Last Saturday (on the 16th), we were again in Lausanne. While wife
spent time meeting old classmates I hung around near the lakeside
watching seagulls….
… sailboats…
… and other people at the lakeside…
On Sunday we drove to a nearby town at the foot of the Swiss Jura mountains…..
and walked on a beautiful lakeside trail…
“What you see here is only a small part of the collection,” she said. “We have around forty thousand artifacts, collected over a period of twenty years. My husband was a cameraman for a TV company, and he collected puppets from the different countries he visited while filming documentaries.”
The collection we had just seen at the Luebeck Puppet Museum was, in itself, significant: spanning three floors and around twenty rooms, there were around a thousand puppets from three continents covering different time-periods. To think that this was less than five percent of their collection was a bit mind-boggling. Do you rotate the collection? I asked.
“No,” she replied. “There are just the two of us – my husband and I – managing this place. And maintenance is such a difficult thing. The wood these puppets are made up of require a lot of care. We’re looking for sponsors, to help us manage this collection. Perhaps the company you work for might like to help? Big companies have a lot of money, you know.”
She was an Indian, a Malayali with expressive eyes and the smile of a classical dancer. She had been living in Germany for 20 years now. Her husband, the puppet collector, was an elderly German with the air of a distracted professor; he greeted us with a Namaste and told my Wife he knew she was from Kerala the moment he saw her.
We had first met the lady the previous day, when we entered the museum to ask directions to a hotel. She had switched to Malayalam the instant she learned my Wife was from Kerala: “Per enda?” she asked both Wife and me, and introduced herself as “Saras”. When she gave directions to the the hotel she said: “Tell them that you are from the museum, that I sent you there”. And she asked us to come back the next day, to visit her and see the museum.
The next afternoon, before we visited the museum, we went for a show at the Puppet Theater nearby. It was a small, cosy theater, and was almost full when we entered, mostly with children and a few parents who sat like tall, silent posts next to the bobbing, noisy heads all around them. The puppeteers entered a little later than the announced time, and some kids replied to their welcome with a definitive “Endlich!” (“Finally!”), which took the puppeteers by surprise and prompted them to offer reasons for the delay. Then they asked if anyone in the audience was celebrating a birthday on that day; three hands went up, and these three were asked to come forward to receive a nicely-wrapped gift. The play being staged was the Princess and the Pea, and all hands went up when the children were asked if they had read the story. Some started reciting lines from it, and it took a while before order was restored and the play could begin.
It was not one of those string-based puppet shows, but one where the puppeteers wore gloves and moved the puppets around, giving voice to them, in full view of the audience. So it took a while to focus on the wooden figures and not get distracted by the human forms moving them around. The children didn’t appear to have this problem: the giggled and laughed at the right places, and seemed enchanted throughout.
After the show we walked to the museum in the building a little down the street, and Saras welcomed us with a warm hug. When we told her we’d just been to the puppet show, she came out with a flurry of questions: Was it good? How big was the audience? Was it a marionette puppet show, or the glove one? It turned out that the theater had once belonged to her husband’s parents, and had recently been sold to another group who was now managing the place. She then asked us to look around the museum, but refused the entrance fees.
The diverse collection, the result of one man’s passion, had me spellbound. The similarity behind different branches of this art form that had sprung up independently in different corners of the world was striking. The collection reminded me of an exhibition I had attended in Lausanne about an year ago: it was a small sample of artifacts from Nek Chand, another collector of sorts who had devoted a few decades of his life into gathering waste material and creating life-size figures and illegally planting them around a vast area of a forest, and in the end had created a collection so vast and spectacular that when it was discovered the government decided to turn the illegally-used stretch of land into a national park and appointed Nek Chand its Director. The power of years of focused work – be it nature’s or that of man – is immense. This comes to mind also when I see images of the Grand Canyon.
After we got back to the reception, Saras invited us for a chat and offered tea and biscuits. This room, partly a shop with puppets for sale and partly a cafeteria with long wooden benches and tables, had wooden figures hanging on walls and pillars, posters of puppet-shows probably a hundred years old, and paintings depicting stories.
Saras spoke to us about how she met her husband (“I was in Hamburg at that time, running around like a frog, when Fritz met me”), and how she discontinued her interest in classical dance to devote herself to her husband’s passion (“one needs to make sacrifices”). She spoke about her daughter, about her wedding to a Finn that took place in India (“We had around forty people from Finland flying into India for the wedding”). She expressed her concern about the museum’s collection and its management, well beyond their lives (“We’ve created a foundation and after us everything will go to this foundation, and not to my daughter who may decide to sell it. We want to ensure that this remains in the hands of those who will continue to care for it.”) . When asked about the attendance and the interest of people in the museum, she said it was going down (“People have less money these days; we’ve begun to notice this especially since the last few years.”). She asked us if we could put up some posters of the museum at our workplace, and packed some pamphlets for us to distribute.
When we left, she bid goodbye by kissing us on the cheek. Sensing my hesitation (I am yet to get used to the intimacy of this gesture) she smiled and said “This is how people greet each other here, and I’ve learned their ways.”
In the evening of our first day in Hyderabad we visit a nearby internet browsing centre. (The internet connection at home has stopped working; our complaint is number 18 in the “queue”). The lady at the reception appears busy working on a computer; we wait. When she does not pay attention for a while, I ask her if we could use a machine to browse. Without looking up she shakes her head – No systems free, come after half an hour. We can wait, I reply, and enquire if they have any facilities to send faxes. She continues to look at her screen, smiling occassionally while typing short keystrokes; when I repeat my question she shakes her head again – No fax here.
We take a seat. Her lack of alertness is disturbing, but Wife shrugs it off: spend a few more days here, she says, and you’ll get used to it.
Five minutes later the lady looks up from her computer and asks us to take cabin number 4 inside. No one has left the place, so how did a free computer materialise? I ask Wife. We’ve got what we wanted, she replies, so just walk in and occupy it before she changes her mind.
* * *
A few days later I visit an optical shop. There are no other customers inside, and the shop appears to have just opened: a woman is sweeping the floor on the far side, and some sections are still dark. The clock on the wall reads a half past eleven.
I approach the lady behind a counter and ask if they offer an eye-test service. We do, she replies, but our optometrist is not yet here; she will come at half past twelve.
I tell her that I’ll come back in the afternoon half.
On my next visit the optometrist is in but the eye test cannot happen as there is no electricity. When is it expected – is it a scheduled cut ? They do not know. Fine, I’d like to purchase some frames at least – do they accept credit cards ? They do, but the credit-card machine will not work since there is no electricity.
I thank them and leave.
* * *
A week later someone from BSNL comes home to check our internet connection. He is a middle-aged man, dressed plainly in an over-sized half-sleeve shirt, and is accompanied by another man who, by his subservient attitude, appears to be his assistant. This person is carrying a laptop bag. The senior technician switches on our computer and verifies the internet connection. When it does not work he asks his assistant to open his laptop – the assitant pulls it out of the bag, places it on the table and starts it. The technician then copies an installation program into our computer, and starts an installation. After that, as if by magic, the connection works.
He gives me his number to call in case there are any further issues. I thank him, and before he leaves I ask if I can offer him something. To my surprise, he refuses. At the gate I ask again, and he says if I want to give something I should give it to his assistant. I offer my tip to the assistant, who pockets it without even giving it a glance.
* * *
I’m at Cochin airport, standing in the queue for security check. It occurs to me that security has been rather relaxed this time: all checks I’ve passed through have been mere formalities, and I’m glad it is so. It makes me feel good about the general feeling of peace and safety that prevails here, which is such a contrast to the insecurity that drives all the checks and interrogations at U.S airports.
After passing through the metal scanner I stand in front of an officer who runs the detector from shoulder to toe. He is chatting with a colleague while he does this, but I’ve stopped being surprised at the casual attitude of these security check personnel. He stamps my boarding card and returns it. As I bend forward to gather my hand-luggage, I pick up one last bit of his conversation in Hindi: “…you know, I just got back from a vacation, and after a vacation one simply does not feel like working.”
I collect my bag and turn away quickly, before my smile turns into laughter.
It begins at the gate.
I’m at Gate 39 in Frankfurt airport, sitting amongst other passengers, glancing occasionally at the newspaper on my lap, and staring, at other times, through the glass panel at the dull-colored airplane blending into a backdrop of grey sky. An announcement over the loudspeaker instantly triggers some people to stand up and walk towards the entrance; it turns out not to be a boarding announcement, but the people – all Asians, it seems to me at this distance – do not return to their seats. A few minutes later another announcement requests everyone to be seated: the boarding will not begin for at least another ten minutes. No one budges. After fifteen minutes or so we are asked to board in the order of our seat numbers; the rear of the aircraft is to be filled first. A long queue gathers behind this crowd already standing there. There is no room for those holding the appropriate seat numbers as the ones in front do not make way. The next section of the aircraft is now asked to board; more people queue up, but since the entrance is blocked few can make it into the aircraft. I find my irritation growing, but the Europeans around me are calm and polite: they simply wait. The situation lasts for a while. It takes much longer than usual to board the plane.
Inside the aircraft, just as we are about to settle into our seats next to the window, a lady from the middle section asks if we could let her have the window seat; it would help her baby, she says, else the baby would disturb everyone around. My wife, who loves the window seat and requests one for each flight, is upset. After a bit of indecision she agrees to the exchange, and we move into the middle section. We talk about it for a while, and both of us cannot understand what problems the baby would’ve had sitting where we were now. We should not give in so easily, wife tells me. I tell her that she would be feeling worse if she had refused the seat.
After the take-off entertainment channels are turned on. There are movies in the several languages, a few TV serials and documentaries. I choose a channel and push my seat back.
Hey! Hey! What are you doing?!! Move your seat up – I cannot see anything on my screen!!
It is a lady behind me, with a thick Bengali accent. Her assault has me dumbstruck – without thinking, I pull up my seat. It takes me a few seconds to realize that she can push back her seat as well, to maintain her distance from the screen. Before I can decide on how to tell her this, she taps me on my shoulder and asks me to move over to the empty seat a little away where there is no-one sitting behind. I can stand it no longer – I push my seat back and tell her that if she wants to look at the screen she should do the same.
I think back to Gate 39, and muse over how things changed after that. Europe – in its essence, attitude and behavior – ends at the gate; the India experience starts well before you cross its physical boundaries.
This is just the beginning, I tell myself.
I am on a train to Amsterdam, on my way to a conference, when an Indian voice asks me: “May I sit here?”. “Sure.” I reply, and pull my laptop aside, creating space on the table in front. She is a middle-aged woman – in her mid forties, perhaps – with South Indian features, dressed elegantly in a jeans and poncho. She settles down in the seat across, opens her laptop, and begins to write. The train pulls away from the station; I see the sign Köln Hbf sail past my window.
I get back to the presentation in my laptop, looking up occasionally when the train crosses a bridge revealing a nice view of the Rhine with the cathedral spires in the distance. I am almost never the one to begin a conversation; I wait.
The ticket collector comes by. When he returns her ticket she says in a soft but clear voice: Danke Shön. Surely not a tourist; perhaps lives in Köln.
A little later, when our eyes cross, she asks: “Are you also going to Amsterdam?”
“That’s right. Do you live in Köln?”
“No, no. I live in SanFrancisco.” She gives a wide smile. “I was here to meet a friend in Köln, on my way back from Bosnia.”
“Bosnia ? That’s interesting. How is the country now? Recovering?”
“Very slowly. I was surprised at how poor the situation was. It was difficult to believe I was in Europe – the conditions are so primitive.” She looks out of the window, and I see her eyes water. She takes a napkin and dabs softly below her eyes.
“Do you live in Germany?” she asks. I reply briefly about the work I do, and the purpose of this journey.
“What do you do?” I ask.
“I work for an organization that raises funds for women’s human rights organizations in different countries.”
This was the beginning of a conversation that lasted almost three hours, until we parted ways at the Amsterdam central station. Although I soon found out – when she gave me her business card – that she was “President and CEO” of Global Fund for Women, it was only after I got back and googled her name that I learned she was a celebrity in the eyes of many.
I asked her about her work, and she filled the hours with fascinating details and insights…
“Bosnia is still in a sorry state. Most aid goes into the wrong places, like supporting a redundant political structure (with too many ministries) – so the real issues (like infrastructure, public health etc) do not get enough aid. The condition of women is poor – they do very basic work like knitting, weaving – and it was difficult to believe this was Europe, just a few hundred miles away from Germany. I visited a school where I found children segregated along the lines of 3 different religions – shocking.”
Later, on Afghanistan:
“I was in Afghanistan in 2003. Travel a little outside Kabul, and you’ll find complete wilderness – it is unbelievable how under-developed that country is. Most of the Western aid goes into the military or to beef up security for Westerners there. I learned from the locals that India had sent 50 Tata buses (which had been permitted by the Pakistani government to drive through), and these buses were the backbone of the basic transportation system in Kabul! I met some Indian doctors and nurses from Kerala who were doing a great job – and the locals would often ask why the West does not provide that kind of support…”
She spoke about her organization, which had funded projects in 160 countries. Since they covered such a large area, they mostly used the help of local NGOs and advisors to assess and fund the right projects. The amounts they funded varied, and they considered any form of application, in any language. She spoke of some projects, and of amazing people out there doing so much for others:
“We once received a funding application from a union of domestic servants in Chennai. Can you believe that? This organization was involved in educating domestic servants about sexual harrassment during work, about their right to a holiday each week, about their right to a minimum wage, etc. I couldn’t have imagined that such an organization existed in Chennai. ”
“In Nepal, we funded an organization that helps poor women in villages all over the country. It was started by an Indian lady who, when confronted with doubts from her women friends on how they could ask money from their husbands for a cause in Nepal, put down her gold bangle and said that each woman could start with what she owned!! The organization now receives most of its funds from within the country. Such a model is clearly what developing nations should aim for, where the aid for their institutions come from within the country rather than developed nations in the West.”
“In Cambodia, I visited a factory that employed girls aged 15, and the girls were happy they had a job. Interestingly, the factory was owned by an Indian who found it more profitable to invest there than in India.”
I asked her about fund-raising, and how had things changed over the years. Were there more people willing to give now than before ?
“Earlier there was a widely prevalent notion that one can donate only after acquiring a good amount of wealth. Now there has been a shift in this perception, and people realize that they can contribute in their own small way and make a difference. And our organization recognizes this – we accept any amount from any one, and we do not publicize our donor list sorted according to the amount contributed.”
What about people’s interest in NGOs as a place to work – had that changed ?
“I think there is a perception that people working in NGOs aren’t – or do not have to be – as smart as those in the private sector. That really isn’t true, you know. This perception has to change, for more people to venture into this area of work.”
On the role of religion in a democracy:
“Democracy and secularism go hand in hand. What is the point of democracy in a country that is woven around a single religion? In such a country, if you are from a different religion, you become a second class citizen.”
We spoke of Indian books and movies. She liked the works of Vikram Seth, especially his latest one: Two Lives. Rohinton Mistry was another favourite, and she had found Family matters – a novel where, unlike A Fine Balance, Mistry had to operate within the boundaries of that social circle – very enjoyable. “Isn’t it wonderful that so many Indians are writing so brilliantly these days ?” She found it amazing that movies like Rang De Basanti and Lage Raho Munna Bhai were being made, that Bollywood was adopting such themes. It was a positive indicator of the shift in our society’s taste and its awareness towards social issues, she said. She was thrilled with Omkara, and felt the director’s earlier movie, Makbool, was even better.
She talked about her family, her Pakistani husband who was a writer and worked from home, which had interesting consequences on their daughter: on a visit to Pakistan some years ago, their daughter went upto an uncle and told him that “he had cooked all dishes really well”. She spoke briefly about growing up in Germany when her father was part of the Indian commision in Bonn (which explained her excellent German). Later on, I found on the web that her father had been the head of Indian Navy and had fought two wars against Pakistan. That also explained the opposition she faced from him about her proposal to marry a Pakistani.
She reflected on the changing times, on how social interactions amongst children revolved around the computer and the internet. Her husband had once suggested that their daughter spend a two week vacation doing nothing. “He stresses the importance of boredom: only when one is bored one starts to think, to be creative.”
Later, when I thought back on this conversation, it occured to me that the reason we were able to discuss a variety of topics with openness and ease had a lot to do with our common cultural background. I am able to appreciate this better now, having lived outside India for almost six years: the ease with which we connect to others from the same culture is something we take for granted, until we find ourselves surrounded by people with whom we sometimes do not even share a language. And in such a foreign surrounding, sitting near four Europeans conversing in formal tones, when you encounter someone whose roots are not far from your own, the result is a memory that promises to stay with you for a long time.
Last weekend, between the 7th and 8th of October, we watched a play, stole grapes from a vineyard, and walked through long corridors lined with books from all over.
The play – “3, Sakina Manzil” – was by Ramu Ramanathan, a Mumbai-based playwright. It was brought to Frankfurt as part of the events surrounding the Frankfurt Book Fair, where India was the “Guest of honor” this year. Such events are rare in Europe, and I chose to add this evening at the theater to our weekend itinerary (Blogger Alpha and her friend S were visiting us on their Europe tour, and had to put up with such indoor events in their weekend sight-seeing agenda).
A play with two characters, “3, Sakina Manzil” is set in the 1940s, and centered around the Bombay dock explosion that took place in 1944. As I watched the spotlight move from one character to the other, as I heard them speak in that English we Indians have adopted and made our own, as I experienced the story unfold in the Bombay atmosphere with names, expressions, images that spoke of an Indianness I’ve known since childhood but miss now, I felt a wave of nostalgia flow through me, a wave that held me in a trance throughout the play. Later, S mentioned that it could have been shorter in places, but I had been unable to notice any of that. To me, it filled a large vacuum created, on the one hand, by limited opportunities for such “authentic Indian experiences”, and on the other by the increasing scope my work (an occupation that has little to do with the world of art I long to be a part of) is having on my life these days.
After the play, the author spent close to an hour answering questions. The audience was predominantly German, and it conveyed a warm appreciation for the play, significant understanding of the art and a great deal of curiosity towards the specifics of Indian culture and theater scene in India: “The woman in the play was shown as a strong character – were Indian women like that in those days?” ; “Why did you choose an unhappy ending? Wouldn’t it have been more popular among the Indian audience had it been otherwise?” ; “How many such plays are staged in Mumbai? What is the infrastructure? Is it possible to make a living out of theater?”.
Ramu Ramanathan answered all questions with a simplicity and clarity that reflected his down-to-earth nature. It was surprising to hear that although he had been writing plays for many years and staging them in India, none of his plays had been published (He spoke of an ongoing attempt since four years, with the manuscript going back and forth between him and the publishers who were asking for one change after another ). However, a Dutch translation of “3, Sakina Manzil” was on the pipeline, and it was hoped that this would spur further interest among foreign audiences (This was the first time they were staging it outside India). He spoke of the strong theater culture in Maharashtra (“There is a joke amongst us: you only need to scratch a Maharashtrian and he’d end up writing a play!”), and of a lifestyle that sometimes involved staging three plays in different theaters in the city on the same day, which meant the props had to be simple enough to be disassembled within minutes and packed into a van, a vehicle where the actors and playwrights lived while on the move.
All this served only to enhance my nostalgia; I consoled my mind telling myself that this intensity of experience would not be possible had I been able to watch Indian plays every other weekend.
* * *
Earlier that day we drove to Sasbachwalden, a small town in the Black Forest region.
We walked through mostly empty streets lined with pretty tudor cottages, crossing now and then a bubbling brook. Soon our path wounded around a small hill and ended next to a vineyard full of ripe grapes. The girls made most of the opportunity; I wouldn’t be surprised if Germany reports a small dip in wine production for the year 2006.
* * *
On Sunday afternoon we visited the Frankfurt book fair. The “India” theme was splattered all around: on posters, brochures, giant wall hangings displaying authors from the sub-continent, events with famous Indian personalities (we narrowly missed a press-conference with Mira Nair; other events, like readings from authors like Vikram Chandra, Pankaj Mishra, Vikram Seth, Shashi Tharoor, U.R. Ananthamurthy etc had been held through the week).
We had only a couple of hours before the event closed, and as I wandered through the halls the familiar feeling of cultural density enveloped me: I could not imagine another situation where one could get a glimpse of such a wide array of cultures in so small an area. It made you realize how much more there is to be seen, experienced.
Each year I come back from the fair with a list of books (only a list, as books are not typically for sale at the trade fair). This time one book caught my attention: Privacy, a collection of stunning black and white portraits of families in Delhi, by Dayanita Singh.
* * *
It was an eventful weekend, one that passed too soon. Alpha, true to the traits one sees in her writing, was full of humor. Her enthusiasm is infectious: there wasn’t a single dull moment throughout the weekend (which, with someone like me around, is quite a feat – you only need to ask my sister). She left behind plenty of laughter, and a book I’m beginning to love: Vikram Chandra’s Red Earth and Pouring Rain. Thank you, Alpha.
The immigration section at Newark International airport was empty when we entered. The passengers arriving by the late evening flight from Frankfurt fell into one of the two lines: the US citizens and residents to one side, the rest to another. A flat-screen television nearby displayed images of violence in Iraq. Most passengers, like me, looked tired and sleepy: it had been a long flight. When my turn came I walked up to the immigration officer. Bald and bespectacled, he seemed the serious sorts, not too interested in casual conversation; he collected my passport and inquired about the purpose of my visit.
“I’m here to attend a conference in Las Vegas.” I replied.
“What kind of conference, sir?”
“Its a conference where we’re meeting some of our customers and partners.” I had gone through this routine before: the officer usually asked a couple of questions – as a formality, it always seemed – and let me pass.
“Sir, if I were to tell you that I was attending a conference to meet some customers, how much would you understand?” he asked, looking at me straight in the eye.
Half way through that sentence I realized this wasn’t going to be as simple as I had orignally thought.
“It’s a technology conference. I work for a software company – ”
“Indian?” he interrupted.
“No, a German software company.”
“What kind of customers are you meeting ?”
The speed of the interrogation threw me off balance. I tried to think of names, but only two came to mind.
“Kimberly Clark…. Pratt & Whittney…”
“Look sir, if you continue to be answer in generalities then I’m going to have you sent to a different section for further questions.”
I stared back at him, unable to say a thing. I could feel my pulse racing.
“Are these customers individuals, or companies?” he asked.
“They are companies, like Pratt & Whittney, Nike, Kimberly Clark…”
“How long do you want to stay in the US, sir?”
“One week.”
“When was the last time you were in the US?”
“In May this year.”
“For how long ?”
“One week.”
“Could you please place you right forefinger over there, and look straight into the camera ?”
I placed my finger on the fingerprint sensor and looked at the round webcam-like contraption that stood nearby. The officer stamped my passport and returned it.
“Have a nice stay, sir”
“Thank you very much.” I collected my passport and walked outside.
* * *
I spent the weekend at New Jersey with my in-laws. On Saturday we visited a temple nearby for the annual Onam celebrations; all Malayalis in the region seemed to have converged there, and the atmosphere was almost what one would find back in Kerala: people in traditional costumes (arriving in Japanese and German automobiles), South-Indian delicacies (served on plastic plates by people wearing synthetic gloves on one hand), hot and humid weather, dance and music programmes from people of all ages. There was one item by a group of boys and girls dancing to a medley of Hindi film tracks. Watching them – the girls dressed in long pants and shirts that covered most of their arms, and the pairs trying to maintain minimal contact as they danced across the stage – I couldn’t help thinking that this generation growing up in the US was probably far more conservative than their counterparts of similar ages growing up in Indian cities.
The next day we went shopping. My mother-in-law, who religiously collects coupons that offer discounts at various stores, asked if I wanted to benefit from a discount coupon she had. It was from a saloon – “We are getting a discount, so why don’t you make use of it and have a haircut?”
* * *
The four days at Las Vegas seemed to pass by like a blur. This was my second visit to the city; the novelty of the casinos and the fancy hotels had worn. The only banners that caught my attention were those advertising shows: “The Blue Man group” and “Phantom of the Opera” were running at The Venentian – where our conference was held – and I decided to watch “The Phantom” on the last evening. It was performance studded with stunning special effects, and the music was spellbinding. I now intend to watch the movie (something I have been putting off for quite a while, for no apparent reason).
That evening I won a hundred and sixty dollars at a slot machine. Next morning, before leaving for the airport, I tried my hand again – on the same machine – and lost a hundred. When I mentioned this to the taxi driver on my way to the airport, he replied that you are a winner if you leave Vegas without losing anything. He’d made me feel good, and I tipped him generously.
For most of the return journey I was lost in the dreamy world conjured up by Haruki Murakami, in “The wind-up bird chronicle”.
The woman sitting across me in the ICE from Basel to Karlsruhe wore dark glasses and was reading what appeared, through the edges of photos that flashed across as she turned its pages, like a culinary magazine. She was large – she occupied one and half seats – and once she’d settled down she didn’t move an inch.
A short while after Basel, few uniformed men entered the compartment and announced for “der Ausweis“. There was a rustle among passengers who opened their bags, purses, wallets for identification papers; the lady in front seemed puzzled by it all.
“Ausweis?” she asked, turning towards me. “Aber warum? Ich hab kein Ausweis.”
She couldn’t understand why anyone would want to check identification papers in a train; she shook her head and opened her handbag, looking for papers. The officer checked my passport and moved on; the lady was spared an explanation. For the time being.
Next came the ticket collector, a middle-aged man in blue uniform. This time the lady took out a card, but the collector shook his head.
“This is an ICE.” he said, in German. “You can’t use your local train pass – you need a ticket.”
The lady seemed not to understand. “So this won’t do?”
“No. But I can issue you a ticket.” He pulled out a small machine from his bag. “Where did you start your journey?”
The lady hesitated a bit, and then replied: “Offenburg”.
“But we haven’t reached Offenburg yet! It must have been Basel, right?”
“Was it? Let me think… yes, it was Basel.”
The collector punched out a ticket, took money from the lady, and moved to the next row. I couldn’t detect any emotion on him; such incidents seemed part of his daily routine.
* * *
In July 2001, six months after we moved to Germany, I got my company car. That put an end to our train travels: car journeys were faster, more comfortable and less expensive. But travelling by car is like carrying a wall around you – you have privacy, but you limit encounters and meet fewer people. So when Wife moved to Switzerland for her MBA earlier this year, I decided to make my weekend trips by train.
These train journeys took me back to my early days in Germany, to my fascination for the many elements surrounding trains: the punctuality of arrivals and departures, the reading habits of Germans (I’d never seen so many people reading in trains before, and it was fascinating to watch my fellow passengers in their own worlds, absorbed in the book in their hands), the politeness of Germans (people alighting from trains would always get preference; people would always ask if a seat was free before taking it; people would greet you while taking a seat next to you, and bid goodbye while leaving).
Around May, I began to notice an important change: announcements in German were followed by a shorter, truncated version in English – thanks to the Football World Cup. The intention was laudable, the consequences sometimes hilarious. New words – creatively constructed – would crop up, and literal translations into English would result in sentences with the verb at the end:
“The train destinated for Köln you will in platform 8 find.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen… in a few minutes we arrive in Basel SBB. This train ended here. Thank you for driving Deutsche Bahn.”
On a few occasions, even fellow German passengers couldn’t help noticing the bloopers and would laugh out loud. A promising beginning, though. I hope it doesn’t end with the world cup – practice makes perfect.
* * *
The seats in front are empty, and I scan the faces of passengers as they walk across looking for suitable places, stopping next to some before walking past. A lady with a brown bag stops next to the seat across me, and moves on. The seat remains empty until everyone has crossed. Then the lady returns, asks if the seat is free – I smile and nod – and sits down. (I cannot help reminding myself that this practice of asking if a seat is free before taking it is diametrically opposite to the practice in India, where the place you are holding for your fellow passenger taking a toilet break can be usurped by anyone. “No reservations allowed here!” , “Baap ka seat samajh ke rakha hai kya?!” “Adjust kar lo sir – there is place for three here.”)
She must be in her mid thirties. She has blond hair, and is wearing a green top over a knee-length black skirt. As she sits down, her eyes – keen and intelligent – search for the title of the book I’m reading. She pulls out a set of papers and a pencil from her bag, and begins to read what looks like an essay. I can only make out the title: “Rom/Berlin Achse” – probably an essay on the axis forged by Mussolini and Hitler in the nineteen thirties. She underlines some lines as she reads, and occasionally scribbles a few words in the wide margin on the right. Is she a teacher? Or a student of History? What does the essay describe? I want to begin a conversation, but I am unable to do so. Language is one barrier (I’ll have to start with the question “Sprechen Sie English?”); the crowded compartment with people all around us is another. And there’s the issue of interrupting her while she is working. I do not like to struggle too much with such doubts; I simply let it be.
Suddenly music fills the air – violins playing Vivaldi – and then, after a few seconds, stops abruptly. We look up, our eyes lock, she smiles for an instant and I smile back; then she gets back to her papers and I to my book. It is a strangely beautiful moment – as if we were sharing a little secret, unbeknownst to the passengers around us.
When the train nears Karlsruhe, I get up to leave. “Tschüss!” she says, and I reply with a nod: “Tschüss.” At the end of the compartment I realize that I’ve forgotten my bottle of Coke – I walk back to my seat. As I reach for the bottle, she looks up, and seeing me pick up the bottle she smiles – a wide, wonderful smile. I smile back and turn around.
[I promised you an account of our Swiss trip; it follows. As you read slowly through the narrative and gaze longingly at the accompanying pictures, savouring each vista and relishing every encounter, you shall journey into the mountains of Switzerland, catch a glimpse of swiss hospitality, experience the pleasures of a misty hike, and understand the balance between Tourism-Agriculture-Nature the Swiss have achieved.]
That Friday, as I placed our bags into the car booth, it occurred to me that we were doing what was so typically European: leaving office early on a Friday, packing bags, and driving out for a weekend holiday. Dad used to tell me about such trips we made in Ghana in the late 70s: come Friday, we – dad, mom and a four year old version of me – would start out, along with a few of his Dutch colleagues, for a nearby beach resort. Looking at those photographs as a teenager, I would wonder if I would ever get to live like that. Now that I do, I still miss the aura that surrounds those old memories; the past, like an old photograph whose edges get fuzzier each year, has always seemed more enchanting than the present.
We weren’t going to a beach resort, but to the mountains in Switzerland. Our last trip to this region was in the winter of 2002, when we walked along a snow-covered trail carrying umbrellas (it was snowing) until my toes froze and we had to take the mountain train for the remaining distance. In summer the Bernese Oberland landscape is vastly different; I looked forward to this one.
At the Swiss border, in Basel, the bored customs official waved us through – an unusual gesture. Most often, we were stopped and asked for our passports. On some occasions the passport check was followed by a few questions: where are you headed? Why? Carrying any food products? The last question, which surprised us initially, was to identify people who buy food products in neighbouring countries and sell them at a higher price in Switzerland. Last year, on our way to Venice, we were carrying a bag full of rations and vegetables we needed for our week’s stay at the cottage where we intended to cook; by good fortune, the check on that day involved only passport verification.
After Basel the landscape changed – green meadows dotted with thick sloping roof cottages, with patches of pine trees adding a darker shade of green – and so did the music – Bhupinder made way for The Very Best of Eagles. At Interlaken, a city which takes its name from its location in between two lakes, Brienz and Thun, we left the highway and began our ascent into the mountains. Half an hour later we reached our hotel Staldten, which was situated at the apex of a hairpin bend a few kilometres from Grindelwald. It was almost 9 pm, and darkness was setting in, but there was enough light for a photo of the hotel from the parking lot situated opposite. As I framed the picture a train passed above us, and the chill in the air suddenly brought to mind something I had missed while packing: a jacket. The summer heat in the plains can be deceptive; this region seemed to be in a different climate zone.
The hotel, a largish cottage with a restaurant in front and a few rooms at the back, appeared to be a family-run place. A plump blonde girl welcomed us with her rudimentary English laced with a Swiss accent, and led us to our room behind the restaurant. It was a small room with a window that opened into a backyard, and the hillside that faced us was thick with vegetation. I opened the window to let in some air; instantly, the roar of the nearby mountain stream came rushing in.
After resting a while we drove to the nearby town of Grindelwald. It was dark outside, and lights from houses on nearby mountain slopes glimmered like low-hanging stars in the sky. The well-lit town centre, with its signs for hotels and restaurants, was surprisingly empty for a summer Friday evening. We parked opposite some restaurants and walked over to check the menu: typical German cuisine, with little vegetarian choice. I enquired and learned there were a couple of pizzerias ahead. The short walk to the nearest pizzeria took us past shops displaying sports wear, camping equipment, cameras, Swiss watches and knives. At one window with cameras we looked at the price of a Canon EOS 300D. The label read 990 Swiss Francs; much cheaper than a year and half ago, when I purchased the same model.
The pizzeria we entered was empty, but we had barely seated ourselves when a large group
entered. They looked for a place suitable for all to sit together, and finding none, one amongst them asked if we could shift to another side. We agreed, following which they wouldn’t stop thanking us. Every other person, crossing us on their way to the seat, stopped by to express their gratitude. They were Germans, of course.
The long drive had left us hungry. Colours, with her sharp presence of mind on any food related matter, remarked that we ought to order before the large group did, unless we didn’t mind waiting until midnight for our pizzas. I took her hint, and our order arrived before hunger could consume us.
* * *
I woke up next morning to find an overcast sky. From the window, I spotted a layer of mist rise above the trees on the mountain.
At breakfast, the courteous middle-aged lady led us to a table she’d kept ready for us. Coffee? she asked. No, orange juice. Over breakfast I browsed through a hiking brochure that contained an overview of the possible hiking routes. We decided to take a bus or cable car to a place named First, and then hike to Waldspitz via BachAlpSee. We’d seen a picture of BachAlpSee in our guidebook: a group picnicking on the green meadow next to an alpine lake, with snow-covered peaks towering ahead. A place one wouldn’t want to miss; but then, don’t most travel brochures evoke similar emotions?
We checked out soon after breakfast. Before leaving, I enquired on how to reach First from Grindelwald; the lady went inside and came back with a more detailed brochure. Then, with the charm and expertise of a travel agent selling me a trip, she explained that since there was no bus to First, I should park in the lot next to the church at the end of town and take a short walk to the cable-car station, and on the way back we could either take a bus from Waldspitz or the cable-car from Bort. “You keep the brochure – it has nice pictures” she said with a warm smile. “And wish you a nice stay in Switzerland !”
We drove again to Grindelwald – this time in full view of the surrounding mountains, with vast expanses of green and clumps of white where low-hanging clouds hid among trees – and parked in the same lot as the previous evening. As we were parking for the day we had to purchase a ticket. At the vending machine I dropped a coin into the slot, but it simply rolled out. On closer examination, I found the electronic display showing an “Ausser Bettrieb” – out of order – sign. A young man with Chinese features standing behind me remarked that the machine at the other end was out of order as well. None of the cars had any ticket on them; it meant we would get a free day at the parking lot.
I bought a jacket in one of the sportswear shops, and we then walked towards the cable car station. The rain-washed street was flanked on both sides by wooden houses with dark, sloping roofs and balconies decorated with colourful flowers; shops displayed Swiss knifes, watches and postcards with alpine views; a mountain loomed up ahead and the air had a slight chill; there were tourists all around, carrying cameras, hiking equipment, or kids that refused to walk – it was a scene you would find in any Swiss alpine resort.
At the cable-car station in Grindelwald, the lady at the ticket counter explained all possible transport options (although her job was only to sell cable-car tickets). “Take care in this part of the hike,” she said, pointing to a map she had spread out. “It is a stony path – nothing dangerous, but just be a little careful while walking.” I thanked her and collected the tickets. The hospitality you encounter in Switzerland makes the experience more memorable. No wonder this country offers the world’s best hotel management courses.
As the cable car ascended the sky cleared a little, but at First the mist brought down the visibility to no more than a few metres. Outside the cable-car station at First, we spotted outlines of a sign indicating different paths: our initial destination was BachAlpSee, around an hour away.
It wasn’t cold, and that made the mist acquire a quality of mystery and filled within us a sense of adventure. Beyond a few metres of our path and parts of the surrounding green meadows, we could barely see anything. Soon we heard bells – cowbells – in the distance; a few minutes later cows materialized out of the mist.
“Do you know why the cows here have bells tied to their necks?” I asked Colours.
“Why?” she enquired, expecting an earnest reply.
“So that hikers don’t bump into them on misty days.”
The mist had a slippery character: it would come and go with a speed that left me fumbling with my camera to capture clear moments in between. After a while when the mist lifted, we found ourselves surrounded by miles of green meadows and hills, with taller mountains in the distance. The path wound through the green hillside spotted with dried up flowers, and below us we saw the mist rising once again.
The green hillsides all around us seemed part of a natural landscape, but they were in fact cultivated. I was surprised when I read this on a previous visit to Switzerland. It was a signboard at a cable-car station that explained how nature, agriculture and tourism were dependent on each other:
“The cultivated landscape created by man increases the natural variety and individuality of the mountain region. A rural, cultivated landscape is attractive to visitors and a reason why many guests return year after year. The open landscape, cleared of forest, is a pre-requisite for attractive ski runs; its maintenance needs a local workforce.
The patterns of agricultural work and tourism are complementary. Tourism provides additional sources of income for the part-time farmer. Tourism makes an important contribution to the preservation of mountain agriculture. Where once there was only forest you now find flower-decked meadows and a landscape divided by hedges and clumps of trees.”
This unique blend of tourism, agriculture and nature had achieved the right balance necessary to keep this ecosystem thriving in an organic manner.
It progressively got colder as we walked, and when we reached BachAlpSee the wind made it worse. It wasn’t the warm, picnic weather we had seen in the photograph (and the clouds obscured the Alps), but nestled among the green hills in a remote place two thousand metres above sea level, this small lake carried a charm I associated with stories about Himalayan lakes.
Shaped like an oyster, the lake had a bluish-green colour, and the surrounding mountains made it seem like a source for streams flowing down from here. But there probably were other streams feeding this lake at the far end.
I walked down to the edge and found the water warmer than I had expected. There were no signs forbidding swimmers; perhaps on warmer days people did take a swim. The place was remarkably free of tourists – I saw only about half a dozen people around us; some were sitting and munching sandwiches, and some others, like me, were taking pictures.
We spent around ten minutes at the lake before the cold wind led us away from this calm, beautiful location towards our next destination: Waldspitz. This time we chose the narrow, unmarked path on the other side of the valley we had climbed. The route was labelled blumenweg: at the right time in summer, the path wound through hillsides covered with bright flowers. Presently most of them appeared burnt and dried, and a few fresh ones that were left had little impact on the vast green that dominated the landscape.
It was a wet, muddy path scattered with stones. Soon the mist caught up with us again, and so did the cows. We spent the next hour slowly walking through the mist listening to rhythmic clink of the cowbells, and these two elements formed the essence of the hike. In between we would stop to absorb the surroundings, and on one such occasion we were startled by a rooster’s scream. Looking ahead, we saw the outlines of a barn slowly emerge through the mist, a barn with a portico where a cock and a few hens were strutting around. The barn had an electrified fence around it, and our path led straight into this fence. “Waldspitz”, a board said, pointing below the wire that ran across the fence. We bent carefully and crossed to the other side (although Colours, a good twelve inches shorter, found it much easier than I did). Inside, we walked past a dog that silently watched us with hungry eyes. The path soon joined a marked trail, and brought us much-needed relief.
When we reached Waldspitz – a “village” with a single cottage that housed a restaurant – we were both tired and hungry. The next bus was an hour away, which left us enough time to fill ourselves with hot vegetable soup followed by Rösti (potato) with tomato and cheese. The cheese, like most cheese I’ve tried in Switzerland, smelled strange, but after a while I found I had finished half the plate with little difficulty. Did I get used to the smell, or did my hunger make me ignore it? Only my next encounter with Swiss cheese will tell. 
The bus ride to Grindelwald, winding through a narrow road surrounded by pine trees, took forty-five minutes. Grindelwald was hot – the car indicated twenty-four degrees Celsius – and after picking up some cool drinks we started towards Lausanne.
[Have you, like me, wondered how the memory of a place creates a more intense sense of attachment than the act of being physically present in the place? Do you, like me, sometimes live more in memories than in the reality that surrounds you? Do you go about collecting experiences, just as I sometimes do, not for the experience in itself but for the memory it allows you to go back to later? Are you, like me, afraid that memories you would long to recollect someday would be erased as time goes by? And is that why you, like me, blog, collecting these pieces of memory you could later look at? If you answered yes, I would be least surprised.]
Parmanu 