We don’t often realise, but the world isn’t as corrupt as we think it is. Sure, there’s a lot of cheap politicians, crappy streets, smelly alleys, unclean water, and even contaminated minds.
But there’s also beauty. There’s clean and detoxing air. We just have to look in the right places for purity. Like the sky through an aeroplane window.
With a passion for shades
and water colours for tools
he went looking for a school
to learn and become an artist
he knew no new technique
yet his views were unique
teachers told him bug off
you’re no good, get off
he strove still to no avail
all nightlong he scribbled
and daylong he dabbled
tried doing acrylic on canvas
and tested sketches on paper
shady outlines, weak curves
many hiccups and near give ups
years of toiling and redrawing
rework, redesign, recolour, repeat.
And people called Artists naturals.
I was fourteen then. Everything that caught my eye caught my mind. Life was school. And school was a routine bore, with a few interesting classes thrown in at times. My text books and note books were all just calculations, corrections made in red ink, and the occasional green signature.
It was yet another day, yet another class, with yet another teacher asking us to turn to page three hundred and ninety-four. The faint Harry Potter reference was all the entertainment we had. That was until I saw the picture in that page. It was an English class and for reasons still bewildering, the lesson was about gondolas.
For some odd reason, I thought of orangutans. Perhaps it was the sound of the two words, or the colour of the picture facing me. Nevertheless, when I took in the word, gondola, I could only imagine an extra-large orangutan crouching itself inside a deep brown boat staring at the camera, and at me.
It took me a while to erase that image from my mind and look at the topic of discussion: Venice.
That’s how I fell in love with gondolas.
Now that I think of it, I don’t even remember the contents of that lesson. Except that it spoke of the no street Venice and the gondolas people used for transport. The idea fascinated me. I was never a fan of the Indian roadway system. Somehow it always makes me regret my food choices.
But this, this was genius. Travelling through the city in boats. I could picture the beauty of it, the environmental awareness in such a system. This was a time when global warming and pollution were so huge that they were essay topics for school students. Here was a city that boycotted them all. And I wanted to experience it, despite my aversion to all water bodies — I had taken swimming lessons for three years before my mother realised I wouldn’t do anything more than holding on to the edge of the pool with my head high above the water.
Staring at that pixellated picture of the gondola and the people in it, I realised I wanted to go to Venice. Just to ride around the city in a gondola.
For about three to five years after that, I didn’t think about Venice at all. It had become one of those school-days’ fantasy that people only cherish when they grow too old to pull themselves off their armchairs.
But one day, I thought back to the tingling sensation I had felt when I saw that picture in my text-book.
Craving for more, and clearer photos, I went looking for Venice and gondolas in Pinterest. The next thing I knew, I had created a board to collect all the beautiful Venice photos I could find. I still don’t know what good that would do, but that’s how love works: you never know why.
So Venice is my ideal destination. I’ve spent a lot of waking hours and much more sleeping hours wondering how I’d go to Venice. Or if I’d go at all. It didn’t take long for me to realise, going to Venice was no big deal. At least the dreaming part of it wasn’t.
I’d go alone. Because I haven’t found that one person who’s worth going with, and I don’t want to wait if I could go instead.
When? Tomorrow if possible, but this is just a plan so I’d leave the “when” to availability of flights and possibility of cash.
Where? Venice, of course. Perhaps once I’ve seen enough of Venice, I’d go somewhere else, but I’m not the kind to draw out detailed itineraries. I’d go where my gut takes me.
However, I’d like to make a stop in Bulgaria and Croatia on the way. I have no idea what’s best in either countries, but people don’t talk much about them, and I’d take that as a sign these countries need more travellers.
Oh, and since I’m already landing on Italian soil, I might as well pay a visit to the Colosseum, make a tribute to Madame Nightingale’s birthplace, and say hello to a few models in Milan. And once I’m done mingling with the tourists, I’d traverse away to some of the less known parts of Italy. Grab a pizza at Crotone, maybe, and spend a day watching Friends.
And then, when I’m ready to come back, I’d go back to Venice again, thank the gondoliers for a few more rides, and return with memories worth bragging about.
PS — This post is for a promotion campaign by yatra.com.
I’m in the mood to reminisce. About when I went so high, I was both ecstatic and sober.
The mountains, I mean.
There’s something about the hills, about the way they go round and round, the winding roads twisting and turning. The way you traverse through rocks and slides, staring at nothing but an expanse of brownish mass that’s so plain, yet so attractive.
Who would look at a mountain and expect it to have been around for centuries, nurturing countless monkeys, squirrels, mushrooms, and buttercups?
From tiny dents that sliding rocks had created over the years and small shrubs peeking through large cracks. To even the bigger chasms that open up to disasters during the monsoons. Everything about a mountain is wondrous.
Who’d pause to wonder that such a life-giving creature could also be dangerous? If the earth makes one wrong move, the whole rocky magnificence will crash down upon us. And yet we pry at it, with scalpels and crossbars, and evil hearts looking to uproot the structure that feeds thousands of life forms.
As we ascended the Darjeeling hills, I looked down at the world of luscious greenery and turquoise waters glistening in the mild afternoon sun. The hills encase these small water bodies, protecting them from the evils of humanity. It was a sight I’d hold in my mind forever.
It wasn’t just the natural scenery, just the joy and thrill of going up a mountain, made my heart race, in a good way. As we elevated, my heart elated. And so did my hopes of going higher and higher. Robert M. Pirsig said, “Sometimes it’s a little better to travel than to arrive.” That’s how it was.
The hills are alive, calling in a reverberating voice you can’t ignore. And that’s why I’d never say no to the mountains.
All was well, until one fateful day. My life was perfect until she came along with her bright light and thundering calls. And she brought along with her, a storm that ruined my life forever.
We didn’t have much, my sister Leela and I. We lived alone in a hut we called our own. We would wake up every morning to the spray of the sea and the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks.
We had a small stall on the beach where business was good enough for both of us. We sold fried onions and peppers to beachgoers who loved to sink their teeth into something hot and oily after a dip in the sea. We had no worries, no one to look after. It was just us and our expenses. And sometimes, when we felt adventurous, we plucked coconuts from our backyard and sold them for some extra money.
Our life was perfect. We’d go to the bazaar on Sundays, buy some flowers, sometimes a sari — we’d share what we own — and walk home nibbling popcorn. We’d then spend the rest of the afternoon stringing the flowers, and wearing them in our hair.
Our life was perfect. Until she came along. Out of nowhere, one Sunday, lightening lashed at the rocks. And thunder followed. We had planned to go to the bazaar that day. We had thought of getting a cake to celebrate Leela’s birthday the following day. But the rain dampened our plans. We had to run about our home putting vessels under holes that let the rain in. We sat on our doorstep looking on at the sky. The storm had come from nowhere. No one in the village had said anything about it. Mrs. Loudmouth next door — she had a radio — would have told us if the weatherman had predicted anything ominous. But nothing, the rain stormed on us all day.
All of a sudden, we saw a puppy running toward the water. Leela saw it first. She called after the animal, but we couldn’t even hear ourselves over the storm. Without thinking, Leela left my side and ran after the dog. I called out to her to stop, and pulled at her skirt, but she slipped away from my fingers.
That was the last I saw of her. The storm was too fierce for me to follow. My life was perfect until that moment. And from nowhere, the storm ravaged our home, took my life away, and left me weeping on the floor.
The Chaos Within 