Her hair was wavy. The roots brown, turning blonde as they grew longer. The length, until her shoulder, accentuated her face, which was adorned with glasses. She was writing something, with her back to me when I walked inside the park.

There was definitely something very pleasing about this woman. Very congruous. Maybe it was her clothes. She wore a brown frock that stretched until her knees. The white polka dots on it matching with her white top and a dark brown sweater she was wearing. The flip-flops were brown too. I even noticed red polish on her toenails as I walked past her.

Maybe it was her whole body language. The way she was seated, one leg over another, turning sideways. Her writing pad was on her lap, and sometimes, her finger would touched her lips, as she thought something, before beginning writing again.

I sat down about ten meters away from her, in one of the unoccupied benches inside the park. Not near, but not far also. I took out my lunch, from the bag a shopkeeper had provided. It consisted of thin latte and a sandwich.

Above, a group of cloud was scuttling by, allowing sun to break through. The pigeons that outnumber lunch crowd inside this park were fighting among themselves, for any food dropped on the ground. One of the signboards read: ‘do not feed pigeons.’ An ancient, somewhat dilapidated church maintained this park. I tried not to speckle the land underneath me with crumbs, holding the sandwich with both hands.

The latte with a sandwich was an agreeable combination. I sipped, munched with delight. Time and again, I observed the woman. She was sitting straight now, giving me a perfect view of her. I tried to imagine what her age must be. Her face was fair, no makeup. That’s what she was so attractive. Her pink lips were thin, and I noticed not a trace of wrinkle, shagging, not even tiniest bit of disfigurement on her face. She definitely wasn’t even thirty.

I had brought a book also. Sometimes, with out something to read, an hour can be a tortuous time to pass. It always helps to delve in prose, get excited reading amusing characters. But today, the woman on the bench…I just wanted to wonder more observing her.

Was she a secretary then, working in one of numerous offices in Jermyn Street? There were finance companies in the street, expensive tailor shops, the largest bookstore in Europe, and many different offices I hadn’t noticed. Maybe she had a better job. A PR officer, or even a manager. Her poise, the mannerism, they all hinted at a woman with a degree, and a career that’s advanced well.

Ideas filtered in my mind of how a romance with her would be like. Quiet evening, sipping wine and reading books was my predilection these days. My taste in alternative music was only a weekend occurrence. I loved movies, but I’d outgrown Hollywood. A small budget, alternative movies that brought out all the different quirks and nuances of life generated plenty of my interest. Would she like that? What did she like to eat? No red meat like me? No buggers and fries? Would she enjoy spicy curries, my stable food?

What about the dates? What’s her preferred option, a restaurant, or an open park? A beach or on top of a mountain?

In my own self created, muddled, albeit romantic head, I disappeared, with these thoughts. The rest of the park, with all the coming and going, vanished before my eyes.

Then, she got up. Her lunch was over. The writing pad was tucked inside her brown bag. She looked down on her bench, to see if she’d left anything behind. Nothing.

She turned around and swiftly left.

My dream was over.

Variety is the theme - my long weekend.

Trickling amidst the rocks and the murmur of the birds, a stream carves its path inside a quiet forest. Fish dive out from its water, enjoying the vestiges of summer sun. I watch, entranced at the sight of nature.

A dipper flies and lands on the riverbed. I reach for my binocular and observe, as the rare bird bobs up and down, flips its tail sideways and dips in the water, in search of food. Never have I seen a dipper before. My mouth is gaping in amazement as I watch the wonder.

After several hops, maybe unable to its find food, the bird takes flight, leaving me heartbroken.

This was on Sunday.

The mass of people's heads from the distance tells you the picture. It’s three p.m. The music can be heard from a mile away. The big lorries are ripped at the back, and are laden with the biggest speakers I’ve seen. On them, below them, girls unabashed are dancing, with clothes that barely cover their bodies. Some shake their exterior, reminding us of Beyonce and Sakira. People on the street, on the pavement, clutching cans of beers, gyrate with them.

This is the biggest street festival in Europe. This is Monday, the following day.

After a quiet Saturday, relaxing and enjoying dinner with my friend’s family, my long weekend upped a gear. On Sunday, I visited Hampstead Heath Park. Though nestle in the middle of London (slightly north-ish), the park has all the trappings of the forest, or even better. There are lakes. You can swim in them. You’ll find streams, acres of well kept green patches of land, gentle rolling hills, and beaten tracks inside small woods. You can even relax watching birds in the meadow.

I was there with my housemate, armed with a borrowed binocular, my bantam digital camera, my proudest possession, couple of sandwiches, and water. We only had one activity in mind – bird watching.

We found a dry patch of land, perched high enough to see the stream and a large vista. Though trees and tall grasses slightly encumbered our views, we were satisfied with our location. In the morning, the grey skies had disheartened our spirits. When we got there, the sun had broken out. The mercury was slowly rising.

In three hours, we saw doves, twittering robins. Gulls and sparrows flew by, and a sandpiper delighted us with its exquisite cries. The highlight was the sighting of a solitary dipper.

Away from all the dissonance and the chaos of the city, in the limpid air, we hardly notice time ebb away. We returned with rejuvenated spirits. A consequence of being close to nature.

On Monday, Notting Hill Carnival presented a complete mutation. It eviscerates your soul if you enjoy tranquillity. It’s boisterous, deafening, vociferous. You name it. One million people were expected. There probably was more. The festival is a celebration of multi-ethnicity of London, and is especially celebrated by Afro-Caribbean community.

The carnival lasted until eight p.m. I was there until the end.

I danced, attempting to copy revellers of Calypso music. Not wise. I lost myself with numerous DJs pumping music from their stalls, to the crowd that had gathered in front of them. There was a break dance competition, in a platform erected inside a park that formed part of the carnival. I’ve never seen anybody fling their body around so much. Excited, I even felt like miming them.

When my tummy yearned for food, I went around, visiting numerous stalls selling everything, from spicy Caribbean chicken, barbecued corns to Thai noodles.

With the advent of streetlights, the lorries slowly departed the carnival. With it, the the crowd dispersed. The streets were scared with piles of rubbish. A big clean up job demanded.

While returning, with fatigued legs, I ambled on for thirty minutes, before catching a bus overflowing with returning carnival crowd.

They say variety is the spice of life. After my weekend activities, I think I’d agree.

Rememberence (Time for my story then)

Most of her family members and friends came on stage and spoke. They were good words, strong words, beautiful words, all spoken for my Marie. Everyone liked her, most of them loved her, but two days back, she’d cried, “Jamessss….” When I had reached her and taken her cold hand, she’d muttered, “I…I love you, James,” and stopped breathing. She closed her eyes and left me forever.

For the third time, she’d suffered a heart attack, and try as hard as she did, Marie couldn’t accompany me any longer. Life’s journey had ended for her.

Now, my turn to speak on the stage had arrived. I had to thank all those who had offered such kind words to Marie.

I got up. Those septuagenarian legs wobbled and my grandson came running down the aisle and supported me. I’m still strong, I know I can go on for a decade, or even more, but the moment had gotten to me. Those words that people spoke for Marie wobbled my legs.

As I made my way to the dais, I had a chance to glance at Marie. She was sleeping now, deep, undisturbed sleep in a casket that looked more comfortable than our bed. I was glad because she had to sleep there forever.

I stopped and watched her. I know people in this small church are waiting to hear from me. The pastor has his arms folded; those compassionate eyes beckon me. But I just had to watch my beautiful Marie. After all, she would be a rare sight soon.

Tears pricked my eyes. I was holding them from bursting out. My shaking hands touched the mahogany of the coffin and I started to remember my past. They all came flooding back.

We’ve been married for forty years, we’ve lived together for forty-five years, and I had met her half a century back. We’ve raised two sons and three daughters, and from them, fifteen grandchildren have arrived, but I still remembered that moment, the day Marie appeared before me like an angel sent from heaven.

I was a young twenty-one year old. The year was 1924. I was away studying at Cambridge University. But the summer vacation was upon me, and catching those steam engine trains, I’d made my way to my village.

Before I entered my house, I stopped to marvel our small cottage. A large garden enveloped our house. From plants brought from all around the world, flowers were beginning to blossom. Trees, fig and sycamore, muscled their presence, standing tall and wide. On their boughs, birds twittered, delighting in the warm summer air. I had sighed, deep and satisfied. It felt good to be home.

My mother met me at the door. Four months away from her and I’d missed her pampering. She hugged me, kissed both my cheeks, and said, “My son.”

I moved away, irritated with my mum’s affection. “Bryony!” she shouted. My sister.

She appeared on the hall. There was another girl behind her.

My sister hugged me and said, “James, I guess you haven’t met Marie, our cousin. She’s just arrived from Barcelona.”

Marie smiled, widening her thin lips, and brushed her long, black hair backwards. I said, “Hola!” and hugged her. Her soft shoulders and warm cheeks made my heart quiver.

She was a classic Spanish beauty, very much in my mother’s mould. Her chestnut brown eyes were large and mesmeric, penetrating my core instantly. She stood about 5’3, just about the right height for me. And against her fair skin, those long, wispy black hair matched perfectly. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

We sat down to talk in our living. My mother inundated me with things she’d been doing. Bryony interrupted with her prattle. School and her friends were her topic. Amidst all the natter, I kept gazing at Marie. The first time our eyes met, we smiled awkwardly. But I realized there was something in Marie, in those eyes, in that innocent smile, that said she liked me too.

Later, I asked Marie if she could speak English. I inquired in what little Catalonian I knew. She laughed. “Sure, I can,” she said.

It was only after my mother and my sister also laughed and told me that she had an English mother, that I realized she was like me, half Spanish, half English. In Barcelona, she attended an English school. If I had any doubts that Marie and I were incompatible, it washed away then.

Over the course of next sixty days, I developed a deep and meaningful friendship with Marie. We picnicked a lot. Marie prepared sumptuous burritos. Sometimes, we went alone, requesting Bryony to keep mum busy. Though, those initial moments were awkward and we seldom chatted freely, that changed.

I played guitar, and serenaded to her, expressing my deep affection for her. She said she knew Salsa. Though we never found time to dance. Then, one day, after a glass of wine, I held her hand. We were both sleeping on a green grass, witnessing the formation the clouds were making in the sky.

She didn’t flinch or withdraw her hand.

It was then, at that moment, as I continued to hold her hand for a long time, laughing at our interpretation of the clouds, my infatuation turned to love.

I got up, looked down at Marie and said, “I think I’m in love with you, Marie.”

She blushed, looking away. Birds chirped nearby as I touched her hair. “What do you think of me?”

She didn’t say anything, but when she stretched her neck, for her lips to touch mine, I knew her answer. It was our first kiss, and what followed was the most blissful moment of our lives. On the soft, comfortable grass, we made love. The trees hid our bodies, and the blue summer sky delighted in our union, bursting open with shower after we finished.

When summer was finally over, we’d discovered true love. My soul mate had arrived, and I never had to chase, or even look at another girl. We married after I graduated and found work.

If ever there was such a thing as a perfect couple, Marie and I should share that distinction. Though we had our fair share of arguments and misunderstandings, we never shouted at each other. It was love that always won. And for fifty years, our love never diminished a tiny bit.

Our legacy still continues. None of our children are divorced. They enjoy a perfectly happy married life. I hope the same thing continuous with our grandchildren.

I must have been stood there a long time, remembering our past. A hand touched my shoulder. By its softness, the length, I realized it was Cecilia, our eldest daughter. I turned around to look at her. Her watery chestnut brown eyes, Marie’s eyes, came to my view. She said, “Daddy, do you want me to thank everybody? It’s ok if you-.”

“No!” I silenced her and trudged along to the stage.

Never has pizza tasted so good.

In ten minutes, the whole circle vanished inside my mouth. It was probably was embarrassing, now that I recall, of how I gobbled up the whole pizza in no time. But I couldn’t help it. Every time I finished a slice, I wanted more. It was so bloody delicious.

Pizza Express restaurants are strewn around nooks and crannies of London. It’s famous, and for good reasons. Based in Italian philosophy…like – bla bla bla…meaning I don’t know, it’s actually own and based in UK. I’d been to the place before, many times, and I’d love their pizzas. That probably was the reason why I chose the place and asked one of my colleagues if he wanted to join me for lunch. He readily agreed.

So, after five minutes walk, we settled down inside the restaurant. Nice décor, comfy seats, welcoming waiters and all those stuff. But I wanted to eat. I was hungry.

My colleague ordered a glass of vodka. Unbelievable! He still had work to do. Easy with ice, he’d demanded his vodka with. I settled with lemonade.

Took just five minutes for the lunch to arrive.

I recommend to everyone the pizza I enjoyed. Damn man, that stuff melted inside my mouth. The pizza was called Veneziana, probably vegetarian in Italian. It was veggie. The menu said it came mixed in exotic herbs and spices, and contained onions, capers and sultanas. Yum! The crust was thin, very crunchy.

Little expensive, but I didn’t mind paying little more than usual.

Next week, defo I’ll head there. Anyone, wanna come along?

Grind Grind

Feeling weird at the moment. I think lack of sleep and my hectic life has finally caught up with me. I’m low and almost down. Got tomorrow to survive and then Yay! got a long weekend to recover. (Monday’s a bank holiday.)

Thinking of tomorrow evening excites me. I don’t have any plans at the moment. I might have gone out, booze till midnight before returning home, but if I’m still feeling disoriented like now, I might just go home and watch movies.

My new colleague greeted me with a wonderful smile in the morning. It must be the effects of that smile that made me carry on until now, without feeling any ill effects. She started working two weeks back and since then, she’s never stopped being nice to me. I’m waiting for that attitude to wear off. I know it will, but we don’t deal too often, so hopefully, there won’t be any work pressure or any tensions between us, and she’ll continue with that heart-warming grin.

Enjoyed lunch with a sandwich and a book. I’m reading Peter Carey’s new novel. It’s as good as his previous work. He’s a fantastic writer. Will I be as good as him someday? Definitely. But I need a plot, exciting characters. Where will I get them?

I’ve been a promiscuous reader lately, scouring newspapers, magazines, novels, and I’ve watched lotsa TV shows and movies. A book I read advised me all these activities. I’ve enjoyed reading them, but whether this will pay off when I write, I don't know.

Meanwhile, back to reality. Work.

My forays into writing poetry have always been very brief. While I’ve always read poems, never have I considered sufficiently talented to write one. It’s bit bold of me to even exhibit what poems I’ve written, as I’ve often regarded them fruitless exercises. Not worth even having a read. However, I’m going to change that, emboldened after a month long practice. Also, I’m very receptive to criticism.

A first liaison

He scratches his forehead.
She shuffles her satchel,
Shifts the scarf tied around her neck.

A pub, he proposes,
His finger pointing in the direction.
“Too noisy,” she suggests.

He gazes down,
At her.
With a clumsy smile.

She knows a quiet place.
A restaurant, she says.
Looking at the direction of the place.

Ok, the man agrees.
You know the place best.
Since you work in the area.

Then they walk away,
With an awkward distance between them,
Into the evening breeze.

Sleepless struggle

Early mornings and that wake up alarm – I’d love to take a survey of how people react after hearing it. I contemplated breaking mine today. Throwing it out of the window was another option. Maybe snooze, sleep a bit. The time was six in the morning though. I started work at seven. No choice but to getup. I’d only slept five hours.

During the night, I’d scooted around in the bed, attempting in vain to relax my restless mind. An incident during the day had rendered me excited and agitated. At my usual bedtime, the shimmer hadn’t abated.

I had yawned, intensely, but sleep remained elusive. I even turned to music. Didn’t help. Meandering mind. After one a.m. I must have been knackered because I don’t remember when I finally slept.

When I stepped out of bed, my yearning to return to it knew no boundaries. To hell with work, I thought. But I couldn’t do that. Money problem. I craved for a slouch, to dream, to be in a cloud cuckoo land. Instead, a zombie, I crawled around, taking shower, brushing, and shaving, before leaving the house.

At work, after a tea, I was staring at a mirror. In my dreamy state, I hadn't shaved my beard properly. Half of them remained to scar my boyish looks.

Then, I tried to recollect how I had brushed my teeth. No idea. I looked at my clothes. Ironed and buttoned. Thank god.

During the day, to ward off drudgery, which lack of sleep will render any work, I asked help from a can red bull. Three rounds of tea also assisted.

Now, it’s almost four. In another two hours, I’ll leave for home. After a glass or two of red wine, hopefully, I’ll slumber.

The sound of music - learning to play a keyboard.

It was suppose to be the perfect foil. A medicine for tiredness and recuperation. After hours of reading, thinking, and writing, which means staring at the computer screen, playing keyboard was suppose to be the perfect segue before you begin writing again. It’s relaxing and deeply stimulating. Or so I thought.

I used to take long walks. They’re good too. But when the rain is bucketing down, or when the weather is scorching hot, as was a week back, then outdoors is not always a possibility.

The idea of learning keyboard came to my mind from my landlady’s piano practices. The sound she produced always made me stop whatever I was doing and listen. I fell in love with piano. It would be the perfect relaxation if I played it too, I thought.

Last weekend, I started. The online tutoring site's advise was to purchase one with 61 keys, saying the keyboard would contain all the necessary functions and the required keys. When I went to a shop and looked at the instrument, I was starting at an object larger than a surfboard, in length and in width. That stuff wasn’t mobile. I couldn’t take it with me if I went on a holiday to Brazil or somewhere. Eventually, my eyes settled on a smaller one, half the size, but they didn’t have an extra one for sale.

I’ll have to revisit the shop next week to purchase the keyboard. Meanwhile, I came home and used my landlady’s piano to practise. She’s away on a holiday.

I soon realised after starting, learning piano was no cakewalk. After half-an-hour, my hands were hurting, my fingers had turned sweaty, and it was no longer fun. I stopped, but instead of returning to my writing, as I had planned, I had to take a break and relax.

You have to sit on a not-so-relaxing stool to play a piano. Your hands are suspended on the air, and your immobile fingers have to find correct keys. It’s difficult getting them to function smoothly. And, I couldn’t close my eyes, or lie down on a bed and relax. Thirty minutes turned out to be a toil.

Maybe when I get the keyboard it’ll be a more pleasant experience. I can keep the instrument on my lap, relax on the bed and play. By then, after couple of hours piano practise, my fingers might begin to flow smoothly. Maybe it will be a cakewalk, relaxing and soothing like I’d want it to be.

For couple of seconds, I did manage to close my eyes during my first practise. The room was filled with just the sound of piano. No thoughts. No other sound. It felt magical. I was transported to a land where my beating heart thawed.

Now, that’s what I call relaxation.

Lion King – showing the lost wonder?

The year is 2030. The place: anywhere in the Western World. The setting: an urban jungle, the vast expanse of concrete buildings, hoards of people, and cacophonies emanating from metallic junks. The pristine forest, the nature, is the thing of the past.

I saw a movie with a setting like this fifteen years ago. While I don’t remember the name and the entire plot, what I do remember and constantly think, is a scene where urban dwellers flock to a cinema to see a wildlife film. They cheer seeing extinct lions roar, gasp in amazement at the sight of elephants, cheetahs and crocodiles. The movie’s a big hit, its ticket are much sought after.

I thought the world would never come to that. Never. It was ambitious story telling. But now, after living in London, I’m beginning to re-evaluate my judgement.

I was in a theatre yesterday to watch Lion King. The play captures the spectacle of an African forest, where the lions rule, and the king lion is killed by his brother, who ascends the throne, banishing his nephew. The theatre came alive with the sights and sounds of all the animals, the prancing lions, the wheezing hyenas, and the mesmeric scenery that depicted the African savannah.

Londoners had turned up in full force. The theatre was packed. The audience cheered ever scene, and just like in the movie, gasped in wonder at the unfolding vista of the grassland. As much as I enjoyed watching the show, I couldn’t help but hark back to the scenes of the movie, thinking we’re witnessing it happen, the people from urban dump are turning up for a fake wildlife charm. But I must also admit, the audience wasn’t just cheering the animals and the wildlife, the singing, the acting, the costumes, and the way the stage changed as the scenes unfolded, one after another, they were equally impressive.

But, the play was about the magic (maybe the lost one) of the wildlife. I wouldn't have enjoyed half as much if the it contained honking cars, traffic jams, and airport check-in queues. I’m sure the rest of the crowd wouldn’t have either. And although, it’s still little too farfetched to say we’ve come close to what the movie depicted, we’re definitely inching closer towards it.

On a collision course

The sight of two Somalian women crossing a street yesterday sparked zillion thoughts in my mind. They were both pushing their prams, which contained their tiny infants in them. Huddled around them were at least eight small children. Their own, I’m sure, as pairs of four each were sticking close to their mothers, and through their heights and facial structures, you could make out the siblings were born after at least a gap of one year.

The women couldn’t have been more than thirty, and yet, they were already burdened with five children. How many more were in the pipeline?

Both the women were wearing Hijabs, scarves that cover their heads, in keeping with their Islamic tradition. The tradition or its laws also bar them from using any kind of contraceptives, and in fact encourages them to produce as many children as they can, so that one day, the world will be filled with the children of Allah.

This certainly will not help the rising population rate of Britain.

Also, this is in sharp contrast with the current trend in the white British society – wanton plunge into debauchery, but a sharp decline in the birth rate. In fact, as I walked away from them, turning back to see if the Somalians had crossed the street safely, my mind delved ever deeper into thoughts of how different the Islamic society were from the mainstream British society. The recent arrest of terrorists also accentuated my thought process.

These Somalians are all immigrants, like many Pakistanis, or Arabs, who’ve come here. After many years, they’ve all acquired British citizens. Yet, only in papers they are British. In reality, they and their children, who are born here, put more effort into preserving their own Somalian identity than learning to be British. Ask them, and they will openly confess. They are Muslims first and foremost, then only other things. I wonder where in their list being a British will appear.

I’m a human being first. A citizen of the world.

Everybody knows a true Muslim doesn’t drink, adultery is a crime, which can be punishable by death in Kuran. In mainstream British society, every event is bibulous. With inebriation, salacity is the natural course.

Also, the British society stands for human rights, freedom of speech, equality for all race, religion and sex. In Islamic society, a book that is over two thousand years old dictates their freedom of speech. We all know what happened to the Danish cartoons.

The more you analyse, the more you’ll see just how opposing the two societies are. No wonder they can’t co-exist together. Ghettos of migrant community, sprinkling in urban areas, shouldn’t surprise anybody. But the economic boom Britain is experiencing, is keep the simmering tension from exploding. A down spiral of the financial fortune will undoubtedly see riots and the divide widen.

So just what is the solution? I don’t know. Maybe survival of the fittest. You talk to British Muslims and they’ll confidently say Islam is here to say. They want to turn Britain into an Islamic state, by mass conversion. You show them interest in their religion when you’re conversing with them and every Muslims will fire volleys upon volleys of preaching. They give examples of converts, boxers like Mike Tyson, Danny Williams, singers like Cat Stevens. Neil Armstrong.

The British society meanwhile hopes for greater understanding. Co-existence. Multiculturalism. Equal opportunity.

I hope it happens. But I’m a doubter.

Mixing it up

What would you make of a person who attends a Spurs football match in the afternoon, and goes to enjoy a Ronan Keating concert in the evening? If you’re not sure what I’m taking about then let me elaborate further.

Football matches are mostly working class domain. At the match I'd attended, passion and fervour were at display in abundance, not just from the players but also by the spectators. Chantings like, if you hate Arsenal then stand up, kill him, tackle the bastard hard, resonated constantly. There were Mexican waves, and sometimes, there are the inevitable heartbreaks, when your team loses.

The concert was a genteel affair. A metamorphosis in the surrounding, compared to the football match. Hampstead Heath Park, where Ronan played, is a posh area. The crowd in the outdoor arena were at least middle class, and they were mostly middle-aged women. No shouting then, just quietly lazing about in the greens, and humming what Ronan was singing.

If I’d asked people what they’d think of a person who'd watched both on the same day, they’d say he's fake. Can’t be true. Or, maybe amazing. What a varied choice!

Well, last Saturday, even I amazed myself doing exactly the same thing. At one p.m., I left to attend the football match, and at seven-thirty, I was in the Park to enjoy the concert. Ronan’s songs aren’t exactly my cup of tea, but since my housemate had requested my company, I said why not. The Spurs game was a long cherished dream. And since both of them occurred on the same day, I couldn’t avoid it. Luckily, I was able to make it for both the events.

And yes, they were vastly different affairs. I did feel extravagantly dressed, even gaudy, during the football match. I’d put on a stoned necklace, shined on sunglasses, donned an expensive green jacket and worn a pair of latest puma trainers. Most of the crowds showed up were wearing Spurs vest. Not a place for fashion parade.

In the concert, I didn't feel like a crow in the herd of swans. But it's the fun that matter. When Spurs won, I rejoiced. I’d come to support them, and even though it was just a friendly match, with the season starting next week, a win is always a win.

In the concert, my housemate sang Ronan’s songs. She knew most of them by heart as she’d grown up hearing Boyzone. A big fan. So seeing her enjoy so much, I took heart. I was glad I’d come.

All in all, an interesting day. Money well spent. And, very much in keeping with my reading theme.

Old Bond Street - Ain’t No Vagabond Street

Never knew walking down Old Bond Street in London, from Conduit Street junction towards Piccadilly, I’d get such a scare just window-shopping. Every entrance and corner were infested by security guards, keeping an eye on every thing that moved there. I didn’t hang around, rushed out.

I was on a lunch hour stroll, trying to empty my coffee-bloated tummy before I had my lunch. Having been all around Piccadilly, I decided to venture towards Old Bond Street, and see where I landed. I had time, and the mild breeze making the walk enjoyable.

After entering the street, I stopped at the first shop and looked at their window display. Rings and necklaces, carved in diamonds, were on display. The price ranged from five to ten thousand pounds. It certainly was worth the look. Then, I saw a silhouetted image of a security guard, behind the display, donning a black suit. His menacing stare made me move on.

Towards the entrance of the same shop, as I continued to walk, another imposing guard stood, keeping a watch full eye on people passing by.

I approached the next shop, and the display at the window was full of expensive watches. I stopped again, undaunted, and saw the price as well as the different models. They were from Rolex. The hands of the watches contained carved diamonds, some had them were sclupt in the middle, or on top, on the hour mark. After viewing them for about two minutes, another security guard come wandering my way. I moved on.

The shop after that contained even more impressive viewing. Pearl necklaces, bracelets and earring of gold and sparkling diamonds greeted my amazed eyes. This time though, I didn’t stop, but only passed a fleeting glance. And yes, I did notice a security guard.

I stopped at the next one, only to move on as soon as I saw a guard looking at me. My mood began to dampen. I didn’t want to appear suspicious, even though I’d done nothing but window-shop. Maybe such activity wasn’t allowed in this area. I passed Tiffany & Co, Bvlgari, all expensive, designer shops, and by now, the guards were outnumbering pedestrians. You could easily recognise them, from the dark suit they were wearing, their stern upper body, and earphones they had in one of their ears.

But this wasn’t the area to loiter around. The guards clearly were out in numbers to foil any robbery. The street contained expensive, fashionable shops. If you manage to rob all of them, you’d probably land more than hundred million pounds. That’s why they could afford to hire so many guards and keep them visible.

I walked on and made my way to lunch.

Value Of A Two Pound Coin

With a book covering my face, feigning a read, I was witnessing a bizarre event unfold, by peering out. Looking at it, I was feeling absolutely embarrassed, to myself and the person performing the act. I felt like getting out, or hiding away. But the grotesque nature of the spectacle made me glue to it.

We were inside a tube, Jubilee Line, going home from work at seven in the evening. It was quite crowded inside, and I was standing in the middle of the carriage, holding a pole with one hand and a book with the another. Then, when I took a break from the reading and looked down, tired, I noticed a two pound coin lying on the floor of the carriage. The money could have belonged to anyone. Maybe even dropped by an owner who’d already alighted.

I thought of picking it up and showing it around. If it belonged to nobody, I’d pocket it then. You could do a lot with two pounds. A pint of beer came to my mind. I could purchase a lunch, or pay for my day’s bus travel to work. It’s actually quite a lot. But I didn’t do anything, thinking I’d probably embarrassed myself. I wasn’t a rag. No need to be picking things lying on the ground.

While contemplating, I noticed another person looking down at the coin. In fact, he was the closest to it. Quickly, before he saw me staring at the mint also, I went back to reading my book. But more than the prose I was reading, the intrigue of the coin occupied my mind.

This person, a very Spanish looking young man, was with a company, a female. She was blissfully unaware of the coin and was chatting away. But the man was shifting his gaze, between the coin and the girl. A hard task I must admit, since the angle from the woman’s face to the coin was more than seventy degree. But only his eyes were hovering, not his visage, and despite the sweat, which had started appearing on the man’s temples, the girl seemed not to notice anything.

The train then came to a halt at Baker Street station, and the normal routine of people disembarking and getting on followed. The woman, the young man’s companion, was part of the alighting hoard, giving this Spanish person a hug before moving out.

When people settled down and the train lurched forward, I noticed the person had kept his satchel on the floor, next to the coin. Then, he bent down and started scratching his thigh. His face had turned red, and sweats from it were almost to the point of dripping. It was clear, he wanted the coin desperately.

I was embarrassed looking at his theatrics. Why could he just pick the coin up and get it done with? But no, after the scratching, he opened his bad and delved his left hand inside. Then, slowly, and inevitably, he stretched his right hand down on the floor, and sreading his fingers, picked up the coin.

Oh god! I nearly shouted at the person, telling him not to pretend so much. In fact, I was so mad I wanted the train to stop suddenly, so that this person would tumble on the floor. He he wasn’t holding on to anything. I wanted him injured, humiliated. But nothing like that happened, The coin disappeared inside his clenched fist. He got up, carrying the satchel with him.

His flushed face didn’t even turn around to look who were noticing him. Probably a good idea. I couldn’t take it any more, and covered my face with the book and started reading it.

Maybe he deserved the coin, for all the effort and sweat he poured into it. And, when my cloud of indignation for the person had been puffed away, I did find it quite funny, actually.

What a show! Saturday evening with Vivaldi in Hampstead Heath Park.

With no tickets, but with plenty of determination, we headed to Hampstead Heath to attend Vivaldi Concert. We’d heard good things about it, like the concert would be staged in the open air, like there’d be places to sit outside the compound enclosed for the ticket holders and still hear what was being played. And, with fireworks the concert would come to close. These factors easily lured us to the place.

I’d been sick with stomach indigestion the whole day. I drank soup and spent the day watching movies, hoping I’d recover in time to attend the concert. I saw a grim British movie, a Canadian high school TV serial in DVD, and while watching Indian movie, fell asleep. The film was a good sleep inducer.

When Petra, my housemate and the person I was attending the concert with, came home and asked if I could make it to the concert, I nodded an empathetic YES. Though my stomachaches hadn’t vanished, the anomaly wasn’t keeping me home.

We had to walk for thirty minutes to arrive at the place. Armed with four cans of beer, a bottle of mineral water, and salads to relish as our dinner, we set about. The gentle breeze was mingling with the fading sunlight, and the greenery of park were a boon to our eyes, after hours we’d stared in front of our computers or TV. When we got closer to the site, our discernible ears sparked to life, with the sound of Vivaldi. Our pace quickened.

In front of the gates, from where only the ticket holders were allowed in, a slanted, green field stretched. To our amazement, hoards of people were picnicking, enjoying the music as well as playing games, or just lying down, eating and drinking. We soon found a place for ourselves, amidst these non-ticket holders, and sat down.

The concert continued as we started to sip beer. Soon, the fading light gave way to floodlights. Loud cheers and claps from the audience segued one piece from another. And then, at around ten, towards the close, the dark sky variegated. The start of the fireworks led many people scampering to places where they could see the spectacle unhindered. The trees, which moments back, were serene and a beautiful company, were now a ugly monster, blocking the unfolding vista.

We ran towards the entrance to the concert ground and was surprised the see the gate open. People were pouring in. We entered, stood and watched the kaleidoscopic sky, in awe as one after another, stars, carrying magnificent ammunitions shot up and burst, exposing beautiful colours in the sky. The concert, meanwhile, was reaching towards a crescendo. The noise from the heaven, of the bursting fireworks, was competing against the sound from the ground. Finally, a loud, final, and the biggest star erupted, exposing a whole galaxy of its colour, heralding loud grasps of amazement from the spectators. The music, then, as if in reverence to the fading lights of the sky above, slowly and inevitable, quietened down. The show was over.

And what a show it was.

Experimenting Reads

I’m reading three books at the moment. All simultaneously. It’s an intriguing exercise, one that I’ve never done before. And the most interesting about it is, I’m engrossed in all of them.

“All He ever wanted” by Anita Shreve was the first of the lot I read. The book I instantly realised would be filled with captivating prose. I’ve never read Shreve before. And though, I had reservation about the plot, thinking if I’d like her story, after about five pages, my doubts had been dispelled. No matter what, I’d finish this book. The prose were simply too exquisite to discard.

Then, I borrowed “Salimar the Clown” by Salman Rushdie from my local library. The book was in hardback, pretty hefty. At first, I thought I’d finish Shreve, then only jump into Rushdie. But I’m a big Rushdie fan. His novels have fascinated me no ends. I couldn’t wait. I began Rushdie.

After just one page, I realised if Shreve’s prose was captivating, Rushdie’s were enthralling. Like all his previous novels, this one was also filled irony, humour and poetic prose. Shreve was no comparison. I was hooked to Rushdie.

But because of its size, I decided to keep Rushdie at home, carrying it would add an unwanted stone to my bag, and I’d read Rushdie during the evenings or on weekends. Shreve would travel with me during my train journeys, and I’d read the novel during my lunch break. But it was clear then, the characters in Rushdie’s novel – the ambassador, his daughter, and Salimar – they were already starting to fascinate me. I wish I could take Rushdie wherever I went.

The last of the lot came to me through the Internet. An ebook. I get bored at work, but I can’t read a book, not allowed, but I could stare at the screen, read a book and pretend I was working. Browsing through the Internet, I discovered Dostoyevsky, a Russain writer of nineteenth century. I’d always wanted to read his books, and what more, on the site I visited, there was a book I’d been recommended, called The Brothers Karamazov. Today, when I wasn’t busy, I began reading the ebook. After just a page, I became hooked to this book.

They’re all vastly different books. Shreve’s book takes place in nineteen-century New England, Rushdie’s in LA, in modern Hollywood surrounding, and Dostoyevsky’s in dreary nineteen-century Russia. While I read them, all at different times, I’m fascinated by what captivates my mind.

For instance, last night I hit a rough patch in Rushdie’s book. I arrived probably at the most boring section, and I stopped reading it, turning to TV. In the train this morning, Shreve’s book inched towards a critical point. I became engrossed. During lunch hour, an hour flew by reading Shreve’s book, before I realised my lunch was over. Dostoyevsky, meanwhile, is slowly building up.

They are all enormously different stories, different type of writings, and contain vastly different characters, but reading all of them at once, I’ve never had so much fun. I’ll probably finish Shreve first. Since it’s a small book and pages fly by when I read. After that, I’ll have to get my hands on another paperback, to read alongside the two monsters I’m reading.

It’s fun reading like this. Try it.

Flooded with Food

The samosas I had for lunch were delicious. They were quite large and spicy, and the two I had was plenty. Fully satisfied, I pulled out a newspaper and began reading it.

I was inside a park. The green in the middle of the park, as I sat on the bench, was slowly filling up, as lunchtime crowd with meals in their hands, were slowly trickling in. To sit on a bench is a vantage. From there, I could view the revellers of the sunshine and the open space the park offered.

As I looked around, my mind wondered off from the reading. The partially occupied bench I was sitting attracted a female. She sauntered past me towards the other end of the bench and sat down. The high heels she wore attracted my attention. Then, she pulled out a box. When she opened it, I was staring at six huge susis. They looked sumptuous lunch.

Soon, I was noticing what other people were bringing to eat in the park. They came with salads, with curry and rice, with sandwiches, of one type or another, Chinese noodles, baguettes, the plethora of food I noticed boggled my mind. The meal they were enjoying was so synonyms with the cosmopolitan nature of London.

What about my own food then, the lunch I’ve been having? As my mind harked back, I smiled, recalling that my own food was as varied as the ones I’ve noticed here. I started this week with tuna & pepper sandwich. Yesterday, I had Chinese fried rice; today, Indian samosas, and tomorrow, I was planning on jacket potato, filled with tuna and mayo. And maybe on Friday, I’ll have baguettes with sun dried tomatoes. I have other options also. Pub food, burgers, pizzas, choices were in an abundance. If I were living in other part of the world, would I be able to enjoy such varied food? Certainly not where I come from.

I guess that’s the reward you get from living in a large city with people from all around the world. You have disadvantages also. London’s crowded. You queue everywhere. The competition to achieve anything is enormous. More people falter than progress. But the food, it’s one of the positives of the city. Even if you are from Timbuktu or Alaska, I’m pretty sure you’ll get the type food you enjoyed back home.

So, jacket potato tomorrow then. Yum!

Parenting dilemma

My French landlady was back yesterday. Gone for a fortnight, she came back with a delicious French cake. She said the cake was from the mountains of massive central. Those two French words, she pronounced it in her very French way.

The cake turned out be one of the tastiest I’ve eaten. So much so that I discarded my dinner, consisting of rice and curry, and dived in to finish my share of the cake. Then, when I thanked her and asked how her trip to her mother’s home had been, she gave a long, but somewhat interesting monologue.

My landlady’s sixty-two. But you’d think she’s only fifty, looking at her. She’s lean and fit, very active, and still bubbling with life. Even her mother’s still surviving. That’s where though, the trouble lies for her.

Her mother is a senile and a sick nonagenarian. She needs constant supervision. Her children, rather than keep her at a home for the elderly, volunteered to take care of her. My landlady visits her mother after every five weeks, to stay with her for a fortnight. While she’s away, her two brothers take turns to look after her.

In quite a distressing way, but without criticising her mother, she described the demanding time she spend taking care of her mother. “My mother either sleeps too much, or doesn’t sleep at her,” she said. “You have to sleep next to her and be vigilant, in case she decides to get up, and wants to use the toilet. Her medicine intake needs to be timely. And you’ve got to cook to fed her and yourself. Sometimes, days can go by, without me getting any sleep.

“We have to take care of her. We have to, what to do?” she said. At this time, I was remembering my own mother and my grandmother. Would I be able to do something like that? Could I be so selfless?

“But in the process, for her, we destroy our own life. I can’t read, I can’t practise piano, I can’t be with my boyfriend. And I can’t even wish for her to die soon, so that I can have all that back,” she concluded. A sacrifice demanded you to give up so many things. I’ve been taught to do all these things for your parents. But not only was it daunting to listen to her, I was actually mortified.

In Nepal, I guess it’s easier to take of the elders than in the West. A combine family system still persists. Money buys you not only cheap labour but total loyalty of the person also. So earn enough money and you won’t have to suffer as much as my landlady has, even though, she’s more wealthy than I can ever be.

It was a comforting thought – that money can take you out of trouble. I’ve never nursed anyone. I’m not good at it. And it’s probably good if I don’t. I guess it’s a selfish thought though. But who isn’t selfish, in their own way? Doesn’t mean I don’t love my family any less.