Water

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You need partners. Ones that will watch out while you are at the wheel. Ones who will hold the wheel steady while you set direction.

Ones that you won’t bother to look if they are looking. For you know they are. Ones who will spot a wrinkle that you spent hours trying to hide from the world. Even when you did all that you did to hide it from the world, you were pretty sure you couldn’t ever hide it from them.

It is in partnerships that moments come alive. Love blossoms. Possibilities emerge. New realities come alive.

It starts with trust. Have you experienced it?

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Reflections can be pointed. The lake held a piece of wood that was enough of a perch for a bird!
We all have faces. This poem by Derek Walcott moves me beyond its words.

The time will come 
when, with elation 
you will greet yourself arriving 
at your own door, in your own mirror 
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat. 
You will love again the stranger who was your self. 
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored 
for another, who knows you by heart. 
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes, 
peel your own image from the mirror. 
Sit. Feast on your life.

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“Be like water”, he tells me. “Find your space. You may be contained by your present container. But remember you aren’t the container”

I am awestruck by what a simple man sitting under a giant oak tree in the courtyards of a simple temple is telling me. I look at him with wonder. “You see water finds its place. Hold yourself lightly and keep going. There is a joy in the flow.” He is old and the wrinkles bear testimony to the many seasons his skin has been in the game.

A silence fills the moment as he stares into the sky and I stare into his lost eyes. “You will know what it like when you stand by the stream or watch a waterfall. You can hear it’s energy”

He breaks free from his trance. And proceeds rather dourly. “You didn’t expect this from a wrinkled old odd smelling fellow like me, did you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. And then says, “many years ago I was like you. Riveted by drive and laced with passion’

His pauses for the longest period of time. Unable to bear it any longer, I ask, “and then?” He smiles, dusts himself up as he prepares to leave and says “I began to flow”

He walks away leaving me in the company of a silence broken by the sounds of his receding footsteps on dried leaves.

(at Yosemite National Park)

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There are two pretty fountains that are at the centre of Paris. One celebrating maritime navigation in the seas and another one, celebrating trade and navigation in the rivers.
Called ‘Fontaines de la concorde’ they are a work of both intricate art and history.
Oh yes, they are filled with tourists and snappy cameras. Yet, they are much fun. If you have an eye for such things.
#Paris #Travel #traveldiaries #France #europe #EU #Fountain #water #history #RiverSienne #art #architecture

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The balustrade on the bridge over the River Sienne on Paris, has seen much river flow beneath it. So much so, that it barely warms up to the Sun making its appearance in the horizon.

The Sun isn’t making an appearance for the Sienne either. Some sort of a magical coincidence.

The average traveller in me revels at such coincidences as we pack our bags one more time today.

#Paris #Sienne #river #RiverSienne #Europe #EU #France #bridge #sun #sunrise #water #flow #traveldiaries #travel

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These pipelines were meant to carry water. Or perhaps something else. Yet to get laid into the ground ! 

When they do get under the ground they will carry. Till then they will serve as a vague memory of the Olympic games ! 

Normally !

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The ceiling fan has been going around far too many times than normal. And at greater speeds than normal.

‘The electricity bill will shoot through the roof’ says the missus, in a tone that has a higher decibel than normal.


Cans of juice disappear like discarded cricketers fading from the front page of the normal newspaper. Sweaty shirts and double handkerchiefs are more common than normal.

Public tolerance levels are above normal and yet it is quite normal to see normal folks losing their cool.


Normal festivals have normal water in colourful glasses. The business of selling packaged water is doing business that is above normal ! Water packets with exotic sounding brands like ‘Cancai‘.

‘Its the last stretch‘, said the normally quiet neighbour to his normally loud wife the other day in a normally dull lift. Received with a grunt of approval that brought back memories of a certain Monica Seles in a normal French Open.

Normally, these conversations are beyond my ears. Today, the sun has beaten me down solid and beads of sweat in every inch of visible and invisible skin was sample evidence. Today, there is my imagination runs riot. Which ‘last stretch’ could he be talking about ?

The half of the hindi movie that remains to be watched together ?

Perhaps its about some interesting yoga postures they are learning together.

Perhaps some therapy sessions. Perhaps some bet that they lost because of which they had to wear funny clothes for seven days or something !

Imagination brings about a wry smile ! At that precise moment, he looks at me and our eyes lock. He seems to read my mind. He rushes to state :

‘Its the last stretch Of summer you see’. 45 degrees in Nagpur. Phew”

Pausing before asking in a profound tone. “The rains arrive in June, don’t they ?!?”

Now, he is the bloke who has been living here for far too longer than i. I want to engage him in a conversation about his three air-conditioners that could be reported for noise pollution and he perhaps could get to be their brand ambassador for he never switched them off !

Let alone ask if has gone any centimeter in the direction of Nagpur. Even on a map ! I wonder if he thinks i have some secret hotline to the met department. [ The met department of the ‘it may rain or may not rain’ fame ].

I am still in my trance. And as his wife turns to give me a stare, with a ‘how dare you keep mum after my man has asked you a normal question’ i mumble..

“..well, normally !”

Of Water !

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The arrival of the sun is announced everyday by a cans of water washing down the previous day’s dust and soot from the city’s vehicles.



Now, that is under threat !

The cars themselves could be dented so much that you could think it to be pop art ! The auto rickshaws and taxis could well make more noise than a NASA space shuttle. The bikes may wear their riders’ kick ass attitude visibly, with torn seats !

Yet.


Yet, everyday morning, vehicles get a wash down. Washed. Scrubbed. Turned upside down. Well, almost. But then, cleaned.

It is part of the city’s DNA ! To rise and wander with the bucketful of water and scrub away grime !


Now, that’s under threat ! Well, the rain gods have heaped scorn on a parched population. Which any which way let three quarters of the rain water into the Arabian sea ! The weatherman’s prediction of rain was a joke that you could only bear with a stiff upper lip.

To cut a long pipeline short, well, we don’t have much water in reserve. And the summer is yet to show up !!



In apartment complexes, meetings have been organised, and eloquence has been well waxed. With blame being apportioned between Obama and the Ozone layer. The BMC and Brazilian rain forests

Of course, the water conservation was the only buzz ( until google usurped ‘buzz’). A multitude of steps have been announced ! And done very well too. And yes. The morning car wash routines have come under the scanner.

There isn’t much option is there ? If the option was between cleaning a behind and cleaning a boot…. well..Is there much choice ?

Of course, there is haggling that’s on. About the taxes that we pay and the action the government should take ! of how neighbours use much water. Of how we should all get into conservation, until the next monsoon ( after which we all live happily ever after )

Of course, We will have to cope with all of this ! Of course we will ! Of course we will. Blaming the politician. Blogging about the weather and the BMC. Tweeting for help and twiddling thumbs !

Wondering whatever they did in conferences like Copenhagen ! Drinking mineral water and bathing in triple refined swimming pools.

Copenhagen is for the wealthy.

Perhaps, the rest of us can be content with cope-n-haggle !

Pump buzz !

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The fingers punching the keyboard punctuates the still early morning air. In a distance the the ‘plonk’ of newspapers being thrown a.k.a delivered at the doorstep is just about the only sound.

In some time there are the others. Like the auto driver revving his engine. And the bus driver seeming to practice to race in Formula 1. All of them contribute to doing their two bit to the Mumbai air. The odd dog barks.

And some birds chirp. Half heartedly. Half in fear, perhaps. Of some wisecrack setting off a Diwali cracker. At 5.30 in the morning, he has to be a wisecrack. Maybe something worse.

The mind wanders to the smaller towns and quieter villages. Occasionally yearning. The sounds of small town mornings are getting to be mirror the big cities.

However, the one sound that’s missed,that used to be so much a part of the wonder years, is the buzz around the ‘hand pump’. The pump still survives, and is very much in use. In many parts of the country.

It goes by the name of ‘Adi-pump’ ( loosely translated to convey : ‘The pump that you have to hit’). People gathered around it, taking turns to pump that long straight handle, up and down. Out would flow water.

Well, water was the obvious reason. Yet, the buzz about the pump was unmistakable. For it was the point of convergence. Of men. Women. Children. Worries. Desires. Jealousies. Love.

And all that went within the whorls of the human brain. Everything was on display. Something like the military showing off its ware at a Republic Day parade. The hand pump being a completely unrehearsed natural event !

Exchanged glances, the extra puffed chest, the ‘help’ of pumping an extra pot-full for the girl. The wail of the complaining wife. The empty boast of the loud husband. Family economics. National economics. Politics. Movies.

The shrill cry of laughter. The sharp spank. Drunk men. Loud women. Washing. The quiet ones. The shy ones. The cleanliness freaks. Gossip. Teasing. Preaching. Repartees. Kindness. Despair. Bonding.

Several strands of society converging. All pumping. When their turn came.

It used to be magical. Almost as though, the buzz was in the water that came out. And so, the metal clang used to be the wake up call. An interesting wake up call. The house needed the water. But more importantly, the local news came through the hand pump !

Some years earlier, the hand pump having an artistic arched handle was more common. Like this.

That’s the journey. It seems. First things are straightened out. And then, they are replaced. These days, there is electricity. Motor pumps. And a battalion to keep the arm at the end of the hand, from going beyond making the odd noise at the keyboard.

To all those that talk about the buzz in the community gone. Or cry shrill about our panting news anchors on TV, and the ‘awesome’ editorial content of newspapers. And to those that hit the snooze button of the alarm clock…

Perhaps its time to try the hand pump !

Oh yes. The water. That’s a bonus.