The tale of two mothers

“Mommy, mommy, can I wake up?” asks little Simon. “You are already awake.  You can get up now darling,” replies Laura. An overjoyed Simon jumps out of bed, to step out and play with Tomas and his other imaginary friends. Laura, with her eyes open, is still not awake. She fails to see the dangers that lurk in her age-old house and in her little child’s imaginary playmates. She wakes up only when her son is taken away from her. By then, it is too late.

The haunted orphanage is a beautiful mansion set by the sea. Six children play on its grounds as flower petals float gently in the afternoon breeze. A scarecrow stands a mute witness to their frolics. These are Laura’s memories from her childhood. One day, her memories bring her back to the same old place, as she and her husband intend to set up a home for special children at the orphanage. Her adopted son, Simon, is suffering from AIDS and spends his days playing with imaginary friends. Laura is worried about them – a worry that soon turns to terror as one fine day, Simon is taken away by Tomas and his imaginary companions. Laura’s quest for her child would open the gates of her memories, as the gruesome tale of the orphanage and its inhabitants unfold.

‘El Orfanato’ (The Orphanage) comes from Guillermo del Toro, the acclaimed director of ‘Pan’s Labyrinth’, which undoubtedly is a classic of modern times. It is cruel to compare the two, but ‘The Orphanage’ pales in comparison, with the gentle human treatment that made a classic out of ‘Labyrinth’, missing in this film. But to do a follow-up job to ‘Labyrinth’ can be a Herculean task, and director Juan Antonio Bayona nearly manages to pull it off. Individual performances in ‘The Orphanage’ are just adequate. Belen Rueda gives a poignant performance as the anguished mother in search of her son, but the rest of the cast is just ordinary. ‘The Orphanage’, however, is not about individual performances. The real star of the film is the brilliant and powerful screenplay.

The story is simple and clichéd, but its nuances are driven into the heart of the viewer through the subconscious images presented through the camera. The subtleties in the story are too many for the casual viewer to comprehend, but for a connoisseur of cinema, they are too hard to ignore. Laura uses a table clock to reflect the moonlight onto the lighthouse to amuse Simon. This action perhaps acts as her trigger into the past, when the lighthouse used to protect the children in the orphanage. The movements of the carousel in the wind, and the usage of weather to depict events that are about to happen in the house are masterstrokes of genius. The inevitable fates of the characters are alluded to early into the film through the reference to Peter Pan’s Neverland and the children who never grew up. And what of the mysterious old lady, Benigna, who wreaked her deadly revenge on the children of the orphanage for the prank that led to the death of her deformed child? Her love for her dead child is mutely displayed through the little doll in the likeness of her son, which she carries unto her death. This is the story of two mothers and the extent to which they go in the love for their child.

Was it just a twist of fate that attracted Laura and her family back to the home of her childhood? Or does the orphanage have a sinister power that draws her back to be its helpless victim? As the story unfolds before our eyes, we sense that for Laura, there is no way back. However, rather than the inevitable sad ending, there is a deep sense of contentment as Laura sits around Simon and her childhood friends, relating the bed-time story of the lost children. A gentle smile adorns her lips as behind her, the lighthouse once again comes to life. All she wanted was to be with Simon, and unlike Wendy in the story of Peter Pan, she is in Neverland with the children who could never grow up.

‘El Orfanato’ is, without doubt, a masterpiece. To call it a horror flick would not do justice to the film. In spite of the fact that the haunted-house formula has been milked dry by storytellers throughout the years, Bayona and del Toro prove that a heart-wrenching tale can be spun around a tried and tested theme. The film has neither skeletons hidden in cupboards, nor the split-second scares that send shrieks echoing across movie halls in America. As the story unfolds there is only a deep sense of dread that permeates through the heart of the viewer – a feeling that arises out of the anticipation of the unknown in our minds, a belief that things are going from bad to worse. As the medium Aurora tells Laura in the film, “Seeing is not believing. It is the other way around.”

The Juggernaut

Puzhayoru Poonoolaay Malakale Punarunnu...

Upanayanam Cheyyum Ushassinu Kaumaaram...

One of my all-time favourite Malayalam songs - a beautiful composition in Mayamalava Gowla, but more importantly, it is pictured in Kalpathy, my ancestral village.

Nestled on the banks of the Kalpathy river, this quaint little village, 3 km from Palakkad gives us an impression that time has skipped by it. The afternoon sun beats down on the paved roads. There's nary a soul on the streets. Everyone is happily nestled inside their cool homes. As night approaches, a gentle breeze sifts across from the mountains that rise up from the opposite banks of the river. The noises from the nearby town are never audible here...

As we drove into Kalpathy on November 15th, the scenes were a little different. The streets were not vacant, for this was the day their grand yearly gala came to a stunning close - the Kalpathy Chariot Festival. I had witnessed the spectacle one - more that 24 years back. But now times had changed, or so it seemed.

Today was different. The Main street was not empty. In the sweltering heat of the afternoon, there were a few people ambling along on the road. As evening approached, a flute seller had set up his wares opposite periyappa's house. Soon, the street transformed itself into a mini bazaar with bajji sellers, hat sellers and even a local "gambling den". The huge chariots would pass by right in front of periyappa's house. Hence, we had the best view in the house. As the evening wore on, the crowd swelled - crowds that i had never witnessed in this sleepy hamlet.

As the sun began its descent, i could make out the thin outline of a huge chariot in the distance - the huge conical top, made up of flowers was bedecked with triangular flags. I was carried along by the crowd, as if it were a pedestrian crossing in Mumbai. Slowly, it advanced towards us. The verandas of the houses had now been taken up by people eager to have a glimpse of the chariots. 

It was a sight to behold, as the huge Juggernaut rolled closer to us. Little faces peered out from the mid section of the chariot. The deity would be seated inside this section, and the little kids from the village gave him company. The huge chariot was pulled by hundreds of people. For them, this was perhaps a yearly routine, but I jumped every time the chariot gave a mighty lurch as the crowd pulled.

The best was yet to come...

"It is really possible?" I asked periyappa, rather skeptically. "Just watch and see.." he said. The streets of Kalpathy are perhaps wide enough for two cars to pass. And on this street, I was to witness two grand chariots passing each other.  Emanating from driving on the streets of Bangalore, my skepticism was perhaps misplaced. But in that sea of humanity, the chariots did cross - helped along by the waves of people who steered them.

The sun had almost set. But enthusiasm knew no bounds. For the next two hours, under the lights of the fluorescent lamps, people were still dancing to the tune of drums. On that tiny street close to the temple, five chariots met together, in the grand spectacle that culminates the festival. 

I was spent! A harsh throat infection had caught hold of me. We had sumptuous dinner at periyappa's house, before embarking to our abode. As we walked along to RM's house, the sight that greeted me took my breath away. It was a full-blown carnival. The street stalls were brightly lit up...Vendors were doing everything to attract customers. People were busy jumping from one stall to another...

At 10:30 PM, when all the metropolitan cities in India shut up and sit in the comforts of their living rooms (the TV blaring for no one in particular), this little village had come alive

Homecoming

Everyone's busy worrying about the economic crisis - to the extent that i've rarely heard a cracker burst, today being Diwali. For the past two days, it's been a quiet time out here at home in Cochin - no television, no radio and no newspaper. It's as if I were in a different world altogether.

Kerala has always seemed different. As I rounded the bend that leads to the Kerala border outside Coimbatore, the sight in front of me took my breath away. The road slopes down to the bridge that splits Tamil Nadu from Kerala. A small sleepy lake lies still on the left. Ahead, lies the massive wall of the Western Ghats. Storm clouds are forming above. A table cloth obscures the top of the nearest hill. The only sore spot in this serene landscape towers above the thick greenery of the forest - the monstrous chimneys of a cement factory, that billows white smoke.

As you cross the bridge, a huge hoarding catches your attention: "Public Works Department of Kerala welcomes you" - it is an apt sign, for after the smooth roads that lead out of Coimbatore, the moment you cross over to Walayar, the roads are full of gigantic potholes - a fine welcome carpet from the PWD.

The Walayar Checkpost is usually a bustle of activity. You can barely squeeze through the maze of trucks standing here. But today, it was strangely empty. I was the only person on the road, making me wonder whether i had entered the state on the wrong day - what if there was a hartal today?

Strangely, it was never raining in Tamil Nadu, but the moment i entered Kerala, i knew that it was going to pour down. And soon, it did! It has not stopped raining ever since.

A little bit of life...

45 litres of Diesel  - Rs. 1900.00.

Toll Fee - Rs. 25.00.

Idli Vada and Coffee for breakfast - Rs. 48.00.

Water bottle - Rs. 14.00.

Sweets - Rs. 76.00.

Sitting in the temple courtyard in a quaint little village on the banks of the Kaveri near Tiruchirappalli  (after a 300 km drive) at 1:00 p.m. in the afternoon, eating curd rice - Priceless!

There are somethings money can't buy....

Eating the humble pie

On August 15th, our luck finally ran out...We ate the humble pie at the Chennai Landmark Quiz. We managed a measly 23 out of 40 as the "playing field finally caught up with us", as Shetty put it. The preliminary toppers scored something around 35 out of 40. To make things worse, we even missed out the best corporate team prize. Of course, the notable absence of Derek meant that the standards of the quiz had definitely gone up.

The trip was still memorable, especially with my silk-saree shopping in Kanchipuram.

All I need is to be free...my Mumbai Video, with subtitles

White Nights in Israel - Part 2

The great wall rose up imposingly in front of us. Ghostly white light lit up portions of it, while the others were shrouded in darkness. To our left, stood the Tower of David, bathed in the same ghostly light. Behind us, across the hill stretched the new city, lit up in gold. We stood in front of the huge stone arch, about to enter a world that had existed ever since, probably 3000 BC. This was the holy land of Jerusalem.

An eerie silence descended on us as we entered the old city through one of its eight gates. We walked through the deserted stone corridors into its streets. As we descended down, the golden dome came into view - The Dome of the Rock, from where Prophet Mohammed ascended to the heavens. Next to it stood the Al-Aqsa Mosque, the third holiest site in Islam after Mecca and Media, and below us was the Western Wall, the most sacred place for Jews, where the first temple existed. The place was no longer so deserted suddenly. We were in the midst of a sea of humanity. This was the meeting place of three faiths.

It was a weekend for old towns. The evening before was spent in a city that was inhabited more than 7500 years before Christ. This was Jaffa. Walking through the winding alleys of the artists’ colony, and looking down at the old harbor, it looked like an oasis. This was the place where the likes of King David and King Solomon imported cedars for the construction of the Jewish Temples. It was the place the Crusaders under Richard the Lion-Hearted fought for against Saladin. It was a complete contrast against the modern coastline of Tel Aviv, which is visible from the top of the Jaffa Hill.

The beaches have become a constant companion to me. As I wake up and open the curtains, the tranquil blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea greet me. People brave the jellyfishes - the reason for Anke to keep herself away from the water so far - to go out for the morning swim. A few miles away from the hotel, lies the old harbor of Tel Aviv. Climb onto the wooden promenade, and you can have a tussle with the sea water crashing against the rocks down below, sending up white pearls of water spray to drench anyone who ventures near.

Tel Aviv so far, has been made memorable by the taxi drivers – ever since the first week, when the taxi driver recognized me as an Indian and Bob as an American.

Bob: “How do you know I’m an American? I could also be an Indian” (referring to me)
Taxi driver: “If you were, you would be colored like us, because of the sun” (again, ‘us’ referring to me)
Bob: "I have lived in the shade”.

But the Coke bottle gave him away.

“Americans..." said the taxi driver. "You always drink Coke - McDonalds and Coke!”

Among all the taxi drivers, Eli has been a regular. He waits for us everyday, at 8:00 outside the Renaissance. But we are never regular, thanks mostly to the sumptuous Israeli breakfast served everyday at the hotel. The taxi ride takes us about 45 minutes. It is the time to use our little knowledge of Hebrew, much to the amusement of the taxi drivers. Lessons in Hebrew and speed driving would follow – the first one very amusing, the second one not so.

The old building across the road to the Renaissance Hotel always looks forlorn and empty. There is nothing remarkable about its appearance. It resembles the average office structure that one would find on an Indian street – a five storied building with dark glass windows. You wouldn’t give it a second glance if you passed by. But yesterday, it was windy, and the flag atop the mast was fluttering gracefully in the wind. It was perhaps an indication for me that my time there was coming to an end. The time to fly home was approaching. For a few moments I stood there, watching the Indian tricolor rocking gracefully.

White Nights in Israel

The sun had set ages back. But the crowd had not dispersed. They were still dancing down below on the esplanade, as we sat on the terrace of the marina sipping our drinks. It was 1:00 AM in the morning and surprisingly I was still awake. It was White Night in Tel Aviv. There was a concert on – a huge song and dance festival. Perhaps it was the weekend, I thought (Trust me, it was Thursday.). I did not know at that time that I was witnessing a yearly spectacle. For us, this has been a daily (or, should I say, ‘nightly’?) routine – after the hard day’s work, head down to the beach and seat ourselves on the small plastic chairs laid out by the shacks on the fine sand. We imbibe the cool breeze that floats in from the Mediterranean Sea and gently rock t the rhythm of the dance music blaring out from the speakers. Shisha, Kebab, Hummus and Tahini are all part of my vocabulary now.

Today, we walked along the stone steps of the old city of Jaffa, through the maze of the narrow walls and slender corridors of the artists’ quarter. The waters of the old harbor glistened below us and in the distance lay the mass of skyscrapers that form the hotel chain on the beaches of Tel Aviv. Their facades gleamed in orange, reflecting the setting sun. Today, there were no evening clouds obscuring the beautiful sunset. The old and the new blend in within the city of Tel Aviv. People are simple and straightforward. You can rarely spot a sports car on the massive highways that snake out of Tel Aviv into the vast countryside. Old buildings, their bare walls dotted with painted windows and doors, crop up between the glassed modern ones, on the immaculately laid out streets of the city. Every door carries the small rectangular strip, filled with a biblical scroll that blesses those who dwell inside the room.

As I draw back the curtains of my 11th floor hotel room, the blue waters of the Mediterranean greet me. The road winds down in front of the hotel to join and run alongside the beach. A beautifully laid out pathway separates it from the white sands. Tel Aviv reminds me strongly of Mumbai – the marine drive, the skyscrapers, the old quarter, the relentless honking of cars, people in a hurry in the mornings, the haphazard traffic and the busy beaches. This city is never empty. The worst thing than being away from home is to be in a place that reminds you of home.

It’s almost a week since I left the United States and landed in Israel. I am yet to see the city as a whole – the thirst still lingers in my throat. I left USA unfulfilled – the lost opportunity to meet Sheeba’s family rankles me. But as Mr. Malik parked my cab at the Terminal entrance of Newark’s Liberty International Airport, the song that was playing on his music player was “Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna” (Never say Goodbye).

The Pony Express - Part 19

“What’s the Dreamcatcher for?” asked the pretty girl with the cowboy hat, as we stood waiting for Lavinia at the Ripley’s museum. For a moment I was stunned. Was she really talking to me? I was on cloud 9, and started explaining about nightmares and dreams. She seemed much impressed. Then it dawned on me that perhaps she believed I was a Red Indian in disguise. But then, this was Indian country, in one way or the other. The Red Indians may have long gone, but the Indians sure seem to be everywhere.

Texas is like India in many ways. There is the long plain, stretching to where the sky meets earth – with the odd tree breaking the monotony. It is hot like hell – in fact it was the first time I saw a fan in a house (Lavinia was surprised to hear that) - and of course, the Indians: not Red, but the saffron-white-and-green variety. Jaysheel had an interesting observation: “This is the town Irving. It’s called Mini-Hyderabad. 85% of the population is Telugu. The rest 15% are Americans and other Indians.”

Lavinia seemed to take a liking to Ripley’s. Like a little girl, she was wide-eyed with excitement. It seemed a trifle difficult to distinguish who was younger – she or her three-year old daughter. Not a lot seemed to have changed with her in the last eight years. Every place in the USA, however big or small needs a museum. Dallas is famous two things – being the place where John F Kennedy was shot dead, and for sharing its name with one of the most popular soap operas of the late 20th century. I was never a person to adore soap operas - with the odd exception of Kyunki Saans Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi till a few years back – but Kennedy? That would give me some bragging rights over Vinay Shenoy. The highlight of the day was Pioneer Plaza, which housed a bronze sculpture of four cowboys herding buffaloes. There were around 100-odd buffaloes. Texas and India…now you know.

“I like the T-Shirt!” said the lady at the counter pointing to that age-old tiger-eyes thing I always wear. I was on the clouds. “Well, at least someone liked it! My team mates have forbidden me from wearing it to office” I exclaimed to Lavinia. She’d taken me to a quaint little town called Grapevine, and was looking disappointed that nothing much was happening there. She’d promised that there would be a bustling market, and perhaps to hide the same, was taking me into all the antique stores. To my liking, I found a tin advertisement board which said: “Coffee: Do stupid things faster”. Even the lady at the counter pretended to be impressed at my choice. “I’ll hang it on my cubicle” I promised Lavinia. She looked embarrassed.

One look at Grapevine Main Street and you’ll realize why it is “quaint”. To my utter surprise, here was a town that seemed to have been lifted straight out of a Lucky Luke comic book or one of those John Wayne-Clint Eastwood Westerns. There was the big town hall at the end of the street. Lining the street were two-storied buildings which if you stepped a couple of hundred years back would have formed the banks and saloons where all those cool dudes hanged around. The difference perhaps was that, , huge motorcycles were to be spotted in place of the horses that would be drinking from wooden water buckets as their riders drank more exotic liquids from better-shaped containers. With the increasing gas prices, giving them a drink would not exactly be on the minds of their riders (who perhaps, would still be drinking more exotic liquids from better-shaped containers).

There was also the old railroad, now running as a showpiece attraction. But incredibly, I neither rode it, nor took a picture of it.

We had lunch at a (genuine) Thai restaurant. Lavinia seemed to be an expert at ordering Thai food, sparing me the trouble of not knowing what to eat. And then, to my surprise, she said: “Take a little bit of everything. That way, you will get to taste all the good things in life”.

It was the last weekend of my trip here in the USA. Jaysheel and Lavinia seemed to be a bit disappointed that perhaps I didn’t get to see anything much in Dallas (“Dallas is the most interestingly boring place.” he joked). But if someone asks me “What did you see in Dallas?” I know I have an answer.

“All the good things in life…” Of all the things I saw, there was nothing more delightful than spending time with their family.

The Pony Express grounds to a halt here.

The Pony Express - Part 18

“The quintessential American tourist”, was how Kavitha described me when we met. Indeed, I stood there sheepishly with my woolen jacket wrapped around me on the hottest day of the year (It was like being back in Bangalore), and my huge camera dangling around the neck. I had already clicked 30-odd photos at “The Crossroads of the World” – Times Square. She had donned her newest dress – as was evident from the price tag that still dangled from it.

Kavitha played the perfect host in New York (well, there it goes, da. As promised, I praise you…and well-deserved too). Two days before I was scheduled to make an appearance, she’d asked me to send her my list of “what-to-dos”, and I had quickly compiled up the “what’s what” list of New York City attractions. And there she was, with a small notebook in her hand, pointing out to me how well she’d planned my time in New York, complete with metro routes and all. Further, she wisely kept me away from the DVD shops.

After having seen the sleepy streets of Philadelphia where life moves along at a leisurely pace, New York was like an express train. It seemed to barely stand and notice, as people from all walks of life whiz past you. Exiting out of Penn station to find the Empire State Building towering up in front of me, Bangladeshi waiters waxing eloquent about the health system in India, “quotable quotes” from Kavitha on certain movies releases in India (I am not sure she would be amused if I mentioned the quote)...there are lots that I could write about, but choose not to (this post is not a tourist guide). Two days whizzed past, roaming around Manhattan – Broadway, Fifth Avenue, Central Park, the Museums, Brooklyn Bridge and even a ride in the New York Metro. Kavitha was perhaps disappointed that we could neither catch up on a Broadway show, nor get near Lady Liberty – she stood across the Hudson, her torch competing with the tall cranes in the distance. We would perhaps meet some other time.

“Sing a keertanam” said Kavitha, as we were having a short dinner at the Esplanade. I was taken aback for a while, but then obliged. Soon, she started singing...of all things, my favorite composition – “Alaipayuthe”. And then the raindrops fell. There was no connection between the rain and our singing, but strangely after two days of scorching heat, it seemed like curtain-down on my trip to New York. I wanted to get wet, but Kavitha was not so enthusiastic...as she said earlier during the day, i am in my second childhood now.

The Pony Express - Part 17

Today I finished the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It was beautiful. Philadelphia turns beautiful as the flowers bloom finally. But the city is indifferent. For all I know, I could have been anywhere else in the world - a stranger in a strange land.

Photo of the Day: Afternoon rainbow at Logan's Square Fountain.

The Pony Express - Part 16: Memories from Montreal...

All good things come to an end.

On Friday evening, the departure gates of the Pierre Trudeau Airport were eerily empty. With just a few minutes to go for the flight, I wondered whether I was the sole passenger on the flight. At 5:00 PM I had been early, but not too bothered about being so. The lady at the counter had offered to put me on the 5:40 PM flight, but I had wisely declined – a decision vindicated as I passed through the immigration counter.

My worst fears seemed to be cropping up in my mind. The officer at the immigration counter was quite crude.

Him: “Why were you in Canada?”
Me: “I was here for a business meeting with a client.”
Him: “Where in the USA are you headed for?”
Me: “Philadelphia.”
Him: “Why?”
Me: “I work for SAP.”
Him: “Why are you in the USA?”
(What??) Me: “I work for SAP, and am in the USA for business meetings.”
Him: “I AM ASKING YOU, WHAT IS YOUR IMMIGRATION STATUS IN THE USA???”
(Huh!!) Me: “er…B1.”
Him: “Then where is your I94 form?”
(Oh No!!! There it goes) Me: “er…they took it from me when I boarded the flight in Philadelphia.”
He glared at me and thrust an I94 form at me.
Him: “Fill it up!”
I duly did. He pointed to the fingerprinting machine and said: “Your left finger.”
I extended my finger.
Him: “YOUR LEFT FINGER!”
In that moment of panic, I forgot which my left hand was.

After the disaster on Monday, recovery had been amazing. Within two days I could walk. On Wednesday, I headed out. The leg was still paining. It was not responding to flexion (it’s still not), but that didn’t deter me.

For those who think traffic in Bangalore is awful, welcome to Montreal.

Downtown Montreal is busy. Cars zip along at high speeds, oblivious of life on the roads. The youngsters are ever partying, especially after the hockey games at the Bell Centre. They are everywhere on the roads. Dorchester Square Park in the middle seems to have stopped in time. A few people can be spotted on the benches, reading books. The odd kid plays with the ball. As I turn my attention back to the road, I am suddenly transformed into another world. The cars are still zipping along…and amidst them, a beautiful girl in a white shirt and a black skirt printed with flowers is astride on a bicycle. A bunch of flowers jut out of the basket in front of the bicycle. It seems as if she’s been plucked out of a 1930s country scene. Time has indeed stopped.

Unfortunately, she’s too fast for my camera.

This week, Montreal is painted in three colors – red white and black. You can’t miss the fact that the Formula One craze has hit the town. When the cars roll out on the streets of Notre Dame the next weekend, you wouldn’t make a mistake as to who finds support here – the city is painted in red. I trudge along to the old town. It fills up with the tourists, who seem to be confused as to which pub to head for. I head for the huge souvenir shop.

I bought a bunch of things. And the young shopkeeper, he saw the bunch and asked me to pick something as a gift for me. I picked up a key chain. He gave me two more.

On Thursday, I headed up the hill to Mount Royal. It was a little adventurous of my part, since my leg was not fully healed, and half way through, my legs started to give away. They felt as if they were made of iron. But the beautifully quiet surroundings of the McGill University urged me along. By the time I reached the park, the sun was already on its way down. Looking down the steep road, I could see the river far away, through a small break among the crowd of skyscrapers. Their glasses gleamed golden in the evening sun. I went into the wooded park, and sat there for half an hour. A few evening joggers and old people went past; smiling courteously (people are so kind out here in Canada). But for them, it was just me and the birds chirping on the trees.

I am reminded of Blanche DuBois’s famous quote from Tennessee Williams’s 'A Streetcar Named Desire' : “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

It was past 10:30 when I reached the hotel. I had walked down the beautiful Rue St. Denis, filled with restaurants featuring all kinds of cuisine. There are numerous Indian restaurants on this street. I had marveled at the huge campus of the Royal Victoria Hospital, an old Victorian-era complex that stands on the slopes of the hill. It reminded me of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from the Harry Potter movies. But I did not linger along. Hospitals always give me the creeps. They bring to me a sense of pain, a sense of suffering. As darkness descends, Downtown Montreal becomes increasingly ominous. A few cars still whiz along at high speeds, but the streets are empty and devoid of life. I walk along in the shadows, aware that there is still some way to go before the cozy confines of my room. I can see that there are people lurking in the shadows. A few youngsters venture out displaying their skills on roller skates. The massive Hotel de Ville glows triumphantly at the night sky. But the churches have closed their doors - eerie blue lights permeate their long windows. The homeless people, snuggled under blankets, try to catch some sleep on the steps of the churches or on the park benches of Victoria Square. At night I realize that beneath the gloss there is lot of poverty around.

It ended as it started – under clouded skies. The past five days have been exhilarating. It would be an understatement to say that it was a memorable trip. Montreal is truly beautiful. I do not know whether I will ever return here. But I carry with me a lot of memories, and one among them is the statement made by my TQM:

“My ideal country to live in would have…

The lifestyle of Germany and Switzerland
The weather of Venezuela (minus the rain)
The comfort of the USA
The beaches of the Caribbean
The food of Brazil
The beer of Ireland…

My friends keep telling me, you’re a crazy girl, you’ll never find such a place…but what’s wrong in dreaming? You don’t have to pay to dream…”

I hope the day never comes when we have to pay for our dreams…

The Pony Express - Part 15

The Pony Express crossed the border on May 26th. But before that there was the small matter of catching up with Indiana Jones. Snag was waiting for me to log in on Sunday night. In my excitement, I'd forgotten to release some requests.

Me: Hi, I'm just back from Indy 4
Snag: How was the trip?
Me: I'm talking about Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
Snag: Is that a movie?
Me: Lady, which world are you from?
Me: You haven't heard of Indiana Jones??
Me: You haven't heard of INDIANA JONES??

Obviously, she gave me an earful.

"Bangalore? I've seen a lot of people from Bangalore out here" the security guard at Philadelphia Airport beamed, looking at my passport. Terminal F, exclusively for US Airways Express seemed empty. Soon I got to know the reason. The flights were tiny 40-seater aircraft. So small that the overhead compartment could just fit my laptop bag. "Can I have your case, sir? It needs to go into the cargo hold. You can collect it at the gate when you embark." said the crewman as I was about to enter the airplane. Obviously there was a lack of space. As I buckled up in my seat, I realised that all my documents were inside the case. All kinds of worst-case-scenarios started flashing through my mind. What if the suitcase is directly sent to the baggage claim area? What if I am not allowed entry into Canada? What if I am not allowed entry back into the USA?

The last question still haunts my mind. As for the others, I am now relaxing in my suite on the 30th floor of the Marriott Chateau Champlain in Montreal.

Montreal...the best thing about Montreal Airport is that they give you a city guide and a city map free of cost.

The Pierre Trudeau Airport is huge, but eerily empty. There was the absence of the ever-present queue, both at immigration and at the baggage counters. I was still tense. At the immigration counter I tried my best to present an innocent face like the baby in a topless bar. The girl at the counter put me to ease. She seemed confused about what to put as my last name. "You don't have a 'Singh' in your name?" she asked. I may have looked even more perplexed. Amidst all this confusion, she put the occupation as "Agricultural Engineer" in my work permit.

One could be forgiven to think that they are in France rather than Canada. Everything around is in French - the street sign, shop names, metro and bus stations, and what else. With lots of time to kill, I went out for a walk in the afternoon. Massive skyscrapers rise up on all sides of the hotel around downtown Montreal. A small park nestles beneath these steel monsters. Along with these monstrosities, the masonic buildings give the place a quaint European feel. Right in front of the hotel stands the massive Cathedral of Mary, Queen of the World, modelled after the St. Peter's Basilica. I spent an hour photographing the church, which meant that I had to miss out visiting the Notre Dame Cathedral.

Situated on the banks of the massive St Lawrence, the city has a massive promenade. But the place was thoroughly depressing. There was not a soul present at the promenade. Incredibly, there were no tourists - not even the one thousand odd Chinamen. I stood there under the grey clouds, watching the huge container ship crawling along the river. However, across the street was another story. It was as if I had stepped into another time. Stone roads dot the old quarter of the city. Life begins here. A hundred shops displayed their wares. Roadside restaurants and taverns were playing music. The place was full of smiling tourists - and among them I stood.

And then, disaster struck. I sprained my leg.

The Chronicles of Indiana - the alien, the skull and the refrigerator

Close your eyes.

The "Raiders' March" starts slowly...builds up to a crescendo...and then we can see it in our mind - Harrison Ford, with his customary hat, whip in hand, jumping from trucks and vehicles to evade his captors. The image of Indiana Jones has been stuck in our minds forever.

The world can be divided into two parts - those who have heard of Indiana Jones and those who have not (No, I haven't switched allegiance. Star Wars is heavenly - not from this world).

"Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of Crystal Skull" was definitely going to be the most awaited movie of the year - what with the master storyteller Steven Spielberg joining hands with the creator of dreams George Lucas yet again. Chases through warehouses and university halls, sword fights in amazonian jungle forests, man-eating ants...add to it, throw in the odd-snake to scare Indy and Indiana's quirky humour...Indy-4 does not disappoint.

Indy-4 begins off 19 years after the Last Crusade. An army of Russians, led by the ruthless and calculating Irina Spalko (Cate Blanchett, excelling in a chilling portrayal), have infiltrated Hangar 51 in Nevada on the day of a nuclear testing. With the help of the captured Indy, they are out to retrieve a box that contains the remains of an alien. Indy manages to escape - which will be dealt with later in this article - but is suspended from the college after being suspected as a red. A happy-go-lucky Mutt Williams (Shia LaBeouf) approaches him to save his mother Marion Ravenwood (Karen Allen reprising the role she played in the first movie) and his teacher Professor Oxley (John Hurt). Indy agrees and what follows is a non-stop run across Peru and the amazonian jungles in search of lost cities and a crystal skull.

However, the movie leaves different tastes in your mouth. For Indiana Jones fans, you get what you expect from the movie. With almost 20 years gone since the last movie, if you expect something extraordinary, you are bound to be disappointed. For the uninitiated, Indy 4 appears as if it were a rehash of the Mummy movies. But what they fail to realize is that Indiana Jones was the "baap" of the likes of Benjamin Franklin Gates and Rick O'Connell. Of course, Indy 4 has weaknesses. The movie sometimes stretches your imagination - be it whatever, we are no longer in a world where reality can be mingled with fantasy. The script tends to be a little weak, stretching the viewer's patience towards the end. Oh, and by now, we definitely know how aliens look like. Like in every alien movie, they have elongated skulls, narrow eyes, slits for noses and a mouth so small that you might miss it if they don't speak to you. We can definitely say 'hi' if we find one walking down the road.

All said and done, Indy 4 is nevertheless a journey back in time, to the days when we used to adore Harrison Ford. Ford is old, but fits the role of Indiana to a T - thankfully because, he plays his age, with the creators having taken care that his age is accounted for in action sequences. Still, he manages to leave us breathless with his stunts. Shia LaBeouf passes muster, and evokes a few laughs with his addiction to his comb. It's great to have Karen Allen back in the movie. She is as delightful as she was in the first edition. And Cate Blanchett...to me, she stands tall, perhaps shoulder to shoulder with Ford, chilling in her portrayal of Spalko.

The movie ends with Jones and Ravenwood finally uniting in wedlock. The church door is blown open by a gust of wind, and with it flies in Indiana's hat. Mutt picks it up, ponders for a second, and lifts it to his head. Indiana passes by at that moment, snatches the hat from him and puts it on with a smile. That one shot symbolizes what every Indiana Jones fan truly knows. There can never be another Harrison Ford.

An appeal to Mr. Spielberg: Indy is our hero...but escaping a nuclear blast by hiding in a refrigerator lined with lead? Now that is stretching one's imagination a bit too much.

The Pony Express - Part 14

The southern end of Hope Street is a dead end. At this end stands a small sand-coloured building that resembles an Egyptian temple or palace. The top of the building is crowned by a mosaic pyramid, and the words "Books Invite All They Constrain None" is carved out on its doorway. The huge skyscrapers of Citibank and US Bank tower over it from behind, as if guarding this little one from harm. This is the Los Angeles Public Library. Next to it, stood the massive structure that housed the Canadian Consulate.

Los Angeles is a strange place. New York has the glitz, Chicago is bustling with business, San Francisco retains its old charm, and LA, it gives me a mysterious feeling. This city stands as if it were a large oasis in a desert - a fact augmented by the presence of huge palm trees along the roadsides. Huge freeways, carrying more than 10 lanes of traffic crisscross the city, flying above the houses. This was my second visit to the city. My plan was to finish off the work at the Consulate and head towards Downtown Disney at Anaheim, in the hope of laying my hands on some elusive DVDs (and perhaps some rhinoceros soft toys). But Anaheim was far off, and due to the time taken at the consulate, i had to ditch the plans.

It took me one hour to walk from the hotel to the consulate. The Figueroa corridor, where the hotel stood was home to a few landmarks in the city. Opposite to the hotel, sprawled the majestic campus of the University of Southern California. A few blocks away, resplendent in Muslim Architecture stood the Shrine Auditorium, home to the Academy Awards Ceremony until a few years back. And further away was the beautiful Spanish building of the Automobile Association of America. Joel, the receptionist, was eager to explain to me about them. He was overjoyed that he could pronounce my second name at the first attempt. "Ravi! your first name sounds nice," he declared. "It means, the 'sun'" I told him. "My second name in Spanish translates to 'bread and wine'," he chuckled "But that's nothing! one of my cousins, he is named after a rare flower."

He was one of the jolly characters i would meet that day, the other being the jovial security guard at the consulate. Courteous and playful with everyone, he made everyone feel at ease in what would otherwise have been a dour environment. He sent me down from the 9th Floor to the reception downstairs claiming that I was "one minute early". And when I came up a minute later, he had a mischievous smile on his face.

Downtown LA is a strange place. As the hours pass by, life changes in these skyscrapers. At 8:00 in the morning, the traffic was heavy, with cars honking. Within two hours, the roads were completely empty. At 3:00 in the afternoon, people dressed in immaculate suits were busy running from one building to the other. Cars were crashing into each other. I decided to walk back to the hotel, rather than take a taxi. It seemed to be an interesting day. The finals of American Idol where scheduled down the street at the Staples Centre Auditorium. Huge limousines were pulling up close to the red carpet, and girls were screaming at the top of their lungs. Next door, at the sports centre, the cheerleaders of the LA Lakers were getting ready for the NBA match in the evening. I lingered for a long time before proceeding. I had just one more thing to see, before I left LA.

After a short breather at the hotel, I walked out. The huge United Airlines aircraft greets you at the front of the California Science Centre. It forms the part of the Theodore Alexander Jr. Science School. Under the shadows of the huge aircraft, kids were busy playing basketball. Further along, stood a US Air force fighter plane. But most surprisingly, at the entrance of the parking lot, was a unique exhibit - a lever, with a car hanging on it at one end, with the other end hanging free. Anybody wishing to do so, could pull the chains at the free end (marked 1X, 2X and 4X) and lift the car. If you pulled the chain with the right force, you could lift the car. I succeeded.

In the midst of the trees, as if a mute witness to the surroundings, stood the massive Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. The seating arena sloped down to the track at the bottom. I was finally there...

Observation: Perhaps the most romantic thing in the world is to fly up in the sky on a moonlit night. But then, airplanes are so depressing.

The Pony Express - Part 13

Bhavan's Vidya Mandir, Thrissur: One day at school, our teacher made an announcement that we were to be taken to a nearby auditorium to watch the opening ceremony of the Olympics. I had never heard of the Olympics before. The teacher explained to me what the Olympics was. At the auditorium I watched, as the athletes went past the cheering crowd at the Los Angeles Coliseum. The huge arched doorway, with the Olympic Torch lit atop, stayed in my mind. In the days that followed, i made many a painting on what I had seen. It was the first time I had heard of the City of Los Angeles. Hence, it came as a surprise to me when I caught sight of it, late on Tuesday night. The Radisson Hotel where I was staying for the night, was situated directly opposite to the Los Angeles Coliseum.

It had been a long night. The flight was dreadful. I hadn't eaten anything. By the time I woke from my sleep, the food had got over. And the flight was already late, as we swooped down over the immense city of Los Angeles. The city seemed to stretch underneath wherever I looked. I had never seen a city bigger than this, from the air.

Fifteen beautiful pillars swathed in blue and purple light adorn the entrance to the LAX International Airport, and strangely, they reminded me of the pillars at the entrance to the town of Panaji. Getting out of the airport complex seemed to take ages. As we got on to the freeway, the first thing i noticed was the buildings that proclaimed "Raytheon". It seemed ominous. My taxi sped along the freeway at 90 miles per hour. Down below, the brightly lit city extended till the horizon - immaculately laid out roads crisscrossing each other to make rectangular patterns. The sky had an orange hue, masking out the beautiful moonlight that had lit up the ground as we flew across America.

"You're just in time, sir. You've received an upgrade, since we are running short of rooms today" said the receptionist as i walked into the lobby. As I stepped into the room, I saw two neatly laid out beds. The massive pool glinted outside.

I collapsed out of exhaustion.

Photo of the Day: None. I never carried my camera to Los Angeles.

The Pony Express - Part 12

* I guess the Phillies (i mean the baseball team, not any Philadelphian) were playing today. I take that surmise by the number of people I saw on the train wearing a "Phillies" shirt or pullover. Small-time railway stations like Paoli are no different from their counterparts India - neglected, lonely and small, as if development seemed to have gone past, completely ignoring them. The local trains though are completely different. Sleek, smooth and soundless. That one fact sometimes puts me off - i miss the 'dhadak-dhadak' of the Indian train.

* Today is Israel's Independence Day. The country celebrates its 60th anniversary. As I walked down 22nd Street, i was greeted by a massive traffic jam leading on to the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. No wonder...there was a massive procession on. All the Jews in Philadelphia had descended on to the parkway today. The rain did not seem to bother them. There they were, happily waving the flags. Of course, the anti-Israel protesters were not far behind. A handful of them, wearing black all over, were following the procession, with placards saying "It's not yet time to celebrate, Israel" and "Remember Palestine". As for me, I just ambled along.

* "Go in at 2:00, and you can come out at 5:00. It does not take more than 3 hours." Kavitha had told me the other day, about the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It was my destination today. I spent 4 hours inside the museum, before I was chucked out at 5:00 - the closing time. I had only finished seeing half of the museum.

* You might be forgiven if you thought the Philadelphia Museum of Art was dedicated to the movies. Most people who come here are more interested in clicking a photograph at the top of the massive steps that lead up to the Eastern entrance. These steps are called the "Rocky Steps." The movie poster featured Rocky Balboa standing on top of the steps, his hands raised up in determination. Everyone wants to be a Rocky...by just posing for a photograph. Sure enough, there are metallic shoe prints with the word "Rocky" imprinted on the floor.

* I might have claimed that Budapest was better than Philadelphia, but the Quaker City scores one on the basis of the Museum. The Museum houses a huge collection. Impressions made by Budapest were changed out here. Cezanne, Rubens, Monet, Manet, Van Gogh and Picasso were all there. Talking about Picasso, they have a huge collection of Modern Art, most of which did not make sense to me. Picasso's paintings were the major attraction. There was a painting called "The Bullfight", in which I failed to spot the bull, another one called "Man with the violin" in which I could not find any violin, and one called "Man with the guitar" in which I could not find...guess what?

* The worst was yet to come. There was a huge rectangular canvas which was painted all over by just one shade of blue. It was called "River." A vertical rectangular canvas strip was split into black, white, black and blue painted rectangles. It was named, not surprisingly, "two blacks, a white and a blue". Another one was named "yellow, orange and red". You can guess how it would have looked.

* The adjoining room was dedicated to modern artwork created out of photographs and postcards by a British-Italian duo: Gilbert and George. I almost choked on seeing an artwork named "Blue World." It was made out of hundreds of postcards featuring...Govinda (the actor)!

* Pragati's favourite place in Budapest was Vaci ut, the shopping street - her version of Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium. Here in Philly, there are two of them - Chestnut Street and Walnut Street. I guess she would love them twice over.

Photo of the Day: Maternal Caress.

Over and out

The Pony Express - Part 11

As I waited to be billed at "Giant", two guys in black jackets, earrings and all turned up at the next queue. They looked perplexed. "I need the least colourful Mother's Day card. I know it's too late, but that's what my mom likes" he blabbered to the clerk. This country is surely strange.

The drive to Washington DC was beautiful. As we entered I-95, the huge spans of the Delaware Memorial Bridge rose up in the distance. We would not be going up the bridge on our journey, but our ride would take us through a beautifully green landscape. The weather forecast had been cloudy, but the rain kept us company throughout the ride. For a change, we saw massive traffic jams, but thankfully not on our lane.

Washington DC was a major surprise. The city was more beautiful than i had ever imagined. Skyscrapers were conspicuous by their absence. Old masonry buildings hugged each other on well-planned streets. The streets were laid out in lattice patters, being named after numbers and alphabets. The bigger avenues were named after the states of the country. It was as if we had stepped into any European city.

We never needed a map, but then, we spent precious minuted finding a place to park. Every building seemed to have a huge park. "Colonial Park" - claimed the logo everywhere. Little do they know that "Colonial" had a different connotation in India. However, all the Colonial car parks seemed to be shuttered - until we realized that even though these were public car parks, they required some kind of card to be accessed.

We parked in the basement of a huge glass building - perhaps the only one in the neighborhood. Getting out of the basement seemed to be the biggest challenge for us. Following the "Exit" sign on the stairway, we stepped out into a corridor full of doors on each side, with flourescent lights hanging from above. It resembled something out of a science fiction movie - a laboratory where virus had been accidentally released.

As we ambled along, the beauty of the place was growing on us. Soon, I spotted the huge triangular top of the Washington Monument obelisk rising above the trees. A storm seemed to approaching and in the swirling clouds the immense structure seemed to sway. The sky was filled with the drone of aircrafts landing and taking off from the nearby airport. Behind us stood the massive dome of the Capitol, and ahead the sparkling fountains of the World War II Memorial, where thousands of tourists were busy clicking innumerable photgraphs. The long rectangular tank with its still water resembling a sheet of green tinted glass stretched all the way till the Lincolm Monument, a scene which I had until now, witnessed in innumerable movies. And on our right, nestled amidst a huge garden, lay what is considered by some as the most important place on earth - the White House.

But for every human, home is the most important place on earth...

Tossing him the bottle of shoe polish I had gotten from "Giant", I told Sandil: "You should be proud of it!" Written on it in small white letters were the words "Made in India".

Pic of the Day: Babies' Day Out

Thank you...

...to all who came into my klavern, read my posts, commented on it, encouraged me to write...

This is my hundredth post...

--The Klansman...