Visiting Home

1. Arrival

It was my sixth visit home in ten years, a first in summer. I had avoided visiting India in summer, afraid to confront again the effects of heat which, after these long years in a cold country, was like a distant unpleasant memory. That summer, a gloomy May of an unhappy year, I was in the middle of a difficult phase at work, so when a two week interval came up I decided to visit home, to switch off completely, instead of taking the usual hiking trip to Austria or to Switzerland.

On my way, during a stopover at Dubai airport, which in truth is a gigantic mall with gates and terminals appended as an afterthought, I picked up dates, raisins, and cashews for Ma. Then, as I waited at the gate for boarding to commence, I spotted a bird, a tiny creature with a yellow breast, brilliant blue wings, and a small beak, perched lightly on a flight information screen. I had only begun to wonder where it had come from when the bird took flight and disappeared into an enclosure – in the middle of this giant terminal – with pine-like trees, bushes, and grass, all of them so polished and dust-free that I couldn’t figure if they were real or not.

When boarding was announced I walked up to the gate and, still thinking about the bird, I handed my passport, rather absentmindedly, over to the lady in front. As she flipped through the booklet I turned around, hoping to catch another glimpse of the bird. Would you turn this way so that I can see your face please, the lady said, in a steady no-nonsense voice, and turning back I found myself looking into her eyes, sharp and purposeful, and then, lowering my gaze as she went back to the passport, I saw her badge, which listed a long Arabic name and her title: Security Officer. She was a young woman of dark complexion, an oval face, hair tied into a bun, small mouth, lipstick the color of blood. A character out of a David Lynch movie.
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> Language > Place – Edition #5

A teacher finds how much he can learn about himself through lessons to a second-language English student.

A newcomer realizes that a place is not what it first seems to be.

A traveler learns that a city can break a friendship.

A group of marines discover a working telephone in the middle of a Central American jungle.

An outsider experiences the strangeness of discovering others like himself in a foreign land.

These are some of the stories hidden in the Museum of Language & Place, which is part of edition #5 of the > Language > Place blog carnival.

The Museum of Language & Place, like other museums, has rooms and exhibits. Unlike other museums, however, this one lets you move directly from one room to any other. Each room has one exhibit; there are 18 exhibits and 21 rooms. (I’ll let you discover where the remaining rooms lead to.)

Entry is free. All you need is curiosity. And time.

Enter the museum through Room 1. (And as you navigate through those rooms, remember that you cannot take in the Louvre or Uffizi in a single visit.)

Edition #5 has something else too. (You can’t buy a DVD these days without getting those extras, Making of documentaries, Behind The Scenes snippets, can you?) It comes with a short Q&A with the previous four hosts of this carnival. Read more about it in the hosting experience.



P.S. Edition #6 of the carnival will be hosted by Michelle Elvy at her blog Glow Worm. Michelle is an independent writer and an editor of the 52/250 flash writing initiative. She lives on a sailboat.

The theme of edition #6 is: “language and place on the edge”. The issue is planned for late May, submissions will be open from around 15th April to 15th May. Further details here.

A blog carnival

As this may be new for some of you, let’s start with some definitions.


1. a traveling amusement show, having sideshows, rides, etc.
2. any merrymaking, revelry, or festival, as a program of sports or entertainment: a winter carnival.


1. a web site containing the writer’s or group of writers’ own experiences, observations, opinions, etc., and often having images and links to other Web sites.

Blog Carnival

1. a collection of various online journal postings on a specific topic

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This is a five-part essay

a. This is an essay in five parts.

b. The first part, the one you are reading right now, is an introduction.

c. The other four contain a review of Orhan Pamuk’s My Name Is Red, an extract from an essay on why criticism matters, a quote from an essay by Pamuk, and a journal entry.

d. These parts can be read in any order.

The Inflection Point

Since his younger days, he believed that life was a series of inflection points. He didn’t remember if he had read this somewhere or had heard it from someone, but the idea – that life moved in one direction until there came a moment of dramatic transformation that changed life’s course into another direction, which went on until the next such inflection point, and so on – had caught his imagination very early and remained rooted in his mind. Over the years when no dramatic life-changing experience had occurred, he had at times wondered if this theory was true, but such moments of disbelief were rare and short-lived: the whole point about such dramatic changes, he told himself, was that they occurred after long periods of continuity where life seemed to go on endlessly, like a boat in the vast Pacific with only gentle waves and vacant skies all around, and when the point of inflection came, when the large island appeared out of nowhere, the magnitude of change had much to do with the length and steadfastness of the uneventful period one had just passed through. So it was nothing to worry about – the moment would come, and life would never be the same again.

There were events from his past that had seemed life-changing: his first love, as a teenager; marriage, in his late twenties; divorce, a few years later. But these had been phases where a surfeit of emotions created an illusion of a change that promised new directions; in reality they were nothing but temporary dislocations, small blips in the unwavering trajectory of life.

He was thinking about all this again, seated in a flight to Delhi, and he didn’t quite understand why these thoughts had popped up now. Was it because life over the last months had seemed purposeless and he badly desired change, or was it that he had just felt the faint yet clear stirrings of change? He could not determine which, so he decided to ask Anita – seated next to him, leafing through a glossy in-flight magazine – where her thoughts on this matter of life-changing events lay.

‘I have this theory,’ he told her, ‘that life is nothing but one inflection point followed by another.’

* * *

He had met Anita at Mumbai airport. After check-in, he was seated in the departure lounge when the lady in the adjacent seat had turned to him: ‘Excuse me – I somehow cannot figure how to fix this to my handbag. Could you help me, please?’ She held out the baggage tag every passenger had to attach to cabin luggage items.

He took the tag from her, and with a slow, deliberate movement showed her how to turn it over a strap and then take the tag through the elastic loop.

‘Thank you!’ she said. ‘I never knew it was so simple.’

‘It’s one of those things which, once you know how it’s done, makes you wonder why on earth you couldn’t figure out yourselves.’ he said.

‘Like a Sherlock Holmes mystery,’ she replied. ‘I always felt foolish at the end of each one, when Holmes explained the details to Watson and everything seemed so obvious.’

‘That had a lot to do with the author,’ he said. ‘Arthur Conan Doyle revealed much less to the reader than what Holmes could observe – so the reader was always at a disadvantage.’

‘But it had its impact – there was the Wow! effect at the end.’

‘Yes, I have to admit that.’

She brought out a pen and began to write her particulars on the baggage tag. She had short hair, wore a plain white shirt over deep-blue jeans, and had a thin, beaded necklace strung close to her neck – he would later think of her appearance as “simple yet elegant”. Her features were Indian but he found her accent difficult to place. A leather strap hung over her shoulder held a small camera – it was a model he recognized.

‘Is that a Leica?’ he asked, pointing at the camera.

‘Yes it is,’ she said. ‘But Leica isn’t a brand everyone knows about.’ There was a hint of curiosity in the way she raised her eyebrows.

‘My brother was interested in photography,’ he explained. ‘He always dreamed of acquiring a Leica someday. He would show me pictures of a small, black camera – it looked more like those automatic ones that Japanese tourists carry, than any bigger models one sees with professional photo-journalists – and he would explain that it was the M7 model of Leica, his “ultimate dream”. But it was too expensive – beyond the reach of what his amateur interests could justify.’

‘It is a very good camera, and an expensive one, yes. Meant for professional photographers’ she said, and added: ‘Or for someone rich enough to indulge in such gadgets.’

‘So which one are you?’

She laughed: ‘The poor professional, you could say.’

The next hour went by in a flash. When he learned that Anita was a photographer living in Geneva, his own work – in a leading accounting firm in Delhi – seemed commonplace. But they shared other interests – literature being one – and her life as a photographer was full of “strange experiences” she was willing to talk about. When boarding announcement came – a little too soon, he thought – they both said their goodbyes and parted. But as luck would have it, they ended up on adjacent seats in the airplane.

* * *

When he told her about his belief in life’s inflection points, at first she smiled but didn’t say anything. Then she stared at the patterns on the back of the seat ahead, as if trying to remember something from a distant past. Was she trying to recollect events that had changed her life? Were there any?

‘I want to tell you about an incident that occurred many years ago, while I was still at college.’ she said finally, and continued without waiting for a response. And when she spoke it did not feel as if she was addressing him – it was more like she was reading aloud from a book.

‘We used to go on a lot of hikes those days – Switzerland is full of walking opportunities. We were a group of four girls, and on such weekends we would leave early on a Saturday morning and drive to the mountains. Brigitte had a car and she took the lead, deciding on the destination and planning the trip. Ulrike was the expert in flora and fauna – she had gathered a large collection of wild flowers from different regions of the world – and she always carried with her a notebook and a bag for gathering specimens. I was the photographer, lugging along my assortment of lenses despite a “rule” from Brigitte that we travel light. And Florence, the beautiful, delicate and moody Flo, was just interested in walking, wandering.

‘On this particular Saturday we were headed towards the southern branch of the Jura mountains, near Lausanne. It was early summer, and the day – sunny, with a mild breeze – seemed perfect for hiking. We reached the town where our hike was supposed to begin, parked the car and removed our bags. The town was next to a lake with low hills in the distance. The sun was already above the hills, which made the lake sparkle like a large silver foil and the hills – shaped like a woman sleeping on her side – appear as a dark silhouette. From that first view itself I had a strange feeling about the place, but I couldn’t pinpoint why.


‘We began walking, first next to the railway line and then on a track that led uphill. Brigitte led the way, as usual, and we followed, pausing occasionally when Uli – that’s what we called Ulrike – found a plant or weed that interested her. The path led us through the hillside full of pines, and it was only us on that path, which was very unusual: our paths always crossed with those of other walkers, unless the weather was bad or the hiking route was remote and unknown. I mentioned this to the others; Brigitte dismissed it with a grunt, Uli was too busy examining some creepers nearby, and Flo simply kept walking, looking dreamily at patches of blue sky between branches of pine.

‘A little ahead Uli called out to me, and pointed to a flower nearby. “That’s the Glacial Buttercup,” she said. “An alpine wild flower found only above 2000 meters. But we are hardly at 1000 meters.” What does that mean, I asked her, but she simply shrugged her shoulders and carefully plucked a specimen for her collection.

‘After about two hours we reached the ridge that led to the other side. The view was spectacular: there was a sheer drop that led to a small lake, beyond which there were meadows and small clusters of cottages, and higher mountains in the distance. We stopped there for a while; I took pictures. For those few moments the uneasiness that was with me since morning vanished. But the respite, as I was to learn shortly, was temporary.’

‘Tea or Coffee for you, sir?’ the flight attendant asked.

‘No, thank you,’ he replied. He wished no interruptions at this point.

Anita looked at him with a mischievous smile: ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m quite sure. Do continue.’

‘So where was I? At the ridge, yes….we climbed down and took a path that wound across the lake.Lepont Once again the path was deserted, and although we saw cottages – typical lakeside vacation villas – they all seemed uninhabited. Along the way I saw a sign that said “Le Pont – 2 Km”. It was placed next to the highway that ran for a while alongside the path we were on, but we never saw any vehicles. I
wondered what “Le Pont” meant – I lived in the German part of Switzerland and my French was very poor – and somehow decided that it referred to “The Point”. But what kind of point was it? A viewpoint, with beautiful views of the surrounding landscape? Or something else? The phrase “turning point” came to mind, but what did it mean? Was it a turning point for all who came this way?

‘We chose a small area next to the lake to stop for lunch. There were two wooden planks arranged on tyres, and although they looked clean I found their presence a bit odd as such picnic spots usually had benches and tables. I pointed this to Flo, who was looking at the cottage facing us. She ignored what I had just said, and replied: “We should go and check out that cottage.”

‘The cottage was a small single-storey house. All windows had their shutters down, and the lower half of the house was obscured by bushes and tall stalks of dry grass – it was an abandoned place. Towering behind the cottage there stood three pine trees in equal distances from one another, like tall sentries standing in guard. I didn’t like the place. I suggested we find another spot, but the others had settled down and were too hungry to move. So we sat there and ate our sandwiches and all the while Flo kept her eyes on the cottage like someone in the hypnotic trance. “We should see what’s in there,” she kept saying, and Brigitte made fun of her: “Do you expect a hidden treasure or something?!”’


The flight captain’s voice came over the speaker, announcing the landing and requesting passengers to fasten seat belts. There was a momentary rustle as passengers moved to check their belts and push up their seats. He looked out of the window and saw the outlines of a city emerge in the form of orange, flickering lights. They would soon reach their destination, but Anita’s account didn’t seem close to an end. Where was all this leading to?

‘When it was time to leave, Flo insisted we take a look at the cottage. I didn’t like the idea at all, but the others thought it wouldn’t hurt so we took a path that led us to the back of the house, to a door that seemed not to have been opened for years. There was a window next to the door, and this one did not have its shutters down. We tried to look in through the glass, but it was too dark inside. Ulrike, who was more interested in the vegetation surrounding the cottage, was wandering among the grass when she let out a cry: “Look! I found something!” We quickly gathered around her and looked at the object in her hand: it was a wooden wheel with a raised dot near the edge.

‘It was an ordinary wheel – a child’s plaything, perhaps – at which one wouldn’t normally take a second look, but what kept us intrigued was its surface: it was so well polished and shiny that it obviously didn’t belong in these surroundings. Either someone had very recently dropped it here, or it had – by some magic – retained its shine and newness over a longer period. We turned it around and looked at the edges but could not see anything special – no marks or engravings, just a smooth surface with a dot two-thirds away from the centre. I turned the wheel along its periphery, and the dot moved, tracing an arc along the direction of the turn. At that instant the phrase came back: “a turning point”. I don’t know why I made this connection – I felt it was silly and did not mention it to anyone. By this time the others had lost interest in the wheel, so I kept it with me, in one of the lens pockets of my camera bag.’

The plane landed. They walked together towards the exit but the crowd and the surrounding noise did not leave them any space, so he thought of suggesting a cup of coffee nearby. But as he was about to do so she took out a card and scribbled a number on it.

‘That’s where you can reach me in Delhi,’ she said. ‘I’m here for a few weeks, so call me and we’ll meet.’

At the exit, amongst the dozens of cards held up by people, there was one with her name; she walked towards it, and near the end of the stretch she turned around, met his eyes, and waved goodbye. Much later, when he would think back to this day, he would recognize that it had been a strange wave, a flourish that had the character of something final, of something that had ended.

* * *

He had waited for a few days to call her on that number; he didn’t want to seem too eager. Besides, he had sensed in her narration a deliberate tactic aimed towards increasing suspense and inducing a craving to know what happened next – he didn’t want to show he had fallen for it. She had said she was around for a few weeks, so learning how the incident had ended could wait a few days.

When he called the number a few days later, it was picked up by someone who replied that “Madam” had left for Europe the previous day. But she was supposed to be here for some weeks isn’t it? Yes, came the answer, the booking at the “guesthouse” had been for three weeks, but she had cancelled it. Was there some address she had left behind? No, they did not maintain such records.

In the days and weeks that followed, he kept going back to this brief encounter. He tried to reconstruct all pieces of her story, looking for clues that would explain this bizarre response to his theory. He remembered her remark about the Wow! effect in Sherlock Holmes mysteries, which perhaps indicated that she desired a similar effect for her story – but what was it? What lay at the end of that elaborate construction that was now left hanging without purpose?

Then there was the “turning point” she had mentioned, but beyond the obvious relation to his notion of inflection points it did not make any sense to him. On a whim, he looked for a translation of the phrase “Le Pont” – she had only guessed that it meant “The point”. The translation website spitted back its meaning in English: “The Bridge”.

He then remembered what she had said about photography during their chat at the Mumbai airport lounge.

‘A great photograph is like a bridge that leads you to another world,’ she had said. He thought about that for a while, and remarked that he had heard of photographs being called “windows to another world”, but never bridges. ‘A window implies distance, a detachment of the observer from the observed,’ she had explained. ‘A bridge indicates a cross-over into that other world, at the end of which there is no separation of the observer from the observed. It demands effort, and great photographs act as bridges, easing the cross-over.’

* * *

Life, he thought to himself, is a series of bridges, each leading you to a world different from the previous.

Potter Patter

Did you, dear fan of Potter
watch The Prisoner of Azkaban?
If so, the questions that follow matter
answer them if you can.

At Leaky Cauldron when Harry stepped in
did you look around a bit?
Mistaking it for another inn
search for a hairy hobbit?

Did you marvel, then
at the grace of Buckbeak’s bow?
And did your heart leap when
he soared with Harry in tow?

Seeing Snape decked in lace
did you begin to chuckle?
Was there glee on your face
watching Malfoy buckle?

What shape did your worst fear take
when the Boggart was set loose?
And when you knew it wasn’t fake
what memory did you choose?

Did you reflect on the beauty serene
of Hogsmeade decked in snow ?
Or wonder how it must’ve been
for Draco, taking that blow?

When the Marauder’s map was shown
did your neighbor jump and say:
“It’s GPS, a technology well known.
You can buy it soon one day!”

When the curtain finally fell
did you carry a satisfied look?
And did you, like me, as well
go home and read from the book?


These days Life’s uneventful,
Work absorbing,
Leisure elusive,
Weather insipid,
And all I can write is Trivia.

About Norah Jones’ latest tunes
ringing in my ears.
And half read books on the bedside table
gathering fine dust.

About missed chess matches in the last weeks
that won’t enter my journal.
And the trip to Venice lying ahead
that will merit a blog.

About the Proof we sought
at the RoadSide Theater.
And the dinner that followed
at a place we frequent.

About the reader who reads
first with patience,
then hope,
then concern,
and finally despair,
Arrhythmic lines filled with Trivia.