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Friday, April 29, 2011
An Irish RambleA really long time has passed since I posted anything here. There could be reasons but
none will really even begin to cover the spread of it, honestly speaking. A whole patchwork quilt of reasons could perhaps
aspire to such lofty heights—or is it spread—but in solo? Ah, you have got another think coming. So we shall pass
lightly over this ungainly matter and seek greener pastures.
Which, of course, puts
us snugly in line with what I think I will write about here. Green-ness. And while that mystifies you, let that not set you
aflutter. All will be revealed in good time, in due season, in the fullness of time, etc., etc. But here I must accord credit
where it is rightly due, to the wife. What follows is her idea 
Early in March this year I had the opportunity to spend about
10 days in Ireland, Dublin to be precise. That it was on business goes without saying for the nonce. But the most convenient
bit was that the duration afforded me a weekend that I could use to explore the place a bit… only a bit.
There being no direct flights from India to Dublin I had to travel via some hop-over point. I suppose
the logical hop-over would be London but for some inexplicable reason(s)—to me, that is—one would need a transit
visa to do so. Would it be due to the required change of airlines? Doesn’t quite sound right… but then I’d
be the wrongest person to make any sort of judgment. So to avoid this bother I gave Heathrow the big miss—their loss
entirely, I assure you—and opted for Abu Dhabi having chosen to fly Etihad… or is it the other way round?
Jet Airways operates the Delhi-Abu Dhabi leg and having spotted a suitable traveller,
chose to upgrade me to plusher settings. If you think that was pure luck on my part, why, you’re free to draw that conclusion.
No such ‘luck’ came my way, however, for the Abu Dhabi-Dublin leg and there I was, cramped in the cattle-class
seat—in harmony, sympathy and full fraternity with all our holy cows. And if that last bit sounds familiar, you can
certainly thank a certain ex-central minister who now probably rues that smart-alecky twittering, though I personally appreciated
that humour.
I will not dignify the cattle-class-ness any further by any more
ranting. Let it suffice to say that we negotiated a safe enough landing and I was out fairly quickly. The first thing that
struck was of course the cold. For someone travelling from India—still officially cold in Delhi then by local standards—the
difference was startling. I am unashamed though to say I reveled in it but was thankful to get into a cab in very short order.
Not too many people milling around obviously helped in this very quick and efficient ‘get away’.
Did I mention it was early morning when I landed? Ah, I missed that. Yes, morning and it was then
that I started noticing the green-ness of the greenery around. Lush, varied shades, eyeful… in short, uniformly satisfying.
As the car zipped, curved and swished around curvaceous roads, my eyes goggled. The grass seemed to be inviting one to golf
there if not directly munch.
Hopping lightly over the next few days, let me
land plonk on the weekend I had alluded to earlier, on the Saturday, to be exact per my exacting standards of accuracy.
Saturday dawned bright but grey. When after a hearty breakfast a colleague—my
day-trip partner—and I stepped out of our hotel, the windy-ness quite froze the uncovered bits. A later retrospection
clarified matters a little: Greenland is the next door neighbour to the west. So any baby wind starting out life and passing
over Greenland would blow unrestrictedly and contentedly through to Ireland—a minor detour could cause it to pass over
Iceland, and with a name like that I need go no further into it—having collected a degree of coldness that can seldom
be rivaled, unless of course a rival wind began life from somewhere to the North, where the granddaddy of them all is, the
North Pole. I mean no disrespect to the South Pole but thankfully it is a bit farther than its northern counterpart and takes
a markedly less interest in freezing things up in the north.
So there we were,
walking briskly across to the nearest tram station—tram, forsooth! our ‘cholbe na’ brigade
ought to check these little blitzes out—and fairly whizzed across to the city centre, St. Stephen’s Green—‘Faiche
Stiabhna’ in Gaelic, the local language—to then walk across a bit more and board our bus for the day tour we had
pre-booked ourselves (with commendable foresight I say even if it is I who say it (well, to be perfectly frank, who else will?
So I’m left with me)). 
The Irish revel in their good humouredness (noticed the ‘ness-ness’
of things in this post, by the way?). The driver of the bus, who was also our guide, threw out bits and pieces of interesting
trivia. Right in the centre of the city, they have the Millennium Spire, which, by the scheme of things, ought to have come
up—literally—by January 1, 2001, to commemorate the new millennium and presumably, wish it well. But the Irish,
so said the drivide—to coin a new term—being a lazy lot, managed to put it up only in 2003 (or was it
2004, I forget). On that jolly note, let me lead you further.
An hour’s
drive fetched us up at the first point in our tour plan, Trim Castle. The drive itself again reestablished the green-ness
quotient. Added to this were the sheep grazing in plentiful everywhere some grass raised its head. I guess the munching is
really toothsome; the rotundity of the sheep is quite the evidence of that and the many vital minerals—vitamins to you—that
burgeon within the grass. The wool these contented creatures offer up for shearing is quite the quality the wool-carvers crave,
I am led to believe. Not to leave them out, there were horses about too but both in numbers and rotundity they lose out to
their smaller neighbours. Being rather camera-shy, they refused resolutely to pose for my camera and thus I have no option
but to deprive you of the sheer pleasure of taking a gander at them and drawing your breath sharply in.
Back to the castle. One racy chap, Hugh de Lacy, when granted the ‘Liberty of Meath’—whatever
that may mean but it certainly opened up the vista for him—occupied the site in 1172 upon which the castle
stands. That’s quite a few years back, if you haven’t noticed. Some 839 years, to get to the nub of the matter.
This gentleman probably possessed a pair of canny eyes and spotted the sense in building his pile here, with the River Boyne
flowing swiftly to the north of this spot and marshy grounds to the south. These natural aspects were supposed to afford some
security to his home and hearth but not relying entirely upon Nature, he also prudently built a wall around the upcoming castle.
Dilapidated and obviously unoccupied—who in his right mind would now
want to live in a literally stone-cold house?—this is now under the loving care of the Irish archaeological society’s
equivalent, the National Monuments wing of the OPW (despite the sinister acronym on offer, it merely stands for the most inoffensive
‘Office of Public Works’). They are doing a good job by the looks of it. It opened for visitors at the promised
time, the guide came at the appointed hour and things happened in a fairly predictable manner thereafter.
The guide, a comely young lady, very knowledgeable, took us inside and regaled us with the stories.
Couple of things stood out. Despite all the protection of the river, the marshes and the wall, poor Hugh and his successors
did have to contend with jealous attackers—who probably liked the look of the castle and wanted a piece of it and if
that was not forthcoming, then wanted it in pieces—who fired lit arrows to the thatched roof that obligingly then caught
fire, causing tears, ruin and maybe a mite more. So what the canny castle denizens did was to put wet pieces of cloth and
animal skins on the roof. The other stand-out feature was the attached toilet in one of the bedrooms. 
Yes, l & g, I kid you not. A veritable toilet within the bedroom. Now, the guide couldn’t be sure of
who could be the lucky occupant of that room. It couldn’t be the lord of the manor since this was on the top floor—and
I can assure you, the staircase is not the most navigable one you have ever stepped on, so no chance of the big man of the
house stomping up and down with a fierce look in his eyes, cursing the day when he had agreed to move to this bedroom—but
the clinching argument against that possibility is the fact that it lacks a fireplace. Ah, I can see the light of agreement
animating your goggling eyes. Yes, a room, though much equipped with a spot of modern convenience, distinctly lacked a source
of heat to defrost the bones of the lord & m. of the castle. So nix that option. Nonetheless, someone fairly well up in
the reckoning and in the good books of the l & master of the pile resided there. If you notice closely you can perhaps
spot the toilet in the picture alongside. Seriously, that’s the semblance of the convenience.
A full tour of the castle ate up about an hour and a bit. Exiting there we scattered after a teary
farewell to our guide. Boyne, I discovered, is a rather frisky river, flowing briskly as if it has urgent business to attend
to at some distance. A few steps from the river is a cheery sight, a wooden thingummyjig where your—oh, okay, let’s
not be macabre—a poor blighter’s neck is held along with his wrists. What then happens to this said bloke I leave
to your vivid imagination. And making allowance for your sensitive souls, am even refraining from uploading the picture of
the said frame. You can of course contact me offline for a personalized copy 
The next stop was about half an hour away, a beautiful green spread, rolling
fields and a few old, old structures and a majestic church. This spot is called the Hill of Tara. Legend and myth intermingle
here. The spot dates back to the 4th century BC making it 6,000 years old. Serious, eh? A royal Celtic place, this
is one of the largest complexes of Celtic monuments in all Europe. In the then Irish religion—pagan, of course—Tara
was believed “to be the dwelling of the Gods, an entrance point for the other world, of eternal joy and plenty,
where no mortal ever grew old” (wish you were there, don’t you? ;-))
It is here that St. Patrick chose to preach Christianity in Ireland. The then king, whose name is lost to history
(er, my memory you say? Could be, could be but no admissions here of that! ), more’s the pity, issued a firm nolle prosequi of course and refused to play any sort of ball. The saint,
being a saint, persevered, a gentle smile surely playing a major part in the entire proceedings. Eventually, the king gave
the nod, withdrawing the said nolle prosequi and permitted the saint to preach his new-fangled religion but firmly
refused to be part of it in any form. He said, rather logically, that if the religion of his birth had got him that far—well,
he was getting on in years—he would abide it into his grave. And so he did.
The
church that stands there still is St. Patrick’s and there’s his statue too outside in the lush greenness. Jumping
a few millennia back from then, there’s a monolith and a few other bits and pieces of ‘monuments’ from that
earlier era. 
The most intriguing story—history? Maybe—is related to the Mound of the Hostages. Apparently a local
chieftain who wanted to have some sway over other chiefs nearby devised a simple yet very effective way of ensuring the sway.
He kidnapped a scion of the chief he wanted to subdue and held him hostage so that the targeted chief obeyed his wishes. Seems
he kept quite a few of these hostages simultaneously there under that mound you can see for yourself in the picture, handpicked
from targeted chiefs nearby and thumbed his nose at them. When a hostage ran out of utility—maybe his chief
gave up on him as a bad debt and renewed opposition to our chieftain, the latter simply beheaded—or maybe picked other,
more elegant methods of disposing of him—that hostage and nicked another to take his place. And bring that uppity chief—poor
fellow, I say—to heel. How long this merry state of affairs lasted one knows not.
The cold, meanwhile, continued unabated. It was windy like billy-o, grey skies
lowering, threatening rain. The open, rolling green fields all around was soothing to the eyes, every direction that you cared
to swing them. All that exercise of course caused hunger to knock amidships pretty indignantly and heed had to be paid. So
we stomped off to a tea shop where they were selling, kind souls that they are, hot scones and hotter drinks. Fortified a
bit having sampled their wares, we headed back to the city with the express aim of doing the city centre.
The Christ Church Cathedral and St. Stephen’s Green are the two that we could cover. Again,
the overwhelming greenness was the main feature. If I were to upload more pictures, while pleasing your eyes and causing gasps
of admiration to spring forth from open mouths, they would stymie the site to a speed akin to driving uphill with your handbrakes
on.
On Sunday, the following day, we had a larger group that ventured to explore
the city centre. As on the previous day, we headed there on the tram, a serene ride. The weather was better than the day before,
sunny but still a bit windy and oh yes, cold.
The first spot we spent time
in was a Victorian three storeyed house equipped with a basement floor as well. A 6-Euro fee was needed to be unbelted and
then we were treated to a 15-minute short film. It comprised a series of pictures with a lady’s voice-over, walking
us through the events of her life. Yes, she was the erstwhile widowed mistress of the very house we were in—hold on
to your non-existent hats… they were merely setting the tone for the next hour or so—explaining how
she led her daily life right there but only a couple of centuries ago.
The
guide, again a comely girl and well-trained, then led us down to the basement which was the executive centre of the household.
A kitchen, stores and the chief maid’s accommodation were here. They have pretty much retained the place as it was then
including the bells that called the various maids to the upper reaches of the house. The bells no longer ding—the bell
pulls from the various rooms above no longer snake their way through in here—but the guide explained that the tone of
the bells varied for the maids to know which room, which floor they needed to scurry to; remember, the maids and servants
were illiterate those days. So no nifty little plates with rooms written on them were placed with the appropriate bell. If
the bell didn’t quite dong the way the maid had learnt it did, well, then, some degree of hell could break loose upstairs.
By the way, I wonder if there were professional bell re-tuners…?
No
photography was permitted in this house so I cannot quite feed your curiosity, more’s the pity. The other interesting
object I noticed was a curiously designed chair that had leather bellows for a seat and sported no backrest. The guide—with
that inimitable Irish good humour—explained this was the lady of the house’s exerciser, a stomach flattener, no
less. And while you cast about pitiably trying to figure out what on earth am I rambling on about, imagine this: A low-slung
chair, with armrests but no backrest and a very intriguing leather bellows seat, the top of which almost reached the armrests.
You have to—if you’re a lady wanting to persuade your tummy to reverse-gear—sit astride it and holding on
to one armrest—facing this way or in sharp contradistinction, that way—jump up and down on the bellows seat as
if riding a rather frisky horse. And voila! your tummy is well on its way back in… how’s that?
Another couple of interesting things I learnt was one, that in those times, owners paid house tax
based on the number of windows. Interesting, huh? And two, that ceiling height kept lessening every floor until it reached
the top floor—usually the 3rd (Indian/ European)/ 4th (American) floor—where only children
and governesses were expected to live?
The next spot was the famous Trinity
College. There were a few Henry Moore sculptures, great architecture, piazzas, lovely fields, greenery—again!—and
students milling around, lazing on a sunny Sunday. A very interesting sculpture there is one by Arnaldo Pomodoro, the Milan-based
Italian sculptor, named the ‘Sphere within sphere’ (see accompanying picture).  Apparently, the inner sphere represents Earth and the outer, Christianity. A rather ambitious visualization, if I may say
so. A little moth-eaten in appearance but impressive nonetheless.
The
next stop, Chester Beatty Library, is actually a museum and has been voted the European Museum of the Year in 2002. The Library's collections are displayed in two sections, "Sacred Traditions" and "Artistic Traditions".
Both displays exhibit manuscripts, miniature paintings, prints, drawings, rare books and some decorative arts from the Islamic,
East Asian and Western Collections. There are 4 (or was it 3? Perhaps I’m over-estimating now?) floors and I did only
one. But very engaging and caused many discussions to break out amongst all of us.
 The last thing I will bore you with from this trip is of my visit to a rather famous institution there—Johnnie Fox’s
Pub which was established in 1798 to assuage the thirst of dry-throated Irishmen. This yeoman service has stood them in good
stead and they still serve a mean beer or two. However, I will not quite rave about the frothing mugs—I have to say
I formed a rather deep friendship with Guinness here that I look forward to renewing but only in Ireland… since the
Irish brew is unpasteurized and consequently, more tasty—but rather will make mention of the most straight-forward
weather forecasting system I have encountered.
And letting the accompanying picture speak the proverbial thousand
words, I will withdraw now, letting you cool your straining eyes and fevered brain with some soothing coolant—Shell
springs to mind—with the just one rather humble request: If you have found this a tolerably interesting account to read,
do let me know by commenting thus encouraging me to inflict another episode of my travelogue… to a different land,
a different experience. And on that note, I cease and desist. For now.
Fri, April 29, 2011 | link
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Return of L'Ombre BrilleWhen
you can't beat something, what do you do? Why, you join it! Simple. And of course, you wonder why do I say this right up,
eh? No mysteries here, folks. I refer to my keen ability to provide you wholesome fare here only very occasionally. If I tell
you work keeps me busy, you should spot a lie being served up with watercress around it. Smile lightly and refuse the offered
pinch of salt since you don't need to take it at all. On the contrary, being the knight parfait, I will tell you the bald, ungarnished truth: I procrastinate. Kal kare so aaj is invariably turned around to Aaj kare so kal. And for my readers—sounds so bloody warm, I tell you!—who don't quite speak the italicised language there (Hindi, my dear
friends, spoken by the teeming millions of this vast land), well, that Englishifies into Do today what you'd do tomorrow and Why
do today what you'd as well do tomorrow? respectively. In other words, I let my I would wait upon my I
wouldn't, as my gurudev so pithily puts it. Par excellence. Er, Gurudev,
you wonder? Why, the maestro himself! The one and only Language Magician, Maitre Wodehouse.
Last time I put some
fiction 'extract'—not quite an 'extract', which implies there is a larger body of work from which that piece was drawn
but something rather on the lines of a 'fictional' fiction extract implying that the so-called extract could have been an 'extract' had the larger body existed, which it didn't of course—and
hoped you sporting fellows would take a few pot-shots at it. No such luck! My hopes have been dashed, in the larger-picture-sense!
But I daresay I had a racy bit there with some careless humour thrown in... but guess the casting of the net—hardly
the couch!—was imperfectly marketed. Which of course goes to show that all those marketing guys are not really sitting
on their respective fannies and cavorting in their umpteen gabfests (tarry a little here! ‘sitting on their fannies
and cavorting’? Surely mutually exclusive, those two together?) only but are actually doing some work to ensure
the good and honourable stuff they are marketing is indeed made known to the paying public for them—the latter ones
here naturally since you would hardly expect the marketeers themselves falling for their own machinations—to loosen
their tightly drawn purse-strings. My suspicion is the marketeers only buy stuff they genuinely need whereas the paying
public—to wit, the non-marketeers, or to stretch the point a bit, marketeers not marketing that particular good—are
enticed to part with their hard-earned—and in some cases, ill-gotten—moolah to acquire perfectly unnecessary goods
and maybe even services.
I have an idea, absolutely fresh off the oven, just teeming with possibilities. The only
fear I have is of it being filched without so much as a 'by your leave'—particularly since I have no clue what that
expression means and secondly, if you have seen how we drive in our country then you wouldn't seek further evidence of complete
scroundel-ish behaviour and the total absence of morality—and being palmed off as a genuine, true-blue someone
else's idea, leaving me desolate, disgruntled, and Ghajini-ish.
And poor(er). I cannot stand for it. So hear ye, hear ye: Note the date of this posting and know ye all that the idea that
will shortly burst forth here is mine and mine alone; I stick to it closer than the Maestro's 'paint on the wall' simile.
It has never appeared anywhere in the public domain till date and with this appearance here, is introduced as the freshest
bit of the best-est thing; I assert the right to be noted and accepted without demur as the sole creator of the idea. So,
the idea.
Now, hold on to your patience (since it is a virtue and is a quality much sought in people that hardly have
it). Let me fill you in on a bit of a background. While it may strike you tangential and a non-plussive (now, am on a word-inventing
spree!), repose your trust yet. And lend me your ear. (By the way, did I tell you about the time when I had, in a moment of
overt cleverness, requested a lady to lend me her mouth? I had merely wanted her to answer a question I had posed, honest!
).
In my evening perambulations
I get to see some of the soaps on television that are patronised by the many-headed (I must admit, there are two that
I follow myself, the names of which will remain a closely-guarded secret for indescribably classified reasons but you could
check with the aforementioned marketeers). Each seems to have a few nasty characters that cause untold misery to the long-suffering
saints who make up the other twenty per cent of the characters in the soap, and carry the burden of everyone else there. The
nasty, brutish lot are however the ones that cause the story to move forward; utter goody-goodiness will be so boring that people would use them as sedatives. Or as sugar
substitutes in their hot beverages.
So
these villains—as we love to call them—or 'characters in a negative role' (this term now so popularised
by the countless TV awards—the sheer number of such awards eventually ensure each soap and all artistes are ultimately
decorated), if you prefer, get to have all the fun. They get to do what I suspect most people would love to do too—only
they are too conscious of themselves—and usually have a whale of a time: dress up to the gills in the most weird outfits
they can, make the funniest faces—mistakenly assuming them to be scaring people witless—say the most wicked things
they could... and get paid to do all those. And, I almost forgot: wear the funkiest bindis and jewelry (if women)
or only jewelry (if men). They certainly have all the fun. Whereas the good ones—the goody-goody weenies—are always
moping around, wringing their hands/ faces/ foreheads or any other body part commissioned to express anguish, bemoaning their
fate, wailing at the Gods—ever wonder how each household seems to come equipped with a splendid mandir, complete with shiny marble flooring, serene white marble statues/ statuettes
of the Gods, shining lamps with ever-glowing wicks, etc.—and weeping copious tears. They might get to wear shiny clothes—particularly
if the producer is kind-hearted and has a large budget—and drive nice cars—against the rakish sports models the
villainous ones get to vroom around in—but are pale shadows in terms of interest. Your heart might be all melted for
them and their brand of behaviour practices but you wouldn't want to change places with them. After all, who would want to
mope around when you could snarl, sneak, cavort, and snakily pounce on the helpless? And dress like they do, to boot? That's
a no-brainer, as our brethren from the richest democracy love to say.
Oh? You say you have lost context of what we had started out discussing? Like that idea I
was about to spring at you? It’ll happen yet; there is light at the end of this tunnel and hey, it is not the
light from the oncoming train! The idea will be served, hang in there.
So, these villains are having all the fun. The goody two-shoes are getting pasted every time
and are up against it all the while. They serve the weirdest of evil schemes and make the lives miserable of all concerned.
At times I daresay you feel you’ve had enough of gritting your teeth and bearing the complete lack of spine of these
non-villains. I am sure you’ve had occasion—and not infrequently I suspect—to wanting simply to get into
the television set yourself with the nearest blunt object at hand and braining… who? Why, the do-gooders of course!
Why would you want to attack the villains in the show, who make up the engine of the vehicle of the show and drive the blasted
thing forward—or backward per your perspective or inclination, take your pick? The show would stop forthwith and you
wouldn’t know what to do with the suddenly freed-up 30-odd minutes! Don’t you agree?
It is generally agreed that one could remove other characters from such soaps but
never the dark ones since TRPs (Television Rating Points, for the uninitiated) would plummet prompting purges, murder and
mayhem at the channel headquarters. Since these blackguards are the lives and souls of the parties, I was thinking, why
not start a new show that would be peopled only with these villains who play themselves? That is to say, merely as
an example, not casting a whit of aspersion on the blackness of their characters by their exclusion hereof, Dadisa
plays Dadisa—herself—in this new show, which, for the purposes of this piece, is named, let’s say,
“Kale Kartootein”, (or, “Black Deeds”). She is up against it, matching her wits with, say,
the redoubtable Ammaji—she of the flaming eyes and impeccable Haryanvi rusticity—or the matchless Punpun-wali,
the drawling Ranvijay or any or multiple of the myriad others.
Can you imagine the bonanza? The sheer delight of evilness all over, slithering forth from
each corner of your 21”/ 29”/ 32”/ 40”/ 46” or more? Mouth-watering possibilities! I squirm
in anticipation and the hands-rubbing prospects… if only!
And that, dear reader, is my idea. Get these fiends all together and reap the benefits of sky-rocketing TRPs.
And you cannot overlook my little contribution (only my modesty prevents me from crowing with success already) and thus, make
your own little contribution towards the uplift of my finances (my modesty yet again reflected in that second ‘little’).
And
with this idea planted in your fertile minds, I melt away into the yonder setting sun. Adios, amigos.
Sun, December 20, 2009 | link
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