Inside the wanderer: Paris

I love Woody Allen’s introduction to Paris, with Sidney Bechet setting the mood in the first few minutes of Midnight in Paris. There’s Paris in the morning, in the sun, under the dark clouds, in the rain, the evening buzz and through seasons. For a city with so much content and beauty, I could finally see why anyone would serenade like that.

I was at Gare de Lyon station at about 10:00 a.m. with a faint memory of dragging my suitcase early morning across a deserted street to Cornavin station in Geneva. The journey to Paris had taken a little over three hours and it was a comfortable train ride. My friend and I had planned to see more of France from the train but sleep was overpowering. Gare de Lyon was packed and I suppose Saturday morning had something to do with it.

Our keen Tamil host took us to a hotel in Rue du Faubourg Saint Denis, near Gare du Nord station. This was like an Indian street: Bollywood CD’s on sale, silk stores, stores selling Indian spices and food items. At the end of the road, there was a Saravana Bhavan – the Onion Uttapam I frequently ate at the sister Bhavan in Karol Bagh was on the menu. After early morning coffee and mutton patties, we were ready.

Paris has life. Everything was quiet and clean in Geneva, with very few people on the streets. In Paris, they were everywhere. There was a buzz in the air and I wanted to own it. The litter in Paris added a bit of normalcy- sometimes places too clean made me fidgety. I walked down Rivoli Street to the Louvre on my first day in this beautiful French capital, muse of many past and present. Nostalgia beckoned and I could understand Gil Pender for a moment. I finally saw Da Vinci’s masterpiece in the most crowded room of the museum. True enough, she watched me from every angle. To my surprise, or not, I overheard a couple speaking in Bengali behind me. For a moment, I was instantly transported to the Mawsmai Cave in Meghalaya where a few Bengalis were screaming at each other in the dimly lit passages.

There were artists painting their version of various masterpieces on easels, student groups huddled around their teachers, guided tours in multiple languages and quiet contemplators of Michaelangelo’s Slave. Among others, I was struck by Daniele da Volterra’s David and Goliath- a 16^th century Oil on Slate painted on both sides which showed the same composition from both angles. After the deluge of history, I took a walk down the park outside the Louvre. The trees were preparing to welcome spring and I suspected I’d come a tad early. Sitting beside the fountain feeling the cold rushing breeze, I sighed thinking what this place would look like with flowers in full bloom.

My colleague and I climbed up two levels (and down later) on the Eiffel because the line for the elevator was too long. The view from the first level was like a trailer while the second level had the elevator to the top of the tower. Don’t ask me how I did it. My credentials as a man from the hills was severely tested, with cheese and wine coming out from all sides. Needless to say, the view from the top was stunning. Paris was beginning to light up. From the base of the tower, I saw Eiffel glowing and made it to Trocadéro for the glitter and a grander view of the tower. The locals say Champs-Élysées is best at night and I concur. The Arc de Triomphe stands majestically lit up on the other end and the familiar buzz of life covers Place de la Concorde. My gracious host was keen to let us feel Paris by night and to drive us around as long as we wanted- till he saw both us of fast asleep at the back of his Peugeot 807.

There is something about the view of Paris from Montmartre. I felt like I’m in a medieval time or that I’d look to my side and see a famous painter or writer mulling over his next masterpiece. If I had time, I could just sit there for hours: maybe read or write over an espresso myself. Many people were there this Sunday morning, outside the Sacré-Cœur Basilica. An old man was playing the violin nearby, lost in his music even as passersby dropped change in the case. I felt the rush of the crowd slowly dim into the background and for a moment, I was alone with the music and the view. Around the corner after passing the entrance to the crypt, another eagerly played the guitar.

Taking a nice drive to Versailles, it was time to see French royalty at its grandest. Here was the seat of Louis XIV and the symbol of absolute monarchy, which ultimately led to the French Revolution. The Palace and the gardens were too large to be covered in our short visit, but the audio guide did wonders. The detailed paintings of Louis-François Lejeune, a general in Napoleon’s army, were eye-opening. Here was a general who was also commissioned to paint battlefield victories and every painting had many layers of stories. A word about the overwhelming Hall of Mirrors, which had a grand view of the gardens and where, I later read, the Treaty of Versailles was signed in 1919. Rain stopped us from venturing into the palace gardens and the other estates, but our host had readied fromage on brown bread and some Bordeaux as an aperitif. It undid our disappointment.

After lunch at a crowded Turkish joint, I boarded a boat for an afternoon on the Seine. I remembered the boat conversation from Before Sunset and chose fresh air on the deck to the commentary inside. Paris is doubly beautiful from the river. History adorns both sides of the bank and I soaked in the wonder and beauty, loud Parisian music on the boat adding the feel.

I saw the grand Notre Dame Cathedral first from the boat. There was a French service on when I made it inside the Cathedral. I sat there for a while to pray. I’ve found that these old chapels and churches invoke a sense of reverence without fail and I’m blessed each time. I lit a candle and left the packed hall with gratitude. I walked around Notre Dame to catch those gargoyles and tried to make sense of what gothic meant. On the way back, I stopped for a while beside the Paris Opera to enjoy some live music by a small street orchestra. They were playing the James Bond theme.

I never thought I’d finish at a fancy South Indian joint opposite the Pontoise Cathedral in a suburb almost thirty kilometers from Paris. It was lovely, to say the least and I was in friendly company. I couldn’t ask for more. Though I couldn’t venture much into French cuisine in this short and packed touristy trip, I enjoyed the variety Paris had to offer. The breakfast of ham and cheese omlette washed down with two espressos at a street side brasserie was excellent. Like the walks around Paris I’d promised myself for next time, the French menu will have to wait. Before leaving Paris, a senior told me: there’ll always be something new to do here.

Hope was what I needed as I left the city with wonder, knowing I’ll come back when I have the chance.

 

Inside the wanderer

As a teenager, I remember being the hero of many of my stories and transporting myself to distant dreamy lands. Cable TV, movies and the internet would help in providing a setting for those stories. Before that, I would hold on to postcards or stare fixedly at the picturesque village in a glossy calendar on the wall. For the demanding dreamer, it was simple. I wanted to own the chateau by the lake and watch the sun set. I wanted to look out of my window and see snow capped peaks nearby. Even though I couldn’t comprehend how it could be so normal to have cafés by the sidewalk, I’d find it cool.

When I walked down Rue de Lausanne in Geneva for the first time, those memories slowly began to come back. There were nice cars, clean streets and outdoor cafés where people sat with their order of espresso, watching lives go by. Near a tram stop, musicians were playing as they waited for transport. The air was cold but fresh, with a hint of bread which stole away from a baker nearby. I liked that smell. Walking beside Lake Geneva on the Quai Wilson, I watched Geneva shutting down early even as desperate evening joggers and cyclists took over.  From the lighthouse at the end Jetée des Pâquis (the jetty), the sun set slowly and colored the lake. A few quiet boats and a few frolicking swans and ducks completed the picture from a postcard. I was smiling.

From a rooftop balcony of an officer’s residence, I saw Mont Blanc. Flanked by the Jura Mountains on the right and the Swiss Alps on the left, the city of Geneva with the fountain Jet d’Eau was visible clearly. It was quiet. I asked a local how come there seemed to be more cars than people. Because they are all working, he replied smugly. In the weekend, more cars would be seen on the highways leading out of the city.

Nyon by the lake is nice and quiet. There were families on their evening walks, kids playing tag and couples whispering to each other. Come evening, the French people working on the Swiss side would hop on a boat and go back. This is a routine thing, a local tells me. They make good money here. There was a nice breeze from the lake, whose blue color seemed more convincing and beautiful. At a café nearby, I raised a cup of Cappuccino with a smile of contentment to salute my stay here.

A couple of days later, I was on the highway again with the lush green countryside in full view. This time I was headed for Broc to be Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. The Nestlé factory was impressive, giving an account of the rich history of Swiss chocolate from François-Louis Cailler to Henri Nestlé. Of course, after the history and chocolate making class came the sampling. They were well planned: by the time the best chocolates came, I was tired and couldn’t anymore. Gruyères was the next stop- a sleepy, medieval town well known for its cheese. The village on the hill was the main draw, with cobbled paths and open cafes known for fondue. The chateau put me back in time: fortified walls and strong gates, stables, turrets from where archers would spot their targets, the open courtyard and a side entry into the chateau where nobles passed the heavy winter. Along with the cape of Charles the Bold, several halberds were displayed in the museum. Besides antique guns and hunting souvenirs, a classic piano stood frozen in time inside one of the richly decorated living rooms. The dull exterior of the chateau masked the colorful interior.

I had had the first glimpse of Montreaux while driving up to Broc and Gruyères. It was like a dream. Snow capped peaks on one side of a misty lake without a horizon and a bustling Riviera below. The driver assured me that sunset was going to be from here. This was a town well known for casinos and music, home of the famous July Jazz festival. After all, Deep Purple had written ‘Smoke on the Water’ after fire burned down a casino beside the lake at a Frank Zappa concert in 1971. At the main square, a Freddie Mercury statue stands in his trademark pose- he still lives here.

Gratitude filled my heart after a quiet moment at Château de Chillon beside the lake and watching the sun set from a café. I had my black notebook to jot down random thoughts that such moments would sometimes conjure. That day, none came. Some moments are simply too wonderful to describe, either in words or pictures. I usually just stop and choose to savor the moment instead. That’s what many people sitting beside me were silently doing.

Learning on the job.

There are so many lessons to be learned on the job. I can confidently say this after having spent more than a month on the desk. I feel privileged to be at the place where policy is forged, one note at a time. Still intimidating are the corridors, a clear remnant of the way the British organized themselves. The number of people walking around, with files and papers, at any given point in time speak of the size of the system. I’m just a dot in the landscape. I’ve been fortunate to have seniors who patiently teach me and bear with my questions and inconsistencies. Policies are made, stands are taken on issues and files are pushed in all directions. Welcome to the government.

At the end of the day, something that strikes me is the behavior of people around me and how we treat each other. There is a temptation to think that the job is bigger than the dignity of a fellow worker. In the rush for deadlines, there is the danger of disregarding another and trampling over a subordinate only because he reports to you. I’m reminded of what a senior once said: a good officer is not only adept in his work but also takes good care of his officers. So after the first month, a quote from one uncle comes to mind: You don’t get a second chance to make the first impression. I struggle to be conscious of the things I say and do, the way I behave with seniors and subordinates, to say I don’t know and ask to be taught by those who’ve been around longer. It takes conscious effort to be a good co-worker because everyone is getting the heat from someone else higher up the chain.

Loving and caring for others is easy to preach but when unrequited, it gets tricky. Government offices haven’t had a good reputation. Ask the man on the street. One is very likely to hear the routine story of how he was directed from one end to another, only to be directed to come the next day. Another familiar story is about the rude official who behaves like he’s doing you a favour just by his presence. To serve others is to care for others. There is no point talking about service if one has not served. As I meet and interact with people daily, I’ve felt it’s harder to care without expecting something in return. My service and attitude, in that sense, can become conditional. And that’s the dark pit I’m trying to avoid.

I recall the verse that says, “Do to others as you would have them do to you. If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners love those who love them. And if you do good to those who are good to you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners do that.” (Luke 6:31-33) I love my friends and I know they’ll back me any given day. But it’s hard to love the subordinate who shirks work and makes faces when something is assigned. How do I make a difference in his or her life? For every facet of life, our Lord has set the bar high. It’s tough to keep a straight face if you have a short fuse just like it’s hard to stay humble when you know you’re right about something.

In the next few months, the verdict will be out. People in office will be watching closely. Once I’m uncovered, who I am will slowly spread- consciously or unconsciously. It’ll only be a matter of time before the message comes back. Then I will know if I have truly been sincere and honest in my work. Then I’ll know if I’ve glorified my Lord.

 

Food that became me.

Experiences are tied to the person you are. If the job doesn’t reflect your identity, then things done during other times surely will. It may be reading, playing a sport, travelling or staring into space. Such activities are tied to interests, which speak loudly of who you really are.

My folks had come for a weekend visit. It was the first time both my parents were travelling together to see their children. While hopping from mall to mall, store to store and meal to meal, I realized that I have been eating out quite a bit for the last couple of years. After the job, I could expand into joints that were a little above my usual budget but not always did it translate into a better eating experience. Now this is not to say that I’m an authority in food matters but that food is quite a chunk of who I am. Countless conversations have happened over food, ideas have been hatched (but not nurtured) and jokes retold for the hundredth time.

I try to avoid lists because it takes away the look of spontaneity. It looks too ordered and planned, but I’ve convinced myself this is a rare exception. Here are the places I could be found (in random order, not indicative of preference).

1. Chole Puri washed down with Lassi at Peshawar Bhandar, Shankar Road.

This was a regular meal when I stayed at Old Rajinder Nagar, preparing for the Civil Services Exams. My early morning Commerce class would end at 10 a.m. and after three hours of trying to stay awake, I’d rush like a madman to this joint. Fresh off the pan Chole and Puri was great but the Lassi, made from homemade curd, was a killer. It was quite popular and whenever I reached after 11 a.m., stocks were out. My lesson: never judge an eating joint by the cover.

2. Kebabs and Tikkas at Jama Masjid.    

From initiation during college going years till today, I have been an occasional visitor to this place. Step into any of the numerous joints. I have enjoyed the ones beside the road, which serve juicier chicken tikkas with romali roti. But no one can beat the kebabs at Karims. The Mughals still rule with this one.

3. Cold cut platter, Spaghetti Carbonara and Grilled Chicken Salad, The Big Chill.

When I land up here, I usually play safe. Not because I’m not adventurous, but I’m usually decided before the menu is handed. The platter is a superb starter for meat lovers and the salad is pretty refreshing. Carbonara can be a tad indulgent but it is rich in flavor and undeniably good.

4. Buff Curry, Chicken Ularthiyathu and Porotta at Gunpowder, Hauz Khas Village.

Ever since my trip to Kerala, I’ve fallen for the cuisine. My ideal cook will now be judged for expertise in both cuisines from Nagaland and Kerala. I love the spices they add. My Keralite friends may not think much of this joint, but for now, this is where I go when I can’t be on a houseboat.

5. Mutton Momo at Yeti, Hauz Khas Village.

My dedication for this dish has spawned countless discussions and a blog post. There are many places where Momo is good but there’s a line that separates those which are above par. Yeti, owned by an old school friend, is where I’ve found the juiciest of them all. Order Mutton Momo,  have it hot and whole.

6. Thali, Mutton Fry and Prawn Curry at Andhra Bhavan.

There’s always a tendency to over eat here because of the rush and the quantity the bearers keep filling on your plate. But space things out and go easy on the rice. Only then will you enjoy the spicy mutton fry and the delicious prawn curry. I love their Sambar and I’ve always had a refill.

7. McSpicy Chicken, KFC and Pepperoni Pizza (Dominos)

I’m ending this edition with my unhealthiest choices. The excuse for fast food is that it’s fast and it’s tasty, screw healthy. So I don’t think when I’m applying ketchup to my McSpicy chicken or KFC’s Chicken wings. In Shillong last January, I had ordered in Domino’s pizzas six times in three weeks. No amount of tennis can undo the fats from them.

From a distance.

For everything there’s a beginning and an end, it is said. If someone asked how I’d spent 17 months of training, it would be hard to even begin. I’d fail at packaging my experiences into a cute story. But more than the story, the truth is that I’m different from what I used to be. It’s hard to put a finger on which part, but training does transform and I suppose that’s the whole point. And more than the theory we were fed in stale air conditioned rooms, it was the experience that moulded. When I sit with my friends and colleagues today, it’s apparent we’ve grown- in thought, in expression, in comfort and in content.

The Foundation Course in Mussoorie with other civil service colleagues is like a strange childhood memory. Friends in the IPS and the Forest Service will conclude formal training soon while friends in the IAS are Assistant Commissioners in their districts, listening and trying to resolve people’s problems every day. Some of them have been hit hard by the reality of their responsibility and that a car with red beacon means nothing unless they walk the talk. When I meet them, these questions resonate: Did we know what we signed up for? Did we sign for the service or did we sign up for what we’d imagined comfort was? Did we assume we’d get only postings of our preference? If we’d imagined our arrival, it was better to snap out of the illusion at the earliest. So I’m motivated and filled with pride when I meet friends working hard for people and for their beliefs, irrespective of conditions. They’d rather reach on time for work than bask in temporal, imagined glory. Over the months, besides the colleagues who’ve matured, I’ve met many seniors without the false sense of pride. They put me firmly in place every time. Across the services though, there’s one common opinion in many- the grass is greener on the other side. Clearly, this is the root of all turf wars. It’s another myth created for convenience, for passing the buck, for shirking responsibilities and for feeling better. My hope is that those wanting the civil services would decide early on because you sign up for a service that can take you anywhere. Expect the worst, for it’ll only get better.

My idealism has been tempered with sense and I know all things can’t change overnight in a bureaucracy that serves a billion plus people. If there’s a purpose for every action, there’s also a consequence- the purpose better back the action. Travelling around the country gave a flavor of who these billions were: citizens whose struggles dwarfed mine. I’m learning to appreciate simplicity after my travels because for many, less is more and I often ask myself why I’m crowding my life with gadgets and other distracting tools. As much as I enjoy random conversations, I’ve begun to guard my time spent in solitude.

Sleeping in lectures is a salient feature in training. Luckily, the speakers often look the other way and choose to believe that meditation is good for the soul. It’s funny how the body responds to activities inside and outside lecture halls. Maybe board meetings in quiet, open spaces would be refreshing and a welcome change. When we sit and look back, we laugh at the times we gave up and slept. We learnt something in those lectures: not to take ourselves too seriously and that individual spade work on any subject was irreplaceable. Of course, the headlines helped.

On my last birthday, I spent the evening hopping cafés in Tashkent and understood the importance of languages. It’s no secret that language breaks barriers and opens doors. I didn’t understand Uzbek or Russian and in many places, I had to make do with sign language and some common English words. The test of learning new languages would come. For someone who struggles with his mother tongue, I’m certain it’ll be a challenge.

Confidence comes with success but it is short lived. There are many other factors that sustain confidence: knowledge and the ability to speak or carry a conversation without choking is definitely one. But I’ve equally been drawn to other factors like listening attentively, the ability to relate and letting others realize you care and being genuine. Trust is the key to all networking and being genuine creates and sustains that trust. Many seniors we’ve met in the course of our training say we’ve got to work hard. It’s a very general and seemingly innocuous statement. By ‘work hard’, they mean ‘be dependable and be thorough.’

These are the reminders I need when I join my desk next week.

Tales from the plains and hills.

I take ten, the driver said.

I counted thirteen, I replied. The driver protested, saying that children don’t count.

So thirteen heads travelled in a Tata Sumo from Guwahati to Shillong, with a fourteenth one squeezing in between three people in the front seat somewhere in Nongpoh. This is a common sight in these parts and this experience can pass of as one from the bucket list. If fortunate, one is served a variety of stories and interpretations of life. One passenger wanted to relieve himself and requested the driver who reluctantly agreed for a quick stop. He was scared of the traffic jam that usually began from Barapani and I shared that fear. While waiting, we found out that two locals from the back had begun a meal in a nearby hotel. A third one joined the table and finally the driver too gave in. I was reminded of how, when I was younger, I’d look forward to stopping at the tea joints between Dimapur and Kohima. That was when the conditions were bad and the journey would take nearly three hours. Now it takes half that time, with slightly better roads. By the time we reached Shillong, there had already been a discussion on traffic choking the highway, widening of roads and bypasses, and coal-laden trucks. One passenger made his worry loud and clear- he needed to buy clothes for a wedding the next morning and he had to shop. It was already dark, chilly and Shillong was shutting down. Another jolly passenger reeking of alcohol kept talking gibberish till he got off at Laitumkhrah.

I spent the weekend at a village in rural Assam, at the invitation of a colleague. It was Magh Bihu and I couldn’t refuse. Citizens in various parts of the country were celebrating harvest. I could barely sleep with the speakers blasting songs and announcements throughout the night. Early next morning, the villagers from around twenty households gathered to burn the shack (called Meji) constructed with hay and bamboo in which they spent the night feasting, singing and dancing. A village elder led the prayers as they flocked together offering their produce and someone lit a torch. The burning and dancing began. Meanwhile, a volleyball court was being prepared for the afternoon.

During rainy season, these interiors would be flooded. All the houses were thus built on elevated foundations and neighbours would swim or wade across if they wanted to go next door. Ponds would remain for most part of the year even after the waters receded. If it’s any consolation, the floods would bring food. People in the village are a little too carefree, my friend told me. One teacher would be responsible for two hundred odd students and would also be expected to administer the Midday meals while running other tasks. School children would therefore lack attention and interest. Many villagers were not too bothered since their livelihood depended on selling their produce and running the household. When they came of age, the kids would be expected to follow their folks to the fields. My friend admitted that he too had done the same, leaving after ninth grade to look after cattle. Fortunately, his teachers had seen the potential and inquired of his absence, making sure he reported back to school. Today, he’s an IAS officer with thousands looking up to him. It’s easy to dismiss the value of teachers who not only teach efficiently but ignite the mind of students and rouse the ability to think. These teachers can also spot potential and guide, be it in sports or creative arts. The brilliance of youngsters in the rural areas needs nurturing and hopefully the RTE Act would lessen the gap in the years to come. The administrators, meanwhile, have their task cut out.

I haven’t been too successful on the food front this time around. But I ate some superb jadoh and beef curry in several local joints in Shillong. Two magistrates who were with me say these small, hidden joints are the best for such food. ‘Little Chef’ in Laitumkhrah sells nice cookies and bakery items, and they’re usually sold out by the mid day. While coming back from work, I asked the driver to stop for some kwai (for the uninitiated: betel leaf, areca nut and lime). He stopped at a turn where a van had been converted into a small shop- for quick getaways, I suspect- which he said were the best.

With the Shepherd

No matter how much I try, it just doesn’t feel like a new year. The celebrations seem long gone and six days later, people are resuming the drill. And I know, just like that it will be another sigh for another year gone. There are three magazines on my bed with year-end lists and new year forecasts. But who knows? Mount Etna’s eruption was not on any list. Optimists raise hopes and bring some cheer but it’d be naïve to give in to predictions too quickly. All the same, no one wants that uneasy feeling so early into the year reading doomsday predictions (of various calendars). If we’ve just managed one of the most unpredictable years, then anything is possible. But the feel good factor can still mask one’s deepest fears. Whom do we trust?

“As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” – Isaiah 55:9

The first few chapters of Proverbs relentlessly talk about wisdom and understanding. That one must hunger for them and run after them. And when the repetition starts muddling the thoughts, a verse makes it clear.

 “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and knowledge of the Holy One is understanding.”         - Proverbs 9:10

Someone recently shared an encouraging verse on my Twitter page. It was John 20:29.

 Then Jesus told him, “Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

A fitting reminder for the new year. The speed of the years going by only corroborate what my mother keeps telling her children, “Life is so short!”.  There is a distinct stress on the so. Conversations with elders during the last few weeks had recurring themes. Love. Humility. Pride. Service. Giving.

Is your job going to define who you are? Is it the end or the means to an end? Do you feel you’ve arrived? Is it going to be I, I and I for another year? How are you going to make the best of your time here on earth?

I know I’ll fumble like I always have. I’m going to go back to the source. His abundant grace has put the longing in my heart. Creation ultimately yearns for the Creator.

May we truly seek wisdom and understanding.