La Froid en Bruxelles

A trip I did in early November 2007. It was sub zero and we kept missing the exits and getting lost in Brussels. We didn't have a GPS and the roads are bloody confusing in Brussels. Plus we had 3 navigators for the designated driver. And when we finally came back to Paris at 2AM we lost our way again! I think we reached home at 4 AM.

So what did we do in Brussels? We had hot chocolate and tried some of those famous Belgian beers - Leffe, Hoegaarden, Stella Artois. We saw Mannequin Pis and its unbelievably small. But really there wasn't much else to do but walk around the old city. That wasn't bad. There were so many places to stop and eat, all lined up along the narrow streets, and the restaurateurs inviting us persuasively, warmly (sometimes quite annoyingly!) into their shops. Dinner was nice.


April 18th

If there was the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
- The Waste Land

I am the blooming desert,
The rich aridity of the Kalahari
Approaching, encroaching your fecundity,
I am here to soil you, to take
Of you, and leave you replete with a vacancy
And a “Too Late” sign on your balcony.
My deserting you, is like an acceptance of
A smelly embrace. My binding is not a rape,
It’s a birthday party, a naked race,
An emancipation perhaps even an
Atonement. A justification of something
You feared would happen and wished
For all the same.
18th April, on this porch, Twenty
Timid years ago, years aplenty,
I pushed my foot into your gate,
And surveyed the scene and waved,
My hands like a tree with gnarled
Branches, waving at a forest of gnarled
Trees, I wore your husband’s suit,
And the light reflected from
My gold rimmed, glasses,
Square framed. You wore a flowery
Summer dress that flapped like a nervous,
Infant before a tetanus shot. Your eyes,
Were large holes of punctured mountains,
Your face cloudless, the beaten sky
Finite, into a painting framed.
And your arms extended up,
To the wall, that I built around you,
I am the land that surrounds the sky.
I was beneath you, I am above you,
And I shall weave around you now,
Like your flowery summer dress.

I am the father of a thousand, biting
Posters and paper cutouts of me.
They are my voice,
I am their beating, pumping
Organ that suffuses them with
Streams of convincing clarifications.
These twenty years are
Wide hipped women. They have borne
My waiting children and fed them
On evening porridge, that grew
Upon this land. It’s true,
This land has grown in them.
Now I have come again,
To your garden gate. Your husband
Wears my suit and you wear,
That summer dress, flapping like
The blighted page of a sordid book.
That longing look,
Of an empty well.
Your pieces are scattered upon my soil,
And the land grabs with eager hands,
All that lies upon it.
My paper cutouts now line your walls,
They agree, it’s time,
The earth shook in a mad fit,
Did a war dance on its fetid feet,
And drove the sky away.

Ma Mère

The Wheelbarrow Man

Ears flapping from side to side,
Long ears from long years,
Flapping to the veering head wind,
Dust cocooned,
Wheel barrow man,
Grunts and gushes like sewerage,
Chases the road end,
The end road from the
Bylane by the blind lane,
At the cross road to main street,
Tried tires and tired feet,
Dogged dog barking,
Popping poles and free parking,
With a baby in his,
Metal-bound, velvet-lined,
Hardcased, nursery-rhymed,
Wheelbarrow.

Old Madame Sosostris,
Eyes beset in layers,
And layers of wrinkled cheese,
Drugged dugs,
Drags her dripping arms,
Unwinds her window,
To sniff the breeze,
And voila, a dust storm,
She gives a sneeze,
Touches up her antique,
Silver hair passed on to
Her by the giggling ape,
Adjusts her nape,
And sees the wagging tail,
Of the wheelbarrow man,
And in his wake the,
Waving hands, lotioned legs,
Gargling voice of a gaggled face,
Wrapped in paper and duct tape.

Impressionism

It's so silly putting framed paintings on a blog. You can download them from any of the thousand copies on the Internet. But I feel a bit of pride - I saw these Monet Paintings (and many more) with my own eyes at Musee D'Orsay. Yes, the originals. Almost a year back, 'How do we know' sent me a book. It was big and heavy and had a green cover. It had the complete collection of Monet Paintings. When I asked her about the heavy book, she lightly replied that it was her duty to hand the book to its rightful owner. I will never forget that favor.

Back in my childhood days, my father had a collection of art books. There were one's on Renaissance, on Toulouse Lautrec and many others. I remember fondly flipping through the pages. Mom had decided to go back to University and on Saturdays I would visit the Jehangir Art Gallery in Mumbai and sit with the artists on the roadside, until Mom would be done with her lectures. I had painted deer on my bedroom walls and when headlights from cars would flash from outside (I don't know how they reached so high, all the way up to the 20th floor!), the deer would come alive. In the day time after school I would run to my friends apartment and talk about kung fu, girls and sometimes about paintings.

I don't know when I first saw his paintings, but I had learnt to recognize them almost instinctively. Once in San Francisco, at the Museum of Modern Art, I saw a photograph. It had a girl in a garden and they were having breakfast. And I saw in it a Monet. It was not his painting of course, but the photograph was inspired by a Monet painting. I asked the guide, "Monet?" She nodded. That was the first time I saw Monet.

Granny would say, an artist holds a mirror to the world. Does Monet hold a mirror to the world? That lady in the field with red flowers, her face isn't even complete. The boats sailing in the lake, isn't the lake up in the sky and sky down in place of the lake? Then there is the cart that trundles on the snow, the sky is brown and the trees appear blue with snow. The plates on the table take centre stage and the people are the background. The house of parliament a hazy shadow, the sun and its reflection hazier still. The little boy in utter darkness beyond the illuminated curtains and flower pots.

In Monet I see the world.

Elephant Girl

After a long day,
Of paper cups, keyboards and saucepans,
She notices some lines,
Pencil marks under her eyes.
She rubs the mirror.
"Sheets of paper cannot hide,
From an elephant memory."
She decides to think of the bus schedule,
The laundry list,
And other important matters,
While the elephant quickly hides,
Under the writing desk.

Versailles

These are pictures from late October when Mom and Dad had come down to visit me. They found it very cold so we visited places near and around Paris. Versailles is a colossus. Its gardens are the biggest I have seen and the palace is incredibly lavish. Louis IV came here in 1682 and the french kings stayed here all they way until the revolution forced Louis VI out of the palace in 1789. But the place is much older and the first chateau was built here sometime in the 11th century.

The best part about this place is the expansive set of interconnected gardens that are spread across an area of 8000 hectares. In between is a waterbody that is a cross between a lake and a canal. Part of it flows right to the foot of the main Palace. Ships would sail into it at some point in history. There is more than one chateau here. Including a mini chateau gifted to Marie Antoinette with its own chapel and garden. It is all so spread out that it would tire one to walk around the whole place. So mom and dad bought tickets for a tram that shuttles around the palace.

A tree

Old walls connect a distant past,
To a courtyard and a house,
Large spaces inside,
And a restless tree.
Bare branches crawl up,
A side of the wall,
Stick a hand out,
And wave at the passerby.
Hey did you see the winter,
Coming this way?

The passerby stops,
Pops his head out of the hood,
And gives his neck a good shake.
His features blur,
A blank page behind a long nose,
Protected by the shaggy beard.
He says, Pardon,
Je suis sur mon chemin,
And walks away.

The tree squints at the horizon,
Spots a dab of red,
And imagines a sunset,
Behind the gray evening.

Champs Elysees

The street that needs no introduction. Charles De Gaule (pronounced Shah de Goul) stares longingly at one end hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous Arc de Triomphe that adorns the other end. The pictures are from early October and the air is so wonderful sans the winter chill. The sky was so clear that day, that when I reached the top of Arc de Triomphe through a long, winding staircase, the city of Paris opened her arms to greet me. The sense of history weighed down upon me - everything around me was hundreds of years old that it made even the Eiffel Tower seem young and sprightly. Originally commissioned by Napolean in his heydays (but alas he never saw it completed), the Arc de Triomphe is now symbolic of all the wars that France has seen. Beneath is the tomb of "The Unknown Soldier" (just like in the Jim Morrison song).

In October the bars and cafes sprawled into the road to bask in the sun. It's hard to find people who speak French on this road as there are hordes of tourists clicking away with their cameras at whatever they can see. The last time I went there was in late October, when Mom and Dad came visiting. Dad was feeling awfully cold so we went into the Grand Palais and saw an exhibition.

The Order

The left right left of peeled faces,
Marching to the fore,
Towards the sweaty shore,
A silent menagerie,
Beneath the livid sea,
Heads and feet emerge for a while,
And subside into a mangled broth.

The circle, circle around the digit,
The cheerful clamor, the fist rigid,
Round and round they go,
A mass of bodies,
Exulting in their nudity,
Stepping upon each wayward mononity,
Shunning the absurdity,
Engulfing a vast multiplicity,
Evening the oddity.

The up down up of unattired limbs,
Untiring, unabashed, indiscriminate revelry,
Gyrating in rhythm to a raucous rhapsody,
Erupting in a communal paroxysm,
Echoing each others emotion,
Churning, churning the ever-life,
To its last sap of youth.

Chateau

This is my home now. And that is my cycle. That sleepy alley leads me to my new home. See how the signs scream 'Gymnase Henri Chapu'. The gym is actually right opposite my house and you can see kids outside the gym on regular evenings. That is my chateau with a beautiful garden. The pictures are from September and that is why the garden is so overwhelmingly green. So many people come to my town just to see the Chateau. Napolean lived here once. But the Chateau is many centuries older than him. It dates back to the times of Louis VII in the 12th century. Close to my town the Barbizon painters painted scores of paintings. In September, I would spend hours at the chateau. Staring at the garden. Admiring the swans, the shapely pond, the clear blue skies.

Those swans have flown away now that it is December. The sky isn't as blue as it was in September. It is predominantly gray, and the sun rises late in the day. It is so cold that my words shiver and refuse to leave the warmth of my home on Rue Henri Chapu.

Hello Goodbye

Said my goodbyes to Malaysia. Jalan Ampang and Bangsar will be soon forgotten, along with Penang, Taman Malawati, the Kelana Jaya line, KL central, Bukit Bintang and many other euphonic names that had been a part of my life for so many months. The country that opened its arms to me is now thousands of miles away. The sun that beat down on me will now be sorely missed. It doesn't rain like it used to, the drops of rain have shrivelled in size and I haven't heard the thunder in months. The termites won't knaw at my cupboard, the fungus won't grow on my damp clothes, and the taxi drivers won't nod and say "ok la!"

My office was on the 39th floor but it was dwarfed by the KLCC that stood next to it. Everytime I looked out my windows the towers stared down at me like a big bully. The annoying presence of the KLCC (Petronas towers) will also be missed. The smelly food courts will be missed, and the thousand shopping malls will be missed. The beautiful Penang beaches will be missed. My lovely Malaysian friends, who adopted me as their own will be missed.

Last night I dreamt that the city had left me behind and moved away. I opened my door and found that the city was gone. Whoosh! Not a soul in sight. That's what happens when you leave your cities behind. They begin to leave you too.

In between the lines

I scribbled roughly into my notebook,
Dark days daubed with charcoal,
The sun can be an underclerk,
In a worn out gray over coat.
On such days my alphabets,
Have a language of their own.

The realm of horizontal lines,
Here is a place for the reasonable mind,
To twist and turn every time,
To the whistle of a toy train,
Meandering to a certainty,
Through tunnels of circumstance,
And hills and vales of happenstance,
To the finality of a shape,
Precluding the possibility of millions,
And millions of other shapes.

Consummation is a warm handshake,
And a cloying smile,
That can be brushed aside,
In all its levity,
Nudged outside just as,
The million others that clamored,
For a chance at the limelight.

Unconquered

Unconquered

Thailand has never been conquered in history. Its palaces and temples glow with undiminished glory. The beholder is left speechless. There is so much to see in Bangkok alone. Buddhist temples can be found in every part of the city, each one more splendid than the other. The Chao Phraya River navigates the city like a serpent. It is an earthy brown in color and carries hundreds of boats across itself everyday.

There is more than one palace in Bangkok. The most famous one is the Grand Palace. It has been around for more than 200 years and kings have continually added to it. The Thai are proud of their kings. On the birthday of the present king Bhumibol (and in fact on every Monday) people wear yellow T-shirts. I was surprised to find a sea of yellow T-shirts at lunchtime on a Monday. You will find portraits of the present king on every street of Bangkok. They really love their king.

I spent most of my time at the Grand Palace. It is incredibly beautiful, and it takes a long time to see all of it. Every bit of the palace is just exquisite (as you can see from the photos). I haven’t seen anything like this before. It also houses the temple of the emerald Buddha. One isn’t allowed to take photos of the emerald Buddha. It is placed at a height on a pedestal that seems to cascade down towards the viewer. It is not a big statue, yet one is attracted to it because it is made of emerald.

I visited many temples while I was in Bangkok. I remember the temple called Wat Pho. It houses a reclining Buddha that is 46m long and 15m high. Besides the statue of the Buddha, I loved the stone statues of warriors placed outside the temple. They look proud and unconquered.

Where he had left

A boat came back to the quay,
The sun calls it a day,
The rain clouds drift away,
Gently. Sagged down like udders,
By the weight of,
Their own self-consciousness.

The old tree that clutches,
At the red earth, sucks in,
Every leaf that goes astray.
The red earth blows,
From her pouting lips,
To smudge all footprints away.
Flotsam that drifts into,
The unforgiving waters,
Is returned with the lowering tide.
No one can get away.

A contoured, cartographic face,
Navigable features and eroded gaze,
He came back to where he had left.
As he spoke, words that left,
His mouth went back in again.
The same way they came.
Memories won’t matter to anyone else.
Thoughts came hurling back at him,
Like a stone thrown skyward with vengeance.
His hands felt empty, yet laden with weight.
His practiced feet walked unswerving,
Tired yet continuing,
As he emerged unscathed,
From a journey around the periphery.