Passage to Venice – III

(Sometimes writing does not go chronologically. It leaps across time to a memory that is suddenly new and fresh, one that evokes laughter, a sigh, even a feeling of wanting that time back…)

Venice was almost like a whole new city. We had been there before, but it felt like a different life, a different dream. This time, I was near-adult, almost grown up but still needing that reassuring presence of parents and a frame of reference that they provided. My friend was with us and we were in Venice, city of canals, city of dark romance, city of strange smells, gorgeous people, bloody history and environmental disaster.

But for us, still teenagers with moods more whimsical than the Italian weather, Venice was fascinating. We pretended to be expert photographers, our small box cameras taking sweetly silly instant pictures that we all found worthy of comment, if not outright praise. And it was that self-professed talent that got us into a bit of deep water…though not especially of the hot kind.

We had driven into Venice fairly late in the day and checked into our hotel, all piled into one large room because of a severe lack of alternate space in the city. It was, after all, New Year’s eve and everyone was set to party. You could see the buntings all over the narrow cobble-stoned streets and people dashed hither and yon carrying mysterious cartons on their shoulders. Stores were open well after sundown, their windows blaring announcements of sales and their mannequins wearing the most vivid conformations of sequins I had ever seen. Gondolas and small motorboats slid over the canals, carrying loads of party-goers and musicians – one boat even had an entire rock band, long hair, leather, silver studs and all.

But we were rather less adventurous. All of us wanted not much more than to sleep and, after a quick dinner, we decided to retire…and then my friend and I found that the door of our hotel opened almost into the foyer of the movie house across the alley. In we ran, watched – I think – three shows back-to-back of The Aristocats – and then wandered sleepily to fall asleep with unwashed faces and our socks still half on our feet.

The photography started the next morning. It was very cold in Venice, the wind whistling sharply down the alleyways and straight into our ears. But we had to take our pictures from the middle of St Mark’s Square, so it was there that we headed. There was, however, one small problem, it was high tide and the square was thigh-deep in water. VERY cold water, we discovered, when we waded in, shoes and socks and purses left in the custody of my parents.

On the tips of frozen toes, our jeans rolled up as high as they possible could get, we edged out shivering way to a flagpole in the middle of the square. There we clambered atop the small platform and balanced, precariously, on the concrete block, our fingers shaking, our hair blowing madly, our sunglasses doing nothing to stop tears pouring out of our eyes from the sheer cold. But we were there, we had the sun glinting off the gold of the frescoes on the cathedral full-focus in our lenses and nothing could stop the enchantment of moment, not even blue feet and the prospect of going back into the water to find our way to warmth.

It all worked perfectly. The photographs still have that magic, all these years later, and the thought of that morning still makes my toes curl gently in the search for heat, never mind that it is summer-hot and sweaty in Mumbai these days.

Passage to Venice – II

We had planned to be in Milan for lunch, but got there only very late in the evening. As we slid down through the mountains, occasionally getting a little to close for everyone’s comfort to a cliff-edge or another sliding vehicle, all orchestrated by a few squeaks and many gasps, the day wore slowly into the afternoon. We demolished some chips, a few cookies and lots of hot chocolate from a large flask, but the hunger for lunch was kept at bay by the sheer terror of the conditions in which Father had to drive our little Volkswagen Golf. Finally, tired, tense and at last ravenous, we tottered – in a manner of speaking – into Aosta.

Well known for its ski slopes and celebrity visitors (though that was not top-of-mind then), Aosta was a small town with many large hotels. We parked outside one and walked in, brushing snow from our coats and boots and demanding food. The dining hall was large, luxurious, welcoming and, most of all, warm. We sat, we asked, we ordered and we wilted as we waited. The food arrived and we fell to, not really noticing what we ate until it was halfway done. Then I saw that the seafood risotto I had been so avidly working my way through has tiny bits of octopus tentacles, suckers and all, arrayed around the edge of the soup-plate. I like octopus, I am fairly adventurous as an eater, but when the octopus looks at me, so to speak, I quail a bit. Some help from a parent and I was equanimous again, chewing happily.

We actually got to Milan only for dinner. Our hotel was an old and charming one, with no elevator, and we lugged our bags up heavenwards, heaving and pushing and puffing and occasionally saying a rude word, bashing into ankles and squashing a finger or two en route. Food meant we had to walk all the way down, but it was easier without luggage. I was just starting into my health-food bias then and wavered agonisedly between hamburgers and fries and salads and natural juices. I compromised with a large cola and a leafy salad, one that seemed to include all sorts of plant life, from artichoke hearts to spinach, mushrooms to what was thence-forth fixed in my mind as nettled – the stabbed me suddenly mid-bite in the roof of my mouth and left my tongue stinging painfully for some time afterwards.

A painful meal, a fairly late night, a long drive…it all led to a very deep and surprisingly refreshing sleep. We bounced up and out the next morning, all keen to see the chapel in which the Last Supper was being slowly restored, to eating a typically Italian pasta and walking past the stores that we had only read about that sold big-name designer fashion that we sighed over but never imagined even seeing in real life. We did all that and more. And furtively peeped at gorgeous people walking down the pavements, delicious cars prowling the streets and beautiful buildings that for some reason always had a cold wind blowing against them that made our eyes water. But it was Milan, the city of beautiful visions and the warmth (even in mid-winter) of a freedom to live a dream.

Passage to Venice – I

Many moons ago we spent a few weeks in Italy, a country we all like very much. There was my mother, my father and me, along with a friend who had been at school with me in India and now went to a prep school in England – she was spending the winter break with us in Geneva, Switzerland, and was with us, almost automatically, on our holiday. We drove through snowstorms and over skid-icy roads to get to our first stop, and then wandered through from big city to small town with happy arbitrariness….or so it seemed to us girls, but what did we know then, we were just sloppy teenagers who slept a lot, giggled a lot and worried about washing hair and zapping zits. But it was, then and still now, a trip that was indeed memorable.

It began not-too-early one morning, or perhaps after dinner the nights before. My friend and I were old enough to be ‘grown up’, but young enough to play silly tricks on each other. And we had just gone through the worst – she had done something I cannot remember now, but I retaliated by spraying the most awful perfume that I had been given by a friend for Christmas on her pillow; my mother was most annoyed, since the smell permeated the whole apartment for days after my friend had gone back to school some weeks later. And, when the day was more or less done, my friend tried on a pair of jeans that had fit perfectly when she had bought them in England not that long ago. They didn’t any more. She lay on the floor near the dining table and yanked, pulled, groaned, wheezed, to no avail. So she went to bed in them and the next morning, just before we were ready to leave, she managed to zip them up. Of course, she had to undo the zip once we got in the car, since sitting down made her face turn blue…

My parents piled us into the back seat, a couple of acrylic car blankets snuggled around us to keep the cold out as far as possible. You could just about see the tip of my friend’s nose, but the rest of her was a fuzzy pile of synthetic pile. The heater was on full, everyone was smothered in wool and we started off. We would be in Milan for lunch, my father promised. Life was great, the roads were clear, the sun was shining, the world was a joyous place. And then we drove through the Mont Blanc tunnel that links Switzerland and Italy. The Swiss side was typically efficiently pristine, immaculate, even the snowdrifts along the sides of the road arranged just-so at regular, nicely-shaped heaps of cold whiteness. The border security guards beamed happily at us as we drove into the well-lit tunnel, our collective claustrophobia acting up but not too severely, with only a slight panic expressed by my mother at the thought of so many tons of rock above our little car.

But the other side, even we emerged, was rather different. Italy is warm and beautiful and friendly and happy, we all knew, but the Italy that greeted us was just white. Right after going through the friendly, warm, beautiful and happy security zone that marked our passage into the country, we slid neatly down an icy road to a parking spot at the side. Our snow tires were not enough traction; we had to use chains as well. My friend and I volunteered to do the fixing – lots of rude words muttered as clouds of white mist and a broken nail or two later, we were back in the car, pink nosed and snow spattered, but warmed by the exertion of clipping the very cold metal links together around the very cold rubber tires with a very cold wind whistling down the backs of our necks.

And then we drove on. Slowly. The car turned left around a bend on to a bridge over a small frozen stream and kept turning. There was a squeak, but who it came from was not known – it could have been all of us, or any one. As my father worked his feet furiously on the brakes, changing gear, spinning the steering wheel, trying to get some traction and undo the skid, we slid gently to a halt, just about an inch away from the stone of the bridge wall, the slabs of rock that kept us from sliding straight into the ice beneath.

It was a good start to a good vacation.

On the road

For about a week my driver decided to go off to his village, leaving me to drive myself to and fro between home and work, sprained/pulled/strained wrist and all. While I have no idea how I damaged myself in the first place, I do know that driving in Mumbai traffic made it worse to the point where even brushing my teeth or dragging a comb through my mop of hair made me wince. But in the driving, I learned a lot that gave me more to ruminate on, both about myself and about the world around me that has any kind of impact on me.

Perhaps what really made it to the front of my consciousness was the most obvious. One night, driving back alone, fairly late, after a long day at the most dreary routine of page-making, I was switched off in my head but fully focussed on the road and traffic. Suddenly there was a flash of light that bounced off my tired retinas. It came again…and again. And then I heard it, that sound that never fails to make my hands go cold and my mind blank. There was an ambulance close behind me, demanding passage. Even though I know well that ambulances in this country tend to sound their sirens just to get through traffic jams – and less for the urgency of getting its passengers to emergency medical care – the sing-song blast of noise always makes me freeze, first emotionally and then intellectually. The rest of me works fine, but on auto-pilot.

The siren blared incessantly, unforgivingly, mercilessly. It demanded a route past me and others in its path, or even through us or over us…just beyond us. It loomed up against my back window and its lights showed me my fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles were white, just like in the bad description of stressful murder-chase scenes in bad thriller novels. Trained to give way almost automatically, I started to edge towards the lane where there was less traffic – well, one less car or motorbike or truck than the zillion that clamoured just around my little car – and, sweating gently in the blast of the air-conditioning, finally managed to get out of the way. the ambulance roared past me, not going too far ahead, but far enough for the sound and light show that it was putting on to fade a little from my immediate sphere of attention.

I am not normally phased by things like this. Ambulances are a normal part of everyday life in a crowded ever-commuting city like Mumbai. But it takes me back to a traumatic early morning when my mother was taken to hospital and we never brought her back. It was a bad time, one I should learn to get past. One day, when I can face – or hear – an ambulance yell for through-way without flinching, I will know that I have. Until then, I just grit my teeth and pretend it is all just part of a life I have to live.

First we win…

…Then, more often than not, we lose.

It’s a cycle that typifies Indian behaviour, in some strange way. Even as I write this, the office is going mad with joy. All day the televisions have been on, blaring every move on the cricket field as India and Australia slug it out Down Under, over the last hour or so, people have gathered around the TV sets, staring fixedly up at the screens, breathing heavily or not at all, cheering when not gasping or going into little huddles of hectic parlay on who played what shot hot and why they should have done otherwise, who was doing what when while that shot was being played, etc etc etc. and then, as it got closer to the end, the volume went up when something good happened for Team India and switched almost completely off when it didn’t. and then it happened. That last shot made sure we won…after a pause when the decision was finally taken and announced by the power that was and then, after a micro-second of stress-induced silence, everyone leaped and cheered and hugged each other, on the field, in the stands and in the office.

So India won the tri-series, or whatever it is called. Our team – please note the jingoistic ‘our’ there – did their best, sledging and all, and mustered up all forces to beat the rather persistently rude Australians quite comfortably, thus challenging all the nay-sayers to make themselves heroes. So when they come home – as they did after the first Twenty/20 match that they won – they will be feted and lauded and celebrated and all those good things that essentially mean the same thing every which way. There will be parties and bus rides and bouquets and champagne and more endorsements and so money and more adulation and more everything that will make the collective and individual heads of Team India and the country in general swell with pride… and get so inflated in the process that it will no longer fit through the door that opens into success.

Yes, that kind of falls flat every now and then, almost as an inevitable cycle of what goes around comes around, without fail. But it is true. It may be an Indian trait engendered by the weather, as someone once said and backed it up with some highly tenuous research, which makes us so complacent and smugly self-satisfied that once we get what we fight for, we give up and let it all slide into ignominious failure very soon after. If that is what will happen to Team India and its game, all the battling on the field and off in Australia will hardly be worth it.

Socially networked

This is something I am not, not in the today sense of the word, at least. I do know people who know people which means that in some roundabout way I know the people that the people I know do know, if you know what I mean, because I am not sure I know. But it’s called networking – knowing someone who can find you someone you need when you need that someone for some purpose that you can define only in reference to a specific context, since why would you need that someone if the context was not what it is at a certain point in time? Be that as it may be, it just happens that ever since I started working with a newspaper many years ago, my social networking skills improved. And if I did not know someone, I found that I invariably knew someone who knew someone who was exactly the someone I needed at any moment in time.

But this is the old-fashioned version of networking. Today it all happens in cyberspace, where someone pings someone and then invites them to join some social networking site or the other and exchange news, views and plain old gossip with everyone else who happens to be a member of the same social networking site. So there is everything from Orkut to Facebook to LinkedIn to goodness knows what else, leaving me cold and rather bewildered about why anyone would want me to be part of the whole cloud of chatter going on online. It is not about being part of something that large and unwieldy, or even that I become a tiny mote in a community that is stretched beyond the limits of my knowledge base and my personality management skills, but a rather more simple reason I prefer to stay out of it all. My memory. Each of these sites needs a registration form filled in, with a password and a login name. Which means that even if I just join two of them, I need to remember four more pieces of information that are not exactly earth-shatteringly important to me or even remotely relevant to what I do through my day.

But, being conformist up to a point, I agreed to log into three such sites. Which never fail to send me email telling me that there is a message form someone or the other waiting for me. And that in itself leads to more problems than I want to handle. First, I need to log into the email accounts that tell me that I have those aforementioned emails. Which is manageable, since I use those addresses anyway to check mail, personal and for work. Then I need to open the mail I get from whatever networking site it is, and go into the site itself. That asks me for registration details, which I will have forgotten, since I rarely use them. That in itself implies two or three stabs at it, with me flailing – in a manner of speaking – not just on the keyboard, but also in cyberspace. When I finally access the message, it will probably be a friend suggesting I join some other group online, which means more registration forms, login names and passwords….

That is why I am very glad that many offices are gradually banning the whole concept of social networking sites being accessible. While I wish the easy ways of communication, from MSN Messenger and Googlechat would continue working they way they do, their access via a bootlegged gateway or otherwise, I am fairly glad that Orkut, Facebook and goodness knows what else have been blocked at work. If they weren’t, I am sure that someone would insist I join in, with registration, login, passwords and whatever else I need to be part of a warm, friendly, communicative, valuable, useful, etc etc community. Frankly, I prefer to know someone who knows someone who knows someone.