IN LOVE

It is a very cloudy day today but very breezy. Went out for a long, really long walk and then spent some time walking some more in Palmiarnia. It was so warm and cool there, all at the same time, with the dampness coming up from the earth after a fresh shower and a grey mist hanging in suspension, with a few odd couples busy loving each other and lonesome pet dogs searching for companions. It was so beautiful and I fell in love again...with life.

And if you have ever been there, my friend, confronted by the vision of death, down in the nadir that you thought was insurmountable, you will know what I mean when I say that it is an incredible feeling to be alive, to be able to smell the real world again, to be able to feel that when a leaf is touched, it responds.

I am in tears right now. I am that happy. I am quaking right now. I feel that secure. The trees I have known here for sometime spoke with me today. I heard them call out my name in an unfamiliar land and I know I am home.

SUNBATHING ON A CLOUDY DAY - POM-PA-POM-PA-POM!

Woody Łodź is what I call a large part of the city that I walk about in. And yesterday, a pleasantly cloudy and windy day, with no sun beating down on us, I discovered this marvellous scenic route to the British Council Library through which Brit tragic hero guided me. I wanted to become an annual member of the library, something that would keep the supply of books and DVDs flowing. I guess, since Brit tragic hero is basically such a sweetheart, he willingly accompanied me to the place, adorably giving me a guided tour of the leafy parks we went through, one being his particular favourite en route. Chivalrous as he is, he also chose to become a member along with me so as not to make me feel that he had come just for me. And we had fun on our way from and to our flats, joking, sharing anecdotes, grievances, joys and regrets. The man is so generous and thoughtful and always eager to make one feel comfortable that I really hate myself at times to think I had such an adverse opinion about him earlier on. I cannot help but adore this man now. And so Austen was right about first impressions.

The Library is part of the University and don’t ask me how the two are related. I am clueless. It is a small, quaint little library but it has enough to keep me preoccupied and mentally stimulated. BCL has a very nostalgic association for people like me who visited the Kolkata one in Shakespeare Sarani during college and university days. The moment I entered this little treasure trove, I felt that nostalgia drench me again. I had almost forgotten how even idle browsing through books that one does not own and which are not neatly stacked in one of those fancy stores in a commercial bookstore chain can give a book lover a huge high. I got myself three books and two DVDs. ‘On Chesil Beach’ by Ian McEwan was recommended highly by a friend whose taste in books I trust blindly, ‘Writing on Skin’ by Sara Banerji was picked up for the obvious India and Bong connection and for old times’ sake, I got myself a college-time favourite, ‘The Go-Between’ by L.P. Hartley. The films that I chose are a bit different from the ones I have watched here so far. One is ‘Being Julia’ starring Annette Bening and Jeremy Irons (an actor I love), and ‘A Clockwork Orange’ which might be scary for me because I will watch it alone. It is a pity that I have not read ‘A Clockwork Orange’ but, damn it, it is such an expensive book and no one I know, owns it.

It was fun coming back as well, what with a timely cup of coffee in a quite neighbourhood café as we discussed a common love for short stories, second-hand bookshops, a shared sense of how there is no place either of us can really call ‘home’ and Brit tragic hero’s disastrous love life discoursed upon in the inimitably humorous way Darby and I have come to love.

All in all, a fun morning. Pom-pa-pom-pa-pom...Yeah…

A FUNNY KIND OF EVENING

Went out for dinner and drinks last night with friends. I was surprised to find ‘Pizzeria’ serve stuff other than pizzas and pasta. Had some amazing grilled fillet of kurczaka and a coke. Moved on to ‘The Irish Pub’ for, what else, Guinness! Smooth! Conversation moved from ‘Proof’ (the film and the script), to ‘The Big Lebowski’ to Chicago being just a stepping stone to New York, how even Seattle has more character than Chicago…blah, blah, blah. The obvious implication: I had an American friend with me. Brit tragic hero was there too and we were soon joined by E, the Austrian and two nubile Polish nymphets, one into photography and the other into sculpture. Cool. Things started getting more animated. E had brought with him the hot photographer apparently because she was interested in men and their arms. She is currently on a project shooting them and wanted to check out Brit tragic hero’s ‘heroine veins’ (as he shyly calls them) which came highly recommended. An appointment has been fixed. Brit tragic hero is to strip (only to show his arms, filthy minds) at her gallery and ensure his '17-and-a-half minutes of fame'. We were rather pleasantly surprised to hear the Dublin accent at a table nearby. No Polish. Just weird, funny, English. How refreshing! Highlights of the evening: an analysis of Polish and Jewish humour. Conclusion arrived at: Polish humour is dark to the point of, well, not being humorous and Jewish humour is, well, just Jewish. Two typical examples:

1) Polish man waits outside the operation theatre, anxious about his wife who is in labour. Sweaty palms, et al. The doctor comes out after an hour and says, ‘There is a problem. You have a son.’ ‘That can’t be a problem, Doctor. Is he fine? Is my son doing well? Doctor replies, ‘Yes, but the problem is he does not have legs’.
‘Oh!’ the Pole says, ‘Never mind, Doctor, I’ll love my son all the same’.
‘But that is not the end. There is another problem’, says the Doctor. He says, ‘The baby does not have his arms’. ‘That’s alright,’ says the Pole, ‘I’ll love my son all the same.’ Doctor continues, ‘But that is not all. Your son does not have a body. I mean he is just a pair of eyeballs’. Pole says, ‘Never mind, Doctor. Can I see my son now? I’ll love him all the same. He’s my son, you know’. Thus, the doctor goes in and delicately carries out the pair of eyeballs. The Pole is visibly overwhelmed at the sight of his son and can’t seem to have enough of him. Pole says, ‘He’s my son, you see. I’ll love him all the same.’ Doctor replies, ‘That’s not all. You see, I hate to break this to you, but your son’s blind.’

2) An old Jewish man lies on his deathbed and asks for his wife. Wife assures him that she is by his side, alright. Her husband coughs some and asks for his eldest son who promptly assures his father that he is with him, by his side. ‘Don’t worry, Papa, I’m here’. His father coughs some more and asks for his youngest who promptly answers him, ‘Here, Papa, here, we are all with you’ and his Papa retorts,’ If you are all with me, who the fuck is taking care of my shop.

Until the next time, ciao!

DIDN'T KNOW THAT I STILL HAD IT IN ME

A couple of months back, in an introspective mood, I confessed to feeling incapable of loving the way the world wants me to, incapable of feeling love the way the world gives it to me...in a wringing, painful, knotty kind of way, so that when I love, I give something in me away, so that when I soothe, I feel calm in return, so that when I touch my loved one, I feel another, more tangible love flow back through my veins. How much we think we know ourselves and how little we know! I feel that love surround me everyday and today, more than ever, I realize that I can love back too because it can still make me cry and feel the ache in my soul. I feel a little more complete today, a little more human.

BACK TO THE BEST WAY I KNOW TO SPEND TIME

Darby will soon be gone for six weeks to the US of A and I hope and pray that this will leave me with a lot more uninterrupted time to read. I have watched more movies here than I have read books (almost 5 per week) and that has got to do with the fact that I have taken my own sweet time to settle in completely. Life has found its rhythm here. I feel truly relaxed which means that I am not too distracted which in turn means that I will be able to concentrate better on books. I have not got myself a British Council Library membership over here yet but Brit tragic hero has promised to accompany me there and says that he will be a willing accomplice when I ransack the library bookshelves. Yippee!!! Nevertheless, I've stocked up on about a dozen that I will dig into even as Darby's flight takes off. The list includes 'Fame is the Spur' by Howard Spring, 'Bridge of Sighs' by Richard Russo, both given to me by Gregory Peck, 'A Wild Sheep Chase' by Murakami, 'Winter in Madrid' by C.J. Sansom (I loved his Dissolution'), 'The Poe Shadow' by Matthew Pearl, which I bought yesterday and am dying to begin, 'The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency' by McCall Smith which Darby got me from Warsaw because he didn't let me accompany him there the last time, 'Salem Falls' by Jodi Picoult, 'Blood Sisters' by Barbara and Stephanie Keating, 'Man and Boy' by Tony Parsons, three titles that I have no clue about, 'My Friends, the Miss Boyds' by Jane Duncan, that I picked up from a quaint old book shop in Aberdeen, 'Tom Brown's School Days' by Thomas Brown, which is a childhood favourite, and 'North and South' by Gaskell which reminds me of my struggle with industrial novels during my college days and which after watching the gorgeous Richard Armitage play John Thornton in the BBC miniseries, has found a place in my must-read-again list. Finally, the thirteenth which I may be able to read is Sunil Ganguly's 'Prothom Alo' which is the only other Bangla book we carried to Poland from Kolkata apart from the 'Gitabitan'.
This is the most I can manage at 33 and it is no longer, as in my late teens or early twenties, about proving how fast I can read. In a sense, thank God for that because I know now that I read way more analytically than I did in my early youth. I am no longer a sucker for good stories alone. Although the collection that now rests on my bookshelf may be a mix...good, bad and ugly, I intend to read them all. What is, of course, very exciting is that all these books, including the Sansom and Pearl, and the Spring and Gaskell are very different from each other. Good for me. Here's raising a toast to happy reading.
Having mentioned the 'Gitabitan', I must add that I am doing a lot of singing aloud in my apartment and in the neighbourhood park and that will most definitely continue. Goodbye for now.

THIS BORDER

The poem I have planned to upload is written by Dr. Bashabi Fraser who teaches at the Napier University in Edinburgh. Darby and I fell in love with it when she gave it to us on our short stay at her place. This poem is, if I am not mistaken, a part of a book entitled, 'Partition Stories' and tears still sting my eyes, every time I recollect the images.Here goes...


This Border


There was a time when you and I
Chased the same butterfly
Climbed the same stolid trees
With the fearless expertise
That children take for granted
Before their faith is daunted


Do you remember how we balanced a wheel
Down dusty paths with childish zeal
Do you remember the ripples that shivered
As we ducked and dived in our river
Do you remember what we shared
Of love and meals, and all we dared
Together - without fears
because we were one
In all those years
Before we knew that butterflies
Were free to share our separate skies
That they could cross with graceful ease
To alight on stationary trees
On either side of this strange line
That separates yours from mine
For whose existence we rely
Entirely on our inward eye
This border by whose callous side
Our inert wheel lies stultified
This border that cuts like a knife
Through the waters of our life
Slicing fluid rivers with
The absurdity of a new myth
That denies centuries
Of friendships and families
This border that now decrees
One shared past with two histories
This border that now decides
The sky between us as two skies
This border born of blood split free
Makes you my friend, my enemy.

COM'AWN, BE A SPORT

Night: moonlit. Air: balmy. Characters: a mom-and-son duo, a waiter and a few revellers. Time: 9 in the evening. Place: Antonio’s. Props: a reserved table for fourteen, ornate chairs, a table for two, sparkling glasses of wine, cutlery, etc., etc.
All in all, the situation is as smooth as the surface of a hard-boiled egg tantalisingly touching the tip of a tongue. (okay, okay, have gone overboard with the alliteration)

Mom: …so what will you have, K?

Sonnie: Pork lasagne.

Mom: Great choice. Good. Now be patient till it comes. Excuse me…(to the waiter)

Waiter (bespectacled, belching and, therefore, blasphemous): Eeyes, Mum, er…Maam.

Mom (Furrowed and fuming): A pork lasagne and a spaghetti carbonara, please.

Waiter leaves with the menu cards. Revellers at the next table have begun eating, drinking and singing and can be seen revelling at varied levels of excitement. Ten minutes lapse before our bespectacled, bumbling waiter returns with the food.

Waiter: Theere Mam, and heere’s yourrr lasagne, Sir.

Mom and Sonnie: Thank you.

Waiter: Buon appetito!

He leaves. Sonnie cuts into the lasagne with a knife and removes the layer of pasta on top to discover spinach inside.

Sonnie: O Mom, where’s my pork? This stuff is green.

Mom: Wait. Don’t do anything. Excuse me…(at the bespectacled one)

Waiter: Eeyes, Mum. (Cloud in the head showing, ‘Sheet, noth again!)

Mom: I think there has been a mistake. I ordered a pork lasagne.
This is vegetarian.

Waiter (bumbling more than ever): Sorry Mum, biiig misstaake.

He then takes the plate of Lasagne, sliced open, and promptly serves it to a lady singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at the next table.

Then all singing stops together.


Here’s a gross one for all cheese lovers. Brit tragic hero while referring to a bad tummy: ‘A grunt and a squeeze,/ And out it comes like melted cheese.’