Godt Nytår MMXI!

Dear Reader,

Wishing you a fun filled and productive MMXI!

I sincerely hope your 2011 is full of creative work, good health, good relaxation, blissful peace and most of all - pure love. 2011 arrived in Copenhagen with much pomp. We were at the city square Rådhuspladsen to ring in the new year. It was a brilliant spectacle of light, fireworks, drunk party folks and just plain joy everywhere. The entire square was lit up with the boom of explosions in the night skies as the clock struck 12 and we had our first experience of a truly Danish New Year welcome. As almost everyone passing by wished each other "Godt Nytår!" (Danish for Happy New Year!) we joined in too and did the same. Here is the video compilation of clips I shot that night of what will certainly be memorable moments.




Best wishes,

Momentary pathways

The city's been getting a rather generous amount of snowfall over the past few weeks. Today, being a Sunday and all, we decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood to enjoy some of the scenes of pre-Xmas shopping. Jaya snapped a quick one of me as we walked out and I, feeling a tad inspired by the photograph, penned a few words that came to me. And here it is now.

Clicking on the image will open the larger version.

Life as a Caraceño

There is something about Deepavali that always brings back memories. I remember writing about it from a previous life in South America a few years ago. Now, in Denmark, where there are thousands of Indians, hundreds of Indian restaurants and a million reasons not to miss the festival of lights, I still found myself, for no particular reason, missing my first home away from home – Caracas – this festival season .

As a bachelor I used to wonder what life would be like once marriage takes me over and now, as an extremely well settled family man, I look back at my days of detachment as if I were looking at a box of chocolates. In it, so many different flavors I find – cookie cream, mint, strawberry, dark, nutty, hazel... And through them I see ways to acknowledge the blissful nature of my days en la tierra de los caraceños – the land of the caraceños (people in Caracas).

I remember those evenings of whimsical outings as me and a few fellow colleagues would venture out into the neighborhood in search of dinner. We'd walk down Calle la Cinta and stand at the red light near the Texaco gas station. From there, we'd make an absolutely spontaneous decision as to which way to go. Straight ahead to get cheesed up Arepas and Empanadas, left to get spicy Perricos or vegetarian Caraotas Negras, right towards either the Chinese place or the Italian for pizza or just walk into Subway for a simple foot long delight with coke. Then there was Papa Johns, with their pickled chilli and thick garlic sauce. Ah brother – paradise!

I narrated these stories out of the blue to my wife the other evening as we made festival dinner and I couldn't believe that I had actually survived 7 years in a place that had pretty much no Indian presence whatsoever. Except for the few handful Indian families that gathered to celebrate major festivities in a strictly limited way, there was never such a thing as an 'Indian grocery' or 'Indian restaurant'. And yet, I guess I just got used to it. Of course I knew I had to but I certainly don't remember ever disliking it.

I still recall letting out an extremely subdued shriek when I walked into the Indian grocery here in Copenhagen for the first time in August 2007. The exhaustive bounty of products that I saw there made me feel like pinching myself once to ensure I wasn't hallucinating. That I had actually left good old mostly-desi-less Caracas behind and entered this desi-rich land in Scandinavia. That I could now buy tur daal without rationing it to last an entire year; that I no longer needed MTR's 'ready to eat' packs to make Paalak Paneer; that I could actually buy both Paneer and fresh spinach leaves separately and prepare it from scratch...all this took some time to sink in. As I've already made it quite obvious, 'unbelievable' was the only word I could think of in those moments.

Today, having spent more than three glorious years in this wonderful country, I still look back at my old nest in the main land of America del Sur, and miss it. I miss it for the warmth it fed me with each time I returned back to it after 20 something hours of nauseating flights from India. I miss it for the comfort that those weekend walks to my supermarkets Cada and Supermercado Veracruz used to give me. I miss being fascinated when I would spot extremely rare short green chillies in the frozen section. I miss talking politics with the friendly cab-wallah who always dropped me home for a generous 2000 Bolivares. I miss walking into Pedro's hair salon and getting a wonderful haircut whilst updating his knowledge about the Indian continent. Oh, I just miss being a good old Caraceño.

Such is the endless cycle of life, I feel. We crave what we don't have and when we have it, we think about the days we didn't have it through such memory pools. This Deepavali, I dedicate my new found successes and joy to my good friend for life – Caracas.

Hasta luego, mi querida. Hasta luego. I hope our paths cross again.

Vigeland Sculpture Park

As we entered the Vigeland Sculpture Park in the heart of Oslo on the cold Tuesday morning, the day was clothed in gray. Our guide for the day, Sylvia something, was busy being the mildly cocky Norwegian who had a rather difficult time subduing her blatantly obvious love for her wealthy European country. Amid the shower of her exorbitant narratives, we walked past the bright yellow autumn leaves that lay strewn all over the park and shot a quick glance at the self portrait of the man himself – the very talented, very creative and certainly, very human – Gustav Vigeland, the main architect behind the sculpture park.

One of the first magnificent views to welcome your sight is the 100 meter long bridge which is beautifully decorated with 58 of Gustav's signature sculptures. The entire collection is a naked representation of the 'Human Condition' which happens to be the singular theme of the park. Each sculpture in this collection, if I may say so, is nothing short of an absolute masterpiece. The attention to detail about the inaccuracies, the shortcomings, the many layered flaws and above all, the unique imperfections of being a human is breathe taking. At one spot, we have the depiction of a man holding two infants, one in each of his arms, and displaying that uncanny smile that only a parent can effectively master. Then we have at another spot, a woman with a newborn in her arms, unsmiling, as the infant she holds, but still radiating a quiet optimistic feel to both their existences. Then of course, is the famous sculpture aptly labeled 'Sinnataggen' or 'Angry Boy' which is sheer juvenile fury and the very definition of vexation in a little boy who has been denied something his heart was definitely set upon. The presence of children in various poses with adults is a clear representation of Gustav's own life both as a parent and also as an artist who knew life could never be depicted without including the past, the present, and children, the future.

Then we passed the flower garden, feverishly clad in mute anticipation of a possibly merciless winter ahead, to come to the fountain which happens to be yet another outstanding piece of work from the master sculptor himself. In this model of six burly men holding what appears to be a giant tray, we were told, is a representation of the six working days in a week and the toil that is needed to pick up the weight of such a week. This degree of energy, needless to say, can be a human effort after all. Beneath this iconic depiction is a square shaped pedestal which is dotted with children, adults and skeletons in the arms of trees. Below these, etched onto the wall that runs along the base of the fountain, are engaging depictions of the undeniable cycle of life and death in this world. Yet another variation of the consistent theme of human condition the park is aimed at being a messenger of.

Once we had walked past the fountain, we ascended a flight of stairs to arrive at what is without contest the highlight of the park – the majestic Monolith tower that rises slowly into the sky. Situated at the highest point of the park, this soaring, twisting, ascending depiction of humankind was a sight for sore eyes! Sculpted from a single piece of stone, the Monolith tower includes 121 humans embroidered together in various postures in a brilliant ascent towards the heavens. We were told such a depiction was an attempt to capture the human need to come together in the endless quest to become one with the spiritual and to, hopefully, attain salvation. A rich and deservedly reverential end to what is by far one of the most engaging parks I have been fortunate to be in.

The sun might have decided to take the day off from the Norwegian sky that day, but nothing, as was apparent in more ways than one, could take the shine off the superior artwork of Gustav that sits at the Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo. A must see for anyone touring Scandinavia.

Ganapati bappa morya!

The soft fumes of the black chandan stick perk up the festive atmosphere almost instantly. The twangs and pauses in the priest's nasal assistance for the ceremony on the mp3 file only validate the already pious seeming environment. As the background score progresses, so does my appreciation of the first Hindu festival I have celebrated since I moved overseas. A time that, I am sure, will remain as one of my fond memories.

I can still recall my time in India when I used to celebrate this festival with my family. We would begin by carefully picking up the best possible Ganesha idol from the local market and walk back home, barefoot, with the idol placed cozily on a silver plate peppered with mantrākshata. A special wooden enclosure would be reserved for the event as we'd then cautiously place the idol in the designated spot and get busy with the minutest details of the necessities for the prayer rituals. Draped in a silk sari, mom would spend the day making a several mouth-watering delicacies while we, draped in equally shiny silk dhotis, would help dad with the prayer procedure. The fragrance of incense sticks and the short lived camphor on the mangalārati would fill the air as coconuts would be broken and offerings would be made to Lord Ganesha.

After what would seem like an extremely long wait, lunch would be served. A fresh green banana leaf would be decorated with a dozen different culinary items by mom as we'd be instructed to always begin our meal with the payasam, daal tovve and the koshumbari dishes. Attempting anything otherwise was strictly forbidden. As we'd spend the next half an hour requesting repeated servings of amma's signature dishes, dad would spend the time explaining to us how festivals in India hadn't changed at all since his days as a boy. 'Just another excuse for Brahmins to get fatter bellies!' he would joke as he would help himself to another serving of amma's excellent tamarind rice.

All this, and more, came back to me as I took over the role of priest today. It was a rather interesting experience as, despite not being too religious myself, I did manage to find the same peace and satisfaction as I remember from my days in India. With the timely assistance by my lovely wife (and her various delicious dishes - images below - that spruced up this festive occasion!) we managed to pull off a pretty decent debut of a festival as a married couple in our warm Danish nest away from home. Hopefully this start will usher in further events that we can continue to celebrate so that our familiarity with our roots is maintained as our lives as international citizens continuous to explore new horizons. We certainly look forward to all of them.

[(L-R): Drumstick Sambar, Eggplant kadi, Green chana vegetable, Badam kheer, Cucumber Raita and Vegetable Pitla. There was also carrot koshumbari and coconut-jaggery payasam!]

Wishing everyone a wonderful Gauri Ganesha festival! May Lord Ganesha, in His infinite grace, kindness and wisdom, grant all of us the pink of health and consistent rainbows of success.

Welcome home Rocky!

Copenhagen is popularly called the cyclist paradise. Little wonder then that it was time we brought home a little paradisaical treat of our own. Friends - meet Rocky. The latest member of our quickly growing Indo-Scandinavian family. Rocky is fast, light and most importantly - cheap. ^_^

Click below for larger versions of Jaya and her latest obsession - Rocky!




PS: Yes - I too took a ride on Rocky yesterday and it was a little ...ahem...rocky. o.O

Easter eggs under Swedish skies

Note: Non-face images can be clicked for larger versions!

With the skies still unclear about which weather range they should be in – either spring or winter – we continue to get a little sunshine, a bit of rain and loads of chilly wind spills each day. Given the hopelessness of such a situation, it only seemed apt that we go ahead and make the most of the holidays that came our way. Hence – we decided to head to Malmo city in Sweden this Easter Friday.

Now, for those who aren't aware, Denmark and Sweden are like Siamese twins connected by a small body of water. I mean seriously, it's like 30-40 minutes train ride from Copenhagen Central to Malmo city. I remember looking at Jaya's amazed expression when we hissed into Malmo South after just over 35 minutes since our boarding at Copenhagen Central. 'It used to take me to more than an hour to get to VT!' she said, absolutely wonder stuck at the possibility that within an hour, we had spanned across borders without so much as a wrinkle on our clothes. This was the kind of contrast, I thought, we Indians can never completely get over given the battle-like conditions we travel under back home.

One of the most fascinating parts of this journey is the Oresund Bridge that combines a two track railway line below a four-loan road bridge tunnel across the Oresund strait. This is the longest combined road and rail bridge in Europe that connects the two countries. The architectural brilliance of this bridge is something one should see to properly appreciate. The view of this bridge from Malmo is equally breathe-taking. Despite the slightly foggy weather, we still managed to get some decent images.

The air had a rather generous touch of the cold as we walked into Malmo. In fact, despite my 2+ years in Denmark, this was my first time visiting this city too. I had been to Helsingborg in 2008 (another Swedish city at the other border of Denmark) but it wasn't quite the same since I had to take a ferry across the Baltic waters. Our immediate want in Malmo, was to get a good glimpse of the Turning Torso – a famous landmark that stands majestically as a unique and spectacular example of Sweden's architectural beauty. Built between the years of 2001 and 2006, the Turning Torso is primarily used for residential purposes. We could not help but speechlessly gawk at the attention to detail that stood so obvious in front of us. As we stood and snapped various memorable photographs of the Torso tower, we only hoped that such a monument soon makes its blessed appearance in India too. Wishful thinking, I know.

We then moved on to the sea-coast to catch a glimpse of the Oresund bridge that had brought us to Malmo from Denmark. The sun, aptly timing his appearance, kept his visibility brief but it was enough for us to get click-happy on some swans that seemed lost in their own world. As Jaya walked around capturing images of the various flocks that had surrounded the area, the sights and sounds of a festive Easter Friday was cracking itself open upon us. We spent about half an hour at the coast before heading towards the city center where we planned to have lunch.

The center of Malmo is, as is evident with most metropolitan cities, a place buzzing with a lot of activity. Considering it was a public holiday in Malmo, there still was a decent crowd milling about the town square and enjoying the smells and sights of the dozen odd restaurants that stood mushroomed all around it. We walked into the square wondering if we should try something adventurous when, as if from nowhere, we were greeted by a familiar word – Indiske. That is, as you might have guessed, both the Danish and Swedish word for 'Indian'. Now, from experience I know that walking into every place that is called that specially in a place that isn't peppered with Indian faces isn't the best idea. But one look at the menu outside and we knew we had to give it a shot. I mean, how could one pass off classics such as 'Polok Poneer' and 'Onion Bhojee' ? So, keeping our hungry fingers crossed, we decided to venture.

And would you know it? What we ended up getting was possibly one of the best Indian food I've had in all my years overseas. That, considering my decade long existence in alien waters, is a huge statement! The 'Polok Paneer' was so well made that Jaya joked that it was definitely an old Indian lady sitting in the kitchen and dishing it out! Served with a steaming cup of basmati rice and a bowl of sweet tomato raita, lunch was just the tonic we needed to boost our starving senses. As we guzzled in these treats with a tight salt lassi, we knew we had taken an adventurous step after all – even if it meant with a cuisine we both are well acquainted with.

We then headed to the markets to do what most Danes come to Sweden for – shop! Reason? Well, the Swedish Kroner is 0.7 times weaker when compared to the Danish Kroner. Don't ask me why, but all I know is if I buy a jacket in Sweden for 2000 Swedish Kroners, I would have spent only 1400 Danish Kroners from my account here in Denmark – which is roughly about 240 US. Sa-wee-tta! With a deal this delicious, how can one walk away with minimal shopping? So to keeps things interesting, Jaya and I went ahead and bought ourselves all sorts of merchandise including sunglasses (for her, of course), leggings and beach shorts. The best part? The final amount multiplied by 0.7! Needless to say, we plan to re-visit Sweden soon.

As we made our way back to the station, we caught sight of some beautiful Easter decorations on the streets. A giant golden egg had been placed with just the right shine needed to attract the tired tourist's curious eye. Jaya snapped a few nice ones as we took in the aroma and colors of buildings built during the renaissance period. It was fascinating to actually notice how, while being mostly similar to the designs we see here in Denmark, the buildings in Sweden had such a cleaner looking surface with clear-cut and sharp angled edges. I am no architect, not by a far mile, but there was something more accurate and tight about the buildings there that just isn't that obvious in the good old Viking country we live in.

As the Oresundståg inter-city express hissed its way back to Copenhagen central, we sat back looking at the snaps of a truly interesting Easter Friday that had made this trip feel more like an amazing Sunday instead. We look forward to heading back sometime soon!

Happy Easter everyone!

India - The land of the pampered

The better half and I had been to IKEA today. For the uninitiated, IKEA is a gigantic, nay, Herculean, store that sells everything you will ever need for your home. From a bed, desk, table, chair, shelf, clock to coffee mugs, salt and pepper shakers, china for the kitchen, cabinets for the clothes – all of this is on their extremely diverse inventory. Curtains, carpets, vases, flower pots, cutlery, coat hangers – the list is endless. In fact, if you, right now, look around where you are sitting at your home and name any object you see there, chances are IKEA has it. Not just in at least five colors, but also in various designs. The trick really is to try and walk away from something while convincing oneself that it was a useless item. This, since everything there seems to be designed to entice your buying bone. I was half-joking with her that the reason there were so many stroller-stroking mothers around was because of this 'everything can be used' syndrome that infants tend to automatically ignite in parents. A worthless seeming basket that was too small to hold anything earlier suddenly becomes a top priority since you think its a great way to store the baby's socks or diapers! As I said, a bizarre emotion only kids seem to have the ability to create. Nevertheless, IKEA, in my humble experience, is still the best when it comes to prices. So regardless of what personal opinions might echo, the store still manages to attract loads of clientele each day.

But then there is a flip side to this too. A rather big one at that. Specially if you are someone like me whose only handyman skill includes driving nails into a wall with a hammer. Even that, rather cautiously. Every furniture item that IKEA sells is bought in pieces. What this means is – you buy a bed but in separate parts that constitute the entire bed. You then assemble the whole thing yourself. Aha! Didn't I tell you this was a big flip? I still have unpleasant memories of the time when I had to lug two giant shopping carts filled with extremely heavy wooden panels for my wardrobe, dining table and chairs back in 2008. Not only did I have to literally pull out each screw that the damned bookshelf needed, I even managed to mess up the sequence of components that I required, given the sudden jump in my stress levels that day. Having never carried anything over 20-25 kilos my whole life – again, owing to baggage restrictions while traveling in Europe – you can imagine why lugging a 10 feet high and 3 feet wide door pieces was such a high ask.

Now, in retrospect, I see why this entire exercise seemed like such an ordeal. Growing up back home the second most important thing to us as a family (the first one, quite obviously, being able to continue getting good marks in school) was a kaamwaali bai – a maid. It would send shivers of shock down our pampered spines if the clock went a few minutes past 9am and there was no sign of her. I can still recall my anxious mother, fists clenched, pacing the verandah of our flat, constantly checking if she could spot the lady entering the building with her usual nonchalant stride. The shriek of glee mom would belt out could only be matched by the arrival of drinking water three times a week when we lived in Madras. Oh yes – water – another major problem of ours. The lack or shortage of which could instantly negate the effectiveness of the aforementioned supreme being – the maid.

This is commonplace in our nation. The value of a maid sometimes being much more higher than gold. There are homes that have more than one maid too. And not even those affluent well to do mansion-wallah chaps who can afford such multiplicity of comforts. No. These are regular middle class folks who shell out anything between 500-1000 Rupees (depending on the area, of course) and bag themselves a good deal. In fact, my wife's home in Mumbai has a separate helper who comes in every day only to make chapaatis! I shook my head in disbelief when she was extremely surprised to hear that there was no such person as a 'milk man' in Denmark who religiously comes each morning to supply milk at the doorstep. Another reason, albeit, for her to pluck her collar and declare India the best nation in the world. 'What big first world nation this is, ah?' she scoffed one evening. 'We have fellows supplying everything from groceries to medicines back home! In fact now clinics too have services where they come to your door and collect blood samples for sugar tests! Can Denmark beat that?'

The obvious reasons for such regal lifestyle back home is the availability of cheap labor. Hand a fellow 10 rupees and he will sweat it out for you. In fact I remember having a shop's helper carry a small computer desk that I had bought for 500 rupees over his head for a good kilometer for 20 rupees. My father, accusing me of having lost worth of real money, told me that 2 rupees was all he deserved.

After my IKEA experience, a lot of this started making sense. I began wondering if this was one of the reasons why Indians aren't exactly the cleanest of the lot. Is it the knowledge that the maid would come the next day and clean up after them that makes them so lethargic about doing the dishes or sweeping the floor? Is it the certainty that handing out a note to the boy at the supermarket will ensure that the poor fellow will sweat a pound from his already skinny structure to carry your bags back to your car? Is this why Indians are reluctant to move to places where the mantra 'do it yourself' is quite prominent? Could this be why we never really learn how to screw in pieces for a table or know how to camouflage the width between the wood and the nail in our lives back home? I don't know. In fact, the autocratic thumb rule that there is always someone to help you if you have the money is so prominent in India, that they don't even include basic carpentry skills in school in any form. Sure, we have music, sports and even arts. But I never heard of a 'Build It Yourself 101' class that could help future immigrants from having to go through the kind of surprises that I had to endure. Maybe the administration ought to think of including it?

On second thoughts though, I don't know if that would do any good. Even if something were in place, how often would we actually get a chance to practice it in real life? Specially when we have everything from a nail to a wardrobe being 'home delivered' for a fee? Unlikely. Highly unlikely.

Bizarre sightings

When I moved to Denmark in 2007 from Venezuela, my first month here taught me two things. One, that I had somehow managed to upgrade myself from a place where I could afford a taxi to cover a 500 meter distance to a place where I probably would never own a car. And two, that if ever there was a question that required naming two cities that had absolutely nothing in common, it would be these two – Caracas and Copenhagen – with the only commonality being the first letter in their names.

Time moved on, and I soon got over the banalities that had tied me down in Sur de la America. Sure, I definitely missed the crisp tropical weather that came with the whispering winds into my apartment in breezy Las Mercedes directly from the Avila mountain tops that stood majestically in the distance, but life in the classified ‘privileged Europa’ had its perks too. It was nice to be able to be part of four proper seasons – spring, summer, autumn and winter – and in that order. It was fantastic to finally have access to a properly stocked desi store that wasn’t run by some wannabe whose roots were in Jamaica but his grand folks had fled India in their teens so he still maintained some impractical adherence to that long lost affection. No. These were places run by hardcore, blue blooded Indians who came from cities called Bhatinda, Patiala and Jalander, spoke proper Hindi and understood the expression ‘Sir ji’. Yes – the proper India. It was like using home made sambar powder instead of the MTR ready-to-use nonsense that foreigners automatically pick up from the shelf. And yes – being able to walk into the Scala to watch a Bollywood movie seemed as easy as grinding up some spicy coconut chutney on a Sunday morning to be had with soft rice vermicelli lemon mix laced with roasted cashew. Yep – I had finally started to live.

It has been almost three years since my life has found this new definition. Travel is a cakewalk since the public transport here is probably one of the best I have seen in the world. Not only are there three various yet immensely effective (by both Venezuelan and Indian standards) modes of transportation but I have had days when I have been out in the city for 9-10 hours yet have returned home feeling as fresh as I had been when I had woken up. Sweat-free and certainly stress-free.

But despite the paradisiacal incentives I seem to have become part of, there are still certain things that do not make sense. There still exist those little pockets of weirdness that has me yearning for, well, more Indian-ness in them. The yearning I speak of, actually, is so morbid and disgusting that I almost abandoned the idea of blogging about it. But then, surrendering to the inexplicable urge to throw it out in the open, I went ahead and penned it anyway.

The theme I speak of, dear reader, is the sighting of beggars in Copenhagen. A few weeks ago I saw a Tamil movie called ‘Naan Kadavul’. It was an interesting flick that focused on the beggar mafia network that is so successfully run in India based purely on the misfortune of the poor and the handicapped. It was sort of nauseating to actually watch the plight of these people who are controlled by money hungry vultures who manage a systemized corporation that ensures allocating of proper begging spots, weekly collection statistics and consistent amplification of the expression ‘the uglier, the sicker, the poorer, the more disgusting – the better.’ A sadistic theory to run a lowly profession.

This made me think about the beggars, if one can call them that, I have seen thus far in Copenhagen. O! Yes! In case you are wondering, as much of an affluent state that Denmark tries to showcase itself as, there is definitely a strong vein of poverty (well, not by Indian standards anyway) and unemployment looking at you for generosity. Each day, as I struggle my way past the ocean of arms and legs at Norreport station, I always see these men and women sitting with their palms outstretched. Then there are the ones who hop on the metro trains and stroll through it requesting everyone there for a hand out. Interestingly there is a good amount of public that actually gives them money. I have, obviously, never given a dime to anyone. Not because I don’t feel like handing out a penny to a Caucasian beggar – which in many ways is overflowing with painful historic irony – but purely because I have never felt that these people look like a beggars! Not with those well stitched corduroy pants and cotton shirts! Sure, they look a little disheveled but heck, that’s me most of the week!

I know I know. Everyone has probably a ‘different perception’ of what exactly a beggar should look or behave like. But being an Indian, I know a little too well what beggars are all about. Begging, as I found out from the aforementioned movie, is a profession there. People are made up, prepared with pre-written dialogs and even given props to ensure that collection is productive. With such a ‘deep rooted’ philosophical approach to begging we have back home, how can I possibly consider a chap, who quite frankly looks like a drunk who is just too lazy to work, a beggar?

Such sightings, among others, are what make me wonder how the same concepts may appear totally opposite of one another when one moves from one city to another. In all my 7 wonderful years in the melting pot of a city called Caracas, not once was I ever approached by a bum or a beggar asking for money. Imagine that! A third world country with no beggars around! Phew! And then I come to this upscale, royalty-rich place like Copenhagen, and I am constantly running into outstretched palms and emotionless eyes. This is just bizarre. Especially for someone who is from India, given its lack of coherence with the kind of social structures involved in the picture.

Maybe India is not so bad after all, I thought. It might still be considered a ‘developing nation’ to most of the world but as far as these things are concerned, we are way more developed than the rest of them!

An unabridged emotion

It finally happened. After what seemed like a nervous wait for the unknown eventuality, it finally did. Actually it began quite fervently yesterday but took on the gorgeous form of a relentless wave last night as it showered generous flakes of soft feather-weight white snow all over Copenhagen. What made it particularly special for me was that it was Jaya's first real chance at indulging in some serious snow fights. As she threatened to swing a big fist full at me last night, we stood in our cargo shorts clicking warm photographs under a cold blanket and became children for a few brief moments.

I couldn't help but relate to her unabridged enthusiasm at the whole affair. I remember being absolutely ecstatic back in 1992, when I had first encountered snow at the foothills of Kedarnath in North India. As a lad in the prime of his teenage years, I recall being absolutely fascinated with the cold and hard chunks of natural ice that seemed to give me so much joy just by being themselves. I then met snow again in the Xmas of 2000, during my first visit to the United States. I remember being equally fascinated by it even the second time but I also remember being subtle about the whole thing in the presence of my American-born cousins. Had it just been me I'd have probably danced in euphoria once again.

As I watched Jaya show me the photographs she had taken of the heavy snowfall around the city, I could feel that familiar pulsating emotion that only folks like us can experience. And by that I mean – people who never grew up around snow. Even though I traveled the country growing up, I never lived in a place where it snowed. Heck, I used to think it would snow everywhere except in India until I realized that snowfall had nothing to do with countries and had more to do with where they were located. That fact was rather unsettling since all geographical aspects aside, I felt suddenly alienated from this wonderful experience. As I'd watch New Year celebrations on the television from New York or Moscow or somewhere else in the foreign lands where snow was a regular feature during this time of the year, I'd always wonder what it was about snow that made us – well, so child-like. We would be tempted to go out there, even in sub zero temperatures, to make snowmen or have intense snowball fights. We'd want to jump, crash, hop and even slide down the terrain as long as we knew that the cool and comforting mattress of pure white snow was there to help us along the way. Maybe it was in that innocent sense of natural care, that my imagination, of snow always being associated with something so joyous and entertaining, found wings. I cant say for sure.

All these thoughts returned to me as I watched Jaya call her family up and share her wonderful first experience with the big bold white. I am sure she will see many such snowfalls in the months, and even years, to come. But I am also certain that no matter how many winters and snowflakes embrace her from this point forward, she will never forget this day when she got up and the entire city's stony silence had been transformed into a giant canvas of pure excitement. Ah...how wondrous would it be if it would snow everywhere in the world at the same time so that all of us – earth citizens – could, for one brief fleeing moment, forget about hating or loving each other and just … just enjoy this unabridged emotion.

Oh well. If what I hear about global warming is true, then this hope of mine could definitely be a reality. Perhaps with tragic consequences...but definitely an undeniable reality. Until then, I am happy that Jaya now has something that is certainly so unique.

Flaky thoughts

As a child I remember always badgering my father to take us to Kashmir. Reason? All the snow. In retrospect today I wonder where that inexplicable fixation to that white cotton volatility really stemmed from. It could have been the popcorn candy laced Yash Raj movies that celebrated snow as if it was some sort of divine ingredient that made love such a special experience. It could also have been the fact that most places that we lived in growing up – Chennai, Hyderabad, Pune and even New Delhi – never saw an inch of snow even in their own versions of ‘winter’. I still remember pelting tiny cubes of tasteless and watery ice from the refrigerator at my equally enthusiastic brother as we played the ‘snow game’ pretending we were flinging snowballs at each other as we ran around the living room in our vests while mom screamed at us from the kitchen. As juvenile as such episodes seem now I could not help revisit them today as I returned home from work after being generously sprayed with cold and fresh snow flakes falling lazily from the grey skies. It is winter in Copenhagen and so the heavens have now decided to flourish us with some intense snowfalls.

Anyway, the irony of it was this – I disliked it a little. In fact I couldn’t wait to get inside, get out of the moist woolen jacket and get into a warm pair of dry clothes. I couldn’t stand the constant landing of haphazardly vicious snow pellets that seemed determined to annoy me no end. It was somehow nostalgic and frustrating at the same time as I tried so desperately to think of why on God’s green earth we used to be so fascinated by snow back in the day. Was it because we had never really seen it? Was it because we had somehow put up a mantle for it that was so high and dramatic that it seemed unattainable? I don’t know for sure. But I couldn’t quite connect the dots that made kids like me crazy about snow in those days.

I still remember the sheer surge of adrenaline that had cut through our bodies when we had spotted the first genuine layers of hard snow mounds on our way to the holy shrine of Kedarnath in North India as we rode on the back of a tired pony. Despite our sore bottoms we had jumped off of its back and chased each other throwing generous lumps of white blissful snowballs at one another as dad clicked photographs from the distance wrapped in a bright red sweater and a grey colored ‘monkey cap’. Fun times indeed!

My next big connection with snow came when I visited the United States for the first time in 2000 for Xmas. All of the Washington and Baltimore area had been covered with heavy snowfall and I still remember feeling numb with emotion as I played mercilessly in it with my cousins. It was good while it lasted, I guess. But then somehow that fascination went away…until I moved to Europe in 2007. My first Xmas in 2007 brought with it a gracious serving of the white miracle one evening. I remember walking out of the apartment that day and standing mesmerized at my very first ‘resident snowfall’ – translation, my first snow fall in a place I actually lived in and wasn’t a tourist at. It was good for a day, maybe two, oh what the heck, three days! But then that fascination began to fade. I got sick with cold and couldn’t wait to experience the brazen heat that our good friend – the sun – used to provide. I craved for days where I could just walk to the supermarket wearing a T Shirt, jeans and sandals. I used to long for days when I didn’t have to get dressed in six different woolen accessories just to throw out the garbage. It was an interestingly different time as my attitude towards snow and everything about it seemed to have changed a bit.

But then there is also something else to it. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was still unattached back then and the sight of love-happy couples walking quietly amid snow laden streets made me look away. Maybe it was the fact that, much like the Yash Raj features, I didn’t have anyone to sing ‘dekha ek khwaab to yeh silsilay hue…’ like Bachchan Sr. as a lissome Rekha crooned from across the frozen lake in a turtle neck pull over. I am not sure. But luckily, with that aspect of my life taking a much appreciated turn, I am now hoping the next time winter comes along I should be a much happier man. Doesn’t that sound reasonable now?

Amen!

..ShaKri..