On our recent trip to Switzerland (a trip I haven’t yet written about, the editor within reminds me), we stopped at a service area that had a restaurant overlooking a typical Swiss landscape – a lake, surrounded by green hills dotted with cottages. But what caught our attention were a dozen cows, each painted differently and bearing the name of a sponsor.
We spent more time looking at and photographing the cows; the beauty of the surrounding landscape served only as a background.
In the beginning, it took me a while to understand that this business of standing on the street side gazing at a newspaper was just a way of catching up with the news on the way to work or someplace else.
It serves as an interesting way to evaluate an article you’ve written – is it crisp and entertaining enough to keep someone standing and reading it engaged throughout?
On clear summer Sundays some locals take to going up in hot-air balloons. Today these two flew right over our apartment.
Pages of a diary,
words and pictures,
reveal.
The spaces in between,
those unwritten pages,
conceal.
An imbalance in work-life?
A broken Internet line?
A painful root canal?
An unsettled mind?
Pages of a diary,
well-thought sentences,
conceal.
The spaces in between,
those transparent gaps,
reveal.
From The small book of Atomic Absurdities
In December 2000, on our last day at the company before our transfer to Germany, my wife and I met the directors in their cabin. After the customary greetings and best wishes for the years ahead, one of the directors brought up the weather. He had recently returned from Germany, and he said we were lucky since severe winter hadn’t yet set in.
“It was still around 15 degrees when I left, which is very unusual for this time of the year.”
The other director was surprised to hear this, and something in his expression told me that he had, in that moment, decided on his next trip to Germany.
Once outside, Wife and I looked at each other and smiled.
“I cannot understand the Germans.” I said, shaking my head. “Quite obsessed with the weather, aren’t they.”
Like most urban middle-class Indians, our interest in weather was limited to infrequent conversations about the heat. Until a decade ago the mass media reflected this – all we got at the end of a doordarshan news programme was a listing of maximum and minimum temperatures recorded in the four metropolitan cities.
And before we end, here are the temperatures recorded at the four ….
It was as if these numbers were insignificant statistics, added as a formality just before signing off merely to placate people at the meteorological department, who, back then, were probably not much better at predicting weather than astrologers were at predicting the future.
Some years later viewers were fed with an image – from the Insat 1B, the news-reader emphasised, just to be sure everyone understood we too had a satellite up there – that showed a clear picture of our country in a black background with smears of white here and there, patches that portended rain and instilled hope.
These days things are very different. Weather has turned into a profitable business (not as profitable as astrology, though) and we now have whole bulletins reeling out forecasts from Tokyo to Timbuktu about snowfalls and showers. (The other day, at an informal gathering, someone joked that CNN intended to outsource its weather forecasts to India. I later learnt that an earnest member of that gathering had initiated plans to introduce a course that groomed “weather-consultants”.)
Our perception about weather has changed considerably in the three and half years we have spent in Germany. The day begins with a look at the temperature reading on the car dashboard followed by a quick extrapolation of how cold or warm the day would turn out; on Fridays a look at the weekend forecast is mandatory; travel plans are seldom made without consulting weather channels; and any long occurrence of unfluctuating weather results in frequent checks to see when the pattern would change.
In short, we’ve almost reached the German levels of obsession, thanks mainly to the fluctuations and extremities we experience here. These days the temperature is hovering around 35 degrees Celsius, which is unbearable in offices that have no air-conditioning (and most offices, including ours, don’t). Last year it touched 40 degrees Celsius – a record of sorts, and it did lead to a few alarming occurrences.
Some months ago when North India was reeling under the heat wave, I spent time giggling at the laments of the Delhi-trio – Anita, Rash and Hekate – whose blogs, during those days, resembled journals of souls stuck in the middle of the Sahara, with sentences resembling utterances from a parched throat. It is now time for me to face the heat, and for you to bear with its consequences.
Certain thoughts of a certain person are troubling me. For some reason, the mind recollects the last few passages of a book read long ago. I walk to the bookshelf in the study and pull out the book, An Intimate History of Humanity. It is dusty, uncared for. I begin to read:
Half a minute is enough to transform an apparently ordinary person into an object of hatred, an enemy of humanity. He committed a murder and was sentenced to life imprisonment. Then in his desolate jail, half a minute was enough to transform him again, into a hero. He saved a man’s life and was pardoned. But when he got home he found his wife living with someone else and his daughter knew nothing of him. He was unwanted, so he decided that he might as well be dead.
His attempt at suicide was also a failure. A monk summoned to his bedside said to him, ‘Your story is terrifying, but I can do nothing for you. My own family is wealthy, but I gave up my inheritance and I have nothing but debts. I spend everything I have finding homes for the homeless. I can give you nothing. You want to die, and there is nothing to stop you. But before you kill yourself, come and give me a hand. Afterwards, you can do what you like.’
Those words changed the murderer’s world. Somebody needed him: at last he was no longer superfluous and disposable. He agreed to help. And the world was never the same again for the monk, who had been feeling overwhelmed by the amount of suffering around him, to which all his efforts were making only a minute difference. The chance encounter with the murderer gave him an idea which was to shape his whole future: faced by a person in distress, he had given him nothing, but asked something from him instead. The murderer later said to the monk: ‘If you had given me money, or a room, or a job, I would have restarted my life of crime and killed someone else. But you needed me.’ That was how Abbe Pierre’s movement for the very poor was born, from an encounter of two totally different individuals who lit up a light in each other’s heart. These two men were not soul-mates in the ordinary, romantic meaning of that word, but each owes the other the sense of direction which guides their life today.
It is in the power of everybody, with a little courage, to hold out a hand to someone different, to listen, and to attempt to increase, even by a tiny amount, the quantity of kindness and humanity in the world…
I recollect that these words – at the end of a deeply thought-provoking book – had had a profound effect upon me. No purpose can be nobler than the purpose of giving, I had concluded. And that had resolved, in part, the intractable question of life’s purpose.
I place the book back on the shelf. I might need it another day.
On a recent visit to the nearby city of Heidelberg a friend’s wife who had just visited a few European cities asked me, “It all looks the same – what is special about Heidelberg?”
For a few moments I was at a loss for words. I loved this charming city and visited it often, but articulating precise reasons why it should appeal to anyone was something I had never attempted. I ended up mumbling something about the river, the castle and the university crowd. She didn’t appear too satisfied.
It is a sentiment many travellers in Western Europe experience; after a while, “the cities all look the same”. And it reminds me of a remark an acquaintance made after listening to a few of my western-classical records: “They all sound the same – why do you listen to them?”
The essence of a city depends on how one chooses to absorb it, but even for the most casual observer Paris is a city that is difficult to mix up with others.
When I first visited Paris four years ago what struck me was the percentage of blacks in the city. In Germany, where I had spent a couple of weeks until then, I had seen few dark-skinned people and had naively assumed that to be a characteristic common to Western Europe. In Paris I learnt I could blend easily with the people around, and I instantly felt comfortable.
Paris metropolitan trains brought back memories of Bombay. Hopping from one train to another, walking along long tunnels to switch between lines, getting swept by the energy of the Parisians, watching them lost in their world, some tired, some bored, some curious but most silent, gazing at the graffiti on the walls juxtaposed with artefacts from a museum – all formed a part of an unforgettable experience.
This time, coming to Paris after visiting Amsterdam, I found a marked difference in elegance. If Amsterdam was kinky, Paris was dignified; Parisians, even in summer clothes, appeared elegant. One could pick up a lesson or two from the way they dressed and carried themselves.
Then there was the space around La Defense. Those modern buildings and artefacts of modern-art spread around the grand arch are so different from the rest of Paris that they never fail to impress. The city, while preserving the old, renews itself with the nouveau.
The list can go on. It strikes me that some of these aspects can be used to describe other cities in relation to Paris. People in Heidelberg, I could tell my friend’s wife, are predominantly German; the city has no metro and its charm lies mainly in the older sections.
We weren’t supposed to go to Paris at all. The original plan was to visit Salzburg, the beautiful Austrian town surrounded by mountains and dotted with impressive palaces.
But there is an aura that surrounds Paris. Many would not consider a visit to Europe complete if their itinerary did not include this city. So when my parents raised the topic of visiting Paris, we decided to change plans. Salzburg out, Paris in.
Wife and I had been to Paris twice, once by flight and once by train, both in winter. Memories of those trips are filled with attempts to shield ourselves from icy winds; we had preferred the warmth of the museums to the chill of a trip along the Seine.
This time we intended to drive down, and it was summer.
We have driven through a few countries in Europe; the odometer reads a little over 60,000 kilometres, which is a decent figure after three years of living next to your workplace. (Unless you are from the US, in which case you would probably cover that distance in three months of visiting the neighbouring state every weekend.) But this six-hour drive to Paris was for us the most beautiful drive through all plains we had covered so far. (Drives through mountains hold a different charm, and cannot be compared with any other terrain.)
It came as a surprise. After driving for about an hour and half in Germany we crossed into France where two things happened: the highway, patched and irregular so far, transformed into the smoothest surface I had ever set my wheels upon, and the landscape opened out to rolling meadows with fields as far as the eyes could see. It was a sunny day, with very few cars on the road. Ingredients for a perfect drive.
The Autobahns of Germany are famous for the absence of speed limits; tourist brochures and guides invite people to rent cars and drive as fast as their engines – and wives – permit. Heavy usage in high speeds and the absence of toll are the main reasons behind the poor condition of these highways. Countries like France, Austria, Spain and Switzerland – who charge a fee for using their roads, and are thus not as heavily used – offer a much smoother driving experience.
Along the way we encountered those rolled-up balls of harvested crop that stand like relics from an ancient world – some would say, an alien world – waiting to roll down at the slightest disturbance, resulting in reports of Unidentified Rolling Objects in the news-headlines next morning. But no such thing happens. They patiently wait without stirring until it is time to set them on fire.
Entering a big city with printouts of driving directions – from sites such as mapblast.com – can be tricky. (Ask Patrix, for instance.) We had intentionally chosen our hotel in the outskirts of the city, hoping that getting there would not prove too difficult even if we missed a turn or exit. But as we entered the maze of roads that circles around Paris, I knew that one miss and we would be in big, big trouble.
It was around 10pm, and nightfall was almost upon us. We had less than 10 kms to go when an exit listed in our printouts showed up before the distance that had been predicted, and we missed it. I continued driving straight, with no clue how to get back.
(My navigational skills are such that I find difficulty in reaching home from office on days Wife is not sitting next to me. She, however, more than makes up for what I lack. On one occasion we received a phone-call from a friend who had lost her way in the network of streets that surrounded her house, and the first question Wife asked her was: “On which side is the moon?” It didn’t take her long to get this friend back home, and I decided that in her childhood Wife must have swallowed a compass.)
So I drove on, awaiting further instructions. “Take the next exit and get back on this highway in the other direction”, she said. I followed, but the pattern of the roads was different and we couldn’t get back as intended. The traffic was heavy, and it was getting darker by the minute. Parents were tired after the long drive, and wanted to reach the hotel soon and rest. Things were not looking good.
As I drove I thought of alternatives. We could call up the hotel and ask them for directions, but that would be of little use (we had failed to follow clearly written directions, so how could rough guidelines help? Further, we did not have a city map). We could also hire a taxi and follow him to the hotel, as a last resort.
Our only lead was A3 – the highway on which we had missed the exit – and we used that as our guide. Taking prohibited U turns, reversing in private parking zones, sudden shifts between lanes – acts I would never commit on a normal day – were part of our exercise towards getting back. Once on A3, the tall buildings we had crossed earlier served as landmarks and we located the point where we had missed the exit. From that point on, things were easy.
The whole detour cost us around 45 minutes. Mother joked that we had already given them a tour of Paris. For me, it was a miracle, sheer good luck; I do not know if we could manage it a second time. Father, who had been asked not to interrupt the communication between Wife and me during this phase, looked very relieved. He thought Wife was the only reason we had managed to find our way back. That dosage of compliment was perhaps a little in excess, but I anyway told him about the “where is the moon” incident.
“Looking at the moon to find the way?” he said. “Columbus must have been one of your ancestors, then!”
“If Columbus were my ancestor, ” replied Wife, “he would have reached India and not the West-Indies.”
The way out of the maze – after the weekend in the city – was easier. And the drive back was lovely again, until we reached the German border.
The whole family – mom, dad, sis, wife and me – is about to leave for Amsterdam in a short while. Apart from things travellers have been carrying over the years, our list includes the following:
3 Mobile phone chargers
2 Digital camera chargers
1 Laptop charger
1 USB cable
Strange times, these.
At college, I often spent my evenings on the hostel terrace, reading or listening to music. Ashwin joined me sometimes, with a book or his guitar. One such evening we sat through sunset into the night, watching the clouds slowly reveal a beautiful full moon.
“It’s just like a painting…” I said, looking at the horizon.
Then, almost instantly, we looked at each other and laughed at the silliness of that statement. Comparing the beauty of reality with an imitation – it showed how little of reality we observe, and how much we surround ourselves with imitations or reflections.
Often, we miss out on the beauty that surrounds us due to lack of focus – there is too much detail around us, and unless something extraordinarily beautiful catches our attention we fail to focus on the beauty in the details. Framing a portion of reality – through a painting or photograph – helps us look at a single aspect by filtering out surrounding detail.
We’ve taken many walks along that riverside of Rhein at Speyer, and each time I see the statue that sometimes looks like a bird and sometimes like a giant claw reaching out to pluck something out of thin air. Last time, on a clear evening, I photographed it.
Framing reality enhances it, sometimes. And when that happens, you know you have a good photograph.
Parmanu 