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

Let's Network

It's all about networking these days, about the people you know and the people they know, so on and so forth. And about keeping tabs on those hundreds of people, saying the right things to them, scratching their egos in the right place and playing Mr/Miss Popular/Cool to the hilt. You find better opportunities, professional and personal, by networking. So if you do not know how to network, than I'm sorry that is the door for the socially handicapped.

I first joined a social networking site way back in 2003 at the insistence of a friend who thought it might help me meet like-minded people. With my acute levels of social handicap, I was out of there before the site even registered they had a new member. Several years down the line, that networking site was bought over by Google and suddenly became the place to be amongst the "with-it" crowd. You guessed it right. Orkut. So grudgingly I went back - after all so many of my "friends" were already there, as were several new "contacts" and this was an easy way to "connect." My second tryst lasted approximately a year, in which I found myself getting increasingly disgusted by the superficiality of relationships. Facebook had just about started making its appearance and was rapidly creating one of those cool quotient barriers between Orkut members and Facebook members. Not wanting to be discriminated I judiciously maintained accounts in both places, despite not wanting to be in contact with most of the people on my "friend" list. One thought kept echoing in my head constantly - if I really wanted to be in touch with these people, I would have found a way to stay in touch with them. Do I really need these people and do I really have to exchange trivial nonsense with them? I grew even more distressed when close friends started choosing to "scrap" me in such a public domain instead of writing emails or calling and was downright alarmed when I discovered that I was being stalked through Orkut.

Exit social networking sites. I cursed myself for trying to fit into a niche obviously not carved for me - who was I kidding? I wasn't made for these kind of social skills. I was better off in my little puddle, to borrow a term from a new friend. And happy I stayed, content in the reality and the depth of the friendships I had in the real world. I couldn't boast of having 250 contacts in my friend list, 50 of which claimed I was their best friend and said that my entrance would make any room crackle with electricity. But I could boast of having a handful of close friends who accepted me as I was even if my entrance cast a huge shadow on the room.

I returned to the world of social networking sites around 6 months ago, once again on the insistence of a very close friend. This time around I'm very cautious in accepting people and frequently clean up my contacts list by deleting people who are mere decoration on that list. I'm obssessed with cleanliness and organisation in any case, so why not exercise that mania in my contacts list as well? I must admit though, my social skills seem to have improved and I would even dare to call myself vaguely cool this time around! Admittedly most of the contacts on the list are students who have chosen this medium to stay in touch with me and most of the activity on my Facebook wall stems from my students, some of whom have even crossed over that frontier to be categorised as friends. Have I really rekindled the fire in long forgotten friendships? Not really. It's amusing to touch base with someone after ten years and update myself on their current status. But frankly it's at such an impersonal level I usually tend to forget the details even before I've finished reading them. But I must not be completely harsh. Facebook has helped me re-establish links that I once let go - of course I built on those links outside Facebook, so I am not ready to give the entire credit to Facebook.

I spend at least a couple of hours on Facebook these days, doing what I abhorred. Networking. It's a wonderful place to get information from people who are in the right place at the right time. It's a wonderful place to get your ego stroked (at least for me!). It's a wonderful place to spy on people. Spy on them...yes. Though not as open as Orkut, Facebook is still a largely public domain and it sometimes appalls me when people put up such personal details and intimate photos on their Facebook accounts. Trawling through albums of completely random contacts, I found myself almost scandalised at times to suddenly find myself confronted with images of a couple in a passionate lip-lock or a someone posing suggestively for their lover in provocative lingerie. Scandalised, disconcerted and distressed. Distressed because I don't want to be privy to your private life and don't want you to force your intimate moments into my face. Distressed also because I wondered if I'm regressing by this completely unproductive activity...and I felt the bile rising in my throat.

Since the last few days I've pulled myself back and regained the perspective I'd lost after coming to France and finding myself suddenly thrown into this social void where I spend hours (and sometimes days) with only myself for company and started seeking diversion on Facebook. It isn't the evil I'm tempted to paint it as, but it isn't a life sustaining force either. It can not substiute real conversations, real relationships and real people. It is a social networking site. A place to be seen and heard so that people do not forget my existence. A place to network. That's all. Let me not forget that.

Spring is here

The day my passport got stamped with my latest visa, I was expecting a Schengen visa and had several plans to cross over the Franco-Italian, Franco-Swiss and Franco-German (but of course) borders and travel in Europe like I've done on the previous occassions. So when I got a visa only for France, I must admit I was hugely disappointed.

Landing in France to a bitterly cold, grey and wet Paris I wasn't too delighted and my first few weeks in Grenoble didn't stir my soul much, except when I was confronted by the sight of the majestic snow-capped Alps in front of me. The last few weeks have changed all of that - my (almost painfully) short trip to Bordeaux, much akin to my first trip in December 2003 was full of delightful discoveries, both gastronomic and cultural and heart-warming, intelligent conversations. I had left behind a cold and windy Grenoble where they skies were still prominently grey and the nasty wind pushed me to walk fast even when I was tired and wanted to drag my feet back home. Bordeaux was delightful with clear blue skies, streets bustling with activity and cafés and bars overflowing with people having animated discussions, smiling, frowning, waving their cigarettes about, wholesomely alive! There was already a hint of spring in the air and I fell in love all over again with the city.

I came back to a city which was still bitterly cold, but over the past week it has gotten progressively warmer...from last monday, when one of my professor's asked if we've noticed the first primevères, to this saturday when every green patch in the city had primevères pushing their way stubbornly through the earth to announce the arrival of spring. I stepped out on saturday seeking information and had intended to be back in my room within a couple of hours - I ended up staying out the entire afternoon for it was a lovely spring afternoon. A sunny day with a clear blue sky and not a cloud to mar its glorious beauty, a cool breeze blowing in from the Alps which are still capped with snow - it was the perfect day for a picnic and I could see that most people were of the same opinion. For the first time since I got here, I saw all the squares in the city were crowded, the cafés and bars overflowing, the air buzzing with animated conversation, the city alive with activity. I decided to leave my usual labyrinth of streets in the centre-ville and set off to explore a slightly different part of the old city and found myself climbing the Bastille to get a better view of the city stretched out below me and later stumbled on to charming squares previously unvisited...and I fell in love with the city. I returned home several lovely hours later, my feet tired from walking almost 4 hours, but my soul and my senses satisfied from all they had experienced and I must admit, I felt the slightest pinch of sadness that I didn't have anybody with whom I could share this perfect day.

Spring is here - and with it, the time for beautiful days which make beautiful memories. Amen.

Searching for a Meaningful Subject

For someone who can talk almost incessantly and suffers from a perennial verbal diarrhoea of sorts, it troubles me greatly when people constantly seek to have "meaningful" conversations. It is true that we communicate with greater ease in the modern world, thanks to modern technology which has rendered the task so much simpler and perhaps lent to the superficiality of most communication today and I am quite opposed to the idea of conversing for the sake of conversing, i.e talking to fill the silence, the void as it were. I would rather endure a (heavy) silence than endure an inane and superficial conversation and am quite a failure when it comes to making small talk. Yet, when someone pushes me to have an "intelligent" conversation and insists on always having a meaningful issue to discuss, especially in an informal relationship where the contact has moved beyond the more obvious symbiotic nature of all relationships, I find myself balking and withdrawing. I believe in sharing my experiences, however little and inconsequential they may be. I believe in sharing the small thoughts and emotions. I believe that is what builds a friendship and is the basis of most enduring relationships. Debates and profound discussions have their own place. And the everyday banality has its own. Must we really negate one for the other?

Painfully and Irrevocably (?) Stereotyped...

Having a strong dislike towards even the faintest pigeon-holing of people and their personality traits, I’d like to believe I am above stereotypes. But the unfortunate truth is that I am not and that I indulge often enough in stereotyping people, conveniently placing them in neat little categories. It is easier isn’t it, to refer to people by the label you have stuck on their forehead and not make an effort to understand them individually and get to the core of what makes them tick? But the easiest ways are not always the best ways of doing things and I must also admit that there have been several opportunities when I have been ashamed and regretted having judged someone on the basis of stereotypes. I followed the guidelines set by society, but I wonder how those guidelines come into existence in the first place?

On an anecdotal tangent, a few weeks ago I was in centre-ville and meandering through the streets as is my wont. Despite the fact that Grenoble is a more polluted city than other European cities where I have previously stayed, the air is still much more fresh and pure than the one I’m accustomed to breathing. Combined with the brisk chill, my nose is often quivering in excitement like a mouse in the presence of cheese and I pick up almost every odour I encounter, much alike the main character in Perfume (or so I like to imagine and I’m providing extremely redundant and pointless details here)…

…so there I was walking along this deserted street and heard someone walking up behind me. My nose picked up the faint smell of alcohol and tobacco mixed with a certain element of stagnation, perspiration and a certain rough dusty quality which I would associate with someone who does a lot of physical work. My mind prepared itself to see a black person walk past me and indeed it was a tall, bulky black man in a heavy overcoat which looked like it hadn’t been washed in several years. A little later I walked past a cinema hall and two minutes later a man ran out of the door I’d passed. As he approached me from behind, I was assailed by the strong and distinct smell of expensive male cologne and I imagined a white man, tall and lean, probably wearing a smart shirt and well-fitting jeans. I was not disappointed. He was blond as well and really fit perfectly into the little box in which I had placed him.

Finally, standing at the bus stop I watched as an Indian man crossed the street – as he came closer my nose quivered in irritation at the strong smell of coconut oil and annoyingly enough the smell of garam masala…(don’t get me wrong – I love the smell of garam masala, but in my food, not on people!) and I found myself thinking that he could not have underlined his national identity any stronger and that he was one of those “typical desis” you encounter abroad! And it suddenly hit me – had I just walked out of the kitchen I might have smelt very similar, ergo like a “typical desi.” What was I doing looking down my haughty and apparently more sophisticated nose at just another being, as much my equal as anybody else?

Throughout the day I had classified people correctly but rather arbitrarily on the basis of what my olfactory senses picked up and believe me, I may have a cute nose, but I really don’t have “the” nose…and I had unwittingly placed the white man on the highest rung. Why? The dusty, tobacco and alcohol smell could just as well have come from a white man as the irresistible and sexy cologne could have come from a black man and I have encountered enough of both to have known better than to stereotype. The co-incidence that my stereotyped imagination proved to be right was just that – a co-incidence, and I knew that. Imagine then the extent of the social conditioning that made me indulge in such stereotypes despite knowing and recognising them as faulty classifications of people. If this is how I function despite my apparent resistance to stereotypes, how then do people who do not resist them behave? It makes me shudder indeed to think of it…

Currently listening to Kandisa by Indian Ocean, feeling very pleasantly mellow and content after eating an entire bar of chocolate and dreaming with anticipation about my upcoming trip to Bordeaux, instead of concentrating at the task in hand. :-)

Dawning Realisations (Ahem?)

After a very productive day, spent reading, completing class assignments, and updating my budget excel sheet (it helps keep track of money – don’t look at me like that!) and diary, I decided to step out for a short walk to get some fresh air and encourage the blood to circulate with a little more energy in my legs ;-)

When I stepped out, it was still light and by the time I returned to the Résidence it was already getting dark and the lights had started coming on…and that’s when it struck me. I’ve been here for nearly three weeks now and I haven’t seen a single sunrise or sunset. I was initially rather disconcerting with this sudden realisation of mine, till it dawned on my rather dim mind that the overcast weather probably plays a role in my having missed the sunsets – I must admit I haven’t been active enough to seek a sunrise since I’m either still burrowed under my blanket or running around getting ready for class at sunrise, instead of sitting with a mug of steaming coffee in my hand, awaiting the sight of the sun’s magnificent ascent. I hope I get to see the sunrise or sunset before I leave – with these mountains all around me, it must be a sight to behold...

Europe. Before Sunrise. Paris. Before Sunset.

That is my definition of the most perfect romantic escapade. They are also titles of two of my favourite films. I have seen them so many times and each time I see them I fall in love all over again with Ethan Hawke and Europe. Every time I see the film a different section appeals and lingers in my mind. I do not know what there is about these films, but they have stayed with me all these years. I’ve seen them both once already since I’ve come here and have a feeling I’ll be seeing them again before these four months are over…damn, but if only they didn’t make me yearn for my own dawns and twilights! :-)

The Icarus in Me?

Icarus didn’t pay heed to his father and flew too close to the sun, on his way out of the seemingly inescapable labyrinth. He burnt himself and fell.

The Icarus myth, is a myth well known to me, yet I did the same thing. In my desperation to flee the endless labyrinth of despair, I didn’t pay heed to my parents’ voices whispering words of caution in my ears and flew too close to the sun and burnt myself. Badly. And I fell as well. Badly. Once again. I want to blame the exhilaration the wings gave me. I want to blame the wings. I want to blame the sun most of all. But it’s really me who was at fault. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have closed my eyes and trusted the flight so blindly. It isn’t going to be easy getting back on my feet and putting myself together with fingers that still sting, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get there.
Wiser this time.

Amen.

A Personal Touch

I sit and stare at my room – it’s a really nice room and in comparison to that tiny, unremarkable room I had in 2007 in Montpellier, this is almost a three star hotel room. It’s spacious enough for me, pleasant and has the most splendid view. A fortnight in the room and it’s already marked with signs of my personality. I don’t really have anything with which I can decorate the room in my own way and have to make do with the bed linen and curtains provided by the Résidence, but the board has things tacked up and notes all over. The shelves have my books and jewellery and other knick-knacks and the room has that unmistakable aura of me stamped all over it. From the crowded wash basin counter with my skin care and dental paraphernelia to the organised disorder on the study table…the minute I enter the room I feel like I’ve returned home. Well home away from home, for the bag lying on the shelf above the door, the first thing I see every morning when I open my eyes is a constant reminder that this is only a very short stay. I wonder how people who are here for longer durations, who have already stayed here for over 6 months and intend to be here for at least another 2 years can continue to live out of their suitcases and not want to add that personal touch to their living quarters which can transform it from a room into a home, however transitory it may be…

Finally...

After the most pathetic and unbelievable day, I'm finally where I should have been on Thursday evening. With an assignment safely delivered (not on time, mind you) and a weekend to look forward to...there's only sunday now, but toasting my own reflection in the laptop with what has luckily turned out to be a caraf of incredibly good of Rosé (bought from the closest 8 à Huit, if you please) and some excellent fromage du chèvre and a delicious salade with some baguette, I'm finally at peace. Not having sent the work on time was just completely eating me up and making me shed the tears by gallons and reprimand myself for my weakness every other minute! There is nothing I hate more than not being able to look myself in my own eyes and know I've done right and know that there are people who are glad they can rely on me...and today I couldn't. All day. I hope such days are not many more to come...

Idle Thoughts in Grenoble...

Sitting here in my neat and tidy room staring out of the window at the snow-capped mountains in front of me, cradling my glass of tea in my hand (I haven't gotten around to getting myself a mug yet) and letting the steam rising from the glass warm my face, my mind drifts idly...

I should have posted earlier - I've been here nearly a fortnight now and I've had plenty of time and opportunities to write, but something held me back each time. A certain lack of motivation, if you please. Or perhaps, a certain inquietude and inner conflict vis-à-vis what I really wanted to say and what I can really say...

When I got my passport in 2003 and left home for the first time to spend three months in Germany, I had never imagined how much the unmeasurable wealth of experiences would change me, and how much personal growth there would be in such an incredibly short span of time...or even that it was just the beginning of what now seems like a long-term relationship with Europe. I returned in 2007. More growth happened. Changes that were not really subtle. 2009. I'm here for the longest stay yet, after two tumultous years from which I'm still recovering . I wonder what lies ahead...