The Western Sentinel

Far away from the dusty, tired roads of Mumbai, is the home of the Western Sentinel. The Guardian God of the West sits on his mountainous abode, looking into the west, a fact rarely heard of in Indian Temple Architecture. Our Gods look to the east; to look at the rising sun, to welcome a new day. In Ganpatipule however, he looks to the west, looking intently at the sea, perhaps aware of the dangers that could come our way; once again.

When you land here, you can feel the world slow down around you. Even the train station has none of the urgency one can think of. Straight from an R. K. Narayan novel, the station wakes up to welcome the trains and then go back to sleep again. At Ratnagiri, you can find the last memories of a forgotten Burmese King, held by the British, never to see his homeland again. Bit by bit, over the years in exile, he tried to recreate a piece of his home but it was never the same again.

The sea is treacherous around here; but beautiful. The beaches are quiet; devoid of humans and therefore of filth. It quietly rolls over the sands and within kilometres you can see the colours change from pristine white to jet black. Time moves slowly, allowing you to embrace it and feel every moment caress your cheek as it passes you by. The sea is calm and rolls incessantly into the night, playing music that can only be heard in silence. The stars come out in the night, visible without the incessant cover of smog over Mumbai.

The mangoes are everywhere. You can feel their presence as you drive by and the price does not frighten you off. The food feels distant and different from what you would have expected but then this is how cuisines develop locally and if you can find those small restaurants where the proprietors still make the day’s serving, you know you are in good hands. The most famous place to stay is the MTDC hotel and like most Government hotels the rooms are large and spacious and there ends the story. But the view remains outstanding from every single room.

But everything revolves around him. Everything, even the name itself, reminds one of the existence of the hamlet. He is not one who has the riches of his week-long avatars of Mumbai, neither does he have the imposing architecture of the Northern and the Southern Gods. He sits patiently, listening to the bells and to the sea.

Ganpatipule is not for the movers and shakers, it’s not for the throngs of followers. It’s for those who want to pause, even if for a bit.

The Silence of the Stones

It was mid day and the sun was bright, directly throwing his warm winter light on us. We were halfway through our journey and yet it felt we had seen nothing, observed nothing. High above the mountains of Ajanta, we stood looking at some of the best examples of art in Indian history. Ajanta is magnificent. And there is no other word that better describes the rock cut temples of Aurangabad.

Often you will find people telling you that travelling to Ajanta and Ellora is a day’s journey. They could not be more wrong. Every cave temple has wonders that you can stare at for hours. The paintings that you see in front of you are one of the greatest treasures of art in India. Year after year, craftsmen made these caves come alive with the most primitive of equipment, fuelled only by their passion to create.

Start your trip with Ajanta walk up the hills, the tourist guides and guidebooks will tell you that the best displays are in the first few caves. Do not believe them, rather take the entire journey and explore every cave. Understand the frustrations of the carvers of stone as they kept making the stones come alive. Listen in to their hushed silences still trapped in the stones. Listen to their dying footsteps as the royal patronage trickled to a close forcing them to leave the caves unfinished. Hear the faint noise of the religious chants as three religions coexisted for centuries. Look for the intricacies of the carvings; the brightness of the colours still remaining and try to imagine the interlinkages between the religions. Forget the babble of tourists and feel yourself transcend into a world of quiet scholarly studies and self-imposed mendicancy of monkhood.

Next day travel to Ellora. Start at Kailasa; for nothing else matters. Imagine a giant boulder. Men and women such as us will look at it in wonder and even if an inspiration seizes us, we will start chiselling away starting from the front. But imagine cutting through the rock from above and creating the abode of Lord Shiva on earth. Kailasa tells us of our own perfection; of the grandeur we were once capable of; of human triumph in pursuit of God or ungodly vanity of kings. Look at how Shivaism and Vaishnavism coexists under the same canopy. Once you have made your peace with the feeling of insignificance make your way to the left or right. The ancient rocks will tell you untold stories of Jainism and Buddhism. Look up at the Tirthankaras and the Bodhisatwas. They will smile down upon you and show you how their facial features changed with centuries.

As you walk away, tired but fulfilled, remember to leave the places clean. You owe it to your own future generations for Ajanta and Ellora need to remind us for our triumphs and our impermanence.

The Train

I love travelling in the train. Cars make me sleepy and worried about the driver sleeping off. Planes make me feel squishy and uncomfortable and pray for a boom in the deodorant industry. Trains, on the other hand, are cool. Well yes, the bathrooms could have been better, the seats could have been more comfortable and most importantly the co passengers a little quieter but trains give me something which no other mode of transport can provide at the cost – a time to think, reflect and eat. As I write this, I am crossing a station called Gondal. I do not think Life will ever bring me again to Gondal, but the fact is today I am here, at this moment at Gondal. Maybe the last time when Gondal was mentioned so many times in an article was when the kids at the school in Gondal were asked to write an essay on Gondal. (Btw Google told me later that Gondal was once a princely state)

Now enough of Gondal. I checked already, the food at the station was nothing great to bring to the wife sleeping on the bunk above.

Our fascination with trains started in Europe, where strangely we got flight tickets at a much cheaper cost than train tickets and suddenly had a new found respect for trains. A failed attempt to board the Palace on Wheels made our resolve even stronger. And then we fell off the social ladder and from being NRIs became your average Indian, two amongst our 1.2 bn. And we Indians, we love our trains, so much so that we paint the sides of every single coach red, with our Beatle leaf stains.

After 2 years of jet setting around Europe and South East Asia, we realized that we needed slower holidays. Ones where you could stop at a countryside in Punjab and do the DDLJ pose (still pending) without worrying about missing the bus or an amused shaking of the head of a French taxi driver. Another thing cropped up during a debate on our next destination. We figured that while we have admired the Thai Buddhist monuments, neither of us have ever seen Bodhgaya. That started the “See India” movement in the family.

Thanks to the distances between Mumbai and the really off the road places that we pick to visit, one of the world’s largest rail network is often the only way to reach. Even otherwise, trains might take longer but at our stage in life, the journey is as much a part of travel as the destination itself.

Trains show me the Indian countryside. The flamboyance of greenery, the ruggedness of the dry, arid mountains, the squalor of the small towns, the prosperity of the villages, the children heading to school on their cycles, the farmer tilling his lands, everything makes me connect to an India that I want to know and yet feel far away from. And once you know where to look, you get to see the differences in the greenery, you get to read the body language of the people waiting at an unmanned crossing, you see the hope for the future of your nation, you also see the pitfalls. And you learn.

Neither of us are picky. We travel light and therefore we jump on any compartment we get our hands on, rather IRCTC allows us on. So we have sat elbowing our way in a sleeper to get a cup of tea to the first class coupe where a banquet was spread out for us. And that allows us to meet people. No research reports make you understand SECs better than travelling in a train. In my honest opinion, a 12 hour train journey can be as rewarding as an in depth qualitative research. The train journeys help me understand India better than sitting at my desk. It shows me what Indians (if such a generalized term exists) are thinking, how they are speaking, what they are eating (always) or reading (rarely these days as they are always playing a version of temple run on their phones)

We have met exciting characters. Drunk Jats who want to discuss politics, angry Tamilians abusing every specimen of North Indian food, Gujjus who have bought enough food to feed the whole train and the occasional bong who will come and speak to you as soon as he hears a syllable of his mother tongue. Honestly, this is where you can grab the pulse of the nation – something the Indian tweeteratti will never know; at least not yet.

There’s another reason I love travelling on a train. It is the food I find at the stations. The best vadapav for example is found in stations just before you enter Goa and not in Mumbai as you would imagine. The chole kulche of Kanpur and Bareilly Stations still linger on in my mouth and the veg patties at the small halt en route to Shimla in the quaintest of stations can give any bakery in a metro a run for their money. The only places where I have felt cheated are at Burdhwan in Bengal where the famous Sitabhog and Mihidana found at the station is almost always sub-par and. But then Bengali sweets are the most delicate food items after sushi. The second is Ahmedabad. I just don’t understand why Ahmedabad can’t have good food.

Anyway, I wait for Rajkot as I write. The dhoklas at the station can be quite amazing.

The Beginning

It is said that every beginning starts with an inspiration – sometimes human, sometimes divine. And probably this beginning required a divine one. Somewhere in the hills of Himachal, I suddenly realized that it was perhaps time to write more about travel. Himachal, the abode of the Gods, made me realize how travelling makes one a better human being, how travelling together makes you love one another even more. Sometimes, travelling is all the succour a parched soul needs.

Himachal is breathtakingly beautiful. The walks through the villages, the silence of the apple orchards, the cakes from the bakeries that call themselves ‘German’ all add to the quaint beauty of Himachal. From the touristy mall road of Shimla to the quiet of Mashobra, from the snowy caps of Solang Valley, to the roaring waters of the Beas. Himachal beckons you with all the glory of nature.

However, nature can also be devastatingly beautiful. For us, Manali would be always be remembered for the fury of nature at her full glory. As we rafted down the rapids of the Beas, the clouds broke and Beas reciprocated in full. She was angry and her anger grew as she tossed and turned the puny humans trying to keep their raft afloat on her current. When we finally got to the shore, nature had taught us a lesson we would never forget.

Himachal is at the cusp of a change. Civilization is slowly catching up and the green of the valleys slowly are giving way to more and more real estates. The appetite of Delhi for a second home is slowly beginning to spread to both Himachal and Uttarakhand and as the number of tourists increase, so does the trampling of nature by those who for generations had kept it safe. The Palace of the Kullu kings showcase how you can be one with nature and yet build something substantial. But no longer. The palace is now a hotel, while the administrative capital has shifted to Shimla.

New roads, new dams, electricity, schools all spring up as they should. So does new hotels, guest houses and summer residences. And often without a second thought about nature herself.

It does feel at times that more than anything else, Himachal is about Gods. Hindu mythology comes alive in every pebble and every stream that flows through the mountains. The sages of Hindu scriptures have all left their marks across the springs and often you wonder if the seven immortals of Hinduism will suddenly come forth from behind the ageless trees.

The hills and villages have their own travelling Gods and they move from village to village ensuring that no harm comes to the villages. The Mega Gods of Hinduism are revered as well but what sets Himachal apart are these unique Gods. The Village Gods sit in council as well and take a decision based on what’s best for the villages. And then they travel back. At times, there are no roads to these villages and the Gods sit on their own unique ropeways and travel upwards to their destination while their bearers trudge the tricky mountainous terrains.

Shimla herself has the Bengali Kali Bari and the Shimla Church. Ages ago, two communities had made Himachal their home. The Bengalis worshipped the Mother Goddess and the British worshipped Mother Mary in their summer residences. And when you walk in to their hallowed halls you can hear history whispering into your ears. And then far away from Bengal if you miss your food of home, just walk down the steps of the Kali Bari where even today a Bengali can find his heart’s desire of home cooked food.

Close to the Himalayas, you are never away from the divine.

Life Inside a Metro

Finally Mumbai gets its Metro, delayed beyond imagination but finally here. And as soon as the Metro came in, I have been trying to find a way to ensure that I make the full use of it. In 2013, amongst the top 10 ideas that were about to change the world (courtesy TIME) was an idea called the Handprint.

Handprint was one of the most exciting ideas I have come across in a long time. It was against the idea of carbon footprints as it was so negative. It made people feel guilty. On the other hand Handprint is a measure of the positive measures we take to save the planet. It makes you feel good. And in Mumbai, the one thing that can make you feel good about taking care of the planet is if and when you can take the public transport.

The Mumbai Metro follows a strange decorum unknown to the local train which is the lifeline of the city. And as you wait for the train, you realize how in society codes create themselves. Some forced; some by their own nature.

As you travel on the Metro, strangely cut off from the noise, you see various facets of human emotions yet unknown. You look down on a church facade which wears a new placard wishing the metro travellers all the very best. You meet an old lady asking a young guy beside her, a stranger, to take a video of her in the train. You see people giving updates to family outside the city that their commute time is now reduced.

I believe Mumbai has 3 smells. The first rises in the sea and blows over the city engulfing the entire city in a smell of fish, salt and filth. The second comes as a breath of fresh air in the monsoons after the first rains have washed away the dirt and the grime from the face of the city. The third is the smell of humanity packed together, immovable in a train compartment. Metro is not devoid of that smell. And it makes you feel human once again.

The Metro also reminds you of the forgotten and destroyed geography of Mumbai. As the train nears its final destination you can see the mountains that once made up much of the Central suburbs being slowly cut down to make way for humanity. The ecological impact of it? No one has the answer yet.

But for today you would have reached your destination and to your loved ones before you could see an episode of Friends on your phone. And for a city that’s always running a marathon at the speed of a sprint, nothing could be better.

The Empire

While watching Jab Tak Hain Jaan today I suddenly realized I have never spoken of my trip to London. And when SRK mentioned how people age but the city of London becomes younger every year, I could not help but agree.

My first visit to London allowed me to see the city at its best behaviour with the entire country slowly getting into the Olympic craze. Staying in Singapore makes me appreciate a cosmopolitan city in all its splendour but London of today is perhaps the best example of a globalized metropolis.  And we loved it.

It was a city which had fascinated me from my early childhood. I grew up in a city that loved to live in her memories, reminding herself fondly that she was once called the London of the East. Even today, the powers that be tries to make my old city an image of London while the much more fancied Delhi and Mumbai looks east and want to be Shanghai.

Anglophiles Us!

It was a city which to a boy growing up symbolized the years of the Raj when the British Royalty still wore with pride the title of “Empress of India”. It was the city which an entire generation of my ancestors had fought; most believing that victory would be theirs through the hallowed portals of non violence. It was a city where the good, the bad and the ugly, all met, not to create a Western but to melt away in a midsummer night’s dream. And now that the child is grown, you walk into the Tower of London and gaze at the koh-i-noor and it whispers back to you, asking you how her home is. And you suddenly realize how little the average Briton knows about what happened in the Empire.

It was a city whose resilience was legendary, a city which can truly call Chicken Tikka Masala its own, a city where 5 minutes from the Globe Theatre stood the Tate; the grandest meeting of the old and the new, a city where you experience Chili Paneer as the name suggests, a chilli and a Paneer (where the chilli is bigger than the paneer), a city where the Borough Market smells heavenly as it shuts down, a museum which showed the nights that London seldom slept in fear of the bombs, a city which remembers its lost princess even today after they have got a new one, a city where even McDonald’s salads taste heavenly after walking through her streets all day long.

To stand and watch a play at the Globe like the ones before us waited for Bill’s plays, to marvel at the paintings at the Tate, to wish longingly for a ticket at a West End Theatre for a musical, to catch a movie at Soho, to pick up sandwiches at Pret, to rush to Buckingham Palace to see the change of guards, to shriek in horror at the London Dugeons, to pose with celebrities and experience the fantastic 4D at Madame Tussads, to watch the crowd walking out as England beat Australia at Lord’s, to stand with complete strangers on lush green lawns on a rain soaked day and watch Federar play on grass, to get out of Baker Street to find the house of the world’s most famous detective and only to be gifted my most precious Rock and Roll Memorabilia by her, to re enact SRK and Kajol’s meeting at King’s Cross, to pose at 9 and ¾, to step in for the first time at 100 VE, London is a city that never ceases to stir your senses to a frenzy that will no longer be satisfied with any other city in the world.

Resurrection

In Indian Mythology, the world was a better place when “Ram Rajya” or the Kingdom of Lord Rama flourished across the sub continent. And till today, politicians across Rural India promise it in their election speeches. But far from the dusty by lanes of what was once Ayodhya, lie a kingdom ruled by a dynasty who call themselves Rama and whose destroyed capital was once called Ayuthhya.

It is a tragedy that people associate Thailand with its pristine beaches and shopping in Bangkok. But Thailand’s history is worth noting. The kingdom has been defeated time and again but never destroyed, not always by valour but often through diplomacy. And nowhere is its history more alive than in Ayuthhya.

Destroyed by the Burmese Army, the once proud capital now stands in ruins. Rows after rows of headless Bodhisatwas sit in their lotus seats carrying the teachings of The Buddha within their heart. Tourists roam around the destroyed temples while elephants wait to give you a ride. This was the kingdom where once the king gifted white elephants to competing kings in order to drain their exchequer.

The summer palaces and other palaces of the kingdom are strangely bereft of grandeur. But one look at the temples across Thailand and we realize how the royalty in Thailand emphasized the importance of their places of worship. If you visit Thailand, stopover at Wat Pho and Wat Arun and you’ll realize how religion is integrated into the fabric of Thailand. The paintings on the walls of the Grand Palace talk of Ramakian, the Thai version of Ramayana. While the earlier versions during the Ayuthhya reign are lost, what remains is an epic with a happy ending, composed around 1700s with Royal patronage.

The Buddha is everywhere, but so is the King and deities remnant of the country’s long association with Indian spirituality. The Erawan Shrine in the heart of Bangkok everyday sings hymns to the praises of Brahma, the airport has one of the best depiction of the ‘churning of the ocean’ that I have seen.

But if nothing else, Bangkok is true as a destination for street shoppers. Every walkway is full of bargains and more bargains and the true Indian street shopper would feel perfectly at home. The shopkeepers love this Indian clientele and like the most industrious traders welcome you with a sprinkling of Hindi.

One of my favourite places to visit in the world, Bangkok is also my most visited and I never get tired of it. How could I? The country invented the Green Curry and the Phad Thai.

Ghost Town

Have you ever been in a city and felt scared? Have you ever walked the roads of a metropolis and constantly looked back to see where signs of life were stirring? Have you ever been terrified by a city?

When I checked into my hotel, I never thought that the stories I heard about Johannesburg were true. The city during the day seemed no different from all the other cities in the developing world, in a mad rush to get bigger and achieve more. It attracted people from across Africa who came here for a better future and stayed on.

Everyone is scared of Johannesburg. And sometimes it’s easy to understand why. It’s a huge city surrounded by the mountains and the mines and having some of the worst thunderstorms in this part of the world. No one knows for sure when a storm would lash against the city. Stores get empty, people drop the shutters and people wait for the storm to pass.

But as night falls, the city changes. Suddenly you see fewer and fewer people on the streets. And if you have played Max Payne when you were in college you will feel all alone as you walk the streets of Jo’berg with the leaves rustling all around you.

The almost nonexistent public transport disappears all together, the stations shut down completely and there is not a single soul on the roads of Jo’berg. Taxis are rare and if you find one, you can never be sure if it’s the one that is safe to take.

There are rarely any city beyond the Indian hinterlands which has such a stark difference between its days and its nights. But Jo’berg carries on, scaring its visitors and shackling the country from soaring higher.

And we wait for change to come in.

The Land of Reawakening - II

You can read the first part here

Memory 4 – I was always a voracious reader and nothing would make me happier as a child than a good book; good food always came a close second. And while I was strongly a follower of the Brit Bard, having anglophile antecedents in school, a certain poet from Italy whose surname resembled Tamilian Surnames was always a favourite.

So when I stood in front of Dante’s House I realized how much I owed to the poets of the ages past, bards who sang of heaven and hell, life and death, hope and despair,

Memory 5 – 2 novels about Italy always fascinated me. Quo Vadis and The Last Days of Pompeii. So when I finally had the chance to visit Pomepii I never looked back. The city of ruins it is called but to me it looked more like an abandoned city - A city where people had just left their houses and would be back in a few moments. Pomepii stood, proud, defiant, dead.

Memory 6 – Pizzas were a staple diet in IIMB as we stayed up late to complete assignments and we thanked the Italians not just for teaching world football to defend but also for the pizzas. And thus it was a dream come true to stand on the road in Naples where Pizza Margharita was created in honour of their beloved queen in the three colours of the Italian Flag. So next time you don’t find the 3 colours on your pizza, do send it back as inauthentic.

Italy was much more than just these memories. It took me to an age where I always felt I belonged. In Milan, known for its High end Fashion, situated in one of the smallest churches imaginable sits Christ with his disciple having The Last Supper. You walk into the room with trepidation, wondering what lies awaiting you and then when you stand in front of Him, the rest of the world do not seem to matter anymore. This was an age where Light was shining across Europe. Knowledge was being unshackled from ages of darkness and from the play of light and darkness an artist emerged, who knew how to play with light – Caravaggio.

If ever you have a chance to visit Rome, forget everything else, forget the Colloseum, forget the fountains, forget even the pizzas, but ensure you visit Villa Bourghese. If there was one family who contributed as much to the Renaissance as much as they did to the intrigues of Italian and Papal Royalty, it must have been the Bourghese.

We were lucky to have the most fantastic guide to take us through the world’s greatest private art collection. The Baroque style of Bernini’s architecture comes alive in its rooms while the self portrait of Caravaggio and the play between beauty and decay in his pictures looks down upon you from its walls. You imagine what it would have been like to live beside the masterpieces looking down upon you. Baroque or the “in motion” style of art needs to be seen with one's own eyes. As we moved around the Bernini sculpture we could see how the world changes based on the perspective we were taking.

But your journey to understand Caravaggio does not stop with the riches of the Villa. You can walk out into the streets of Rome and with a little research you will know where to find David, where to look for a Bernini, where to find the 6 Caravaggio strewn across the city.

Take the walk in Rome and your Roman Holiday will be more than what you could have imagined.

If Love Was A Language

It would probably be French. Translate a movie name like “Wrath of the Titans” and see for yourself how romantic the name sounds. You probably would experience it yourself if you try to say Moulin Rouge in Indian English and then like a French.

And if there was a city for walking around hand in hand with the lady of your life, it would probably be Paris. Though such privileges come with a price; e.g. the lady might not appreciate the fact that a Baguette is actually a sandwich and would ask a hapless French waitress for chilli flakes, pepper, ketchup and hold your breath, toasted white milk bread. As a result you would then go baguette-less for the whole stay in a city that travels around with a bag in one hand and the baguette in another.

But once you iron out these small issues, along with the fact that rooms in Paris hotels can compete with Singapore in terms of the tiny size of the rooms, you will probably start falling in love. But wait, you need to learn basic French. Else you do run the risk of thinking escaliers mean escalator. And trust me; it is a costly mistake to make at the Eiffel Tower; especially when second floor in the Eiffel means at least 30 floors in a Mumbai high rise.

This is how it happened. The Eiffel has two lifts and one of them was under repair. I looked around and saw that at the Eiffel one could also go up to the second floor on the escaliers. So in one of those moments when you want to act ‘macho’ in front of the lady I suggested let’s take the escalator up to the second floor. And damn me for not knowing the language, we walked up more than 700 steps. But at the end it was worth every creaking bone in my aching body. You could see the entire city spread out beneath you and if you cared to look far, the golden dome of Les Invalides shone brightly.

In one of the very rare gestures, the then monarch of France had dedicated a palace for the soldiers who became wounded in the battles, which even today houses the tombs of the fallen soldiers of France, including Napoleon. It houses some of the most interesting museums on warfare ranging from the middle ages to the present. You can actually look at the transition in the attire of the knights over the centuries.

Once on top of the Tower, you can see the Seine flow below you and you can see the multiple bridges across the river along which quaint bookstores stand and on the rails you can find the locks; testimony to love for generations of Parisians. The most famous amongst them had always been Pont des Arts, near the Notre Dame.

Our high point in Paris; beyond the walking around aimlessly on its streets, listening to the occasional musician and getting into a nice French cafe to eat; was undoubtedly the Notre Dame. Ever since I had read the classic by Victor Hugo, I had imagined it to be scary, heartless building, devoid of the grace of God. But once inside Notre Dame, I felt a sense of peace and heavenly grace I did not even feel inside the St. Peters. The grandeur, the silence, the flickering candles and the hymns, all contributed to an atmosphere beyond words.

While it would be foolish to try and speak about the Louvre, one must leave behind a note for fellow travellers. Once inside, have a full day to wonder (not just wander) around at your own leisurely pace with an audio guide and just before leaving make the customary trip to view the Mona Lisa. Else you might just as well view the Mona Lisa and be off; you never wanted to know about Spanish Medieval Art anyway.

Viewing the Mona Lisa is a funny experience. There’s a sea of people who have come into the Museum just to look at her. And there she is on one wall of a room, protected by what I presume to be bullet and glare proof glass. Few people care to turn around and look at the other marvels in the room as everyone is busy taking their own pictures with the lady in the background bumping against each other, fighting to get closer.

It’s actually funny when you realize that most of the people in the room are not in Louvre for the art, but to tick mark a destination point as a tourist.

If you are tired of wandering about the halls of the Louvre, there is nothing better than to walk to the Champs Elysees. The Arc de Triomphe, the Grand Palace, The Petit Palace, all lie within walking distance from one another but our favourite was Place de la Concorde with its two famous fountains and the Obelisk from the Luxor Temple in Egypt. Surrounding it are the Tulleris Gardens, beautiful and serene and the museums nearby.

While you must do the Latin Quarters that house the Pantheon and of course the Versailles, the last stop in Paris must be Place de la Bastille. Nothing remains today of the infamous Bastille, only the July Column stands as a memory to remember the storming of the Bastille and an idea that forms the basis of much of human individual freedom as we know today. If you live anywhere in this world, where you cherish your freedom, pause for a moment under the July Column and remember the Revolution that made us all free.

For others, the French represent art, beauty, love, for me they represent liberty, equality and fraternity. 

The Land of Baba Yaga

My first Non Indian Fairy Tales were surprisingly not from Andersen or the Grimm Brothers, rather it was about a prince called Ivan and a witch called Baba Yaga. Sometimes she was kind, other times cruel, at times with sisters, mostly alone in a house on chicken legs and so it was unbelievable when finally I managed to board a plane; sandwiched between 2 grave looking old gentlemen; having surpassed the second longest time frame for a visa approval! And I thought; “Mr. Nehru even during his non alignment, had been closer friends with the Russians. And then there were all the Raj Kapoor stories, and his popularity in Russia. Should I not get a preferred country status in my visa?” But alas, apparently only the Vietnamese have that.

Anyway, the journey to Russia was not simple. The weather forecasts showed that it was going to be freezing, beyond any temperature that I have ever experienced and I hoped that for the first time in my life I would actually see snowfall.

And I did. Even while I was covered from head to toe with every imaginable piece of clothing, something that the Eskimos would consider winter wear, I stood with chattering teeth trying to feel good about the fact that the ground beneath my feet was covered in ice. No wonder, every travel advisory to Russia spoke about shoes that one must carry. But finally when I started my drive from the airport, for the first time in my life, I saw grounds covered with fresh now. In all the literature around the world, snow has been considered one of the purest forms known to men. But in reality, that’s true for only fresh snow. Snow that has been on the roads for more than a day can make you depressed as it clearly shows how the darkness can taint the light. Like Saidin was tainted by the touch of the Dark Lord in the Wheel of Time, fresh snow is tainted by automobiles.

But the dirtiest thing on the Russian roads is not the snow, but their cars. I feel sad for them. All through the winter, every Russian wants to clean up his or her car and rarely can. Who would be able to in the biting cold? And imagine Russia today has the world’s second largest number of billionaires! But as much as we would love to, Nature has a way of laughing at us. I was talking to my friends in Russia and I almost blurted out; “Gosh, the cars look so dirty.” And then I realized, “Damn. The water will freeze inside the taps in this temperature!”

A trip to Moscow can’t be completed without a trip to the Red Square. But more than the Kremlin, what has always fascinated me is Saint Basil’s Cathedral. I have always believed if Hansel and Gratel had a house of chocolates, they would make it like Saint Basil’s. Situated in the geometric centre of Moscow, it is one astounding piece of architecture. Apparently, it resembles flames from a bonfire and the interesting fact is that though everything built around Russia in those days were influenced by the Byzantine Style of Architecture, this church remains to this date, the only exception and no one knows why.

The Red Square and Kremlin is the greatest living testimony to the power of globalization. As you walk out of the Kremlin, you’ll be greeted with the Golden Arch welcoming everyone in this world to believe and accept a common code. I clicked pictures of global brands like Pepsi dominating the Skyline in Moscow, but somehow I could not come to terms with the McDonalds in Kremlin. Nothing can be a more telling testimony on the defeat of an ideology.

Russia is a difficult city to walk around for the first time Tourist. The Slavic script everywhere is not the most helpful, but one can still make do around the centre of the town. A few blocks from Kremlin across the river stands the Church of Christ the Saviour. Once built as a monument to celebrate the Victory over Napoleonic Army, it was dynamited during the Soviet Era and later re built, apparently with exact accuracy. And it is here you realize the power of the Eastern Christian Faith, once again gaining back it’s prominence in Russia. Religion once again is coming back into the lives of the new generation having grown up post the Soviet era. The Russian Orthodox Church has found its voice.

The young Russia is bold and outspoken. Moscow is seeing an influx of young graduates from areas far away from home. As I spoke to some of them I realized that post the collapse of the centralized soviet economy, a lot of jobs dried up in the interiors of the country and Moscow once again became the centre of commerce like every other mega city of this world.

Russia also allowed me one thing that almost completes my professional journey as a researcher. I have now gone and interviewed consumers in blinding heat of over 50 degrees to freezing sub zero Russian cold. And trust me; it gives me such a kick!

It’s a nation with immense pride and history and an awe inspiring underground train system which I missed. And while I hope I return one day to make my trip to St. Petersburg, which my friends lovingly seem to call St. Pete’s, I guess the one thing I will take back with me is that Russia might be a freezing cold country but it is also one with warm hearts where you can expect a cup of tea at every house you go to.