Few times in the past has the journalist in me yearned to be in a place of interest and managed to get here within minutes. When I woke up on Saturday, I was weirdly conscious of the fact that nine years ago, this day, 19 people who I never knew, affected my life in unthinkable ways. I wanted to be at the place where history was altered, spectacularly.
My ride on the underground subway was just like it would be on any other weekend. At 11 AM it was quiet, not crowded and people didn’t seem to know what was going at ground level above them. But, when you stepped out of the subway station at Park Place, you stepped into a different planet. There were thousands of people in four different rallies noisily voicing various view points. I saw many banners, pamphlets, information literature. I had a camera and audio equipment, which made me an object of specific interest. Everyone wanted to tell me what they felt, how they felt and why they were right.
I patiently listened to as many people as I could (yes, even to those who said Koran should be burnt and that Christ was the only God) and collected literature that they gave me. I was trying to understand each of their points of view. After all, many people there had very little to gain by gathering in Downtown New York on a sunny Saturday and scream out slogans. Many were not representing political parties or any religoius places. (However, many were from NGOs and let’s not get into the complications of how the NGO industry works). The point I am trying to make is that I met many ordinary New Yorkers who felt passionately about their cause. For instance, a group called ‘Raging Grannies’ had a bunch of 70-year-old women who were spreading the message of peace. Another man who believed in Christianity decided to come to Ground Zero and started giving speeches about his view of the religion to a small group that had gathered around him.
The obvious question is do they have to wait for a day like 9/11 to speak up? Well, let us face it. The media also looks for an event like this to give their voices some ears. Imagine going to Ground Zero on 9/11 and not finding anyone talking about issues of September 11th 2001?
Groud Zero itself looked quite unaffected by the chaos around it. The construction at the site was stalled as it was a weekend. But, the tall cranes at the construction site gave a look of condescension. As if to say that they are above all of this. The American flag hoisted across the street from Ground Zero was also unaffected by all of it. It just fluttered away depending on what direction the wind blew towards. In front of the Chambers Street subway station, across Ground Zero, an elderly gentleman was playing a flute melodiously. I saw a girl of not more than 3 years of age approach him. They then enjoyed a nice musical moment together while the world around them shouted and screamed slogans.
Wading through tonnes and tonnes of police barricades, I had finally walked all the way from Ground Zero through the City Park to the Brooklyn Bridge. It is here that the East River calls out to you, if you are looking for a moment of peace.
While returning home, I couldn’t help but salute the democratic sprit of the US, where a protestor can call the US a ‘police state’ standing right in front of a policeman who is out there to provide protection. My country has a similar democratic system, which is abusive at times, ruthless at times, intolerant at times and blatantly insensitive other at times. But, aren’t we all? And what is democracy but a reflection of us?
Raksha Kumar
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
When You Are Your Country
The heat can make you tremendously sleepy! The heat, added to the cradle-like rocking of the subway, is just the setting for a nap amidst all of New York’s crowd. Just when my eyes were shutting down, a lean girl with a broad smile asked me if I was from the Journalism School, Columbia University. Sleepily, I said yes. Just to be polite I reciprocated by asking her the same question. She jumped and said that she was studying at the Sociology School, Columbia University. Her energy on that hot, fatigued afternoon amazed me.
She went on. She spoke a bit about where she lived. I half listened, and half slept. But, then something caught my attention. She said she was from Palestine. I sat up, attentive. I had met people from Israel and from Jerusalem. But had met no one who claimed they were from Palestine. Because, on the international map, there is no Palestine anymore.
I looked at her closely for the first time. She had a long face, pointed chin and deep-set brown eyes. She didn’t look typically Arab. When asked about it, she explained, she had Dutch ancestry.
We spent quite-an-hour discussing the troubled geo politics of the Middle East. I asked her what the Middle East looked like before 1948 (that was the year when Israel was formed and all the ‘Jewish lands’ were assimilated into one country). She started fiddling with the gold chain that was around her neck and held up a gold pendant. That, she said unemotionally, was how Middle East looked before 1948. The map included what is now Israel, Palestine, Gaza Strip and West Bank.
That was a very powerful moment. People wear pendants of their names, their loved ones or something as impersonal as a butterfly or a rose. She felt such deep affection for her country, she held it as close to her as possible.
Then she passionately scribbled a map of how the Middle East looks now on a piece of paper. She said that would help me better understand it.
She said that she has to go through a check post for almost everything in her country – a mall, a store, a library. She also gave a graphic account of how there are ghettos and segregation – there are Arab buses and Israeli buses in the same towns, Arab schools and Israeli schools and of course, separate neighbourhoods.
She told me she was working with children’s theatre in Jerusalem for two years. Her family is in a small village of Palestine. They speak Dutch and Arabic at home. And, that her sister is a law student.
Then it suddenly struck me, that I knew everything about her but her name! The conversation was so engaging that I forgot to ask Dina Zbidat her name and even she forgot to tell me!
Made me wonder how her nationality was more of her identity than her own name! Made me wonder how we take our nationality for granted. Made me wonder how it becomes so important to ‘belong’ somewhere.
For the first time, Shakespeare made absolute sense to me when he said ‘what is in a name’.
Raksha Kumar
She went on. She spoke a bit about where she lived. I half listened, and half slept. But, then something caught my attention. She said she was from Palestine. I sat up, attentive. I had met people from Israel and from Jerusalem. But had met no one who claimed they were from Palestine. Because, on the international map, there is no Palestine anymore.
I looked at her closely for the first time. She had a long face, pointed chin and deep-set brown eyes. She didn’t look typically Arab. When asked about it, she explained, she had Dutch ancestry.
We spent quite-an-hour discussing the troubled geo politics of the Middle East. I asked her what the Middle East looked like before 1948 (that was the year when Israel was formed and all the ‘Jewish lands’ were assimilated into one country). She started fiddling with the gold chain that was around her neck and held up a gold pendant. That, she said unemotionally, was how Middle East looked before 1948. The map included what is now Israel, Palestine, Gaza Strip and West Bank.
That was a very powerful moment. People wear pendants of their names, their loved ones or something as impersonal as a butterfly or a rose. She felt such deep affection for her country, she held it as close to her as possible.
Then she passionately scribbled a map of how the Middle East looks now on a piece of paper. She said that would help me better understand it.
She said that she has to go through a check post for almost everything in her country – a mall, a store, a library. She also gave a graphic account of how there are ghettos and segregation – there are Arab buses and Israeli buses in the same towns, Arab schools and Israeli schools and of course, separate neighbourhoods.
She told me she was working with children’s theatre in Jerusalem for two years. Her family is in a small village of Palestine. They speak Dutch and Arabic at home. And, that her sister is a law student.
Then it suddenly struck me, that I knew everything about her but her name! The conversation was so engaging that I forgot to ask Dina Zbidat her name and even she forgot to tell me!
Made me wonder how her nationality was more of her identity than her own name! Made me wonder how we take our nationality for granted. Made me wonder how it becomes so important to ‘belong’ somewhere.
For the first time, Shakespeare made absolute sense to me when he said ‘what is in a name’.
Raksha Kumar
Sunday, August 29, 2010
An Author In Transition
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he speaks to me on the subway platform in NYC. Muhammad Bilal Lakhani is not tense or anxious about anything it is just the way he is all the time – restless, energetic. That is perhaps why Bilal became a published author at age 19. Bilal is now a 23-year-old graduate student at the Journalism School, Columbia University.
Bilal’s first book, his only book, is titled ‘Real life lessons from the Holy Quran for the 21st Century Muslim’. He finished writing this book when he was 17 years old. “The book was meant for me, as a handbook. So that I didn’t make the mistakes I had made before,” he says. But, how many mistakes could a 17-year-old have made anyway! Later, Bilal went ahead and decided to share his book with others.
However, getting a book published on religion by a young, non-established writer was, in his own words, “a fight”. He persistently got back to the publisher for two years and finally managed to see his thoughts in print in 2006.
With a mischievous smile on his face, Bilal says he doesn’t put into practice much of what he had written back then in his life now. “The tough part is following what is in the book, not writing it,” he says.
The book has a contract that one signs with oneself and pledges to God that he will follow the ‘righteous’ path. When asked about the contract, Bilal laughs and explains that while some in his family still find it practical and enjoyable, others think it is immature.
Bilal himself thinks that the book is an immature attempt. “However”, speaking in a mild voice, he says, “it is an important part of who I am. There is still a conflict, an identity crisis.” Thus, he gave the book to his fiancé when he first met her.
Bilal’s granduncle reads a page from this book every night before he goes to bed. ‘I am learning something about religion from my grandnephew’, he once said to Bilal. Bilal says that this was the most touching thing he had heard about his book. Bilal’s emotions and gratitude are hidden below his beard covered face, but his eyes say it all.
Bilal’s home country is Pakistan. He plans to write a second book back there, which will not be limited to religion but will take a broader look at life.
This young writer in transition is perhaps voicing the conflict and crisis that most young Muslim men face in this rapidly changing world.
Raksha Kumar
Bilal’s first book, his only book, is titled ‘Real life lessons from the Holy Quran for the 21st Century Muslim’. He finished writing this book when he was 17 years old. “The book was meant for me, as a handbook. So that I didn’t make the mistakes I had made before,” he says. But, how many mistakes could a 17-year-old have made anyway! Later, Bilal went ahead and decided to share his book with others.
However, getting a book published on religion by a young, non-established writer was, in his own words, “a fight”. He persistently got back to the publisher for two years and finally managed to see his thoughts in print in 2006.
With a mischievous smile on his face, Bilal says he doesn’t put into practice much of what he had written back then in his life now. “The tough part is following what is in the book, not writing it,” he says.
The book has a contract that one signs with oneself and pledges to God that he will follow the ‘righteous’ path. When asked about the contract, Bilal laughs and explains that while some in his family still find it practical and enjoyable, others think it is immature.
Bilal himself thinks that the book is an immature attempt. “However”, speaking in a mild voice, he says, “it is an important part of who I am. There is still a conflict, an identity crisis.” Thus, he gave the book to his fiancé when he first met her.
Bilal’s granduncle reads a page from this book every night before he goes to bed. ‘I am learning something about religion from my grandnephew’, he once said to Bilal. Bilal says that this was the most touching thing he had heard about his book. Bilal’s emotions and gratitude are hidden below his beard covered face, but his eyes say it all.
Bilal’s home country is Pakistan. He plans to write a second book back there, which will not be limited to religion but will take a broader look at life.
This young writer in transition is perhaps voicing the conflict and crisis that most young Muslim men face in this rapidly changing world.
Raksha Kumar
Friday, August 20, 2010
A visit to a gay bar.
I know a lot of you were asking me to write about my experiences in the US, I refrained from it for a lot of reasons. Today’s experience, however, was just screaming out to be written about and shared.
For our class assignment at the J-school, Columbia University, we were to choose a place and profile it. In my zealous addiction to History and a mad drive to do something different, I decided to profile Stonewall Inn.
Stonewall Inn is a bar whose history with gay rights dates back to 1967. It is the site of Stonewall Riots, which many believe was the visible start of the gay rights movement in the US. So, my project was looking at how things have changed in these 40-odd years, if at all.
With a lot of vigour and enthusiasm about the new assignment, I stepped into Stonewall. While I was mentally prepared to see some rather explicit ‘performances’, my mind was still not communicating with my senses. I must have given a slight squeak, and my eyes must have popped open when I walked in. Being the professional that I am, I quickly regained my composure and strode in.
Once inside, I actually marvelled at the various couples sitting there - an African American man with a man from the Far East, two White women and an Asian man with two White men. And within minutes, I was feeling comfortable sitting in my cosy corner.
I began speaking to the bar tender who was a very pleasant lesbian woman. She tried her very best to find people who I could interview. But with little avail. So, I hung around hoping someone might want to face the mike. I felt it impolite to not order for a drink, so, I asked her to fetch me a beer. For the record, I hate beers! I looked at it as a professional hazard. Well, my profession seems to be quite hazardous, as I later found out! The beer cost me $6 and as tips are a must in the US, with the heaviest heart, I slipped in two one dollar bills. That is how much I would spend on one lavish meal! And remember, I still had no story. No one was willing to be interviewed yet!
In the meanwhile, a girl who was darting her eyes over me now and then, walked over to me. It got me slightly worried. I was not sure what to say, how to react. She wanted to know more about my T-shirt. I relaxed. But suddenly, she said, ‘I like the way you hold your beer’. Oh! This is what I dreaded! By the time one reaches my age, one gets used to boys hitting on you almost every day. You know how to politely reject their advances, or just tell them to back-off at times. But I had never been hit on by a woman before. I tried doing what I would do if a boy had used that rather horrible pick up line. I asked her if she would like to be interviewed. It worked! She rejected the offer and said ‘yeah, you look the kinds men would like. I am sure a lot of men fall for you’. Smiled, and left.
I was left introspecting, ashamed at my awkward behaviour.
But, as my interviewee later said, the gay and lesbian community probably need their own islands of seclusion, where they can be themselves, unhindered. I finally interviewed a man who insisted on putting his sexuality as his primary identity, over nationality. He has been visiting the Stonewall Inn for the past 23 years.
The experience that evening was a unique and a very educating one. And, I managed to get a good story! It was a true journalism experience.
Raksha Kumar
For our class assignment at the J-school, Columbia University, we were to choose a place and profile it. In my zealous addiction to History and a mad drive to do something different, I decided to profile Stonewall Inn.
Stonewall Inn is a bar whose history with gay rights dates back to 1967. It is the site of Stonewall Riots, which many believe was the visible start of the gay rights movement in the US. So, my project was looking at how things have changed in these 40-odd years, if at all.
With a lot of vigour and enthusiasm about the new assignment, I stepped into Stonewall. While I was mentally prepared to see some rather explicit ‘performances’, my mind was still not communicating with my senses. I must have given a slight squeak, and my eyes must have popped open when I walked in. Being the professional that I am, I quickly regained my composure and strode in.
Once inside, I actually marvelled at the various couples sitting there - an African American man with a man from the Far East, two White women and an Asian man with two White men. And within minutes, I was feeling comfortable sitting in my cosy corner.
I began speaking to the bar tender who was a very pleasant lesbian woman. She tried her very best to find people who I could interview. But with little avail. So, I hung around hoping someone might want to face the mike. I felt it impolite to not order for a drink, so, I asked her to fetch me a beer. For the record, I hate beers! I looked at it as a professional hazard. Well, my profession seems to be quite hazardous, as I later found out! The beer cost me $6 and as tips are a must in the US, with the heaviest heart, I slipped in two one dollar bills. That is how much I would spend on one lavish meal! And remember, I still had no story. No one was willing to be interviewed yet!
In the meanwhile, a girl who was darting her eyes over me now and then, walked over to me. It got me slightly worried. I was not sure what to say, how to react. She wanted to know more about my T-shirt. I relaxed. But suddenly, she said, ‘I like the way you hold your beer’. Oh! This is what I dreaded! By the time one reaches my age, one gets used to boys hitting on you almost every day. You know how to politely reject their advances, or just tell them to back-off at times. But I had never been hit on by a woman before. I tried doing what I would do if a boy had used that rather horrible pick up line. I asked her if she would like to be interviewed. It worked! She rejected the offer and said ‘yeah, you look the kinds men would like. I am sure a lot of men fall for you’. Smiled, and left.
I was left introspecting, ashamed at my awkward behaviour.
But, as my interviewee later said, the gay and lesbian community probably need their own islands of seclusion, where they can be themselves, unhindered. I finally interviewed a man who insisted on putting his sexuality as his primary identity, over nationality. He has been visiting the Stonewall Inn for the past 23 years.
The experience that evening was a unique and a very educating one. And, I managed to get a good story! It was a true journalism experience.
Raksha Kumar
Monday, August 16, 2010
More Than Just A Bath
We were hoping we’d get a clear day. But when has rain left England alone? England’s love story with Zeus, the Greek God of rain, is probably the most tumultuous. However, this time, a beautiful drizzle only added to the pleasure of enjoying Bath on foot. A little rain, a slight chill interspersed with an occasional warmth of the sun was the perfect setting for stories of a Roman city spa, an abbey of the medieval times and modern day architectural wonders.
Since we had ridden on a train from the smoky and noisy London, the first thing that we noticed in the quieter, fresher Bath was the jugalbandi of the blowing breeze and the singing larks. Bath is less than two hours away from London. This 18th Century town is known all over the world for two things – the great Roman bath spa and legendary laureate Jane Austen. I shall talk about both in sometime.
Our expedition, however, began by walking the length of a beautiful canal that leads up to the Bath Market. Something about Bath that is noticeable even to the blind eye is the limestone constructions. The yellow limestone is unique to Bath and practically every building is constructed with it. While one might assume that this gives a monotonous feel to the town, the varied architecture present here gives the town a face-lift.
We first walked over to see the comparatively recent architecture. The Circus and the Crescent are brilliant examples of beauty and efficient town planning. The Circus is a circular building which is built for housing purposes around a circular piece of green land. The Crescent, on the other hand, is a series of handsomely standing linear houses. It overlooks the green-yellow Avon valley. I couldn’t help wondering how magnificent and majestic it would be to live in one of these buildings and see river Avon and the Thames valley every morn.
As the water in Bath had always been known for its medicinal capacities since the medieval times, the sick from all over England thronged to Bath and it became the unofficial infirmary of the country. Therefore, it is not unusual to find, even to this day, buildings that housed the sick and ailing.
Interestingly, though, the patients who arrived in a hospital in Bath were given a small amount of money from the City Council. This money was enough to pay for their joyful journey back home when they recovered. Else, the money was used for their funerals! As, even death comes at a price!
However, there is no room for such depressing thoughts amidst some overwhelmingly beautiful nature and some incredibly romantic weather. I decided to lunch in the only building that still retains some Roman walls. A cosy vegetarian restaurant called ‘DeMuth’s –positively vegetarian’ occupies that building. A glance at their menu threw me off balance. To put it politely, it was experimental in the truest sense. To give you a peak into its menu – tomato upma with baked pinnaple! Talk about a confluence of the East and the West! Nevertheless, after a very painful lunch, I proceeded to see the Roman Bath.
This public bath was drowned after a ferocious flood hit the town in the medieval times. It was only accidentally discovered by some archaeologists in the early 19th Century which is why the Roman Bath is at a lower level than the rest of the town.
The Romans, during their attempts to occupy England stumbled upon three hot water springs in what is now Bath. Even today, a hot water bath is welcomed with open arms at any time in England. When the Romans saw a possibility of making a recreation centre of the hot water available there, I can imagine how they’d have pounced on the idea.
Gradually, the bath must have gone from being just a recreation, social centre to a place with slightly spiritual leanings. There are many well-preserved messages to Roman Goddess Minerva written on thin metal sheets. These sheets were thrown into the bath, with the belief that the Goddess would be able to pay heed to their problems. The pleas range from a request to find lost silverware to locating stolen slaves! From a betrayed lover asking for revenge to administrative injustices!! It is fascinating to read the translations of these messages that are found in the Bath museum. These give us a sense of how the human race has had similar problems all the while and will only continue to. All the talk of the race progressing or regressing begins to sound superficial.
After exiting the museum, I visited the Abbey. It is a beautiful Gothic construction, as many in England are. The abbey’s claim to fame is that the coronation of the first ‘fake’ and relatively unknown king of England was held there. It is, at the most, a wasteful piece of tit-bit.
Bath would like to take credit and make the most of Jane Austen’s name, but it turns out that she lived in the city for not more than six years and hated her time there!
After having roamed the streets of Bath to my heart’s content in the rain, we decided to make a return. Another sweet little rail ride in the Thames valley brought me to London and back to the land of the present day.
Raksha Kumar
Since we had ridden on a train from the smoky and noisy London, the first thing that we noticed in the quieter, fresher Bath was the jugalbandi of the blowing breeze and the singing larks. Bath is less than two hours away from London. This 18th Century town is known all over the world for two things – the great Roman bath spa and legendary laureate Jane Austen. I shall talk about both in sometime.
Our expedition, however, began by walking the length of a beautiful canal that leads up to the Bath Market. Something about Bath that is noticeable even to the blind eye is the limestone constructions. The yellow limestone is unique to Bath and practically every building is constructed with it. While one might assume that this gives a monotonous feel to the town, the varied architecture present here gives the town a face-lift.
We first walked over to see the comparatively recent architecture. The Circus and the Crescent are brilliant examples of beauty and efficient town planning. The Circus is a circular building which is built for housing purposes around a circular piece of green land. The Crescent, on the other hand, is a series of handsomely standing linear houses. It overlooks the green-yellow Avon valley. I couldn’t help wondering how magnificent and majestic it would be to live in one of these buildings and see river Avon and the Thames valley every morn.
As the water in Bath had always been known for its medicinal capacities since the medieval times, the sick from all over England thronged to Bath and it became the unofficial infirmary of the country. Therefore, it is not unusual to find, even to this day, buildings that housed the sick and ailing.
Interestingly, though, the patients who arrived in a hospital in Bath were given a small amount of money from the City Council. This money was enough to pay for their joyful journey back home when they recovered. Else, the money was used for their funerals! As, even death comes at a price!
However, there is no room for such depressing thoughts amidst some overwhelmingly beautiful nature and some incredibly romantic weather. I decided to lunch in the only building that still retains some Roman walls. A cosy vegetarian restaurant called ‘DeMuth’s –positively vegetarian’ occupies that building. A glance at their menu threw me off balance. To put it politely, it was experimental in the truest sense. To give you a peak into its menu – tomato upma with baked pinnaple! Talk about a confluence of the East and the West! Nevertheless, after a very painful lunch, I proceeded to see the Roman Bath.
This public bath was drowned after a ferocious flood hit the town in the medieval times. It was only accidentally discovered by some archaeologists in the early 19th Century which is why the Roman Bath is at a lower level than the rest of the town.
The Romans, during their attempts to occupy England stumbled upon three hot water springs in what is now Bath. Even today, a hot water bath is welcomed with open arms at any time in England. When the Romans saw a possibility of making a recreation centre of the hot water available there, I can imagine how they’d have pounced on the idea.
Gradually, the bath must have gone from being just a recreation, social centre to a place with slightly spiritual leanings. There are many well-preserved messages to Roman Goddess Minerva written on thin metal sheets. These sheets were thrown into the bath, with the belief that the Goddess would be able to pay heed to their problems. The pleas range from a request to find lost silverware to locating stolen slaves! From a betrayed lover asking for revenge to administrative injustices!! It is fascinating to read the translations of these messages that are found in the Bath museum. These give us a sense of how the human race has had similar problems all the while and will only continue to. All the talk of the race progressing or regressing begins to sound superficial.
After exiting the museum, I visited the Abbey. It is a beautiful Gothic construction, as many in England are. The abbey’s claim to fame is that the coronation of the first ‘fake’ and relatively unknown king of England was held there. It is, at the most, a wasteful piece of tit-bit.
Bath would like to take credit and make the most of Jane Austen’s name, but it turns out that she lived in the city for not more than six years and hated her time there!
After having roamed the streets of Bath to my heart’s content in the rain, we decided to make a return. Another sweet little rail ride in the Thames valley brought me to London and back to the land of the present day.
Raksha Kumar
Monday, July 26, 2010
So near, yet, so far!
In the hide and seek game between the sun and the clouds that evening, the rain won. But, fortunately, I had already set sail on the Snaefell from Liverpool to Douglas on the Isle of Man. Incidentally, this was my first ferry ride on the high seas. In an age where flights and, for nearer distances, trains have dominated the transport routes, travel by water to reach another country was an amusing change.
Snaefell is a reasonably comfortable ferry with a bar (a quintessential English hangout), games arcade and a cafe. My favourite part of the Snaefell, though, was its upper deck from where the vast sea and the relatively small city towards the end of it could be enjoyed.
The ferry moves to the rhythm of the splashing waves, the gushing of its own engines and the unruly wind. The scenery is astounding! Far away mountains turn away their faces, as if in irk. The windmills relentlessly turn in the backdrop of the blue-grey skies and the larks fly in glee. The only person I would have missed in this terribly romantic set-up, had he not been there, would have been Mehdi Hassan. Thank god for iPods! Only later did I realise that I had spent more than three hours listening to his ghazals and enjoying the nature. The journey on the Snaefell is supposed to be for 3 hours. It turns out that the Snaefell rarely keeps to its schedule. That is not a matter of regret, I suppose.
The Isle of Man is an independent country to the north west of England. As the name suggests it is an island nation in the Irish Sea. The United Kingdom has been endowed with immense amounts of natural beauty and the Isle of Man has its fair share to boast of. However, what is interesting to know is that this island of about 80,000 has the oldest continuously existing parliamentary democracy.
The lonely planet gives a rather true perspective of the Isle. It says “the number one industry (on the Isle) is tax avoidance- wealthy Brits can shelter their loot here without having to move to Monte Carlo or the Cayman islands”. The Isle’s proximity to Britain is probably its biggest boon and its worst curse. Its economy is run pretty much by the weathy Brits, but its culture is almost dead under the close influence of the English and Scottish cultures.
Kevin, was pleasant enough to agree to go to the Manx museum with me the following day. The Isle of Man is simply known as Mann and has its own almost extinct language called Manx. The museum, however, has an audio sample in Manx for one to hear. It also, interestingly, has a few Manx proverbs. Reading those, I was wondering if all languages have the same things to say in their proverbs. I have certainly heard ‘Help poor, help God’ in Hindi, Kannada and even English. Most of them reflected ideas that proverbs in any language would.
The highlight of my stay in Mann, though, was the first ever facial of my life! Kevin’s wife, Seana, a delightful lady, happens to be a beautician who runs a beauty clinic. The immensely sweet and hospitable, Kevin and Seana invited me to a complimentary facial. And after making some noises of polite rejection, I finally braced myself to lie down on a masseuse’s table. Travelling, I told myself, should involve new experiences, what is the point if it didn’t?
Anne, was a charming Slovakian who readied herself with oils and other products that were meant for my face. Anne and I began to speak, while she was busy at her work. She was curious to know if I were 17 or 18 years in age. I, no doubt felt thrilled at her wrong presumption, but felt compelled to correct her instantly. Seana was right, the facial felt great. Very relaxing and very fresh. I thank her for introducing me to a nice experience, I hope to repeat in the future.
After a quick lunch, driving on the lovely roads amidst beautiful greenery, we reached Castletown. The country is not more than 24 kilometers in breath and only about 48 kilometers in its length. So, reaching another town took us about 15 minutes. Our destination was Castle Rushen which housed all the kings of Mann. The view from atop the castle is quite scenic. The Calf of Man, the southern tip of the island nation is visible from here.
When it was time to leave the island, I casually checked the boarding pass of the ferry. I clearly remembered having spelt out my name at the ticket counter when I bought my tickets. But the name on the boarding pass was printed – REKSHE! I wonder if this is because of the ‘f-u-ni-ny’ Irish pronunciations where ‘A’s possibly become ‘E’s .
Anyway, another uneventful three hours on the Snaefell brought me to Liverpool. England is a different world altogher. Mann is so close to it, yet, so far.
Raksha Kumar
Snaefell is a reasonably comfortable ferry with a bar (a quintessential English hangout), games arcade and a cafe. My favourite part of the Snaefell, though, was its upper deck from where the vast sea and the relatively small city towards the end of it could be enjoyed.
The ferry moves to the rhythm of the splashing waves, the gushing of its own engines and the unruly wind. The scenery is astounding! Far away mountains turn away their faces, as if in irk. The windmills relentlessly turn in the backdrop of the blue-grey skies and the larks fly in glee. The only person I would have missed in this terribly romantic set-up, had he not been there, would have been Mehdi Hassan. Thank god for iPods! Only later did I realise that I had spent more than three hours listening to his ghazals and enjoying the nature. The journey on the Snaefell is supposed to be for 3 hours. It turns out that the Snaefell rarely keeps to its schedule. That is not a matter of regret, I suppose.
The Isle of Man is an independent country to the north west of England. As the name suggests it is an island nation in the Irish Sea. The United Kingdom has been endowed with immense amounts of natural beauty and the Isle of Man has its fair share to boast of. However, what is interesting to know is that this island of about 80,000 has the oldest continuously existing parliamentary democracy.
The lonely planet gives a rather true perspective of the Isle. It says “the number one industry (on the Isle) is tax avoidance- wealthy Brits can shelter their loot here without having to move to Monte Carlo or the Cayman islands”. The Isle’s proximity to Britain is probably its biggest boon and its worst curse. Its economy is run pretty much by the weathy Brits, but its culture is almost dead under the close influence of the English and Scottish cultures.
Kevin, was pleasant enough to agree to go to the Manx museum with me the following day. The Isle of Man is simply known as Mann and has its own almost extinct language called Manx. The museum, however, has an audio sample in Manx for one to hear. It also, interestingly, has a few Manx proverbs. Reading those, I was wondering if all languages have the same things to say in their proverbs. I have certainly heard ‘Help poor, help God’ in Hindi, Kannada and even English. Most of them reflected ideas that proverbs in any language would.
The highlight of my stay in Mann, though, was the first ever facial of my life! Kevin’s wife, Seana, a delightful lady, happens to be a beautician who runs a beauty clinic. The immensely sweet and hospitable, Kevin and Seana invited me to a complimentary facial. And after making some noises of polite rejection, I finally braced myself to lie down on a masseuse’s table. Travelling, I told myself, should involve new experiences, what is the point if it didn’t?
Anne, was a charming Slovakian who readied herself with oils and other products that were meant for my face. Anne and I began to speak, while she was busy at her work. She was curious to know if I were 17 or 18 years in age. I, no doubt felt thrilled at her wrong presumption, but felt compelled to correct her instantly. Seana was right, the facial felt great. Very relaxing and very fresh. I thank her for introducing me to a nice experience, I hope to repeat in the future.
After a quick lunch, driving on the lovely roads amidst beautiful greenery, we reached Castletown. The country is not more than 24 kilometers in breath and only about 48 kilometers in its length. So, reaching another town took us about 15 minutes. Our destination was Castle Rushen which housed all the kings of Mann. The view from atop the castle is quite scenic. The Calf of Man, the southern tip of the island nation is visible from here.
When it was time to leave the island, I casually checked the boarding pass of the ferry. I clearly remembered having spelt out my name at the ticket counter when I bought my tickets. But the name on the boarding pass was printed – REKSHE! I wonder if this is because of the ‘f-u-ni-ny’ Irish pronunciations where ‘A’s possibly become ‘E’s .
Anyway, another uneventful three hours on the Snaefell brought me to Liverpool. England is a different world altogher. Mann is so close to it, yet, so far.
Raksha Kumar
Friday, July 16, 2010
York View
Dedicated to Ashim and Sindhu.
Climbing the York Minister Tower, I kept thinking why not our education system be redone in such a way that a major part of it involved travelling? After all, that is the best way to combine education with fun. In the past three hours that I had arrived in York, I had perhaps, enjoyed myself more than Columbus had when he first set foot on the American soil. And, I had learnt about stone coffins in the Roman period, box pews in chapels and ‘Shambles’ that was house to 24 butcher shops!
York is a small historical town in the north of Britain. History oozes out of every corner of York. Every street, every building has a story to tell. Like Paul said, the building that now houses a Pizza Hut was where George Cadbury (whose name is synonymous with chocolates all over the world) learnt how to make chocolates!
Paul, a very delightful Englishman of about sixty or so, was the guide of the walking tour we took from the Exhibition Square. He belongs to the Association of Voluntary Guides, a bunch of spirited individuals who conduct walking tours across the town because they are very proud of his history and heritage. Makes me wonder how, we Indians, view our history. Sadly, our pride is more often than not, jingoistic or nonexistent.
The tour begins with a visit to a part of the City Walls where there are reusable stone coffins dating back to the Roman period. A short distance from there is St Mary’s Abbey that was plundered by Henry the VIII. It was a 50 acre Abbey that was unceremoniously brought down.
York has narrow streets that suit commuters by foot or bicycles. Walking on one such narrow street Paul, the group and I reached the 1st house in York to be constructed by brick. The design is very Dutch, said Paul. Houses, before that, were constructed with wood.
The ‘Shambles’ are an intricate set of extremely narrow roads, not very far off from the Minster. These can be a shopaholic’s delight. However, since I am not one, I took some photographs of enthusiastic shoppers and walked away. At this point, the group disbanded and I headed to the Minster.
An overpowering structure, the York Minster can leave you spellbound for a long time. I must have spent a few moments just gaping at the gigantic structure. Once inside, I decided to first climb the 275 steps of the York Minster Tower. I have had this strange fascination for steps, which has been made fun of by many-a-friend. But, I guess, stairs to me mean moving ahead in life, reaching the heights. At the same time, you are reminded that you have to climb them down at some point. Notwithstanding my fascination towards steps, the York Minster Tower is a fascinating climb. Anyone familiar with the Tere Ghar Ke Saamne song ‘Dil ka bhanwar’ cannot miss the obvious resemblance to it. Except, the flight of stairs of the York Tower is so narrow that it can accommodate only one person at a time. So, perhaps, Dev Anand and Nutan would have found it tough to sing a romantic song climbing down this tower hand-in-hand.
At the top of the tower, chilly winds cut through my jacket. But the view of the entire town was worth the climb and the chill. After a view from the top of the Minster, I visited the basement where the crypts and the Treasury House give a detailed view of the Minster’s history.
Talking of detailing history, the Castle Museum in York is one of the most excellent museums ever. It gives a chronological detail of the common man of York through the ages. Right in front of the museum is Clifford’s Tower, beautifully perched on a very small hill.
The one thing I had planned to do in York and was looking forward to, was to walk on the City Walls. Crossing the Ouse bridge, I reached the City Walls. Talk about coincidence, as I began to walk on the City Walls, the song on my iPod changed to, ‘Kya mausam hai, ae deewane dil, chal kahin door nikal jaaye...’! I don’t remember a happier moment in the recent past. It was a perfect date with myself.
As Oscar Wilde says, ‘I suppose society is wonderfully delightful. To be in it is merely a bore. But to be out of it is simply a tragedy.’
Climbing the York Minister Tower, I kept thinking why not our education system be redone in such a way that a major part of it involved travelling? After all, that is the best way to combine education with fun. In the past three hours that I had arrived in York, I had perhaps, enjoyed myself more than Columbus had when he first set foot on the American soil. And, I had learnt about stone coffins in the Roman period, box pews in chapels and ‘Shambles’ that was house to 24 butcher shops!
York is a small historical town in the north of Britain. History oozes out of every corner of York. Every street, every building has a story to tell. Like Paul said, the building that now houses a Pizza Hut was where George Cadbury (whose name is synonymous with chocolates all over the world) learnt how to make chocolates!
Paul, a very delightful Englishman of about sixty or so, was the guide of the walking tour we took from the Exhibition Square. He belongs to the Association of Voluntary Guides, a bunch of spirited individuals who conduct walking tours across the town because they are very proud of his history and heritage. Makes me wonder how, we Indians, view our history. Sadly, our pride is more often than not, jingoistic or nonexistent.
The tour begins with a visit to a part of the City Walls where there are reusable stone coffins dating back to the Roman period. A short distance from there is St Mary’s Abbey that was plundered by Henry the VIII. It was a 50 acre Abbey that was unceremoniously brought down.
York has narrow streets that suit commuters by foot or bicycles. Walking on one such narrow street Paul, the group and I reached the 1st house in York to be constructed by brick. The design is very Dutch, said Paul. Houses, before that, were constructed with wood.
The ‘Shambles’ are an intricate set of extremely narrow roads, not very far off from the Minster. These can be a shopaholic’s delight. However, since I am not one, I took some photographs of enthusiastic shoppers and walked away. At this point, the group disbanded and I headed to the Minster.
An overpowering structure, the York Minster can leave you spellbound for a long time. I must have spent a few moments just gaping at the gigantic structure. Once inside, I decided to first climb the 275 steps of the York Minster Tower. I have had this strange fascination for steps, which has been made fun of by many-a-friend. But, I guess, stairs to me mean moving ahead in life, reaching the heights. At the same time, you are reminded that you have to climb them down at some point. Notwithstanding my fascination towards steps, the York Minster Tower is a fascinating climb. Anyone familiar with the Tere Ghar Ke Saamne song ‘Dil ka bhanwar’ cannot miss the obvious resemblance to it. Except, the flight of stairs of the York Tower is so narrow that it can accommodate only one person at a time. So, perhaps, Dev Anand and Nutan would have found it tough to sing a romantic song climbing down this tower hand-in-hand.
At the top of the tower, chilly winds cut through my jacket. But the view of the entire town was worth the climb and the chill. After a view from the top of the Minster, I visited the basement where the crypts and the Treasury House give a detailed view of the Minster’s history.
Talking of detailing history, the Castle Museum in York is one of the most excellent museums ever. It gives a chronological detail of the common man of York through the ages. Right in front of the museum is Clifford’s Tower, beautifully perched on a very small hill.
The one thing I had planned to do in York and was looking forward to, was to walk on the City Walls. Crossing the Ouse bridge, I reached the City Walls. Talk about coincidence, as I began to walk on the City Walls, the song on my iPod changed to, ‘Kya mausam hai, ae deewane dil, chal kahin door nikal jaaye...’! I don’t remember a happier moment in the recent past. It was a perfect date with myself.
As Oscar Wilde says, ‘I suppose society is wonderfully delightful. To be in it is merely a bore. But to be out of it is simply a tragedy.’
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