TRASH TALK

The 1990’s are best remembered for terrible fashion choices, rise of plastic and for me, “keep your city clean and green,” signs on public lavatories. My love for rhyming words began then. I first saw them in the city of Bangalore, which whether clean or not, was certainly green. Other cities started to adapt the lines and soon most public urinals bore these words in cheery green. Anybody else familiar with this picture, who can almost smell the bleaching powder strewn generously on roads, around dirty toilets and dustbins; is for sure a 90’s kid from India.

When technology advanced, the open circular concrete dustbins were replaced with huge green plastic/metal bins with wheels. Overnight the garbage collectors became actor-esque especially when they came in the truck and hooked the bin over so that the trash could transcend on its head. The subsequent days saw folks stop to gaze. I also know of grandmothers that hitched their picky toddlers up on their waists to show them this spectacle and push a few more mouthfuls of food.

Putting a whole continent between me and the homeland hasn’t changed my outlook. For the first two years of motherhood, I did the same thing. Ira had her breakfast at 8.30 AM when the truck came to clear plastic, lunch at 11.45 AM courtesy the truck collecting general waste. My waist was the baby seat. Cutlery? Where do you think the word ‘handy’ came from?

It helps that waste is segregated so I could plan mealtimes around garbage removal. If I were to do the same in India, my child might have had a single meal a day, sometimes even none! I suppose the politicians of some nations plan for their countrymen and leave cows to the countryside.

Thanks to the underground storage of garbage, our neighbors don’t know what brand of coffee we use, or when we indulged in pizzas. There are two metal dwarfs opposite my house that gobble plastic and metal waste. Until recently, opening them was like opening a treasure cave. I had to swipe my personal garbage card and mouth ‘open sesame’ while praying for it to open. Without the card, my backyard would have become a dump yard and so, I put it safely in my wallet, along with the debit card.

I realized that people are pretty much similar around the world, whether it is Netherlands or Nagpur. Those who lost the magic key, simply dumped the black treasure around the dustbins, inviting the neighborhood cats and sea gulls for a feast. After trying and failing to track these model citizens from their leftovers, the local municipality unlocked the dustbins to everyone. People love throwing challenges at governments. The card problem was resolved but then I encountered another one while trying to dump paper cartons, thanks to amazon and Dominoes. The tower meant to dump paper and cardboard was stuffed to the brim with several boxes jostling for space. It bulged almost like a pregnant woman in her final trimester. So, I did what an esteemed citizen would do. I patiently tore my junk into smaller pieces and deposited them in several dustbins on the way back home.

Purchasing and moving into a house has opened my eyes to several other types of waste. Wooden floors, ceramic chamber pots, metal pipes and taps, furniture whose value increases in the negative scale… all these when thrown in India have takers. In fact, I can recollect a handyman requesting a well-loved rocking chair, even before we wanted to throw it. Once I saw someone plant roses in toilet pots! And the rest somehow find their way into second-hand hardware stores.

While Indians come from a culture of spontaneity, Netherlands puts its trust in the concept of appointments. Sick? Make an appointment with the doc. Need the plumber to fix your flush? Take his appointment. Want to hang out with a friend? Propose an appointment. Want to get rid of unshapely rubbish? Yes, you guessed it right. Make an appointment with the garbage company.

In the past month, we have made so many appointments with them, that our conversations with the workers are almost on first-name basis. But, these are some virtuous people I know because they keep promises. Rain or shine, they turn up on the day of the appointment and single-handedly remove the rubbish with some high tech machines; provided you have placed your rubbish in the right place at the correct angle and have covered it properly with the right shade of bin bag. Perhaps mechanizing a ’menial’ job makes all the difference. The workers are well protected and needn’t delve through piles of filth and so can do their jobs with less disgust and more efficacy. Ira’s mealtimes don’t depend on garbage trucks anymore, just the same both of us are still enamoured by them. Especially the ones that come in autumn, scooping all the fallen leaves and pulverizing them even while transporting. That is when I can make her eat Brussel sprouts!

This particular post has been written in honour of garbage week that we are celebrating. It means through the whole of this week, we have various appointments to clear our stash of floorboards, mangy furniture, rusted fireplace and other unmentionables. Tomorrow is the last of them. Perhaps a truck with a giant magnet will remove the metal waste. And then, we will have more space to hoard unnecessary things. What fun!

Birds and Bees

The last time I saw bees in India was when I was 19 years old. My engineering college like several others stood right in the middle of a God-forsaken piece of land. The wild bees built massive hives that hung off precarious edges of the college buildings, that too within a matter of hours. That’s when we saw how skilled they really are, putting civil engineers to shame.

As a child, I remember being let loose in an overgrown garden that was a haven to creepy crawlies and the (now not so) common garden sparrows. That was perhaps my first brush against Dame Nature. I spent glorious summer afternoons exploring in the shade of the lemon tree as the rest of the family snoozed. A child’s curiosity helped further by the absence of adults led to several discoveries. Wriggly earthworms that were given shelter in the sand ‘hills’, the grasshopper who jumped against his will as I gave him chase, the ants that were constantly annoyed to have their discipline disturbed, the colorful butterflies that were always eluding my fingers as they skimmed over marigolds and the angry wasp who stung me on two occasions as I dug through his hole in the coconut tree.  

Add to this the tiny sparrows that were brave enough to hop closer in the hope of finding bits of grain, green parakeets that often nicked the best guavas and the rare blue kingfisher who perched on the powerlines ever so fearlessly.

As my formative years were spent close to the ground, the next decade was spent living within the pages of several books, along the likes of Enid Blyton. I was transported to the English countryside. That was the time anything foreign was considered fancy, a time when we only saw strawberries in picture books, we could only imagine what oak and maple trees looked like. Ladybugs, beetles, water lilies, honeysuckle, hedgehogs, blackbirds, hillside cottages and snow were only alive in imagination.

Fast forward another decade and a half, my Enid Blyton dreams have come alive, albeit in Holland. While the country is grey half the year, summer is pure magic. It is almost impossible to keep life from blossoming. The empty trees now are clad in beautiful green tunics, ferns and bulbs push through the earth to smell the sweet summer air. Lush green carpets of grass sprout and tiny wildflowers bravely open their petals despite trampling feet. Even weeds that grow in cracks blossom into pretty, little flowers, all awaiting the buzz of the bees. Like this isn’t sufficient, every garden, every balcony and every windowsill overflows with flowers of every shade and shape possible.

Back home, as our cities take over forests and turn into concrete jungles, the Hague has its own artificial forest, a space filled with solitude, peace and dog poo - part of the natural experience, I suppose.  Every neighbourhood is blessed with at least a few yards of nothingness that acts as a harbor for insects which, we now understand are the beginnings of the food chain. Even as biologists worldwide clamor to revive bees, most developed as well as developing nations seem to concentrate only on reviving their economies at the expense of nature.

Holland is a happy and robust picture of healthy outdoors. The bee population alone has observed a spike of almost 45% since 2000. The efforts of the government in banning insecticides and planting native wildflowers along the highways, railway tracks and even on top of bus stops has paid off. Spotted ladybugs in red, yellow and orange hues bask in the sunshine filled gardens, grasshoppers and frogs hop about in my shady backyard, butterflies flit in and out as they deem right and the drone of bees has become a constant.

This multitude of insects brings birds to houses. People help by taking active interest in nature and gardening. Most houses sport bird houses, bird baths and insect hotels. Sparrows and tits are aplenty as are the magpies and robins. They come at dawn break to gobble sleepy little insects and present us with a lovely waking-up concert. Afternoons are reserved for blackbirds that sit just above reach in the dark shade of the trees, singing in their piercing, yet beautiful voices. As evening stretches into night, we sometimes see a mud brown bird with a brilliant teal tail, that has been nicknamed as “we-don’t-know” bird by my daughter.

Like typical NRI parents, our vacations are always in India for our daughter to spend quality time with the extended family. And it can’t be more different there. Honking has replaced calls of birds. The motor sound has driven away the buzz of bees. Every inch of available space is being scaled up to become buildings. The human presence asserts itself raucously, just about everywhere. The only insects that have learnt to live with our devious ways are mosquitoes that come in hordes at sunset, frightening the daylights out of everyone. Not to forget the midnight visitors - the cockroaches that feast on filth.

While the kids of my friends are mini scientists, I wonder if they have ever been left to discover nature the way many of us did. Do they know the feeling of running through dewy grass early in the morning? The feel of velvety moss? The flutter of butterfly wings on your nose when you get too close to it? The thrill of plucking Crossandra flowers and tasting the nectar in its bulging end? It is disheartening to think that the average city-bred toddler in India is a stranger to these sensations.

When I see Dutch children, I realize how in tune with nature they are. They run unhindered and barefooted through grass and scalding sand. They make bouquets of wildflowers. Collecting shells, pine-cones and autumn leaves are favorite activities. Feeding the obese ducks in the canals is a national pastime. Biking through photogenic cycling routes and picnicking in fields of tulips and daffodils is another adventure. These are simple pleasures of life that the Dutch children are constantly exposed to, which in turn make them respect and conserve nature as adults.

Even as most four-year-olds attend online lessons, Ira and I spend our days in the backyard or taking long walks, stopping by to smell flowers, marvel at insects and blow dandelions. Should I spend this time teaching her alphabets and numbers? Perhaps. But I prefer to make our way outdoors while the sun shines.

And then, despite the Corona virus the world still seems like a happy place.

TOILET TRANSITIONS ‐ Motherhood and me, PART 3

Parenthood is like a double edged sword. The advantages and disadvantages are often the same. One classic example is the concept of disgust. It is lost on us. While life does begin in blood and gore, the subsequent months are spent in discussing spit ups, gases from both the ends and of course, the endproducts. The first milestone is while introducing solids to the infant when the colors, textures, fragrance and frequency are the most favored sub-topics. And I should say it's quite fascinating to wake up to rainbow colours in the diaper. 

Moving to the toilet is the first and biggest milestone in this journey. When this change occurs is determined by sociocultural factors. When my daughter Ira turned three months, the domestic help at my parents' suggested that I begin toilet training her. " when I asked her how a baby would understand ; she said, " say 'sssssss' and she will pee." When Ira was one, my aunt asked if she still was in diapers. "All my children were toilet trained at this age," she proudly declared. My mum and mother in law both affirmed the fact that children were taught the wonders of the toilet around the same age. But how?? "Sssssssss," is the ubiquitous answer.

The Netherlands and the rest of the west takes a more relaxed approach.  Possibly because their children seem obedient. The same procedure starts when the child is two and a half years old. The paraphernalia for this process include a plastic ikea potty, pull up trainers, potty calendar and lots of wet tissues. My Dutch acquaintances always say its pretty simple. "Put the potty in a corner and ask the child to go in it when they need to," they say. 

Ira was mildly curious of her lime green ikea potty and was accepting enough to go "sssssss" in it. The second number was difficult. So I decided to take it slowly.

 Sloooowly. Sloooooooooooowly.       

Meanwhile, I taught her theory.  We read books, watched YouTube potty videos, drew potty analogies. Did everything except what exactly it is to be used for.

"Perhaps she doesn't like this potty," said my mother. So, I bought another handy, colorful model that can be placed right on the toilet. Yet, no success.  My daughter still refused to woo the loo, even when she was losing control. Ira was almost three and was growing bigger. The only things that grew alongside were her diaper size and self control. Yes, she had learnt to hold it in.

My anxiety turned into desperation and full blown panic when she wouldn't unload herself sans diaper, even in the next new potty we bought. So I started to lure her through bribes. "Poo in the potty and i will take you to a park." When that didn't work, I bribed her with chocolates, ice cream and unlimited TV time. My screen loving toddler refused that too. I was now without options. So off we went to the doctor who referred us to a child physiotherapist. 

Our lovely Dutch summer was shadowed by visits to this clinic. We went every ten days and it was actually like going back to college. After a short lecture about not forcing the child to use the potty, I was taught to massage her abdomen with lavender oil. Next, we (I) were given homework and project work. we had to draw 💩,  even make it with clay and dried up bread. Decorate her potty. That was the final straw. So I decided to take things into my own hands. (By the way, we also did try to decorate the potty. Can you read our desperation?)  

I put her on the potty and pushed her to empty her bowls. We sprayed all kinds of fragrances to give her a pleasant atmosphere. I pleaded, yelled and threatened her. After many days of sweat(hers and mine) blood (only mine) and tears (both of ours), Ira started to cooperate. I gifted her with screen time, toys and candy. What worked? I have no idea. Or perhaps it was the giant lollypop. 

Habits die hard. Old and New. Because even now, after a year of being properly toilet trained,  my daughter's favorite song is: "Poo in the potty and I can eat a lolly." 

Motherhood and me part 2 - Toddler Tales

There are two milestones in a toddler parent’s life – toilet training and playschool.

Looks like Indian parents conquer these concepts fairly quickly, for I have heard of tales where the first process began by the seventh month and succeeded at age one when the child could do his one and two, as well as any other numbers in the family toilet. Oh and schooling? That begins when a child has perfected his walk and has begun to run.

Holland is more relaxed. Toilet training and play school start along with each other - at two and a half. If you are once an Indian, you are always one. And I am no different. Education is paramount. So is social behavior. Thus, I decided to overtake the Dutch parents and enrolled my daughter as soon as she turned two.

Dressed in our best, we trooped into the playroom along with other parents and midgets. My daughter was the new kid on the block, quite literally. As a cheery Dutch rhyme played, we were asked to seat our child and walk away. I did, trying to hide the copious tears that were blinding me.  In fifteen minutes, the caretaker brought the darling daughter, howling and wailing. Little did I know that this would become my routine for the next several weeks. In the beginning I cried, for I couldn’t bear to leave her alone in a room full of strangers. And then I cried, for I couldn’t bear her holding on to me, round the clock.

And this became our pattern. To wake up, dress up, show up, tear up and then throw up. No number of toys or children or even bribes seemed to change her mind. At the start of the familiar music at 9 am, all children waved goodbye to their mums and sat in the tiny chairs with shiny eyes. For mine, the soothing music rang alarm bells and she would try to wrestle her way out of the grasp of Corina - the caretaker/teacher. Her “Amma edi!?(where is Mama?)” seemed to be modelled very much like “I am Groot”. She said that in several tones – panic, fright, anger and helplessness. So much that even the very Dutch Corina began to understand Telugu, our mother tongue.

We had to finally give in and accept that her will was too strong. After a happy break (happy for her) of over six months, I began the process all over again (sigh). But this time it was different. Thanks to rigorous study of Peppa pig, Ira could now understand and speak English. Corina, also knew how to deal with her. And in just about a month, she started to stay beyond her record of fifteen minutes. As this time slowly started to increase, so did my hope for some time off and alone. While the latter is still a challenge, Ira learnt to stay, obey and play.

While she played at school, I also started to go to a Dutch one, right below her classroom. And thus, we both began learning the language together, apart. It has been 36 months and she is a transformed child (at least at school). She has made best friends, has already had her share of quarrels and remains enthusiastic about meeting more children. While we stayed home because of the vicious virus, the time for goodbyes had come. She turned four and her teacher- Corina wanted to give her a proper send off. So, it was one last special day at school for her, before we stayed home again.

As I write about my experiences and perspectives in Holland, I see how much of a part Corina has played so far. She is the classic example of the appearances being deceptive saying. She looks strict, acts strict – also with parents, dresses only in black like Ursula of Little Mermaid but in reality is a dear. No amount of praising or thanking would really do her justice , but I would like to express my gratitude for her and others like her who take on the difficult job of training toddlers, thereby giving parents (read mothers) a much needed break.

Meanwhile, Ira is looking forward to going to ‘big school’. And come September, this little tornado is going to hit the primary school!

PS: Toilet training? Wait until the next post! 😊

  

NETHERLANDS vs MOTHERLAND - Me and motherhood part 1

She is a bag of surprises. Has been, right from the very beginning. She made her way into me without any kind of signalling. Bam! Just like how she wants to play in the park and she does, just like that by hook or crook. 

Nine months and one final bumpy tuk tuk ride later, she seemed to have had enough. She wanted out, even when I wasn't ready. So she did make it out, after a cut in my tummy. It's funny that my gut, while so close to the womb was wrong all along. While I very much wanted a girl, I made peace with the idea that I might be birthing a little penis. But again, that's where I was surprised, I had birthed a girl in all her naked glory! 

 After the first few harrowing months of sleeplessness, milk allergy, possible nut allergy, add to it the gluten allergy, I grew allergic to all babies. In the midst of all this, we made plans to come back to Holland. She was half a year old and I was half dead already. 

Holland again. But with a new family member and brand new ground floor house (yippee!) 

What surprised me was the attitude of the Netherlands to babies and mother. While back in India, mothers are given a superior title that they sacrifice themselves to uphold, Holland seemed to be empathetic to the mother. Don't want to nurse? Feed her formula. Child with milk allergy? Major changes to the mother's diet might do more harm, so doctors are happy to prescribe special formula. Unable to sleep with the baby kicking your face? Put her in a crib. Better still in another room. Because a sleep deprived parent is more a monster than a mother. Baby seeks comfort? Push a pacifier into her mouth. 

Back home, I was harassed and guilted into nursing my child, all the while foregoing major chunks of my vegetarian( or junkarian) diet. Baby cries? Feed. Cries again in 30 mins? Feed again because her stomach would have emptied after weeing. Fussy baby? Feed her again, she probably wants comfort. This happened all day and night, every day and night. Everybody seemed to have opinions and judgements on what and how I wanted to feed my baby. Right from the lady-doctor who 'advised' me to the males in the family who thought my boob is my baby's right. 

                                                          

Holland makes way for the mother to feel supported. Primary caregiver needn't necessarily be the mother when the baby isn't dependent on her for the most basic needs. Extendable paternal holiday to ensure that the father also enjoys a mother's role (pun intended). 

The next difficult part of bringing up children - food. Feel like cooking? Go ahead. Don't want to? Then just make a sandwich. Easy meal is the shortcut to happy parenthood. Formula and purees to simple sandwiches. All you need to do is not to judge yourself or let anyone do it. 

And just like that, I didn't miss India anymore! And this is my `Ira“ of happiness!! 

                                                              

PARIS CHRONICLES: PART 1

It was the summer of 15. There was a flurry of activity in one of the apartments in a silent neighborhood of den Haag. A medley of noises was coming from our living space. Dishes cluttering back into their shelves, the annoying sound of zips being opened and closed, heavy footsteps running back and forth, last minute reminders for chargers, phones and wallets over a shrill item song. With a final rattling of suitcase wheels, we tried to slink away from our perennially silent apartment block before the neighbors give us the stink eye.

In about an hour’s time, we were sitting on the plump red seats of Thalys Express, trying to force the recliners to work. I spent a good part of my first ten minutes, wrestling with the seat, which kept pushing me back like a Sumo fighter, after which I gave up to take in the feeling of travelling in a train that cuts across Netherlands, Belgium and France.

Perhaps it was the effect of keeping my nose buried in mystery novels through an entire childhood that I was reminded of ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ and of course the unforgettable Poirot. It was a pity because in contrast to the racy novel, my journey was largely uneventful, except when a suitcase fell on a particularly large, bald head. There are very few instances when I don’t miss India, and this was certainly not one of them. Be it the constantly changing landscape, balancing acts in jerking, rattling coaches, avoiding attention from over-interested neighbors, the eternal pleasure of eavesdropping on conversations and devouring a constant stream of snacks; train journeys are one of the most enriching and entertaining experiences, back home. Conversations in Thalys constituted of “excuse mois” and throat clearings, apart from an occasional snore. When the train finally pulled into Gare du Nord station after about four hours, I had several reasons to be glad.

“Careful, now,” said my husband of half year, in a cautious voice. My eyes snapped to attention as I hitched my handbag up into my armpit and tightened the hold on my luggage. We had heard several stories that serve as shining accolades to Parisian thieves notorious for picking pockets without even the pockets getting to know of the theft. Clutching our possessions, we trooped down a flight of stairs (no escalators) that seemed to lead right into the bowls of earth, to buy travel passes for the next three days.

We looked at a giant map of Paris for a solid 15 minutes, trying to decipher the hieroglyphs, before deciding to ask for help. On looking around, I noticed that the long line leading to the ticket machine was actually leading to an officer whose job was to help lost tourists like us. I have read about the French way of moving arms and gesticulating while speaking, now I understand that it comes from an attempt to make tourists understand the rapid French they speak while replying. After several windmill-like movements of arms and repeated references to Google maps, we finally purchased travel passes and went to the hotel to rest.

I love the Metro in Paris. Every part of the city is connected by a maze of metro lines, all colour coded. In the days we spent in researching the best place to stay in, the oft-repeated advice was to find a hotel within the first concentric circle connected by red and yellow tram lines, so that all attractions could be covered without much walking. However, in our hurry to beat prices, we ended up taking a hotel that was connected by one of the outer rings of the metro. In hindsight, that was one of our best decisions, because we discovered over the next three days that there is nothing like exploring a city by foot. After a refreshing nap, we got dressed to go to the most famous landmark of Paris – Eiffel.

I am not going to list out the various attractions of Paris here. There are too many of them and too much information given out. But what I would like to share are the so called mundane things, things that are overlooked or lost in the grandeur of much bigger things. For instance, the Metropolitan and the passages that lead up to a stop.

Our experience in using the Metro more than made up for the uneventful journey in Thalys Express. Paris metro stations are stark contrasts to the teeming and overpopulated city.  The rail line is somewhat of a lifeline to the city, however whether it is life-saving or life-taking depends on your co-passengers. They are long and empty, giving an air of spaciousness and suspicion combined with dread. But the passages smell very familiar – of stale urea and alcohol. Footsteps echo off the concrete floors as the dim lighting flickers and often gives out, upping the spooky experience by several notches. Add to it the metallic rumbling and groaning of century old coaches as trams pull up tiredly with screechy wheels protesting any kind of motion. Hugging our belongings, we dashed across these criss-crossing tunnels, hopping over puddles and trying to ignore the brown things nestled in dark corners. The information counter just before the ticket checking machine was many-a-time vacant and in a few instances its occupants lounged about, eating burgers and ignoring ticketless passengers who jumped over the metal girders without a care. We wasted twenty five bucks, buying the pass for three days when all you need is an ability to jump. The journey itself is a series of fun rides punctuated with sharp turns, shaking and rattling. And if you are lucky, you might be sitting right next to models that studiously re-apply makeup and dazzle you with a rare smile.

Coming back to the Eiffel tower experience, two tram rides and a short walk later, we got our first glimpse. I need to confess that I had never been impressed by the once-tallest tower. An assemblage of seven and half million tonne weighing solid steel girders never really caught my fancy, especially when you stand it next to the Taj or Colosseum. If there are any others like me out there, take it from me, it is really a different thing to see a metal monster live.

The scene beneath the tower sent thrills of excitement through my body. It was like a fair, with people selling interesting things - toys that shot up 12 feet through air, lights that changed colours and shapes, cheap champagne and even dead roses, all by ‘Indians’ who apparently thought exchanging some desi bonhomie might make us loyal customers. But what really caught my attention was an extremely crowded crepe and ice cream stall. Outside it was a queue competing with the one at an elevator taking people up the Eiffel. With a knowing look, the husband steered me straight to Eiffel, trying to distract me with small talk. One look at the queue told us that we might have to wait three hours for a ten minute view from atop the tower.

Deciding to climb up the Eiffel was the first and best of impulsive decisions Paris persuaded us to take. The first 100 steps were a breeze, next 50 were okay, following 25 were manageable and every step onwards seemed like punishment. Huffing and puffing, I reached the first tier and flopped down on the wooden seat like a puppet with no puppeteer. The place was dotted by cafes with ambiance worth a third of the prices, they forced out of us.  I was already bored of fries and cokes and yearned for warm Nutella filled crepes and a gelato. After a short break, we trudged up the stairs again to the second tier. Climbing made me appreciate the Eiffel like nothing else did. Think of the poor workers who had climb up and down these treacherous stairs every single day!   

Elevators took us up the final few floors and to the top of famous Eiffel tower. It was jam packed and I moved through the crowds at a snail’s pace, fighting the furious gales of wind. It wasn’t until I looked at Paris stretched out below, did I realize that I have an acute fear of heights. A light headedness took over and I shrank back to feel the comforting concrete wall behind me. The man who solemnly promised to look after me, looked gleefully through the binoculars oblivious to the fact that my face had turned green and legs into jelly. I held on to my position, refusing to let go of my sanctuary, while shooting dirty looks at him. After an eternity, he ambled back with absolutely no concern about my stance against the wall – almost like a lizard and asked if we could begin our descent. I was angry enough to push him right down the romantic Eiffel. However, I kept my cool and stepped down the stairs. A few eons later, we reached Earth and hi-fived each other to have accomplished a feat many don’t opt to. It was time for celebration and I rushed to the crepe shop without much ado.

It was twilight. We sat by river Seine, away from the milling crowds, listening to the gentle lapping of water against the centuries old embankment. It was peaceful. Suddenly, Eiffel came to life. A golden light streamed over the body, making the dull grey of steel look like solid gold. The top was truly spectacular. Twinkling lights adorned the golden body like shimmering diamonds. Then I understood why Eiffel is one of the wonders of the world. It is beautiful. And it is home to the best crepes in the world.

THE ENCHANTED WOODS

It is a small break in the long hedge that flanks the highway. Almost like a green mouth through which dogs and their owners willingly walk into. And never come out of.

I can see it from my kitchen and have quietly stared at several times. There are many days when I am consumed by an (oxy)moronic mixture of restlessness and laziness. Yesterday it took over my senses and I headed out with a satchel of basics.

With an overhead sun watching me, I made long strides down my street and across a corner to hit the highway, all the while humming the Mission Impossible tune. The usually bustling road was devoid of cyclists and joggers. It had only a few cars zooming at high speeds, like they didn’t want to be stopped on this stretch.

I had reached the gap, only, it wasn’t exactly a gap, but was more like a causeway into the green unknown. With a swift look to my left and right, I marched determinedly onto the path.

It was dim. The sparkling sunshine couldn’t make its way into the thick canopy. I could hear trees whispering to one another, dry leaves rustling in the wind…and a steady thump thump from deep inside me. It seemed as though I was lost in a world that wasn’t infested with human beings. With dense foliage surrounding me, I took a few tentative steps and decided to keep to the path. No use in creating a new path if that’s the last thing I would ever do. After a million minutes, I saw the path curving to the left. There was a thicket of trees and I couldn’t see what lay beyond. It was silent as death. No wind, no leaves, nothing. Somewhere, a bird gave a piercing shriek that had me clutching the nearest tree trunk. I tried to calm the drumming of my heart against my chest and opened the bag to arm myself with my spice weapon – chilli powder, the good old Indian way to incapacitate a person. And then I peeked.

A shimmering lake lay ahead. It was adorned with contentedly quacking ducks, lotuses and algae that seemed to grow right on its bed, making it a giant sparkling emerald. My legs took me forward and collapsed. I was sitting on grass that was littered with wildflowers. There was a gentle buzz of insects. A ladybird landed on my hand. What surprised me the most was that my aversion to creepy crawlies seemed to have gone down and I had actually begun to see some queer beauty in them. (Maybe not so much because I blew the ladybird away after a minute.)

After my time in the sun, I started to see the tree-covered bits in a different light. They no longer seemed gloomy and mysterious but were more like an enchanted wood, where you might stumble upon Snow-white and the seven dwarfs. I walked, laughing at myself for my momentary belief in fairy tales. And then stopped dead on my tracks.

A face.On a tree stump. In a very man-made clearing. The trunk had the etching of a male face. Straight ahead was a wooden carving of a mouse… no, a squirrel. Somewhere to the right was Fred Flintstone’s car. There were bunches of twigs aligned to start a camp fire. Tree stumps had been set around another tree trunk, converting it into a dining table. Then came a scream of joy followed by a child wearing a red cape with a picnic basket in her hand. Little Red Riding Hood? I was stuck in a state of wondrous disbelief. Once Little Red Riding Hood realized there was company, she gave a shy grin and ran back.

Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I almost expected Smurfs to follow me. Shaking my head to remove fanciful thoughts, I walked on, looking at the mushrooms growing on dead twigs and marveling at the velvety green moss that cloaked the tree trunks. The next few steps took me out of the tree cover and onto a tiny meadow…Bang in the middle of it was a carved wooden throne overlooking the lake. It was crude, unfinished, yet seemed to emanate power as it proudly faced the wilderness, like a king.

After sitting on the throne and pretending to be Cleopatra, I continued my journey to come to a wooden bridge over the lake. I slowly walked across it and stopped right at the middle, in the shade of a giant oak. There was profound silence here punctuated by a steady gurgle of water, slight creak of the wood and rustling leaves overhead. I don’t know how long I sat. Time seemed to stand still here. It was like meditation, no thoughts fluttered across my mind, there was no sense of ‘me’. I just breathed and lost myself in this human-free world.

But not for long. Sure enough I heard voices and there they were, clad in sweatshirts and tracks, talking about football. Not wanting to look like a meditating monk, I jumped to my feet and crossed the bridge to find an exit only board. Now I knew why I could never see people come out of the break in the hedge. Or maybe those who were truly enchanted by this world continued to live as a part of the fairy tale.

 I reached the highway and slowly came back to the world I belong to, as a refreshed and a replenished person.