost unbridled and I can’t wait to move onto Chagall and Matisse, both artists I know and appreciate, albeit superficially. But even before we reached my favourite artists, I was exposed to works of art that I found myself appreciating; only this time with the appreciation came a certain comprehension of the style.

For instance, this particular work by Fragonard, titled “Le Verrou” (The Lock) which presents a couple in a passionate embrace, exploits a theme frequented by the artists in the Rococo period, i.e. liberty of expression seen here in the exaggerated passion between the couple, the bed in a very obviously dishevelled condition, the choice of the deep reds contrasted with the whites and the symbols of the discarded flower and the apple. Coming on the heels of the classicists, the Rococo artists rebelled against all rules and this liberty of expression is seen in their choice of subjects. A stark contrast to the mythological and allegorical subjects of the classicists, the Rococo artists chose subjects and themes from private lives.

Another work I found myself appreciating for its sheer sensuality and eroticism was Ingres’ “La Grande Odalisque” in which the female form is presented in its voluptuous beauty with an obvious disregard to proportions. Yet it is not ugly for there is a certain sensuality expressed through the use of soft tones, the expression on the subject’s face as well as the smooth, flawless lines of the form. David’s “Madame de Récamier” an intimate yet expressive portrait of a woman reclining on a chaise lounge, dressed in an elegant Roman style is another work I appreciated. Falling under the neo-classical style, the work clearly reflects the return to a certain restraint and respect for the form, a deeper contemplation on beauty coupled with simplicity of form.

Impressions of a Sunset

Sometime back I bemoaned the fact that I hadn’t seen the sun rise nor set over the majestic Alps that surround Grenoble. With the weather slowly changing for the better and spring creeping into the city, pushing winter out, there has been a marked change in the skies. Clear blue skies meet my eyes every day with barely a cloud to mar the horizons and the mountains seem to be standing out prouder, outlined starkly against the almost startling azur of the skies. The days are slowly and progressively getting longer, daylight lasting till almost 19:30 before twilight softly descends on the city. And so it was, that a few days back walking back towards the residence I found myself staring up at the most glorious vision. I can not do justice to the sheer poetry of the scene I witnessed, but I shall try…as I watched the molten ball of orange slowly descended, leaving in its wake a startlingly warm sheath in pinkish-orange which slowly revealed a more passionate magenta which finally transformed into a deep violet before twilight crept up to cover the city in its enigmatic aura.

I’ve taken to cooking my food a little later just so that I can watch this magnificent display of colours as my dinner simmers and bubbles and I climb back up to my room, with a soul that is sighing with content and satisfaction.

From the Dairy of a Public Transport Commuter

I have always commuted primarily by public transport, wherever I’ve lived – be it Bombay, Magdeburg, Pune, Montpellier or Grenoble, I’ve mostly relied on the public transport system to get me from Point A to point B. I have been taking buses, trams, metros and local trains ever since I left school and completely believe in the importance of public transport. Every morning, since the past two months I walk down to the bus stop and wait for bus number 26 to roll down the road and transport me to the University. In the evening I repeat the process in the opposite direction. It’s convenient. It’s comfortable. The drivers are courteous and now that they’ve started recognising me, a smile accompanies the perfunctory “Bonjour” when I enter the bus. My only grouse is the fact that there are no buses on the road after 21:00 which means that stepping out during the week and going to the centre-ville in the evening is more than a little difficult, especially if you don’t live near the tram lines.

Each and every time I enter a bus here, I’m impressed. The punctuality and regularity of public transport has ceased to impress me…after the first month in Germany I had started taking it for granted. What impresses me is the smoothness with which the bus drivers slide into the exact position in front of the bus stop, aligning the bus so perfectly with the pavement. Of course there is also the fact that proper pavements and bus stops exist in the first place is also important. Day after day I take delight in watching the drivers casually steer the bus into position so that we can just step straight into the bus, which but of course is at the same level as the pavement! But I’m even more impressed at the obvious thought that has gone into the design and engineering of the buses, that has made it an easy mode of transport for the handicapped. A platform slides out from the central door to form a ramp from the pavement into the bus so that people bound to the wheelchair can enter the bus easily and there are specially marked open spaces in the bus for them, with an easily accessible button to get the driver’s attention when the person wants to get off the bus.

Coming from a country where public transport so desperately needs to be developed, not only from the point of view of it being the most sensible and cost effective way of commuting to and from work but also from the point of view of reducing the pollution, I am forced to bemoan our sorry public transport system. The huge environmental benefits do not need to be underlined. Neither does the fact that it will reduce number of vehicles on the road (notice I don’t just say cars, but vehicles since there are enough 2 wheeled menaces darting around our roads), and solve the problem of congested roads, traffic jams and unbelievably long hours of daily commute. As for the handicapped, what use is it allowing them to enter the bus from the exit and marking special seats for them, when the buses are designed in a way that they can’t possibly enter them? How is a person bound to a wheelchair supposed to get into a bus when sometimes even I with my two sets of able limbs find it difficult to climb into the bus? I wonder if we’ll ever get to the stage of boasting of reliable and efficient public transport system in India.

Tom Dooley - Kingston Trio

A folk song from North Carolina, based on on the murder of a woman named Laura Foster in 1866, Tom Dooley rendered by the Kingston Trio has long been one of my favourite tracks from the Yesteryears. It's one of those tracks that haunts you - literally. Once I start humming the song, I usually can't get it out of my head for the entire day, sometimes days at ends, much like another favourite, I like Chopin by Gazebo...the only difference being the sightly sinister quality of this song, which once even inspired me to write a story (the only one of all the stories I've written that I deem worthy of being read today!)...

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Hang down your head and cry
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Poor boy, you’re bound to die

I met her
on the mountain, there I took her life
Met her on the mountain, stabbed her
with my knife

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Hang down your head
and cry (ah-uh-eye)
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Poor boy, you’re bound to die

This time tomorrow,
reckon where I’ll be
Hadn’t-a been for Grayson,
I’d-a been in Tennessee (well now, boy)

Hang down
(your head) your head (Dooley) and cry
Hang down your head and cry (ah poor
boy, ah well-ah)
Hang down (your head) your head (Dooley) and cry
Poor boy, you’re bound to die (ah well now boy)

Hang down (your head) your
head (Dooley) and cry
Hang down your head and cry (ah poor boy, ah well-ah)
Hang down (your head) your head (Dooley) and cry
Poor boy, you’re bound to die

This time tomorrow,
reckon where I’ll be
Down in some lonesome valley
hangin’ from a white oak tree

Hang down your head,
Tom Dooley
Hang down your head and cry (ah-uh-eye)
Hang down your head,
Tom Dooley
Poor boy, you’re bound to die (ah well now boy)

Hang down
your head, Tom Dooley
Hang down your head and cry (poor boy ah well uh)
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Poor boy, you’re bound to die
Poor boy, you’re bound to die
Poor boy, you’re bound to die
Poor boy, you’re bound to .......die