Paris - Probably the only place in the world where you will loose yourself to find you,again.
Like an ode played with memories casted epitaphs, only to you. With the beautiful Seine, pristine as it was before and it will be tomorrow, showing the meanders of your life. And you walk along the stone pavement, in midst of falling leaves of autumn, remembering things you have forgotten.
And they say Paris is the city of Lovers. Yes, it is indeed.
Makes one yearn for love or the love that was lost. Paris if visited alone resembles a beauty hiding behind a black veil. You know it is beautiful, you are eager to remove the veil and explore. However it demands more than a pair of hands to unveil them, as if a single pair alone cannot grab them and unveil them.
Without maps or a guide, the city takes you to the epicenter of romance - The Eiffel Tower. And here at Parc du Champ de Mars, you see it as how it should be seen. From different vantage points of the city, you see it, you wonder how tall or big it is. But here, you are awed at the engineering masterpiece. More than the mesh of steel and complexity, Eiffel depicts the human spirit. In a very transcending triviality giving you a picture of structured complexity which you search for in your life. And when you look up from underneath it, you see the complexity slowly dissolving into thin air in the end. Just like life.
Paris is beautiful and it beauty lies in how you look at it. Every time you visit it, it presents a different picture. Like a beautiful lady donning different attires matching the seasons that come and go. Paris is like a song which lingers in your mind. One you often hum to, which you cannot put off that easily. Nevertheless the more you wishes to forget, it persists.
Paris has this strange paradoxical aura. Here you are a stranger yet you feel you know these places. You feel as if you stood here or there, a long time ago. You imagine people who have walked the same route like yours, years before and many, many years before that. As if you are part of a history, a panorama that spans a millennium. Perhaps this thought makes you introspect. Yes, Paris presents to you the what if possibilities. And the beauty there in.
Paris is much more than what can be penned down. It is a city where you have to soak in to enjoy. Don't try to understand it but choose to get yourself lost. Because then Paris find yourself for you.
Having written many, he counts only one as his favorite story.
And that story was written only for one reader. A reader who will never read that story. A story which only that reader could understand in all its complexity as well as its nuanced simplicity. Perhaps more than what he managed to tell.
Now he writes, and he writes for many. And thus, stories are no longer favorite. They are good. But they are not his favorite. Perhaps the lingering taste of a last page sentence still ruminate or perhaps an alluring sense of belongingness ties him to that story. Or simply it might be nostalgic delusion.
But like pages that has been turned over, getting dusted in the shady sun. Stories would be forgotten. New stories would be written and favorite stories would be created.
Of course for somebody who is worth reading it. And thus he continue writing, for that reader who awaits for that story.
In the crammed make shift tent, there was no space for all of them. They were a group of 40 people going to Nagroli camp, which was way up in the mountains.
"Lets go to that thatched house there". He said with a grumpy face. He couldn't stand the crowd. The whole reason why he came for this trip was to enjoy some time away from the crowd.
Without waiting for the answer and discussions that followed, he went out of the tent and started to jog towards the thatched house. In between, few hailstones hit him. It was hurting yet, he continued his steps.
He could hear people commenting about his crazy act. This prompted him to run towards the house.
Slowly the yellow tent and the voices, from different languages, started to disappear. Soon he could see the features of the house.
It was thatched. But the walls were not new. They were old, with mud from where river meanders around the valley. In a kind of dilapidated condition, yet somebody was taking care of it. It was a two storey house, like every house he saw on the way. Yet, it was different, with a balcony running around the house. There were wooden railings around it, supported by wooden pillars with wide spacing between them.
The ground floor was used as store room and also as oven. May be to heat the room upstairs. The creaky wood stairs took him to first floor. The doors were closed with a Godrej lock guarding them. He knew nobody was there. It belonged to him, at least for sometime.
The hail was now strong. He could no longer see the Yellow tent. They were far away. Far away from this part of the world.
He walked over the hay stacks to see what was hidden behind the house.
And there he saw the heaven.
In a distance, there stood the magnificent Parvati peak. Parvati river played hide and seek through the pine trees in front of him. Far to his right, there were array of other himalayan peaks. There was no hail and beyond them, clouds pulled of patches of shades in blue and orange. It was magnificent.
He put his backpack down. And put his legs into the space between pillars and let them dangle from balcony railings. Put his chin down on the railing support and gazed at the most beautiful place he has ever seen.
If only others could have left that Yellow tent. They missed it.
I was in Waching village. Some day I would love to go back there. And watch from there, the mountains beyond and the river that flow below and breath that cool fresh air and listen to the sweet echoes of mountains.
I am so happy. Does that mean I cannot be more happy ?
I cannot be more happier. Does it mean I was sad the moment before ? And what about my future happiness. Do I have no hope of being more happy ?
How do you say you are happy? You have to compare with the moment before to say you are happy.
If so you will be always sad. Ain't you ? Because you will be always comparing with the moment before. The moment that is by gone and you will be looking in the future with an eye towards the back.
Like a river that passes down the hill, yearning to go beyond what the banks has to offer, I drift. In search of my ocean. And then ? Does anybody reach their ocean. Or is life is all about this search for ocean.
But, are we supposed to be find our happiness in this search or in peace of the after search.
"Excuse me but I think there is some problem with the Air conditioning. It is functioning only from one side" She complained to the air hostess.
"Madam that is fine. It should be working like that." The French air hostess replied in impeccable English.
She was not sure. But was somehow tried to assure her that everything is fine.
She turned to me and said." I am afraid of flying".
"Me too.", I lied. She was happy to get a company.
Moment 2:
Walking in the busy streets of La Rambla with hundreds of nationalities speaking in different languages and passing by, I wanted to enjoy without much commotion. I plugged in my head phones and suddenly the world around me came to a nonchalance harmony. I slowly drifted into beats and lyrics of the song. Suddenly La Rambla disappeared, instead stoned pavements of Vadakunathan Temple painted my eyes with shades of grey. I stopped my music. In one of the metal plates kept for sale, I saw
"The creation continues incessantly through the media of man" ~ Antoni Gaudi
The song that took me from greatest city of Europe to nadapatha of Vadakunathan was this one:
Moment 3:
"Ola" I said to greet the sales girl near the changing room.
She showed me the room to try out the jeans.
They were too long
"Gracias" I told her while going back to select another one. One nice habit I picked here in Europe being thankful for anything and everything. "Gracias" she said with a smile.
She smile when I came back with another pair. Again she showed me a new trial room. But this time instead of Spanish, French came in my mouth. "Merci". I said hastily. She was about to say Gracias when she heard Merci.
The new pair of pants were too short.
I came back again with a new pair. This time she was getting ready with her French when I started talking in English. It was fun. She understood I was just playing around. Like in Japanese custom, she bowed a bit and then showed me my new trial room. Then iI said "arigatou".
She didn't know what that mean't. I repeated "Thank you in Japanese".
She laughed. The jeans fitted perfectly.
Moments 4:
Lucas had made his local Sangria - red wine, gin, lemon, orange, apple, sugar and pepper. And it tasted well. With a glass of Sangria, Alec, Amadeus, Igor and myself listened to him play Guitar. He was bit tipsy in his own drink.
"Don't you see the sad face,
the face of the man,
of a woman left so long ago".
"Look at the pretty face,
around the corner,
is that her who left you
is that her who is waiting for you." He sang on.
I smiled.
Moment 5:
"Once you reach Av La Tibidabo, take a bus to Funicular." Patricia had told me.
However, once I reached the avenue, I chose not to take the bus and started walking. And got lost.
I had purposely not enabled my phone on roaming. I cursed myself for doing. Without GPS I am like lame duck. After searching for half an hour I came in front of a park. For some reason i thought it would take me to top of the mountain. I started walking for the next 15 minutes. At the end of the trail, there was a small sign board saying "Way to Funicular"
Moment 6:
"Everything that government tries to hide finally reach here" Christy said. He was showing the gutter where it was full of cigarette buds. He was telling me about the alternative history of Barcelona. And in his cynicism I found what I found in every anarchist : A determination to overthrow the system.
"Everybody knows the problem, assuming that you get a chance to change it what is the alternative and how would you accomplish it." I questioned with a slight irritation in my tone.
"I write and let the word spread. Thats is what my mission is and that is what I am doing" He said with an egalitarian haughtiness.
"But that is just surviving not accomplishing something" I knew I was rude. But he did not care and we walked on.
Moment 7: "I think you should try it. It is fun" Katie was telling about the work she was doing at the vineyards. She is professional web designer who is on a 1 year vacation to Europe.
"Yes, I plan to do it." I said. I put the straps of my backpack and said bye to her and left.
On the door step, Vincent was waiting with advance amount I had paid while checking in.
"All the best man and travel, there is still a lot to see you know." He said in his husky voice.
Mrinalini didn't want to come out of his memories. She thought he was the one: The prince with whom she would happily ever after. But it was not.
Her friend hadn't uttered a word for the last 15 min. He was watching the waves that lashed out against the dilapidated fort walls.
"Tell me is love and waiting interlinked ?" She asked.
No reply. He was still staring at the natures fury unleashed on to the walls.
"Ok, you also don't answer. Fine! Don't talk to me." Her eyes started to brim with tears. Again.
He looked at her, suggesting to repeat what she asked. He was back.
"Adi what do you think of love and waiting." She repeated.
"You don't wait when you are in love. But if you don't wait then probably you are not in love. That is the irony of love. The love I believe in"
He continued to stare at the waves.
"That is really stupid. You would end up waiting all through your life. No? ". She taunted him.
He continued to stare at the waves. Slowly tide was coming down.
With such an eloquent ease, he made his way through the confusion and heat. He was not in a hurry even though he didn't know the platform on which he would find his train home.
On the dilapidated notice board, he found the platform number of his train. It was written with a smudgy red marker that S6 would be at position 12. He walked towards it. He thanked his stars for not taking the crossing bridge. He hated climbing those steps!
She was already there. Safely seated inside and waving at him. She was showing him signs to speed up as the train had already started to move. But he didn't care. He was thinking about the sweet box he used to buy whenever he left for home. He didn't have one this time. He missed the yellow packing of the box with Adyar Anand Bhavan written in dark blue. It had the smell of pure ghee which they used to make the sweets. He missed the Yellow box and the smell of ghee.
He normally doesn't take this train. It had a unusual timing. It leaves Chennai at 4 in the evening and reaches home at 3 in the morning. But then she called and asked him to accompany her. And he agreed because it was a long time since he went home.
Before the train picked up speed, he got hold on to the yellow bar near the door. Behind him Chennai station's watch tower slowly moved into horizon.
He walked towards her coup. Unfamiliar faces, some lost and some already settled. He was looking around for some interesting character. Suddenly she came from her coup and called him.
She was her classmate from yesteryears. Once she was very close to him and then she had to change the school as her dad got transferred to another city. They had lost touch until years later they accidentally met here in Chennai. And one day, out of the blue, she came with this request.
She had changed. Her eyes were more wider. Eyelashes neatly blackened. She wore a brown cotton salwar. She had a bangle like watch which had an odd symbol. She smiled at him. That hadn't changed.
And they talked - about school days, about home works, about their best friend, about college, about lovers, about sex, about future.
Train was nearly reaching home. Around 10 ours had passed and both of them did not notice. Everybody else had departed on the stations before theirs. And when they stopped talking there was silence. Synchronous sound of rotating wheels played a music to that silence.
The cold breeze from the window ruffled her hair and she was was having trouble adjusting her hair. He got up and closed the rustic iron window.
It was then their eyes met each other. They hadn't met for a long time. Both didn't avert their gaze.
He never took the first move. Not now and not then. So she said in calm voice "Didn't you have a crush on me? "
He would have refuted it but then it was around 3:00 AM and he didn't want to tell a lie. "How did you know ? ".
"I always knew" She told.
"How?" He persisted.
"Because I had a crush on you." She blushed.
"Why didn't you tell me ?" He queered.
"I thought you would tell me first." He could see the disappointment in those eyes. "I waited for long but then you never said anything." She looked down.
The signboard for Palakkad junction zipped past them and train started to slow down.He silently got and picked up her bag from upper rack and gave it to her. Their eyes met again.
In the centre of that green lush ground, a tall Afghan was getting ready to bat. The bowler had just finished giving field setting instruction to his men.
He was playing cricket after 19 years. All these years he was just a mere spectator watching this game on his couch with a can of soda and fries. However, he felt he was more fit than people around. But he did not show that on field. Instead he watched them.
He was playing with Afghans for the first time. Infact before this day, he had never met an Afghan. He They were in their mid 20s and 30s. Some were students and some working. All of them had a story to tell about how they left Afghanistan. War had brought them to knees.
But, they had over come that, or so he thought. What he saw there was immense energy and spirit to win.
Everybody was giving instruction to each other. Everybody thought they were right in their decision.
It was fascinating for him to see the spirit of humanity to fight and move forward. Everybody wanted to win and they knew or they thought they were right.
Bhai!!! Suddenly his adrenaline shot up, bringing him back to reality and he ran forward to catch hold of the ball.
With hands in front like, spread out, to catch a chicken on run. The ball slipped through his hands and in between his legs.
There was unanimous shout of disbelief from other 10 players.
The tall guy came to him and told him how to field. He also showed how to do it. Then he went back. He thanked with courteous node.
To them it was not just a game. It was game they wanted to win.
He smiled. For a change he thought he will play along. To win.
Some conversations you enjoy. Sometimes, these are not conversations, these are the ones that you simply listen.
Sid had a smile while listening about her day at work.
"And you know what? Seema calls me from the other class telling there is an emergency. I tell you these kids even though they are just 4 they can make an army general go crazy in half an hour! I am half insane managing my own flock. Thats when I have to manage other's! I follow her to the class. There I see a pandemonium. Markus is standing in the center and making some noise and everybody is running around. I catch couple of projectiles on the way. I ask Markus why he is not behaving? He says......"
"After that......" She continue to the next incident.
The same smile is still stuck on Sid's face. He tries to picture how she would be telling this.
With wide pretty eyes running around along the actions of her arms. Making those twerks on the face with lips overlapping in an odd manner. Sitting on the bed with her legs folded, wearing those favorite blue shorts.
"Meanwhile, Ms lee calls me to my class. Apparently Alex has made Roxane cry. You know there are 8 girls in my class and two boys. Alex is the naughtiest. Poking here and there all the time. Earlier all my girls were, well girly. Now every girl behaves like Alex. But he is a nice chap..........."
Sid's smile is even more wider.
"Now you tell me, how was your day" She asks.
"My day was fine. It just got perfect listening to you." Sid replies with the same smile
Some conversations, they make your day worth getting up.
The number was in Sid's head, a surprising fact in this world. He never forgets what needs to be forgotten. Before he could think, he had finished dialing.
Meanwhile, around 11000Km away from Istanbul, at around 10,000 ft above sea level, Phobjikha valley had turned purple, reminding the monks of Gangteng monastery to close the doors of the outer wall lest the summer wind from the south usher in. Yandin Wangchuk was in dilemma, even though his faith forbid him, he still wanted to call her. From the rustic corner of the monastery, he mustered courage to dial those numbers, penned long time in his red pocket book.
Meanwhile, around 3000 Km away from Phobjikha valley, Anitha was preparing her morning coffee. She hated this ritual but she needed one before she went to hospital. Aravind, her husband was still sleeping after his tiring night shift. His duty was not supposed start before 3:00 PM, so she allowed him to enjoy his dreams. However, while looking at him sleeping, she felt something amiss. Perhaps things would not have been the same with ...She didn't complete her thoughts. Coffee was finally kicking in. Suddenly, her mobile started to ring.
Meanwhile, somewhere on the US east coast, Minshi Wangdin was getting ready to sleep. She had put her 11 months old baby, Rinzc to sleep. She had finally got adjusted to life in America. Leaving Bhutan was something she never dreamed of. But now, everything seemed to have happened a long time ago. Slowly time had healed old wounds. Those were not wounds thought, those were just pangs of separation. Separation from him. Like colorful prayer flags that fluttered in mountains, carrying the prayers across levied by cold wind, for few months they carried that her pain too. But now everything was becoming distant memory. She looked at her Rinzc's face.
Suddenly her mobile started ringing. She picked up in panic because it would have woken up Rinzc.
"Hello" . Anitha at once recognized that voice. It was Sid. Hello. Minshi could not reply to it. She knew who she was talking to.
Suddenly the voices cracked
"Anitha before you cut the call let me tell you something." Sid said in quivering voice.
"I met somebody and I am very happy in my life. I hope you too are happy. I know I could have been more happier with you. But I messed it up. I am sorry. I want you to know that you are the best thing that has happened to me so far in my life. And I gave it up for something silly. I curse myself every day for that. But then it has been more than 7 years and I would like to move on. Wish me luck will you. It means a lot to me."
"Sid ...I always wanted you to move on. I know how you would have been all these years. But do you know what... I was even more cursed than you were. Every day being with somebody who loves me a lot without thinking that I was not completely in love with him. I was lying to myself every day. you see, I never told about you to him. But I think I would have to tell him. Good luck to you Sid. But can you wish me the same ...I too want a closure. "
"Good luck".. Yandin said it before he realized.
Minshi closed her eyes and hung the call. She waited for her husband.
Top ten things that I have done so far because of very simple reasons (which if others heard would put me in mental asylum)
1. Going to Istanbul because I wanted to see Museum of Innocence based on the book by Orhan Pamuk which was given to me by friend to understand what love is all about.
2. Going to cemetery at 12:00 in the night. They said dead came on back on the day they died to know who attended their funeral and who loved them. I wanted to tell that I loved even after death.
3. Covering 800 Km in 17 hours through crowded roads of West Bengal to catch flight from Calcutta. The connection train was late. So we had to do it and we survived at least 4 accidents on the way. Just to reach back my hostel room because I had to process my photos
4. Walking alone in the Panther zone when Panther alert was still on. I was scared of Panthers. I wanted to shed those fears so I walked not just once but twice to see if there are any panthers. I did not find any.
5. Continuously swimming 10 laps in the Pool. I learned swimming in the river, when I was learning how to swim I couldn't cross from one bank to another. To me reaching the other side of the river was a distant dream. 10 laps or 500 m was more or less the distance I had to swim to reach the other side of river. Next is to cross the river when flooded just like my grandfather used to do.
6. Jumping behind the old fellow while crossing the Chanderkhani pass in Himalayas to catch him. I thought I could not live peacefully if I did not try to save him. Both of us were saved by the Sherpas. :)
7. Calling her on the eve of her marriage to wish her a happy married life. I thought I should say it and I really wanted her to know that I meant that.
8. Going to Iceland to see northern lights. Ever since, Elsey teacher (may her soul rest in peace), described Aurora Borealis in 7th standard I wanted to see it. I did not see it. I would go again.
9. Joining the programme in Bombay instead joining the University of Pennsylvania. I fell in love with Bombay from the moment I set foot there.
10. Burning the Medicine acceptance card. Else I would still be in the Med school, without graduating.
Some of them are really stupid and some really weird. But isn't that what makes this life worth living ?
I was always late for the class. Not because I wanted to but because I just could not skip watching the last 5 minutes of the Hindi soap that used to be telecasted in the national television. But then, I was not the only person who was late. Sometimes, I used to be the only one. But that happened rarely. As I silently keep my cycle next to the brazened compound wall filled with wild bougainvillea, only conundrum that used to run in my head was whether Sreedevi teacher, as we fondly called her, had come or not.
But most often, it was relief when I wade through hordes of cycles parked in the portico and to see that her footwear not being present in the jungle of foot-wears in front of the veranda. I never used to give second glance to her husband who used to sit in veranda pretending to read the newspaper. He always wore a polo t-shirt with white lungi. For some unknown reasons, he had this disgruntled look on his face. I would silently creep into the room where they would have started the alap. Nisha, teacher's daughter would be playing harmonica, directing me to my place with her eyes. She had beautiful eyes along with beautiful voice. I would lazily put taala before clearing my throat to join the chorus. Manju sitting on my left had excellent control over her voice. Ashwathy, on my right, on the other hand would mess up notes in random. She always managed to get some of the easy notes get flat. Then suddenly, my teacher would appear. She would give her handbag to Nisha and ask her to leave. She works in local school and teach us music after she is done with her work. I always used to think why she couldn't dedicate her whole time for us. But then I did not know then how difficult it is survive as a middle class family.
Because of running, she used to sweat, which she would wipe out with the end of her pallu. Most often it was a yellow cotton saree with black border. Then she would start taunting us - especially me, for not practicing. She would make each one of us sing separately picking up our faults. The finale would be with me. Mocking me left, right and center for my rendition. Sometimes I would feel like running away from that closed room with one window. But I never did that. Instead I continued this for almost 5 years.
When time became scarce, I had to forsake music. So I stopped. But then I thought I was never good at it. But years later, my mother met Sreedevi teacher, she asked her why I stopped singing or rather stopped coming to her. I never used to sing at home so she told her that I had lost interest. Teacher was sad to hear that. When my mother probed she told that I was the best student in that batch and she thought I could have had a career in music.
Generations of musicians have learned under her tutelage in that closed room. Some became famous and some are still famous. So when she said that I had a chance to be musician, I was not disappointed because she had inspired me to find what music was really to me. All her chiding and grueling sessions had moulded me to find patterns and perfect myself. Music was the inner perfection that I could see and sometime that which I could smell. Like the cadence of voices that danced in my head, I could relate all my surroundings to a tune. Something that is so profound, complete in all sense and perfection and yet, something, which my incapacious vocabulary cannot define or convey. Yet, it is there.
I still have her face clearly etched in my mind. Sweeping the sweat from her eye brows. Her tenacity to impart something so divine into 12 naughty brats who perhaps didn't know what they were learning then.
This is what teachers does. They inspire; sometimes in a very latent manner.
I was blessed to have so many teachers who inspired me. Planting a fire or two in me which never burned me but soothe me over the ages. Meandering memories from yesteryears; The stern voice of mathematics teacher who stood me out of the class because I did not score even half of what the average scored for two hours straight and then taking me for a walk telling me that I was expected to get cent percentage in Maths, which i rubbished off with a laugh. Eventually when I did score cent percent for my board, only thing she told me was - "didn't i say so? ". The calm Biology teacher begging my mother to make me write biology entrance exam because she firmly believed I could clear it. And so did it happen. Then there was dance teacher, art teacher, language teacher who found things which I overlooked or rather did not care to search. It was them, who without expecting anything in return, inspired me and shaped my life. A beautiful life.
I thank all of them.
So it was a very nostalgic moment when my former advisor asked me to return to India to join the perhaps the best technical institute in the country.
But, with all humility, I must decline that offer. Because I can never be a teacher, with all those shadows of who had inspired me , I don't know how to inspire. And that one trait is the only trait required to be teacher. Alas I don't have that.
There are still things which I have to understand about myself. With tools that my teachers have imparted years ago, I continue my search for those.
Thursday, April 02, 2015
What if the life is a dream
And the death, the actual awakening ?
He was drunk. Too drunk. In fact in a state of being so drunk that he didn't know that he was drunk.
But he may be pardoned. It was his first time being getting drunk. Really drunk.
At the heights of meandering hallucinations, somebody whispered in his ears it would better to get a hat for his balding head. Though he was not averse to idea of disowning his family hairloom, he thought a hat might be good shopping. And since he had not idea about hat, he presumed he could ask a help or two from the shopkeeper.
So off he went to a shop on his four legs, oops two.
Hats, caps, capes and everything else for the shoulder and above where stacked in different colors and sizes. In the dizzying white light, he saw a fine woman walk up to him. The next thing he remembers is trying out a flurry of hats as directed by this woman. At some point he got bored and stopped trying and chose one.
The last memory, that he had from that shop was putting his credit card pin into the machine. And then walked back into the streets as a happy man ; a proud owner of a hat.
None of this made this humdrum instance a legend. However, what made it a legend was what happened two days later; when the natural sober state shinned upon him.
He noticed that he had bought an American hat, this made him curious. You see, it would be impossible for him to buy an American hat in the country of fashion. But then, he did have it. His curiosity made him open his bank account to remind him how much he paid for it.
And when he saw the entry for the Hat, this story became a legend.
So that he could answer those queries she would ask about the mundane things.
So that he could braid her hair in different styles before she goes to her school.
So that he could listen to her stories about her day while he feed her snacks.
So that he could watch her make sand castle on the beach.
So that he could see her learn to dance.
So that he could see her paint his face.
So that he could read bed time stories to her.
So that he could listen to boys she like.
So that he could listen to her dreams and her career.
So that he could solve the worries of her life.
So that he could smile when she flies high.
So that he could wait for that everyday call till his last breath.
Right from the fresh smell of paper that was printed and packed before drying till the last page where you see THE END with a graphics you would soon forget, it is a immensely joyful experience. No less than an orgasm, if you ask me.
In between those two cover pages, you see a world without breathing a single whiff of air.
I remember being at the great battle of Marathon when Greek fought the Persians. From there I found myself to be listening to Krishna speaking to Arjuna about Karma. Yet, again I got shocked when Hal replies to Dr. Bowman in the most cunning way ever. Then, I almost touched the Bamboos through which Amitava Ghosh showed Sunderbans. I could smell each cigarette Fusun lit in Museum of Innocence. And I was everywhere where my author took me. Sometimes hidden, sometime out in open.
I wish I could live in between the pages. Lost among words and punctuation.
PS: After a long time read an excellent book - Cutting for Stones by Abraham Verghese
