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.

From the Ashes

“We wanted to be free and owe this freedom to nobody. “ The quote welcomes you as you step into the Warsaw Uprising Museum and this one quote pretty much sums up the character of a Nation. But I get ahead of my story.

Poland happened in my life completely by chance. A casual conversation, a schengen visa celebrating the joys of a world without boundaries and a very interesting flight schedule finally landed me in Warsaw. Tired, jet lagged and due for an important meeting, I poured over my laptop on the way to the hotel and it was not until the next morning, as the sun flooded my hotel room, that I realized this was going to be an interesting city.

My room looked out to the tomb of the Unknown Soldier and while most nations remember their fallen heroes, none is perhaps more potent than the context in Poland. “A nation betrayed” is how old timers remember The Great War, the young are much more at peace with the progress their country is making. But however you might look at it; this is one nation with perhaps the most chequered history in Europe.

Interestingly, Warsaw might be the capital but the natural beauty of Poland lies beyond the city. This was a city that was razed to the ground at the end of World War II and slowly clawed its way back to become a modern bustling city. A 6 minute documentary called the City of Ruins reconstructs Warsaw at the end of WW II and all you see left behind is destruction. I do not know if you lingered on after your AOE sessions to look at what you have left behind after your victory. Warsaw looked worse. Only 1000 people remained amongst the ashes.

After the war the Big Three sat down to divide the spoils of war amongst them and Stalin, apparently a much stronger negotiator than both Churchill and Roosevelt got the prize that he wanted and Poland became a Satellite country of the Soviet Union marking the beginning of an era of what will be known henceforth as Cold War.

As a result, I decided to start my journey from the largest remnant of the Soviet Era – The Palace of Culture, a gift from the nations of the Soviet Union to the Polish Society. Large, imposing and not exactly beautiful, this grand monument served for long as the official theatre for art and culture for the Polish Society. And if you are a history buff and remember the centrally planned ideas of most communist states, you will realize this was an attempt of Stalinist Russia to influence the Polish culture. Today it is a modern bustling building spread over a large area whose interiors could not have been more different from its exteriors. Touring exhibitions find their place here and if you are up for it, take the elevator up to the 30^th Floor to have a panoramic view of the city.

From there, it was ideal to go to what I wanted to see all along – the Museum of Uprising. Rarely have I seen a museum which has been able to tell its story with such effect. AT the very centre of the museum you have a huge granite wall and if you put your ears to it, you will still be able to hear the voices of Poland from the days of World War II. The museum is a tribute to the heroes of the uprising; disowned by their own country till the Berlin Wall fell.

It is here you will see The Great Game of Houses (If you remember the series Wheel of Time) being played out with the rules of realpolitik even before the war had ended.

The museum is sure to leave you emotionally drained and so it might be a good idea to head to the Royal Lazienki Park. Sprawling greens and brilliant waffles welcome you and it’s a good place to visit to see how spring appears in Europe. The air is chilly, the sun is up, everyone is out to enjoy the sun and his warmth and everyone around you is smiling. If you are lucky, a photographer might ask you to help her out as she shoots her model. True Story. Speaking of Waffles, Poland seems to have an excellent sweet tooth. The Polish cookies or the Krowki are the best I have tasted in a long time. They melt in your mouth and the aftertaste reminds you of the phrase “land of milk and honey”

The final phase of the journey was in Nowy Świat, slowly walking up and down to see what the Old Town of Warsaw was like. Completely destroyed in the War, this is one of the biggest triumphs of human spirit. The entire Old Town has been rebuilt from nothingness. Thousands of people worked together to ensure that the town was rebuilt exactly to its former avatar, with fantastic attention to details. As you walk down, you’ll meet Copernicus, smiling down on you and then you would like to wind down with a view of the Vistula River at sitting down for another waffle and a coffee at one of the quaint roadside cafes, so common in Europe.

  

A little dip into the Polish History will tell you that because of its strategic location, Poland has been occupied and split up multiple times in their history. WW II was the last of them. But the Poles never gave up. Warsaw as I said; rose from the ashes; and what a phoenix it has been.

The Land of Reawakening - I

Memory 1- As I was growing up in a middle class Bengali Household, I was taught early that nothing in this world is more important than knowledge. And while we need to earn a livelihood, (not having a family heirloom), not once in our lives should we let go of the quest for knowledge. Being an Indian and of an Indo Aryan Brahminical Origin, I always believed “Ohm” to be the beginning of everything in this world; even knowledge, for in that word lies the source of all creation. But while the Upanishads were being written, the early muses of Indian art were definitely of the written word and not much is left of the images of the rich tradition of Indian desire for Knowledge. So as I grew up, I searched for a symbol, a symbol that would define for me the desire, the curiosity, the unquenchable thirst. And then one dayl I found it – School of Athens by Rafael – the greatest tribute to knowledge I have ever seen. If there was a temple of human triumph in knowledge, this painting should be the one welcoming its devotees.

Memory 2 - I have never officially had a list of things to do before I am thirty. But I knew, if I ever had one, standing under the Sistine Chapel and watch in awe at the Creation of Man would be on top of the list. I came across the painting in an extremely cheeky advertisement by Levis where God hands over a pair of Levis to Adam. When I went back and looked at the original on the internet, I found the symbol that was the inspiration for my idea of God. In the painting, Michelangelo shows the halo of God in a strange shape and if you look intently you will realize that it is in the shape of the Human Brain. The second is the fact that even while creating God never touched His human form. The miniscule gap between the fingers is as telling a symbolism as can ever be.

Memory 3 – Born in a Bengali Hindu family, schooled by Salesian Missionaries, the concept of the Mother Goddess is something I am very close to. I believe in the matronly feminine form of Divinity. Nothing else can explain the continuance of the Human Race even after all that we have brought on this earth. And thus apart from the image of the Goddess Durga looking down upon me from her pedestal, the one image I have always carried in my heart is the “Pieta” – Mother Mary holding the body of Jesus after it has been brought down from the cross. Pieta is loosely translated to Pity. For me it always meant compassion.

In April 2012, the week of Good Friday, I finally did all three. I cried seeing the School of Athens and I had to quickly pretend that something fell into my eyes, I voluntarily fell on my knees on seeing the Pieta in perhaps the holiest of shrines for the Catholic faith and I felt the genius of Michelangelo who created something that was ethereal and eternal.

And yet, the highlights of Italy were none of these. The Vatican Museum; impressive as it was; was full of tourists rushing from one hall to another and all you could feel was a crowd of humanity pushing against you, kids giggling, tourists rushing to go to the Sistine Chapel without spending a moment to look at the Frescos and the work of Roman Mosaic, religious men and women awed at being in the presence of the holiest of holies. There was not a moment of inner peace I felt in the Vatican except in front of the Pieta and that’s why Notre Dam remains my favourite Cathedral of all times.

And more importantly, the Vatican Museum was a testimony of the systematic plunder of Roman (often under the garb of being Pagan) art and architecture by successive generations. Perhaps this is the brutality of time. Romans destroyed Egyptian culture and post Cleopatra’s failed attempts to seduce the 3^rd Roman post Julius Caesar and Marc Antony, the Romans had no more care for Egypt and her Gods. And a few centuries later, The Colloseum would be closed for it hurt Christian sentiments; rather it hurt the sentiments of the Emperor who embraced Christianity. The only remaining Pre Christian Roman grandeur can be seen in the Pathenon, itself converted into a Church like many other basilicas.

The real treasures of Rome however lie elsewhere if you are interested. 

(to be continued)

The Sun Thronesinga

Year 1

Princess Priyadarshini looked lovingly at the throne once again.

Set amidst the lesser gilded ones, the Sun Throne was majestic, regal and more importantly held the seat of power across all Rajputana.

Whenever she looked at the Throne from behind the curtains on the veranda, she felt as if the throne was calling out to her. It seemed to smile at her, talk to her and call her to come and claim it as hers.

His Royal Highness Veer Bhadra Singh entered the court as all fell silent as it ought to be.

The princesses and the royal women waited in anticipation. Today was the day the king was going to announce the arrival of a successor to the Sun Throne. And that he did.

Princes from across India had come over for the Raj Tilak of the young prince, her little brother. Princess Priyadarshini beamed with pride.

Suddenly a hand pushed her aside. Without even turning, she knew who it was. Only her elder sister Princess Rajnandini, would have the audacity to do that. Whenever Rajnandini came close to her, she could feel the stings of jealousy engulfing her. Rajnandini justified her name and her title. At twelve, she showed all the signs of blooming into the most beautiful princess of entire Hindustan. She could ride the horse, fence with her father and even shoot down a dove from the sky. She was clearly the favourite child.

Princess Priyadarshini knew that her looks did not imply royalty. Few would believe that she was of royal blood, had it not been for her attitude and grace. Her mom while on her deathbed, just after giving birth to the heir of the Sun Throne had told her time and again that the greatest treasure of a princess was her attitude and the way she carried herself.

Year 10

Kumar Ranendra Pratap Singh adored her eldest sister. A proper spoilt brat, brought up by ever fawning servants made him the most disagreeable kid to have ever lived in the palace. Never a healthy child, he followed Rajnandini as a little puppy and derived great pleasure out of destroying the doll’s houses of his other sister under the able directive of Rajnandini.

Princess Priyadarshini knew how to ignore them all. She had persuaded her father to let her marry early into the Royal Family of Sindh and was getting ready for her marriage. Stories were told in hushed manners how the princess knew her limitations when it came to how she looked and had settled for one of the oldest princes around, who was rarely known for any kind of bravery.

Her father was all too happy to let her go. His favourite kids would still be around him.

When Princess Priyadarshini reached Sindh after her marriage a royal pigeon courier announced the tragic death of her Brother in a freak accident where his favourite gun had mysteriously gone off in his hand, killing him almost instantly.

Palace sources said that the king was devastated and everyone in hushed tones said that the Kumar had not been keeping good company.

He clung on to Rajnandini even harder for support and when she married a commoner two months later no one spoke a word against it since they knew the king would pass on the throne to her.

The news reached Princess Priyadarshini. But like during her brother’s death, she showed no emotion. In a matter of fact voice, she informed her husband that she was pregnant.

Year 20

The country rejoiced as they heard Princess Rajnandini was expecting a child after almost ten years of being married. The Sun Throne would have an heir again.

The country had prospered under her. For all but in name, she controlled the kingdom. The old king depended on her completely. The murmurs about her marrying a civilian were rarely heard. In fact, few had seen the man she had married.

Princess Priyadarshini decided to pay her sister a visit with her son Veer Vikram Singh. The entire army of Sindh travelled with the Queen Mother and the absolute monarch of Sindh after her husband’s untimely death.

The sisters met in a not so cordial situation.

“What brings you here suddenly?” queried Rajnandini, her beautiful eyebrows showing the glint of steel.

“Jijisa, in your situation you should not get excited. I just wanted to congratulate you and show Veer his mother’s country. Here drink this, it will cool you down.”

Rajnandini could not say no. After all, it was a hot day and slowly she felt drowsy. It seemed that the guards at the door changed. The insignia of the Royal House of Sindh seemed to flutter in and out of her vision.

Priyadarshini’s voice seemed to come from far far away.

“How did you get pregnant in the first place? The man who had wooed you was never a man! But that you must have realized soon.”

Ahhh! Jijisa!!! You never realized the first rule of being a Princess. You must never become the show itself, for then you can’t be the puppeteer.

Tomorrow the country will learn how you died of a medicine you took to ease the pain of labour. And how father passed away hearing your tragic end.

I have decided to announce a month of national mourning.”

Rajnandini stared at her sister as the glass fell on the cobbled stone.

His Royal Highness Veer Vikram Singh, a boy, no more, but the undisputed ruler of Sindh and Rajputana, entered the court as all fell silent as it ought to be.

Whenever she looked at the Throne from behind the curtains on the veranda, she felt as if the throne was calling out to her. It seemed to smile at her, talk to her and call her to come and claim it as hers.

Set amidst the lesser gilded ones, the Sun Throne was majestic, regal and more importantly held the seat of power across all Rajputana.

Rajmata Priyadarshini looked lovingly at the throne once again.

The Brave Brave Woman

And She, with a capital S did it! I tried, really really hard to convince her that it was not worth it. And that I wasn’t the best bloke on the block. And the vices easily overpower the microscopic virtues if any, but all to no avail. She stuck on, almost reminding one of Fevicol ads that you might remember from your childhood. And somewhere I guess I wanted to stick on too. It made sense. It felt right.

Tomorrow apparently is Valentine’s Day with lots of people planning to spend their time trying to write a song ; but for me there’s a song already.

It’s called Love Song for No One and about a year back I had no idea it would turn to someone within a few months.

Staying home alone on a Friday

Flat on the floor looking back

On old love

Or lack thereof

After all the crushes are faded

And all my wishful thinking was wrong

I'm jaded

I hate it

Actually I did not. Being alone was awesome. You were the master of your own destiny and you could eat cornflakes for dinner with finger chips from McDonalds or just drink 3 cans of Red Bull. It felt to be a nice kind of life.

I'm tired of being alone

So hurry up and get here

So tired of being alone

So hurry up and get here

Get here

I’m sure I had not said anything like this to the Universe, the One above, Karan johar or Yash Chopra and yet she did materialize; out of thin air.

Searching all my days just to find you

I'm not sure who I'm looking for

I'll know it

When I see you

Until then, I'll hide in my bedroom

Staying up all night just to write

A love song for no one

This I did, almost regularly. Love stories categorized in this blog under random musings, very clearly believing that an author needs no other inspiration than his or her own imagination. And the pen never tired. But the reality was perhaps we all search for someone or the other.

I could have met you in a sandbox

I could have passed you on the sidewalk

Could I have missed my chance

And watched you walk away?

Oh no way

While the good part was that she did not allow me to watch her go away, this perhaps also was the Tragedy of my life with emphasis on all the letters of Tragedy. I really, honestly would have preferred to have met Her a year back in a sandbox or a sidewalk in the Shire, but of all the Coffee Days in all the cities of the world I had to meet Her in Chennai! And What’s more, she loves the city! Damn I should have opted for the gin joints of Casablanca. It’s really difficult to make a good story out of Chennai without getting into Murugan’s Idly. At least people who know me would find it less believable.

To cut a long story short:

You'll be so good

You'll be so good for me

So Happy Valentine’s Day.

And since you probably will read it while I am in office, I might have a call at 23:00 hours tomorrow.

To All the Girls

A large part of my growing up post the Calcutta years have been because of the amazing women I have met on my journey of life, and I am completely leaving out my sisters here. They have moulded my childhood, but the women I met post 2001 influenced who I turn out to be as an adult.

They taught me the meaning of friendship. They taught me even in this age, how difficult it is to be a woman. And they showed me how they can take the world on singlehandedly. Their lives today are a testimony to their achievement and how easily they can give it all up for family.

I can write a lot. And I have three hours to kill in the airport lounge. But as much as I love O.R.Tambo airport or the fact it's one of those last moments of self introspection, I realize that what I want to say can't be expressed in words. At least not in words of my own.


Gratitude often can't be. 


But probably this song by Julio says it better than anything else. As life passes on from one stage to another as per as the codes of Manu, “Ladies, it has been an honour knowing you all.”

To all the girls I've loved before

Who travelled in and out my door

I'm glad they came along

I dedicate this song

To all the girls I've loved before

To all the girls I once caressed

And may I say I've held the best

For helping me to grow

I owe a lot I know

To all the girls I've loved before

The winds of change are always blowing

And every time I try to stay

The winds of change continue blowing

And they just carry me away

To all the girls who cared for me

Who filled my nights with ecstasy

They live within my heart

I'll always be a part

Of all the girls I've loved before

You did make me who I am today. And thanks for being there – always.

The Letter Never Posted

Dear Z,

How have you been? How has my Mumbai been? It’s been ages since I wrote to you. Every time I pick up the pen and paper, I realize I cannot stand the idea of writing one more letter to you. It never made any sense. I would never post it anyway.

But tonight, you know, I am in Beverly Hills once again. The ships are anchored in the horizon; the noise of the sea is drowned only by the melody of the piano and the occasional chatter of the family behind me, flush with their newly earned money.

You can always tell New Money.

The lighthouse down the beach sends out the signals to the ocean. The beam tears through the darkness, like ripping off a thin sheet of paper and searches for lost memories in the night. For the last hour I have been trying to get the beam of light on a picture and have failed miserably.

Like so many other things in life. Like us.

The candle flickers but fights on relentlessly. It refuses to die out. Like the times gone by. Ideally, the setting would have been perfect with a glass of the cherished South African Wine, a plate of cheese and some nice hand printed parchment and a fountain pen.

All that I have is a grapetizer, a broken ball pen, the paper napkin and a picture of us folded neatly in my wallet since the last time we met.

I was running by the beach today morning. The sun had come rushing in through the window and kissed me awake and somehow I did not want to disappoint the sun and so I ran – the black sand sticking to my feet, the wind racing against my cheeks; pretty much the opening scene from the Chariots of Fire.

Except that nothing was noble about me.

It’s funny though. We were as far away from water as one could be when we met. And the water in Mumbai is never something to write home about. But the waves seem to be singing our song. And when I listen carefully, the winds whisper the same thing.

The other day I was watching Adam Sandler’s Funny People and somewhere in the story an analogy was drawn between men and serial killers. All have this one girl that got away. I sometimes wonder why I ever wanted to get away. I wish you were a serial killer – explaining it would be so much simpler.

I wish, selfishly, at least I am “the one that got away” for you. We never had a story together. But still.

The grapetizer and the waves are having their effects. The family behind is getting unbearable. They stare at the only girl sitting alone at a table in this beautiful evening. They look to see if someone has come over to join me. They look.

Over and over again.