I am learning Czech these days.
For starters, Czech is the third most difficult language in Europe, and eighth in the world.
Now that’s the bravest thing I have attempted since telling my Class 8 teacher that she looked dazzling in her new haircut.
Two months into the lessons, I realised that learning Czech wasn’t just about learning new grammar, new words or new phrases.
It wasn’t about learning Czech at all.
It was simply about learning.
Suddenly, I was in a situation where I didn’t know everything.
In fact, I didn’t know anything.
I was asking questions, and not dispensing advices as usual.
I wasn’t making presumptions but nursing doubts.
I was getting sure that I was unsure. And not the other way round.
I was getting curious and not impatient.
And that’s when it struck me.
I was becoming a child. All over again.
Age is deceptive. Age breeds ego. Age makes you look for shortcuts. Age makes you think you’ve been there, done that, even if you’ve been nowhere, and done nothing.
Curiosity becomes cynicism. Questions become answers. People become suspects. Risk becomes risky.
All because we blow a few more candles each year.
I don’t mind the wrinkles, but I miss being a kid.
Because sometimes, when you know that you don’t know, you know a lot.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Friday, September 08, 2006
08.09.06
Remember the victory
Forget the war
Remember the healing
Forget the scar
Remember your future
Forget your past
Remember the first
Forget the last
Remember the disaster
Forget the dead
Remember what you heard
Forget what you said
Remember your love
Forget your crush
Remember the din
Forget the hush
Remember the many
Forget the one
Remember the moon
Forget the sun
Remember the laughter
Forget the tears
Remember the moments
Forget the years
Remember the virtue
Forget the sin
Remember the lips
Forget the elbow skin
Forget the war
Remember the healing
Forget the scar
Remember your future
Forget your past
Remember the first
Forget the last
Remember the disaster
Forget the dead
Remember what you heard
Forget what you said
Remember your love
Forget your crush
Remember the din
Forget the hush
Remember the many
Forget the one
Remember the moon
Forget the sun
Remember the laughter
Forget the tears
Remember the moments
Forget the years
Remember the virtue
Forget the sin
Remember the lips
Forget the elbow skin
Friday, July 28, 2006
28.07.06
Few of my friends visited us from India last month.
Friends who shared my Indian cities, my language and a common disgust towards my puns.
And now they were coming to Prague.
My very good friends. Now my very first guests.
It was their first time in Prague.
It was their first time in Europe.
For one, it was her first time out of India.
It was great.
I could speak in Hindi. I could sing in Hindi. I could crack jokes in Hindi.
Hell, I could even abuse in Hindi.
But they were tourists.
So they loved tiptoeing on each cobble of the street.
They went trigger-happy with their cameras in Prague Castle.
And ‘Pilsner’ was one of the only Czech words they learnt.
It was an Indian invasion in Prague.
But it was Indian nonetheless.
Soon, conversations about cobbled streets silently meandered towards the potholes on Indian roads.
Prague Castle gave way to Taj Mahal.
Pilsner Urquell rubbed shoulders with Kingfisher.
No matter where the Czech sun rose, the shadows were distinctly Indian.
In the end, they may have spent a fortune coming to Prague.
But for me, it was the cheapest flight back home.
Friends who shared my Indian cities, my language and a common disgust towards my puns.
And now they were coming to Prague.
My very good friends. Now my very first guests.
It was their first time in Prague.
It was their first time in Europe.
For one, it was her first time out of India.
It was great.
I could speak in Hindi. I could sing in Hindi. I could crack jokes in Hindi.
Hell, I could even abuse in Hindi.
But they were tourists.
So they loved tiptoeing on each cobble of the street.
They went trigger-happy with their cameras in Prague Castle.
And ‘Pilsner’ was one of the only Czech words they learnt.
It was an Indian invasion in Prague.
But it was Indian nonetheless.
Soon, conversations about cobbled streets silently meandered towards the potholes on Indian roads.
Prague Castle gave way to Taj Mahal.
Pilsner Urquell rubbed shoulders with Kingfisher.
No matter where the Czech sun rose, the shadows were distinctly Indian.
In the end, they may have spent a fortune coming to Prague.
But for me, it was the cheapest flight back home.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
16.03.06
The other day we went to an Afghan restaurant.
It’s weird to realise that the safest way to experience some cultures is to eat their food in a foreign land.
So with a mind full of curiosity and a stomach full of nothing, we landed safely on an empty table.
The recreated ambience was something that the Afghan embassy and the Taliban, both would have been proud of. Persian carpets donned the walls. And so did the pictures of the beautifully barren Afghan hills.
Suddenly, we saw her. Her eyes commanded attention and her subsequent identity commanded respect.
It was a picture of the famous Afghan girl.
Then something happened
We realised we were in a restaurant and not a museum.
So we asked for the menu.
Cuisines are always more appetising when you can't pronounce their names.
But thanks to serial numbers before each dish and an English translation after them, we knew what we were going to eat.
The food was great.
But that’s not the point.
There was something wrong. Terribly wrong.
Was the man sitting across the table Osama?
Or did the Afghan girl just wink at me?
No such luck.
And that’s when it hit me with the same intensity as a woman who has just realised she forgot to do her manicure this week.
No, I didn’t get hysterical.
The thing was that this restaurant was playing…
I suggest you hold something before reading further.
Yeah, that’s better.
So the thing was that this restaurant was playing (hold tight, here we go) Indian music.
That was exactly my question.
And the answer I came up with was equally obvious.
Maybe they thought that no one in Prague would figure out the difference anyway. So a slice of Nusrat, a spoonful of Anu Malik, a dash of Jatin Lalit and a sprinkle of all that keeps the afternoon housewives engaged in India; and you have got the perfect recipe to con the unsuspecting ear of the foreign customer.
Who, in this case, happened to be an Indian.
So I ate my food, finished the beer, finished her beer, tipped the waiter in the hope that he would only gently kick my back if what I was going to do backfired.
To cut a short story shorter, I went up to the gentleman who was apparently the owner of this Afghan joint.
Me: Sir, I must say I really enjoyed your food….
Osama: (nodding, smiling)
Me: The ambience is perfect…
Osama: (Still nodding, still smiling)
Me: But (while trying to cover mine), I just have one question…
Osama: (as described above)
Me: What’s with the Indian music? I am Indian so I know.
Osama: (no more nodding, definitely not smiling)
He looked across the table to his colleague and murmured something in, I guess, Afghani.
The man looked at me long and hard.
Bin: That’s because Indian music is really popular in Afghanistan.
Before I could bend down to collect my jaw, another old gentleman walked in and was briefed of my nationality.
To quote from one of those diabetic greeting cards, a bright smile lit upon his wrinkled face. Each of his Afghan wrinkle being more pronounced than before.
Laden: You are an Indian?
Me: (smiling and nodding)
Laden: We love Indian music. It’s so popular in Afghanistan.
Me: (still nodding, still smiling)
Laden: Have you heard **** #### musafir?
Me: I know musafir. It means traveller. (I couldn’t get the first two words)
Laden: I mean **** #### musafir, the song by Mukesh.
But this time, I was hoping I could hide myself in one of those hills on the walls.
Laden: You don’t speak Indian?
Me: Of course I speak Hindi. (You never find a hill when you really need one)
Laden: You know Lata, Rafi, Kishore Kumar…?
I immediately said ‘Yes’ to stop further embarassment.
Laden: We are all Indians.
(He just meant to say that the Afghans really admired Indians.)
At that moment, Osama, Bin and Laden all got up to shake my hands.
It seemed like they were meeting someone from their country and I was meeting someone from mine.
The three sweet old gentlemen: You must come here again.
Me: Of course I will.
As I walked out onto the cold winter streets, I felt warm in my heart.
It’s weird when someone from Country A can make you proud of Country B, while all of you are living in Country C.
Jai Hind! Hail Afghanistan! Czech it out!
It’s weird to realise that the safest way to experience some cultures is to eat their food in a foreign land.
So with a mind full of curiosity and a stomach full of nothing, we landed safely on an empty table.
The recreated ambience was something that the Afghan embassy and the Taliban, both would have been proud of. Persian carpets donned the walls. And so did the pictures of the beautifully barren Afghan hills.
Suddenly, we saw her. Her eyes commanded attention and her subsequent identity commanded respect.
It was a picture of the famous Afghan girl.
Then something happened
We realised we were in a restaurant and not a museum.
So we asked for the menu.
Cuisines are always more appetising when you can't pronounce their names.
But thanks to serial numbers before each dish and an English translation after them, we knew what we were going to eat.
The food was great.
But that’s not the point.
There was something wrong. Terribly wrong.
Was the man sitting across the table Osama?
Or did the Afghan girl just wink at me?
No such luck.
And that’s when it hit me with the same intensity as a woman who has just realised she forgot to do her manicure this week.
No, I didn’t get hysterical.
The thing was that this restaurant was playing…
I suggest you hold something before reading further.
Yeah, that’s better.
So the thing was that this restaurant was playing (hold tight, here we go) Indian music.
That was exactly my question.
And the answer I came up with was equally obvious.
Maybe they thought that no one in Prague would figure out the difference anyway. So a slice of Nusrat, a spoonful of Anu Malik, a dash of Jatin Lalit and a sprinkle of all that keeps the afternoon housewives engaged in India; and you have got the perfect recipe to con the unsuspecting ear of the foreign customer.
Who, in this case, happened to be an Indian.
So I ate my food, finished the beer, finished her beer, tipped the waiter in the hope that he would only gently kick my back if what I was going to do backfired.
To cut a short story shorter, I went up to the gentleman who was apparently the owner of this Afghan joint.
Me: Sir, I must say I really enjoyed your food….
Osama: (nodding, smiling)
Me: The ambience is perfect…
Osama: (Still nodding, still smiling)
Me: But (while trying to cover mine), I just have one question…
Osama: (as described above)
Me: What’s with the Indian music? I am Indian so I know.
Osama: (no more nodding, definitely not smiling)
He looked across the table to his colleague and murmured something in, I guess, Afghani.
The man looked at me long and hard.
Bin: That’s because Indian music is really popular in Afghanistan.
Before I could bend down to collect my jaw, another old gentleman walked in and was briefed of my nationality.
To quote from one of those diabetic greeting cards, a bright smile lit upon his wrinkled face. Each of his Afghan wrinkle being more pronounced than before.
Laden: You are an Indian?
Me: (smiling and nodding)
Laden: We love Indian music. It’s so popular in Afghanistan.
Me: (still nodding, still smiling)
Laden: Have you heard **** #### musafir?
Me: I know musafir. It means traveller. (I couldn’t get the first two words)
Laden: I mean **** #### musafir, the song by Mukesh.
But this time, I was hoping I could hide myself in one of those hills on the walls.
Laden: You don’t speak Indian?
Me: Of course I speak Hindi. (You never find a hill when you really need one)
Laden: You know Lata, Rafi, Kishore Kumar…?
I immediately said ‘Yes’ to stop further embarassment.
Laden: We are all Indians.
(He just meant to say that the Afghans really admired Indians.)
At that moment, Osama, Bin and Laden all got up to shake my hands.
It seemed like they were meeting someone from their country and I was meeting someone from mine.
The three sweet old gentlemen: You must come here again.
Me: Of course I will.
As I walked out onto the cold winter streets, I felt warm in my heart.
It’s weird when someone from Country A can make you proud of Country B, while all of you are living in Country C.
Jai Hind! Hail Afghanistan! Czech it out!
Friday, March 03, 2006
02.03.06
Today I tasted grapes.
As I dug my 32 fangs into their titillating transparent skins, the accompanying crunching sound challenged the wisdom of four of those fangs.
Grapes with seeds!
Yes, seeds.
Not just any small, miniscule, irrelevant, forgivable errors of nature.
But big enough to make me hunt for my favourite cutlery.
The nitpicking toothpick.
This was definitely not happening to me.
I remember that grapes weren’t supposed to have seeds.
In fact, grapes and bananas were bosom buddies for the same reason.
The books said so.
The teachers said so.
And so did the non-vegetarians.
Grapes were supposed to be the exact existential opposite of watermelons.
Seedless V/s Seedy
Small V/s Big
Green V/s …ok fine!
Grapes were effortless to enjoy.
Pop in. But nothing to pop out.
No need for knives, peelers, plates or a dustbin.
Grapes taught me to swallow without spitting.
To eat without worrying about what lies beneath.
Each time I would nurture the fear of the dark, I would repeat to myself:
Ghosts are like grape seeds.
They don’t exist.
And that fact would reassure me to go to the loo in the night.
Alone.
And now, it’s all gone.
The grape has been raped.
Or in other words, a case of sour grapes.
What else will I unlearn today?
As I dug my 32 fangs into their titillating transparent skins, the accompanying crunching sound challenged the wisdom of four of those fangs.
Grapes with seeds!
Yes, seeds.
Not just any small, miniscule, irrelevant, forgivable errors of nature.
But big enough to make me hunt for my favourite cutlery.
The nitpicking toothpick.
This was definitely not happening to me.
I remember that grapes weren’t supposed to have seeds.
In fact, grapes and bananas were bosom buddies for the same reason.
The books said so.
The teachers said so.
And so did the non-vegetarians.
Grapes were supposed to be the exact existential opposite of watermelons.
Seedless V/s Seedy
Small V/s Big
Green V/s …ok fine!
Grapes were effortless to enjoy.
Pop in. But nothing to pop out.
No need for knives, peelers, plates or a dustbin.
Grapes taught me to swallow without spitting.
To eat without worrying about what lies beneath.
Each time I would nurture the fear of the dark, I would repeat to myself:
Ghosts are like grape seeds.
They don’t exist.
And that fact would reassure me to go to the loo in the night.
Alone.
And now, it’s all gone.
The grape has been raped.
Or in other words, a case of sour grapes.
What else will I unlearn today?
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
27.02.06
My phone doesn’t ring often.
So I don’t bother switching it off at the movies.
There are no sms jokes from those who are too lazy to keep in touch. And none to forward when I feel lazy myself.
I think of those who are often in my thoughts but hardly in your inbox. I also think twice before deleting delivery reports.
Maybe now I won’t mind having an annoying ring tone. Now that my phone is nothing but the watch I never wear.
Sometimes, if I want to hear it ring, I set the alarm.
My phone doesn’t ring often.
But hey, the battery seems to last longer these days.
So I don’t bother switching it off at the movies.
There are no sms jokes from those who are too lazy to keep in touch. And none to forward when I feel lazy myself.
I think of those who are often in my thoughts but hardly in your inbox. I also think twice before deleting delivery reports.
Maybe now I won’t mind having an annoying ring tone. Now that my phone is nothing but the watch I never wear.
Sometimes, if I want to hear it ring, I set the alarm.
My phone doesn’t ring often.
But hey, the battery seems to last longer these days.
Monday, February 27, 2006
24.02.06
When do their white faces stop looking white.
And just look like faces.
When does their babble stop sounding like babble.
And more like conversation.
When do I realise that they are not foreigners.
But I am.
And just look like faces.
When does their babble stop sounding like babble.
And more like conversation.
When do I realise that they are not foreigners.
But I am.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
23.02.06
More on winter.
But first, may I suggest a little exercise with your gloves for those who would like to be in my shoes:
1. Wear a pair of gloves.
2. Not the surgical variety. Thick woollen gloves and remember to keep them on throughout this test.
3. Take your favourite book. Open any page that offers to present itself. Read through it.
4. And now, try turning the page.
5. Jumping pages is not allowed. If you are on page 22, you may only proceed to page 23. Remember to flip it gently, with only your index finger and your thumb aiding you in this whole ordeal.
6. When this starts to get on your nerves, try the second test.
7. Take some money.
8. Not the circular variety. But crisp notes which are even more precious when they are more expensive to buy with your native currency.
9. Stack a bunch of them, one on top of the other.
10. Keeping the same finger-thumb coordination in mind as stated above. Remember, both the thumb and the finger should still be safely handicapped beneath their woollen alter egos.
11. Now count the money.
Season’s greetings!
But first, may I suggest a little exercise with your gloves for those who would like to be in my shoes:
1. Wear a pair of gloves.
2. Not the surgical variety. Thick woollen gloves and remember to keep them on throughout this test.
3. Take your favourite book. Open any page that offers to present itself. Read through it.
4. And now, try turning the page.
5. Jumping pages is not allowed. If you are on page 22, you may only proceed to page 23. Remember to flip it gently, with only your index finger and your thumb aiding you in this whole ordeal.
6. When this starts to get on your nerves, try the second test.
7. Take some money.
8. Not the circular variety. But crisp notes which are even more precious when they are more expensive to buy with your native currency.
9. Stack a bunch of them, one on top of the other.
10. Keeping the same finger-thumb coordination in mind as stated above. Remember, both the thumb and the finger should still be safely handicapped beneath their woollen alter egos.
11. Now count the money.
Season’s greetings!
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
14.02.06
Cold, as I have realised in the past few days, is an inadequate adjective for winter.
The air is hungry and goes straight for your face. Biting right into the unsuspecting naked skin, which plays the unwilling martyr in this war between wool and winter.
This is usually not the best time to ask for a kiss. The face has lost all sensations and even an exotic Thai massage would fail to arouse them back.
That’s maybe because Thailand is a tropical country. And according to the last Eskimo census, there were no known masseurs among them. Pity.
But if you have sinned, it’s the best time to ask for a slap. Or get whacked across your face with sledgehammer. You may die, of course. But I can promise it would be a painless exit.
Dhen dhere is dhis thng abhout d thpeech. D thongue theems dhrunk andh you shuffer phrom vherbhal dyslexia.
And all they can say is it’s cold!
The air is hungry and goes straight for your face. Biting right into the unsuspecting naked skin, which plays the unwilling martyr in this war between wool and winter.
This is usually not the best time to ask for a kiss. The face has lost all sensations and even an exotic Thai massage would fail to arouse them back.
That’s maybe because Thailand is a tropical country. And according to the last Eskimo census, there were no known masseurs among them. Pity.
But if you have sinned, it’s the best time to ask for a slap. Or get whacked across your face with sledgehammer. You may die, of course. But I can promise it would be a painless exit.
Dhen dhere is dhis thng abhout d thpeech. D thongue theems dhrunk andh you shuffer phrom vherbhal dyslexia.
And all they can say is it’s cold!
13.02.06
Familiarity is known to breed contempt. But as a first-time foreigner, I wonder if the known or even faintly acquainted would indeed beg for my forgiveness.
On the other hand, I may ask myself if I really wish to go down roads already travelled. Maybe it’s time to unlearn everything that I learnt; to drop defences, to stop staying ‘I know’, to go back in time and become a child again.
A new land. A new language. Different cuisine. Different seasons. Nothing is how I expected. Or maybe it helped that I wasn’t expecting anything.
This is a time when I have the curiosity of a tourist and the indifference of a native.
Sure, I would want to be the first to see the astronomical clock tick at the end of every hour.
But even If I cant, I know I can always come back tomorrow.
There are no budgets to stick to, no souvenirs to buy and no planes to catch.
So I decide to stay contemptuous.
On the other hand, I may ask myself if I really wish to go down roads already travelled. Maybe it’s time to unlearn everything that I learnt; to drop defences, to stop staying ‘I know’, to go back in time and become a child again.
A new land. A new language. Different cuisine. Different seasons. Nothing is how I expected. Or maybe it helped that I wasn’t expecting anything.
This is a time when I have the curiosity of a tourist and the indifference of a native.
Sure, I would want to be the first to see the astronomical clock tick at the end of every hour.
But even If I cant, I know I can always come back tomorrow.
There are no budgets to stick to, no souvenirs to buy and no planes to catch.
So I decide to stay contemptuous.
11.02.06
As a child I used to collect stamps from all over the world.
But now that I am moving abroad, no one cares to write letters anymore.
But now that I am moving abroad, no one cares to write letters anymore.
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