Ceramic cows in Vienna

Came back last night from Vienna. We stayed in a Jesuit house in the periphery of the city, near the summer palace of the king, Schonenbrunn and the Tiergarten zoo. One evening, I did find the time to go the city. It was cloudy and cold with occasional rains.

Vienna is like a wedding cake with baroque buildings all around. I walked down from cathedral in Stephanplatz to the opera house where Strauss had conducted his symphonies, along a road that could have been in Hong-kong or any where else, with slick shop-windows, crowds, Armani, Hugo Boss and Macdonalds. Actually you only need to go to a shopping mall any where in the world and you can find the same atmosphere.

In a small Turkish kebab shop, the man asked me if I was from India. "From where?" his eyes lighted up. For some time we chatted in Punjabi. His Jullundher dialect was so strong that I could hardly understand him. He had been around. Italy, USA, Canada, UK. Emigrant lives. He made me a big kebab with extra helping of every thing, including the hot red chilly sauce.

In the end, while choosing a picture to represent the Vienna visit, I choose the ceramic statue of the cows from the garden in front of a restaurant near the Jesuit house.

I thought of the cows sitting in the middle of road in Delhi, munching placidly, uncaring about the fumes of buses and scooters going around them. Would they look better if their owners painted them in reds and yellows? Would they be envious of these shining ceramic cows, forever in middle of a garden. Perhaps not, here in Europe they risk being served on a plate.

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Tourist-guide in Bologna

Last year was really good. Writing the book, working on the web page, months of writing and creating without feeling tired, all the online courses exhibitions, etc. on the AIFO web page.. Then suddenly one day, the energy seemed to disappear. The days pass meaningless. Lost in translation, don't know what that means exactly, but it sounds right.

Suddenly this desire to write is back. Not the crazy energy that poured out all the time. More tired energy. Wonder, how long it would last. Had a look at new blog pages at Blogger.com, where Mukul has his blog. I like the colours of Mukul's blog. But how many blogs are there about confused thoughts, random thoughts, wandering thoughts, fragments, confusion.. So many persons not knowing how to express themselves and to whom!

Pam left back for London yesterday. It was real fun to have her here in Bologna. I was her tourist guide, taking her around.

It is so good to have someone who is interested in arts and history, and who does not get bored if you talk about museums, paintings and the histories of churches. Most people do not want a real tourist guide, they just want someone to point the "important" things that are worth visiting so that when they go back, they can say that they saw them and show the pictures to prove it. To have guests who are more interested in shopping malls leaves me frustrated. Pam was not like that!

She is a wonderful person. I went to meet Prof. Pampiglione with her, in his 7th floor apartment that has wonderful views of the skyline of Bologna. They were together in Mozambique thirty years ago.

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Clouds, Triveni Kala Sangam and Farhat

I love the clouds. And the vibrant greens and dark browns of trees against the gray sky. It makes me feel like singing. And it brings back memories of long walks with Rini didi in the Janaki Devi college grounds, of the concerts of Pandit Jasraj and Bhim Sen Joshi, of the chudela dance...

Suddenly I am thinking of the first time, I heard Mehndi Hassan. His song Awargi. His voice soft and smooth like velvet. In the Triveni Kala Sangam library in Mandi House. Pinki had taken me there. Black vinyl records. The first time of hearing Prabha Atre sing, Tan man dhan tope varun. The first time of hearing Farida Khannum.

Last year when Farhat had come home for dinner, I had made her listen to Farida Khannum. She had taken the urdu book given to me by Nabeeha so many years ago and had read aloud some poems. 

She was sitting on the sofa, her face glowing with poetry. It is already one week since she died. Not even six weeks from the day they had diagnosed the tumour. This time, I hope to go home to see the kids before the next dose of chemotherapy, she had written in her last message...

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