You ask for my story, my sweet love, Aah, where do I begin , where do I stop ! Did my story begin on the day of my birth ? Was it a joyful occasion, filled with mirth ? Or was I the abandoned child of my father, Cause of pain, shame, or pride to my mother. I can not give you a lineage sparkling clean, But I can promise a future with joyous sheen.
You ask for my story, my sweet love, Aah, where do I begin, where do I stop ! I was this charismatic lover, all my life, For women and money I never did strife. Was I a social stigma, or a gallant knight ? Did people throng around me with respect or fright ? You look at me askance with your innocent eyes, But my answers can only whisper silent cries.
You ask for my story , my sweet love, Aah, where do I begin, where do I stop ! You walked into my life, a beautiful, fragile dream, Drenching me softly, in an over flowing stream. I can chant your name with ecstacy all night , And wake up to your gentle face, cradled by sunlight. For a lady of your stature , I may not be worthy, Will you still keep me forever, I humbly implore thee.
You ask for my story, my sweet love, Aah, where do I begin, where do I stop ! When they will call you my darling, by my name, Will it bring you honour or will you shy with shame ? I do not have the power to add to your glory, My poorly designed life is a series of misery. Yet I seek your love, it is indeed my selfish desire, To dance and burn by your side, I’m a beetle around fire.
You ask for my story, my sweet love, Aah , where do I begin, where do I stop ! Like a beggar waiting for alms, I wait at your door, With your one tender look, my life feels restored. You ask me one simple question, in return of your love, My life’s fragmented story, only the heaven knows above. Together we could weave our dreamland of passion, Yet, you seek to dive deep, into my past commotion.
You ask for my story, my sweet love, Aah, where do I begin, where do I stop ! Come to me my dearest, hold your questions afar, I will wait for you till eternity, my doors open ajar. Horses and carriages, old mansions by the lake, The pleasures of the riches will be for yours to take. The rubies on your neck, your bangles opaque jade, With time my darling their dazzle shall fade.
You ask for my story, my sweet love, Aah, where do I begin, where do I stop ! My devotion to your love will stand the test of time, Way beyond the glorious days of our youthful prime. No hopes or promises for a forever, blissful, home, But holding your hand, the world around we will roam. Our path will glitter with the stars and the northern lights, We will seal our story with a gentle kiss on wakeful nights .
You ask for my story, my sweet love, Aah, this is where I begin, And this is where I stop.
I did not marry a chocolate cream soldier. Chalk does not understand flowers, chocolates or gifts unless told to do so! For him, the essence of any strong relationship is mutual respect, loyalty and responsibility. I too value the more meaningful aspects of life than the frills. And somehow life without the fancy frills makes it more easy at my age. As for romance, I am Cheese the romantic, I can do double shift romance, both for Chalk and myself.
For Chalk and Cheese special days are usually no different from everyday, but their children feel differently. They want to celebrate their parents anniversary and won’t listen to any of our arguments. Last year we were in Pittsburgh with our son and he had made his parent’s anniversary extra special .This year our daughter, aka Kessari was in London with us. She had meticulously planned the day, keeping in mind what Chalk and Cheese liked, but most of it was her secret, to be revealed gradually. It was almost like a parents day out kind of feeling for us.
“London has to be seen with the ‘London eye’ ” ; Cheese had said this to her daughter at some point and the daughter had remembered! The first surprise of the day was tickets to the London Eye. Chalk, Cheese and Kessari Iined up in drizzling rain for the ride. The wait was long, the wind and drizzle added to the chill. A panoramic view of London slowly unfolded as the giant observatory wheel completed one circle in thirty minutes. For thirty minutes we sat in a capsule looking down at The Big Ben, Westminster, St.Pauls Cathedral, the majestic buildings of London and the river Thames reflecting the city and its skies like an old trusted friend.
Our trusted Kessari had made plans of taking us for shopping . We followed her to the The Harrods department store. The cursory visit was more out of curiosity than necessity. The merchandise were mostly very steeply priced. My choice was clear, between empty pocket and empty hand, I preferred the latter.
A friend had recommended the store Fortnum and Mason. The store was established in 1707 as a grocery store, it has ever since gained in reputation and inventories and now stands as a luxury brand in London. It is heard that the Queen Elizabeth ll, visited the store personally and that the store has been the royal grocer for a century. Kessari, my genie for the day was making me feel nothing less than the queen. So the queen mother of Kessari entered Fortnum and Mason holding her daughter’s hand. Fortnum and Mason was indeed a beautiful store at every level. It had a winding staircase leading on to different floors. The interiors were elegantly done up, there were delicate glass wares on display, teal coloured tea sets, napkins, bags, and so much more. I felt adequately tempted to buy almost the whole store.
A visit to these landmark stores was definitely not about filling the shopping bags. Cheese was melting with other emotions. My daughter was holding my hand and taking me through the different sections of the stores , as if I was the child and she was my mother. She kept asking me whether I fancied anything in particular and with choked emotions all I could do was nod. I already had my world with me, holding my hand and walking along, how could I possibly fancy anything more precious than this moment .
Chalk and Cheese had started getting a little tired after all the store hopping, they wanted to sit for a while. On any other day we would have loved to find a bench at Trafalgar Square or Covent Garden, but this day was different. Kessari had hidden surprises at every turn. She had booked a table for afternoon tea at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.
The wide staircase with a red carpet welcomed us into the interiors of the theatre, almost like royalty. The tea room gave vibes of an old Victorian drawing room, an ideal place to sit back and enjoy a cuppa of English afternoon tea. But there was more on the platter than just tea. Elaborately layed out tables with the finest of tableware and delicate flowers had already set the mood for the evening. With touristy mode footwear (screamingly out of place ) Chalk, Chesse and Kessari settled down to an evening of style. Tea was served along with three different courses of delicious savouries. The service and courtesy of the staff was impeccable, they also got us a cake for our anniversary . Keeping to the Coronation theme, pastries were shaped like the crowns of the King and Queen. Sitting in the heart of England, your Indian Cheese was biting into the sweet taste of the crown! What a magical moment indeed.
After such a stylish experience of afternoon tea, I felt my London trip was almost over. But the daughter had yet another special treat waiting for us. The celebration continued with a theatrical extravaganza at the Piccadilly Theatre London. As we took to our seats the curtains were still down but the artists were amongst us, gyrating in slow motion, enthralling us, captivating us; titillating the imagination of the audience till the curtains raised to the dazzling show ‘Moulin Rouge The Musical’. The colours, sparkles, glitters were as much on the stage as on our minds. The delightful performance of the actors and the craft of story telling got embedded in our minds.
It was certainly the perfect romantic fairy tale ending to our anniversary date. The curtain had drawn on the stage of “Moulah Rouge” and finally it was time to draw the curtains on our celebrations for the day. A beautifully packaged gift of love from our children, a day filled with wonder, grandeur and dazzle. Chalk and Cheese themselves could not have planned it any better.
Chalk and Cheese are now back in India, settled in the comfort of home and the routine of everyday life. Writing this series of Chalk and Cheese European trip would not have been possible without the support of my friends and dear readers. Your encouragement kept me going. I cannot end without thanking my son for constantly nudging me to continue writing. He has been my cheer leader and one man technical support team in this entire series.
It is time to wrap up Chalk and Cheese tales for now. With a promise to come back with Chalk and Cheese when we travel again, signing off, your’s truly ….Cheese.
A Dutch painter, some Dutch tulips, A house where Anne Frank lived and A district named De Wallen, and when they all come together they tell stories of different hues. Cheese loves stories and she will happily spread them around. Chalk will support Cheese with his firm , no nonsense attitude lest she loses herself in this labyrinth of fairy tales.
“Dekha ek khwab to ye silsile huye, duur tak nigahon mein hain gul khile huye…”, I have hummed this song so many times in my life ; but never had I thought that one day I would be running between endless rows of tulips, singing this song aloud. Oh so filmy , you might say. And yes, I accept, I am Cheese and I am a foolishly romantic and filmy person. My romance is not with an individual in particular, it is with nature, myself, my reading, my feelings, in short with life itself.
Tulips first bloomed in the mountain ranges of the Himalayas in Central Asia and the Alpine Himalayan belt of Turkey. The Sultans of Turkey used to put a tulip on their turban, and the name of the flower came from the Turkish word , turban. In India, the Mughals grew tulips in their gardens. But I did not go to any mughal garden to see the tulips. One Mr. Yash Chopra had shown us in his film Silsila ( 1981) the Tulips of Holland with Amitabh and Rekha singing a love song ..”Dekha ek khwab”. I went chasing that ‘ khwab’ or dream all the way to a country called Netherlands. The big screen had left its magical mark in Eastman colour and what I saw in those fields matched with that memory frame by frame.
I left Chalk and the group with the tour guide talking about all the how’s and why’s about tulips. I walked a few steps away , to be with myself in search of solitude ! Aah, solitude cannot be felt so easy. Soon the cameras would start clicking and people talking. But in those few stolen moments, I tried to immerse myself in the magnificence of colours and beauty of a simple flower named tulip. The vision of the brightest red, pink, orange, yellow under the sparkling blue skies of May was arranged specially for me as a gift from the heaven’s above.
From the tulip farms ,we went to the famous Kaukenhof Gardens to see more tulips. The garden was curated to hold the visitors in absolute awe with its spectacular beauty. At every turn there was a fresh bed of tulips in amazing colours. In the fields the tulips are grown for their bulbs, so the flowers are headed off at a certain time. Where as in the Kaukenhof Garden the tulips are not cut, they are grown for display alone. Therefore the variety of the tulips, their size and the mixing of vibrant colours were unparalleled.
From the bounty of nature’s pallet, Chalk and Cheese take a turn to see the painter’s pallet in the Van Gogh Museum. Vincent Van Gough ,the famous post-impressionist painter who has left behind a school of thought, of learning and experimenting with the brush and easel, was born in southern Netherlands. His work includes landscapes, still life, portraits and self-portraits. A visit to the Van Gogh Museum to see his paintings was on the list of things to do for Chalk and Cheese. But when we entered the museum our ignorance hit us hard. Each painting stopped us in our track, to admire in reverence, an art form about which our knowledge was so limited yet each frame so immensely intriguing.
This museum is a place to see, read, think, imagine, feel, understand and admire the man called Vincent. Through his paintings, the artist has left behind a story of his life and made it immortal. We see the man, his loneliness, pain, chaos, experimental phase, blissful state, and so much more, all taking shape and form in colours . Van Gogh’s self portraits had a story too, getting a model to pose for portraits was an expensive business, therefore Vincent found his own mirror image the best way for him to practice and learn portraits. Van Gough kept on painting despite his mental illness. Painting was his release or escape in a world where he would not be misunderstood or plagued by doubts. His use of bold colours and brush strokes, at times using the canvas itself as his pallet to mix colours, were all in some way, foundations of modern art.
His famous painting ‘Starry Night’ is kept in New York’s Museum of Modern Arts. Paintings of trees with flowers filled the painter with hope and joy. We saw his two other famous work the ‘Sunflowers’ and ‘Almond Blossoms ‘ at the Van Gogh Museum. Chalk and Cheese left the museum soaked with the powerful colours of life, sprayed by a man called Vincent Van Gogh.
The scarlet or the colour red was the last colour we would see on our final evening in Amsterdam. As Chalk and Cheese set out for their evening stroll along the canal, they reached the infamously famous district of De Wallen. It was around eight in the evening. In full day light the roads and houses looked just like any other canal-lane roads and houses. Only difference was the gathering public around the pubs on the street. Chalk and Cheese were in two minds, whether to wait awhile or return to the hotel. But I guess curiosity got the better of us, we waited.
Around nine in the evening the street lights and the red neon lights on the windows started glowing all at once. The red curtains were pulled to a side and behind each window stood girls wearing bright, glittering fancy clothes , posing and looking directly into the eyes of the onlookers. The popularity of this street amongst tourists is perhaps because, everyone can walk these streets. The life of these sex workers is not an unknown story, there is no discreet alluring of sensuality, it is all in the open. A profession which has existed for centuries, hidden behind closed doors and hushed whispers, had at last raised the curtain, for the show to begin. You can be scornful, lustful, and yet these women will look straight into your eyes, almost daring you to turn your back. Chalk and Cheese did turn back, but this time in contemplative silence.
No matter how well one plans , some wishes still remain unfulfilled . And that is the way of life. It is not necessary that every door you knock will open for you. I knocked the doors of Anne Frank House , but in vain. The tickets for this house are available only online and had to be booked much in advance. I learnt my lesson to make peace with disappointment. I sat outside the house for sometime, remembering the book I had read when I was in school. Years cannot erase all memories, and a good book leaves impressions for life. Perhaps some memories are best left as it is, untouched. Let Anne Frank House stay in my mind forever, just the way I had imagined it to be years back as a young girl. A house where that young girl lived in hiding for two long years, let it remain hidden from the curious eyes of visitors like me.
I was standing on my terrace getting wet in the rain feeling foolish,feeling happy, feeling sad. My love affair with the rains always does this to me every monsoon, makes me step out of the four walls of my dwelling. I want to write to my paramour, the rain, but words fail me. William Shakespeare so easily said,”Words are easy, like the wind”, but for lost lovers like me “Words don’t come easy to me”( F.R. David), but feelings do, as easy as the rain. I am overwhelmed with feelings, like a tidal wave all my love surges with the wind for a last embrace of rain. The heavy downpour drenches me completely, and I can only think of two words, monsoon – wash ! This will be my little ode to the season I love the most, monsoon.
All shades of grey lazily float above us .The clouds are in no rush to retreat and the sun is happy hiding behind this grey slate. This is the season for love songs on radio, rain dances, muddy feet, playful children, sharing umbrellas, soaked clothes, holding hands, garam pakoras, steaming tea, a romantic novella and poetry and then some more poetry. To have loved and lost or never loved at all ; to have lived for love or left for love ; there is poetry in everything in these rain soaked days. Then why does my mind mock me for being blind in love. Love and hate has easily learnt to coexist in these troubled times. There is no poetry in wrath and blood shed. There is no romance in war. The war orchestrated by selfish few but the price of which is paid by all. Humanity is stained and shamed .Yet monsoon comes periodically offering to wash it all away. The strength of this beautiful rain we know not yet . It can evoke emotions far stronger than the gentle drops of rain.
Monsoon washes away the dust laden branches of the trees. Monsoon washes away the earths crust. It washes away a lot more than our naked eyes can perceive or see. Monsoon washes away my mind of all grime. Each drop of rain washes away my pain, my agony, my cunning, my anger, my guilt, my giving and my misgivings. Bathed in relentless rain I stand up as new as an olive branch. As every blade of green glisten in freshly bathed splendor, and every waterfall gushes down with youthful bounty , my being too feels cleansed of old rusted chained marks of time. Come forth and bathe with me, bathe in this pure ecstasy of freedom. Freedom from the clutches of shame and defeat, for you and I are born of the same pain. Let the monsoon drench you and me alike.
I do not draw the curtains when I go sleep, for every morning I want to wake up seeing the curtain of rain pouring on the other side of my glass window. I want to feast in this beauty of dark grey clouds and torrential rain. The clouds don’t threaten me with gloom. Clouds are messengers of good news, they quench the thirst of parched earth, mind and soul. Grey is somber, wise and pregnant with the dew drops of life. In contrast all other shades of the spectrum may seem bright and joyful, yet so dull would their sheen be if they couldn’t pride to be fairer than grey ! So grey delights me . Grey roars in thunder like the deepest cord of a symphony. The thunderous rain which pelts down upon me from the heaven of grey above washes away all my rigid believes of sin and the sinner.
But darker than all the shades of grey and black remains the darkness of the human mind. All the rain on earth will not wash away the blood soaked patches of human treachery. Blinded by his own doings man sees not the opportunity to wash away all that hurts.The real magic will happen when man will learn to cleanse himself from deep within. Till then nature continues to shower love on man unconditionally. The lakes are overflowing into the rivers and the rivers are gurgling down to the sea, their cup of joy is filled to its brim. The ocean swells with pride .The fields sway once more with lush green crop. The thirsty earth will no more threat to crack apart. The roots have run deep ,drunk in nectar, holding each grain of soil in its strong grip. Only if man could learn to hold on to his values, goodness, and humanity with the same strong grip.
As I bid goodbye to the last drops of rain, my tears of joy and pain mingle together with the rain. Salt and rain flow down unashamedly, and I make no attempt to hide .I stand getting drenched as rain falls through my hair, my forehead, my cheek, then softly, gently caressing my lips they fall at my feet for one last time. My love with rain will come back to me another day , another place, another time. Monsoon wash perhaps will one day wash away all our troubles in an utopian way. Till that day I shall stand and wait, drenched but feeling pure and beautiful and singing “sawana gagane ghor ghana ghata…”.
After writing ‘living with Adam’ ( November 2015) few of my friends (surprisingly only eves) wanted to read about the other side of the coin, ‘living with Eve’. This summer heat must have driven me crazy enough for daring to write about Adam’s point of view after this long hiatus . Yes, it is dare indeed to tread into unknown territory.Though my Eve- mind refuses to acknowledge any other point of view; nonetheless I am going to don the man’s hat, wear his cape,and try to fit into his extra large boots and give Adam an Even chance.
After the moment of “I do” at the alter Eve changes her promise to”I don’t” for reasons unexplained. This keeps baffling Adam for the rest of his life ! His sweet understanding girlfriend turned wife, becomes a person he cannot recognize . I don’t like this, I don’t eat this, I don’t have the mood for this,I don’t want to go, I don’t cook,I don’t watch football, and many such “I don’t ” becomes her regular chant. Adam keeps pulling his own hair in a desperate attempt to understand ,till his head is left with very little hair to pull. The journey from ‘ I do’ to ‘ I don’t ‘ maybe unexplained but male balding pattern has just found an explainable theory.
Adam has heard all stories of mothers changing into mother- in- laws after a sons’ marriage. But he believes that his mother is different .What he does not realize is that no one is different. All are equal in the eyes of law and the law affects each one of us indiscriminately. Soon after the honeymoon period his honey becomes daughter in law and his mother upgrades her status to mother in law. Mr. Pivotal Adam becomes the only judge in this lawsuit and an unique judge at that, who can only hear the case but is not in capacity to pass a judgement. He learns to accept that all cases in this family court of law will be kept pending forever. New dates will keep coming up again and again till Adam the judge loses the count of hearing dates and his own hearing ability.
The transition from two wheels to four wheels makes Adam more domesticated. Gone are the days of zipping speed, winding roads and bike races. Yet this domesticated Adam gets dizzy driving around town with Eve. Adam has a mental route map of every city, town and suburb of the place where he lives and does not live ! Whereas Eve thinks every man standing idle on the road is a local google map, she rolls down the window and with that special sweet voice will ask for directions. Of course that weird looking man on the street gives wrong directions, but that does not deter Eve, after going round and round the same loop three times she rolls down the window sighting another google man ! Only if she would talk to Adam with that melting moment voice and trust his sense of directions he would not have felt so lost. But getting lost in the garden of Eden with Eve by his side can be a life long adventure. And Adam is ready to shift gears if that is what the wheels of life demands.
The ‘other men’ know better syndrome of Eve follows Adam inside the house too. A leaking flush tank or faucet, a blinking tube light, or the wobbly leg of the study table, Eve is quick to call the plumber, electrician or carpenter. They are always on her favorite call list .She fails to accept that Adam has a high end tool box, all shiny and new waiting to serve this very practical purpose. The electrician cum plumber fellow is treated like a scientist or an engineer in his own house while Adam gets the royal ignore. He wants to plead with dear Eve to accept him as her very own one man army. But in those dreamy eyes of Eve her Adam is nothing more than her ‘chocolate cream soldier ‘!
Eve is Adam’s ‘mistress of spices’. If not for her he would have never know the aroma of desi ghee, the spelling of asafoetida , or that saffron costs more than silver. But all this knowledge comes with a price tag from his ever so hot Eve. Eve loves to experiment in her kitchen when she has the mood and time. The report card from Adam has to read a perfect A+ even with a protesting tummy. There is another cardinal rule of the kitchen, never to praise another woman’s cooking more than the wife’s. Adam often ends up sleeping on the couch after breaking this cardinal rule. Days when Adam wants to eat out Eve thinks he does not appreciate her cooking and if he does not want to go out then he is blamed for not being romantic anymore. The fine balance between dining- in and dining- out often tilts the balance off to no- dining ! But what is life without a few sneezes in the tempering of marriage.
Adam thinks that Eve should make a personalized celebration calendar and put it on the wall for all to see. Then life would get so much easier for Adam. If Eve could have her way she would start celebrating all ‘first days’ of their life. The first date, the first kiss, the first fight, the first cake, the first house, the first dance,the first holiday. In short it is an endless list with new additions updating automatically. Adam has no choice in stopping these updates, he huffs and puffs to keep up with Eve in this memory game race of ‘first day’ list. Adam wants to tell Eve that day by day she has started resembling his history teacher in school and he wants to bunk all her test days. This routinely forgetting of Adam and then being reminded by Eve, ends with another new milestone of something first.
Crazy Adam misplaces important things, crazy Adam forgets dates, crazy Adam leaves wardrobe upside down, crazy Adam can only boil water to save his life, yet Eve must be crazier than him to love him all so unconditionally. To accept each other as you are is the first rule of the game. The Adam brigade could agree or disagree with this feeble attempt of an Eve to read their mind with her ‘sense and sensibility’. But as long as ‘pride and prejudice’ does not creep into ‘love and friendship’ the Adam and Eve story will not need any other ‘ persuasion ‘ to make life a beautiful journey. With that I take off Adam’s oversized boots, and get ready to run with my Eve friends down ‘Mansfield Park’. 🙂
sangeeta chakladar 