Molière’s “Le Médecin volant” or “The Flying Doctor”

Micheline's Blog

four-temperaments (2)The Four Temperaments (Psychologia.co)

Medicine in the 17th Century

There had been progress. Ambroise Paré, a barber-surgeon who lived in the 16th century had advanced medicine, especially surgery. He is considered the father of surgery. One should also mentioned Guy Patin, who was doyen (dean) of the Faculty of Medicine in Paris (1650–1652) and professor in the Collège de France starting in 1655. He died one year before Molière’s Le Malade imaginaire (1673) was first performed. Although he was a rather poor doctor, he wrote a body of letters that are “an important document for historians of medicine.” (See Guy Patin, Wiki2.org.) It is believed Molière mocked Patin.

The Greeks investigated medicine. Hippocrates is considered the father of medicine. He coined the term Hippocratic Oath. In particular, Græco-Arabic medicine was based on humourism, or the idea that humans belonged to one of four temperaments:

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A Greek Adventure

A GREEK ADVENTURE

‘Love love, my season’

-Sylvia Plath

-(The Couriers)

It was a holiday of several weeks and Zucchi was fascinated by the blow of winds, as she has come to grace. The Madrid man was just a remembrance. Something she wants to forget and then to collect at will. She was aware of those sensations, that she broods over sometimes, as a strange occurrence for laughter, the final theme of the surrender of a whim which was very real when it happened, not so later. The physical sensations are good enough, they are the lullabies for growth and sometimes a way of living, just another way. But she was that adventurer in the world of physical and other realms… She had men and adventure, enough if that. She was in Germany. Munich. those cluttered flanks, streets, cruises, churches. The visitor to many rooms large and petite, simple and palatial. confessed up to many pastors about. She was helpless. But her father used to warn her when she grew up. His cuneiform letters, and the Ur Nina stories. She was a descendant on the line. Her model, once her teacher, then her father, then brother, then who, the last part was the beginning of her voyages to the East and the West which her daughter is picking up. The visually challenged man at Madrid is also over. So too are the poetry clubs with blank verses. Germany also is over. But, here Greece, the Thessaly plains, the hike to the monastery over a mountain climb. No more the rope stairs of yesterday. Her daughter had grown up..There are thrill and adventure in her gesture
Mama, can I make you a model, she asked. Then she smiled, and thought at heart, who else baby… She wrote always to her father. then the teacher. She wrote two amorous letters to her teacher. Who was only five years above her. That was thirty-two years ago. But time is a fiction. It started in a tuition session. ‘Will you make it, come to my house. I will acquaint you to my brother. We will talk in my private cabin and talk on anything. I have already told my brother that I have a crush with you. he does not bother it. now you are here. You can perceive Greek panoramas. those solid welkins. The Thessaly plains, the Pineios River, the sturdy mountains: the Pindus mountain range to the west. Mount Pelion to the east. Now no more aunt Nora evenings. She is quiet. She has a book. A rapiarium of her own.
Now she was all the hastily brooding over the crush, the teacher. The skies, the wildernesses, all..In the monastery, she has come with another mate —
Imitation of Christ- the book she kept and of course the well-cherished book of the pure black cover. We sin, sin often. still, we want redemption. We want to look at the azure skies in the morning and say our thanks. In the craft her daughter was rowing, she is almost a replica of her mother. Only apparently. But she is more into the film world. In her age she read books, many classics, Siddhartha, The Idiot, Exile and Kingdom, Now her daughter watches movies. they have a mini theatre on the yacht. which has been the home for the last six months. she got the idea from Paris over the Seine. watching those boats, and these people. What if life’s that way. Only too good to believe. She did not want to make anything permanent. according to her, there are two types of people, including writers and philosophers and businessmen. The one increases in the physical plane that everybody can comprehend, one house, two houses, three house, cars, automobiles, shirts, pants, overcoats, shorts, dainties. bonnet.
That is the first category. Then there is the second category- adventurers of the body, mind and the soul. The great people on the planet who lived in this world and built up treasures that are permanent. Buddha Jesus, Socrates, her father, who had three houses when he was youthful but died in a rented flat at 93. At ninety-three he had a muscular shank and young maidens, the servants of the family would make tease him, what is the use of this bulky body old papa, your wife is no more, come for a swing. And he will laugh and listen to Bach,’ The body is not for connubial affairs , It is for the adventure of the mind, soul, children ‘ and he tapped some on the shoulders and said,’Now you bring me coffee, also use less pül biberi’ [red pepper flakes] in the dish.Her brother in the other chamber chuckles amidst the piano session. In those eras, she was planning her next circuit to Greece with her sidekick. She thought about how as a young woman she sat by the Rethymno Lighthouse with him one evening and sipped orange juice. He was from a Venetian Harbor is filled with fishing boats and lined with tavernas…Now she must meet new souls and engage in the most valuable communication.
……………….
She took her journal up and scripted to her friend, Jason…, he kissed me etc. as if she were narrating a new story of her friend. Now she does not need his material embraces, she has had many of them..She wants to caress his soul, how can one .do that she recollects his smiling face, the graceful noble beam on lips, he was a strict Buddhist, he did not show the teeth when she saw last time.., She was different and she shows her full teeth which is the exact replica of her heart. Nothing to hide… All that is there is to give.when smiling. Her teeth are not as uniform as such, but one can discern the efflorescence of her soul on the teeth. She was loving, she was happy, she had taken great undertakings and can live in any shelter in any swarm. She can live like a tramp and a diva, she had scattered her coins wisely. She is tough, physically, mentally, still, she understands the weeping of a distressed dame. She nearly hit a man crouching on a juvenile lady behind the rostrum without her permission, She went away and hit him between limbs and lo.. she had only her two karate moves. She knows 51 karate moves, in case of danger which her papa taught her as a young lass.. (thank you, papa)
…………………
2
‘Who are you writing to, mama?’ her daughter asked. She said ‘It is to my classmate and over at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. This is my old love. The address might have changed. The man may have changed. But not love. If the address is not correct, the epistle will return. Not her love. It is like a shaft. The moment it went out,it has hit the mark. You see, it is not his love or my love. Just love.
‘Who are your readers,’ her kin asks again.
‘My readers… No there is only one reader. A single peruser. Somewhere over there. I have seen that person numerous times. Do not question when, where. It is so. He/She, who is beyond distance or time. Sans caste, creed, sex. I address that single human being. That God among human being. With whom, if I meet in person can communicate without the aid of language, she said.
‘Is it fiction or reality?’ her daughter asked. ‘It is reality’, she stated adamantly and then went to the sauna.
………………
Because the end and he origins are one and the same. Dear, you know it is like a physical consummation, The end moment and the beginning moment are the same. I write for a single reader. My direct spiritual ne plus ultra. When I write I always see that solitary reader before me. In fact, all my writings are love letters. If not what is the use of writing. She would ask. My writing, you know is more like a sexual act. The end is now.
She addressed a fortnight ago a meeting of young matrons– She said- ‘You ladies, don’t cry before men for your food and honour, work hard and get it. You are strong and contain many worlds, If you don’t believe, come to my flat on this Saturday, I will teach you some of the this. Then after this thought, Zucchi took her diary– and wrote down in her cuneiform script her thoughts of the day- You know ladies. This is my great adventure physically, mentally, spiritually do you know what I am doing now, this right moment, which is not part of the time, never, never the part of time as I am communicating to my brother/ sister in Europe, Asia, the Americas and perhaps in those vessels in the sea… not through words, not through magic, but through right loving thought, just love. That brings her/his happiness and glory.. in straightforward terms, I am talking through the language of love, can you hear that.,
The brother emerges now,’ my piano concourses are over, now it is your turn..’.
………………………………………….
Because you know the secret of the secrets. so far as you have love, you won’t be given to your tormenter. there is correction /victory in the fraction of a second.
‘Really, mama?’, her daughter asked,’ Really dear’, she said confidently…
………………….
3
Claim your power, you are closer to God than man, by at least one step. You don’t believe… Then I believe and that is why my life is different from yours. When you cry before your husbands, I stay stern and look at the eyes and smile. Simply smile, and he will know that I am above these. And then by the best choice I will take a two hours voyage and stroll and look at the blossoms in the garden and come back and make my favourite meal and if the fellow wants a share, give him , and I go to sleep and tell him, not to disturb my repose, today, not tomorrow. Who has seen tomorrow.…

— First drafts-[a Chapter of a Book of long Fiction in making]

Inn

1

The inn was jim-dandy from a division with avenues spotted with xanthous blossoms and little concrete seats that could fit a couple of individuals. Seats had cracked edges, which implies it was not done late and the lines of yew and green plants connected it with a similar segment. The embeds had white and red blossoms in a wonderful commingle , and when we drew closer to the plants, one saw jasmine and rose like a miracle as if to justify this long trip…
Several individuals gathered in the parvis and the children enthusiastically approached to see the crimson or faint red shading that was declared as vestiges of a bygone era. It was the end of season and the spot was the most applauded resting place for voyagers, Greek, Danish and French and English, the language was assorted and the brogues switched and the speakers similarly had obvious bias in their verbalizations . Had not the mist pulled back at any rate, one wouldn’t surmise it was 11 o’clock and the vehicle, which heaped up the visitors did screech at the front yard, and a practically identical crew of drivers were enterprising and amidst several hoots of horns one deciphered a sort of popular pace of times, real but redolent with passions. Lot of professed and tacit emotions. Some of them were savored by these groups of guests when they went back,and everybody’s annals was different, though the locus be the same. The benefactors of this spot were generally seafarers, marine officers who had their base camps in different parts of the globe, and also some families and seniors who hoped for escapades and culinary exploits…

2
So, the rent and settlement somewhat stood out from various destinations of this sort, in any case, the hosts kept up a high caliber all through the conditions. There was a statue of a musician who was an old backpacker to this place and in his last stop-off was joined by a woman writer who wrote amorous books and the couple’s tale was among many other subjects surrounding the locale, and one can leaf through it in the hotel record, not as calumny yet rather like the story, for the entertainer, set the seal on two or three of his classical works sitting in one of these boudoirs overlooking the ocean. Without doubt, he was objected to stay for long in his first trek as his means were much less than his genius and to recognise the latter part, the hosts took another lifetime. The organization repaid their uncaring treatment by a statue of the wizard..
I arrived  last April when the season was withdrawing and the ships started departing .Regardless, my motivation was steady and I fancied to take this port as a brief stop for those much awaited travels. Here I kept on running on the chess master and another humble and slim aristocrat with a round top like an egg and padded at the edge and could flaunt beguiling shades, nearly rainbow shades.The sun became the focal point by mid noon and it rose up persistently from a slumber from the canopy of fogs..

3
The lilac-violet inside divider was shaded and it was fortressed by tremendous columns and flame entryways. Far from this facade, the delta of a river that finally merged into the sea became visible..One could also notice a wide band of watercraft…. The lift was open on both sides with lithesome bars for security which well permitted air inside that energized when we went up to see the most noteworthy  background. Numerous individuals spoke Eskimo dialects, Aleut language family [Inupiaq] and the reason is unknown..
In my last visit, it rained regularly, and according to the caution in the personal log book, you take an umbrella or a waterproof parka whenever you visited this station and it was late summer then and the sun was sparkling on the water and the comprehensive network that was conceded by the water was broad and clear to accommodate many families..People of all ages, endeavored to meander by the water bodies and further along to examine the particular streets that offered wares, old and new and flowers and fruits in all freshness.. As should have been obvious from the multitude passing,the quality of these commodities was high and this made the station an indisputable destination in holidaymaker’s maps.

4
The food was fantastic yet terribly hot by all accounts of eating as I was suffering from irritable bowel syndrome and was regularly for some time carrying honey containers perhaps as a quick fix.. My buddy of that season, the chess expert was with me. When I  lingered at the dinner lobby, the lights and shadows interlocked, helping me to remember the interlocking sun and downpour in my places. I requested Cabernet Sauvignon,my favourite..
This was followed by red meat, in spite of the fact that it was not a fortunate resolve and as it was another spot, I picked up another tempo. This was in a way risky, but I had my case of medicines and the numbers of specialists in the diary.My companion who happened to be a descendent of a podestà of the 13th century was reticent during the journey but now was happy before food, as the young gentleman was previously drained by voyages to the East. He had bistecca fiorentina, or Florentine T-bone steak and Bellini, a combination of wine and white peach..
Additionally, I ordered some lemon rice, since I was ravenous and tired by the fourteen hours of the trek – while the chess ace was experimenting on various types of wines – There were bottles and barrels as far as eyes could go but the chess ace’s apprentice abstained from every hot stuff as it was Lent.. After some time, the two chess-pro supporters who had hailed  from Verona likewise took an interest in the supper. One individual,an expert in pedal clavichord entertained us on our request, some of the music he had composed…
The lettuce was fresh and after dinner every member went to the entertainment show lobby in the neighbouring lodge. The rooftop had Murano glass figurines and the divider displayed a copy of Jan Steen’s Oyster Meal, the original likely in another museum … At the point when the dinner finished at midnight myself and the other friend were damn depleted, except for chess ace who went to a more interesting room. But I was reading the sixteenth chapter of my mentor’s notes where it was written,’when the passion is too high,withdraw’..So I reclined on a chaise longue in the patio and looked at Hydra though I did not know which head is immortal……

– [From a work of Fiction in progress]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Six Stories

Contents
1 Boat 2 Strange Room 3 Vault 4 Roulette 5 Paris Nights 6 Watercrafts by the Seine
1 The Boat
He paused for the waves to settle for a while, not heeding the wind that has been blowing since he started this peregrination. Never in the most termagant of dreams could he fathom that this could be the motive for his getting back to this once beloved place. Friend, I am here, he mumbled to the breeze and presently shifting his look into the abstruse sea at the other orbit, was unable to twig its conundrum. The kids of the fisherfolk well-nigh failed to notice him as they were collecting the playthings and commencing afresh a sport that they might have abruptly abandoned in the middle, last evening. Possibly the hurricane that welted yesterday hindered their game but in no way swaying the gusto. Several crows appeared as if sprouted from a Heraclitan dream and peeked at him, swinging their heads sidelong and later lodged at a distance to watch for food crumbs.This is the village, he recollected, that gave him respite and vitality many years ago when he came here for the first time. Now, but for a few recovering service teams and some forms inquisitive about what is going on, grouped here and beyond, there appears little that is consoling. In the past few weeks, the storms had upset its healthy structure and the fishing yachts that carried many men were turned down and a few are missing. Rain fell heavily yesterday too. While walking on the shore, the damp sand escaped the slim cover of his footwear and rubbed the feet giving a comforting brotherly feel. He gazed at the valley and to the vast expanse into which it regressed. Mesmerizing as it was, it stretched far away into a hedge of coconut palms and then into a puddle of the settled waters remote from the sea. Twenty years have passed, he thought. He was in his second year at the Sorbonne, when a thorax ailment developed, causing him languishing and unfit for the classes. His physician ascribed this to a rare sort of lung disorder caused by rodents, though he could not recollect any event that could have incited it. Of course, he had a fleeting stopover with his father in his countryside in the vicinity of a farm. They said he needed absolute rest. So he left the studies in the middle and got back homeward. Later, his friends proposed that he better go and stay in this well-known hamlet by the sea. Once it hosted kings and their consorts. Now, a sick student. And he came here. He was young and had less baggage.2 They gave him a room in one of the few seemly rest houses that was available then, the others being in half dilapidated fettle. As his father was known to the village elder, he was given good treatment, an aide and a room with a view. His chamber was towards the eastern side and the portholes gave an adorable glimpse into the sea and it was his habit to spend long wakeful nights watching the waves that undulated ceaselessly and the ships that swam far away, from the dim glimmer of a lighthouse that was chiefly intended for a prominent harbour attached to this port.Here he met his friend. He then was anticipating the final year graduation results. In his spare time, the young men worked as the deputy of the Caretaker of the inn. Soon, they formed a thick alliance, the type of which that had never occurred later in his life. While he was recovering, his friend read the only two volumes he brought with him. A collection of Oscar Wilde and a biography of saints. All these ruminations made him fling an exhalation and later, he discerned that it was pretty odd for him- these rooted casts of gloom. In this affair, he emulated his father who showed sufficient internal fervour in crucial states. In the household talks, this was a subject that piqued his mother who believed that a man without fear is an impossible entity. All people, she argued, have fears and vexations amounting to different degrees. Only that, some live with them and others act sagaciously at crucial times in spite of them. In brief, bravery, according to her is not a virtue from skies, but a matter of urgent choice and an ability that increases after repeated practice. Complete strength is a façade, his mother said, and he heard her laughter from a far beyond place.Now, he will not choose to brood over it for long, as he is more concerned about the missing boat that went for fishing three days ago which carried his friend and is still not traceable. And a great sadness overwhelmed him. He shifted his mind to his own version of happiness which was an intent to be in the ever-present in spite of all odds. He thought for a moment about his friend’s family and tossed with the idea and while doing so, his feet gathered a momentum unknown to him. Yes, he is sure about the house. He had been there many times. There were many men assembled in the garden that enclosed the house. The whole place was bordered by a metallic fence on three sides and in the front by a lateritious stone wall. The gate opened with a whining sound and the men assembled in the front portion and elsewhere under the trees, looked up. They were probably searching in their memories for the identity of the guest in such a calamitous situation. The dog barked. But after one yelp, stopped as if it had seen a hidden direction in the space. As he approached, two elderly men rose up from the gathering, one man hinting to his fat middle-aged companion something and the other nodded in complying. The middle-aged fellow lifted his hand and he was to a big degree disconcerted by a heavy gold-coloured watch that refused to rest on his right wrist. He realized the old man as his friend’s uncle who knew him well and with whom he had numerous evenings and dinners. His uncle, whose beard was turning full grey, wore khaki pants and check shirts that hung lower than the usual fitting levels. He smiled warmly in a friendly greeting but the sad outfit of being escaped the thin frame.“Is the boat sighted?’, he asked and waited solemnly for his reply.‘No.’ he said. There were no more parleys.He went inside the house and along with the fewest visitors, occupied a chair in the corner place. He discerned that the place had evolved much. The furniture is more luxurious and the walls are full of the photos of a military officer in uniform. That was his friend who got a short service commission in the army and later resumed the family fishing industry following the death of his father.A few minutes elapsed and a lady in a white attire appeared. He recognized his friend’s wife ,whom he had met in the Carnival of Peacocks along with his friend. Her face had a pathetic pallor, an equivalent of which he saw only on some faces at his mother’s funeral. A man begins hugely and finds himself solving many outstanding tasks and a few interims later, discovers himself swallowed by his own shadow and powerless to continue the natural walk. In such a condition, even rest is ghastly, haunted by faces of clowns that enter into areas where they have no right to do so. He aspired to share some of the family vexations with this lady and plead with her that she is not alone in her grief, but everything seemed redundant. All he could do was look at the photograph of the officer in uniform that adorned the wall. The storm had ceased. It has been a week since he came to this village. They have not yet traced the bodies in the missing boat. Yesterday, he sent a note to his friend’s family telling of his departure. He was rather afraid to meet the lady in person. He possibly had not so many fine words at his disposal that would ease a crumbling mind. Now, he himself is not that vibrant youth who could see all life hanging in the future. He also had his share of sorrows. Though these did not make him all the more blessed, they unquestionably made him modest and urged him from inside to chop a few expressions of free parlance in all conditions. More words in more solemn ones. From here, he must go, not barehanded, but with a fascination to look into a new chapter of a book he had bought casually once, and has never read. Perhaps, when he goes away from this place, he will forget some faces. But it will not weigh much. After all, we all have such experiences. Feeling that something is inevitable and later learn with a sigh that it is not so. The things we goofed up were not real stuff but things only very close to it. Lastly, this is a fabulous relief. He will surely relive those kids by the beach who were reconstructing the fun items in the morning after yesterday’s tornado. Or he would one day travel back to his former borough and attend the Cart Festival with the hope that somebody in the crowd will call him by his first name. Or look at some of those sights in the streets he dodged. Or he would partake in those zingers of his old companions that he classed ribald. Or just stay near the bangle sellers and listen to their animated chats without comment. In fact, he did not know. One thing that was very sure was, he is alive and his friend is missing. Is it encouraging? Maybe. And all on a sudden a very simple form of gratitude filled him and shook him….Now he was moving. He was walking aimlessly on the shore, and then towards those small markets that sold fried fish, fishes fresh from the sea. He entered one temporary shed and an old lady with thick bangles and a smile greeted him. He noticed that one of the front teeth was missing, but it was very appropriate. They only added to the humble, deep notes of the sea. He chose not to order fish, but go for hot spicy tea that was on the menu. Then he walked again and tried to view the shore from an elevated sod that was not far. He saw at a close distance, the broken glass windows of an old building that was actually hard to crack because of its strong dexterity of make. The children who were near them amused themselves with constant throws that became harder by each hit and he saw them taking pride in the force of their hit and in the enjoyment of the sound of broken glasses. They have made it to another game. He watched them with a new, acquired smile that he got only that afternoon. Suddenly, at far, he saw a very bright sun, perhaps the brightest his eyes had ever spotted on.
……………………….
2 Strange Room of Alexandre Barito
1Nothing saunters more true-blue in my boyhood souvenir than the thought of Alexandre Barito. We both walked to the same Junior Basic School and later together to the Arnold Library to read books. Barito read classics and tomes of profound content. My choice instead was fairy tales and pulp fiction. I have often marvelled, how Barito acquired this uncanny knack of sticking to the august and the patrician throughout his lifespan. It ought to be otherwise, taking into account that his father was a cagey businessman and also a shady loan shark of our town. But Barito did not have any of his father’s bents. This earned him a cluster of devout companions, among whom, I was one.In his youth, Barito was charismatic and he used to drop in our house often. My house was in the country and a river was at the reachable distance and Barito and I would sit on the bank. We would gape listlessly at the barges floating along and the maple trees near the sidewalk whose branches blended with the afternoon draft. Those were sunny August days. Some boys pedal bikes and later take a rest on the grass. Occasionally, tourists will come and go, ask route in altered accent. Most of our chats revolved around books or colleagues. I must acknowledge with gratitude that Baritomoulded my thoughts largely. It was astounding that he never told a lie nor did he make fun of people’s frailties, unlike pranksters as we. Barito lived in an alluring two-storeyed house behind the Central Library from where markets forked. The library was an old Gothic edifice having huge marble columns and a layer of concrete steps and a compound of chestnut trees. In those days it was befriended by intellectuals and dropouts. For two years, Barito was my classmate at university before he went to a bigger city for further studies. During those college years, I met him at his house whenever I went to the library. Here, Barito would relax in most opulent splendour in an armed chair, that was once used by his great-grandfather. His room contained all sorts of papers, tools, and chess boards. The maid always left the room partially clean, as she had to rush to a day- job somewhere near. Though there was no dearth of servants in our town, this lady was kept chiefly because she was his mother’s confidant and perhaps an adviser on some issues of concern. Barito used a cot made of the flexible mattress, guarded by strings and whenever he jumped into it, the cot lifted him up to a moderate height and again backward as if to teach him Newton’s laws of motion.The greatest trouble, Barito told me once, was his brother. Though his brother was younger to Barito by several years, he did not respect him. Their common disputes focused on issues such as who should engage the modish shower or sometimes over the apparels they shared and as to who the primary owner is. Though these points seem trivial, when they transpired, a minor volcano emitted, sufficient to define a day’s repose. Sadly, the closing point was that these divided the brothers to further ends. In some families, I have visited later, the brothers did not fight until they matured. Later the topics of estate slithered in and all of them would have children whose fees they had to meet, or their spouses would prompt them, though with ample roots, to raise a family of their own. But the same siblings at a yet succeeding time are perceived to embrace a lately generated amity and confess to each other, albeit not getting back the days of youth.
2In Barito’s cell, there was a family picture of a happy Houdini with his mama and wife. It was subsequent to his learning board skills from an acquaintance. He had also finished several of the portraits with merit, emulating his ancestors, who as the line claimed belonged to Utrecht Guild. Those early sketches were deemed as an heirloom and were on exhibit in the foyer. They were principally representations of convivial life and matchmaking and depictions of the countryside. His maternal grandsire had desisted to give them off, notwithstanding several appeals from private collectors. His mama served in the Energy quarter, a modest female who conserved a portion of her payroll without her husband’s knowledge because she had stings of the panic of old age and a forsaken existence. One evening, when Barito and I were hiking along the way of our former academy, he told me that he had no model personage in the family. I suggested that he can be his own hero. Barito smiled and agreed graciously that he is the one he is waiting for. It was, in truth, an echo of a strain we both understood.3My father had business in Salamanca where he spent half of the year. While in Munich, where he studied, he was in the cream company that included probable Nobel Laureates. My dad could not recapitulate his studies, principally because of specific dispositions that channelled his energy to other shores, making him jittery at formal learning. Later he was to tour extensively, squandering some family wealth, but in the course of time, was able to set up his business in Salamanca. While with us, he would take solo trips to the interior where he had inherited a farm commanding moors. When his business expanded, he bought a bordering land that hosted bald cypress and marsh Helleborine. It had many water spots, ducks, herrings and owls. Further, mother extended it with her share of turkeys and swans. When I was in the prime of youth, my father thought me irresolute and lacking fire in activities. He claimed that he had that enough in his youth, though he could not particularly apply it in academics. So he sent me to a revered friend of him in another city, to seek advice. When I met my mentor, he was coming out from a room after zazen with his private students. He asked me of my plight and after listening told me to write down an area in life where I needed improvement, in case I got a reprieve or a second chance. After considering the options of being the richest or the wisest, I wrote that I wanted to be the kindest [knowing well that I cannot eclipse those saints]. He said that whatever I did, would not matter, so far it is not sabotaging to myself or to humanity in particular, but I proceed with ardour. He said that roads will lead to broader roads and I will possibly get guidance. The next morning, I met a poor girl on the street who asked me for some money. As I had only the train fare to go back home, I gave the watch. The girl, though perplexed for a moment, accepted.Forthwith, I found myself surrounded by a group of people who probably mistook me for a prince incognito. Somehow I managed to scram and rushed to the nearest station to catch the rail. Further experiences revealed that my guide was more or less right. That was the year I met my future wife, a dark and sagacious lady. In our house, there was a room in the upper story and one could reach it only through a spiral corridor. This gave the room an advantage of privacy, where my grandfather, a retired soldier would sit and drink ale. Sometimes he would relax on the balcony writing something in a diary with varied expressions. We had an uncle who was a lawyer and an aficionado of Conan Doyle and a member of a club that professed good service. When his clientele was at an ebb, he wrote mystery plays that were rarely staged.4My elder sister also studied in the same college as me. Because of her, many senior students talked to me. She was an ardent member of the Culture Club, which held weekly assemblages of erudite quality. The conferences were chiefly haunted by the older scholars of an academy nearby. She also served as an apprentice to a Women Liberation leader, until she became disenchanted with the latter’s private life, which my sister ought not to have mixed up with the public one. Also, splendour thing happened in the Club. She became enamoured by a man of dubious values, though she could not suspect it in the beginning. Later she found out that this man had no love, but only private ends. Those were all days of intense vexation for our group. My uncle found out that his father was a culprit in a casino brawl and had a clandestine meeting with dance maidens. The young man took part in our weekly meetings and claimed that he had read all of Spinoza, but his rivals challenged that all he could entertain were sassy thoughts. I must acknowledge the help I received from Barito to relieve my sister of the impending depression. Later she was to get engaged to a mountaineer and still further over time, both met with a disaster on their climb to Kilimanjaro just above Barafu camp, making her an invalid for the rest of life.
5 Before he went to the city, Barito stayed with us on the farm for a couple of days. We had a good time near water spots and the night owl’s habitats. Then I lost touch with him. We took different routes and had different lifestyles. Meanwhile, my father’s business dwindled and he came to hometown to settle there permanently. Still a loss, as far as wealth was concerned, he retained composure, only knowing rather late that certain things are beyond repair, and we should not incur further loss thinking about those. I married and took frequent trips to hometown to see my parents. Once, from mutual friends, I knew that Barito was there with his American wife. Together with our wives, we met in the tulip garden behind a row of windmills. Barito had slightly gone flabby on the mid-portion, and that evening he told me about the death of his father. Though far from an ideal figure, the old man held tremendous influence over his young son, enabling him to live an extraordinarily luxurious life. That evening, we met at Barito’s residence. After coffee, Barito invited me to his room. I was surprised by the change. The family photograph of Harry Houdini had given way to the poster of a blue-eyed Italian action hero. Barito noticed the shift of my eye and said that his wife is a fan of Italian actors. After the ’Last Tango’, I had not seen any Italian film and then too, spent half the time in the side hall, hanging around with friends. Now, my eyes fell on the most elegant cot that had replaced Barito’s old flexible one that taught him once Newton’s laws of motion. In the same evening, we met in a newly constructed restaurant in City Square. Barito had the fish tacos and iced tea. I took a sweet yoghurt, having had a stomach upset.After that, probably a decade passed. Or maybe more. While travelling in North, once in a train compartment, I met a friend from college days and among many other things, he conveyed to me the changes that had come to Alexandre Barito. My friend did not know in detail but suggested that Barito was into a new life of religious contemplation. ‘ How about his medical practice?’, I asked.’Though he attends the hospital, his wife is managing everything ’, the friend said.Luckily, that year, when I came home for vacation, Barito was in the town. I took this shot to see everything at first hand and hear from the horse’s mouth. The footman opened the portal and led me inside. There were several calicos and male bovines[Bos Taurus] grazing in the yard. The servitor had known me before and conducted me to Barito’s cell, that remained unchanged from outside. When the door was unlatched, I got sight of Barito sitting on a futon close to ground level. His face had transformed. He had shaved his scalp and the eyelids drooped at times and the orbs seemed focused and still. On the wall stood the vignette of St. Bruno meditating on a skull. He said that he had a chimaera of a reaper entering harvest time and that changed his life. He had prevailed over some unlucky addictions in the recent past. I asked him if he followed the Carthusian Order, but his reply was negative.He was only trying to live in the world as if he were in a desert, to have the best of both worlds. He chose his Lauds, Vespers, and Psalms at his own notion. He said that he was arriving at clarity, which was fairly evident from his sober flourishes. He also said that he was translating a religious text into a Dutch dialect of his ancestry. It was, he said, not for publication, but focus. When he inquired me of my concerns, I told him that I was trying to speak and be in the company of children as much as possible, in an attempt to retrieve a seemingly lost innocence. I invited him for a final time to the river bank by my house, and Barito conceded. We walked for a whole afternoon looking at the barges, and on the sidewalks that sold silverware, avoiding pellets of the long-eared owl.After that, a couple of years passed by and I had no news of Barito. But eventually learned from other sources that he was spending half the year in Vancouver and the other half in the hometown, imitating an Indian king. While he was at home, the gardener allowed only chosen visitors. His contact and contemplation of the world became threadbare. His doctor who was also his classmate visited him at times and prescribed drugs and potions. He was suffering from an unknown ailment. One day I met a mutual friend at the airport and he told that Barito suffered an internal haemorrhage while driving but had escaped fatality. And now he is convalescing and is able to carry along his routine. I wrote to him. He wrote back if I could make his home, my next stopover. It was a tremendously beautiful letter, better than all the good books I had come across. In this epistle, he had recollected some old tales. There was neither morbidity nor philosophy. And he mentioned a few old jokes too. I wrote back that we will write a joint autobiography and perhaps some youngster will find it thrilling. I am waiting for his reply.
………………………….
3 Vault Beside the Tower
SHE thought she would better apply for the office of a paranymph as she had previously known the princess in her trip in gondola. The infanta had a warm smirk, hazel eyes and dainty stoop towards the left side. She has just reached from La Coruna that day. While giggling, she stretched her facial muscles at random but Zucchi did not feel it uncomely but pretty suited to her carriage. The dame took a chair next to her throughout the ride and various spirited exchanges ensued. Had she met her earlier? Possibly not. The princess was on an education travel into those Romanesque, the sturdy pillars and groin vaults and she was earnest about not only that but virtually everything in general. The two ladies later gathered at a luncheon hosted for academicians and by accident further in the vaporetto. It is to be reported to the advantage of the princess that she was no mean person. On the other hand, she had a bountiful nature, the sort of character that is the upshot of careful upbringing. While leaving they shared each other’s address and also swapped some pictures and the infanta invited Zucchi to her region that was only a night’s drive fromVenice. It was her second year on the continent. Zucchi selected Venice for her stay as it suited the project she was into. This ‘mundusalter’ of Petrarch fascinated her in ebbs and elations. She had many anxieties. She aspired to be an avant-garde writer but did not apprehend how. Still one of her experiments was to write without semicolons emulating an American author. Her thesis on Marco Polo was progressing in a tardy way and her guide had already warned that she was composing romance rather than a well-formed scholarly paper. Why these ‘caverns measureless to man’ and all those strange stuff? Her guide did not suppress irritation. She was mixing Marco Polo, Kublai Khan and the English poet in an unwholesome way. She has not licensed to fashion academic exposition as an Arabian tale. Moreover, her grammar and punctuation are terrible. And her father pens that his gout is getting graver and he seemed lonely as her sibling was away and the handlers of the estates are dawdling. Adding to these, here she is in one of the chilliest moons in Venice. Finally, it came to a cognizance that all baroque and beauty is not an indisputable way to tranquillity.Her roommate was a Croatian, a divorcee and a Dostoevsky scholar in her early forties on a lecture tour in Europe. This fine lady adjusted her trips in such a manner that she got ample access to universities and the humble lodging places that she preferred in her Raskolnikov style. She thought as the author of Raskolnikov that suffering is essential for the maturity of the human psyche. Unlike Zucchi, she planned everything from top to bottom and the only thing that fell through seemed to be her marriage. This, she attributed to her lack of acquaintance with male pneuma as she was brought up in a household of girls and nannies. She never had an intimate male company before marriage.But what troubled Zucchi was not these. It was the glance her roommate made after large meals on her mid portion that bloated unusually. Her friend, on the other hand, had a handsome physique[whose bag contained Oregon grape and turmeric] and she maintained it by regular walks and flexibility exercises in the Eastern style. This probably lessened her bouts of depression and kinks of moods.During last year they toured the continent extensively, mostly by train in order to get the glimpse into life at grassroots. This thrilled her roommate who also had similar humour. They went to Milan, Florence and to La Scala and then to Turin and Verona but mostly stayed at Dijon enjoying Burgundy and staying under fashionable roofs. She sent all the photographs to her father except the one her friend took at coastal Cantabrian in unusual apparel. Perhaps he may not bother much, but Zucchi did not want to take the risk of making him further uneasy in his old age.Basted to an array of thoughts, she went to sleep. There she saw her father sauntering on the sands of Tigris with his grandfather and great grandfathers. They walked to a dome of Taurus marble that was lit by a special light day and night. They entered the centre room and checked their collections of urns of wine, loaves of bread and garments they got as funerary honours. There was a battle cry somewhere in the near distance and the soldiers announced the arrival of Ur Nina coming victoriously from Lagash.
2She woke up the next morning after the phone call from her guide. He said that he is leaving the continent for a week. He opted that she make the changes in her paper. Zucchi was partially relieved…The thought of man made her think of mortality in general and the presumption of something beyond. On similar occasions, a vagueness filled her. Men are like cultures, cultures as different as Amazon and Paris. Some are nice, some are enigmatic and some are tedious. She had postponed many states of intimacy until she was in Madrid. And finally… What if life but a mountain of hope crumbling in a single day. Then we would be aliens to ourselves unless there is redemption at close quarters. That was the day she enjoyed the deep thrill and further appalled by the news of his missing. The corps took the hint and met her in the hotel room from where they got further photographs. Hers was the last entry in his special diary. They let her scot-free on the condition she could be summoned for further unravelling of the case.The vault stood beside a tower. With him, she went there. He had a narrow forehead and a wide jaw. He was kind. It was in the vault that he and his other visually challenged friends met. The Tower was a Middle Ages marvel and a rendezvous for pilgrims and tourists and a flea market rose nearby. It was thronged by crowds and businesses and brokers of all shades. On her visit to the vault, a middle-aged man who looked like a war – ex-stood at the entrance and saluted him and addressed him in a respectful tone. He eventually introduced her to other buddies who were in several fashion similar to him. At the corner of the vault was a bookshelf with thick volumes in special script and also drawers of files, porcelain vessels, and white candles. There appeared a janitor who had external eyes and an expression of somebody at the victory stand to wait for the trophy. In the main hall, there was a mahogany table where the guests kept the flowers they brought with them. Roses, dahlia, daffodils, carnations, marigold, campion and touch me nots- Zucchi felt finally safe with not many sifting eyes to harrow her and felt like walking in a self-guarded forest with the least concern to grieve.The police tracked the hint and came to the motel for further evidence. She was the one with whom he was spotted last. There was a picture they took together in an atelier. What if life, a plateau of great hopes collapsing in a single day! That strange feeling to accommodate the rocambolesco, an unwavering reality that has solidified inside. Outside the lattice, a modest clump of maple trees dimmed in the twilight sky and below that a few creatures like bearded dragons moved.3 That was a usual sort of day and other than the slow murmur of wind there was nothing noticeable. Some people assembled in the other balconies were viewing the scene. A new crowd was coming from the west side and it melted into far off.That day she got three letters. One from her father in his cuneiforms like the script and many parts were unintelligible due to tremor of hand. He, a Draco in his youth has mellowed. She kissed the letter. He writes that his arthritis is getting worse, still, he finds occasion to go to his office in the old Porsche with his aide. As a recent development, he had met his schoolmate and the latter and his wife, both retired from service, meet him often and they have stories to share. The second was from his brother. He has written in his activist tone that Zucchi is wasting her life on dead projects that have no relevance today. Her ivory tower existence will hardly answer the colossal questions of our time. He augurs that she would regret and requests to join him. She paused and was immured into an applique of ruminations which made her further sense that she had not yet spawned any whopping resolutions in life, not even her marriage. The third epistle was from the princess. The paper and even the mucilage were redolent. Her husband is occupied with the regime and she on many seasons had to accompany him. Her only son needs an upright and educated lady to guide him into good tastes and behaviour. Of the many applicants, she had selected Zucchi even though she had known her only for a short time. She wants to bring her son to an ideal prince who will have the qualities of equanimity and balance. She beseeches Zucchi to accept the post and promises that her office will be as informal as possible and she can pursue her research at the dukedom’s ancient library that houses rare manuscripts.Zucchi was rather exhausted after reading the letters. She wanted a hiatus and kept them in the drawer. She stood up, her chin up and looked into the vast sky that appeared in many layers of lapis lazuli. A cat, not easily chastised by threats looked into the room from the opposite window that had grills of geometric shat the far end she could see the red and blue stripes of the gondoliers retreating into a labyrinth of which they were also a part. Followed by a crowd from the Lido market.
Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………….
………………………….Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
That was a normal day and apart from the slow murmur of the wind there was nothing remarkable. Some people gathered on the other balconies were watching the scene. A new crowd came from the west side and melted away. That day she had three letters. One, from his father in the country. Zucchi opened the letter and thought for a moment. It was something he valued. He had as usual written in his own hand in the typically cuneiform writing and the handwriting in some places was intelligible, perhaps due to the tremor in the hand. The second was from his brother in his typical activist tone. He says that her work does not solve the great issues of the present. If possible, she should join him. The third was of the princess. She says that she has selected Zucchi among the large number of better-qualified applicants in another way. She had an instant liking of her. She wants Zucchi’s help to bring her son to the ideal prince he should be. If she wants, she can continue her research in the old library of the dukedom that houses rare documents. Zucchi was rather exhausted after reading the letters. She needed a hiatus and looked out the window, whose crystals were blurred by the melting snow. At the far end she could see the red and blue stripes of the gondoliers retreating into a labyrinth of which they were also a part. Followed by a crowd from the Lido market..Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice…………………………………………….Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven – nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice……………………………………………
4 Roulette
1At Salle Blanche, the roulette table did not turn to his favour. In this pinnacle of autumn, when even the winged animals were kept in for want of warmth, he was captured in a chain of alarming musings yet not knowing what couldn’t evade from its anguish. He knew for beyond any doubt that the adorable minutes are shorter and on that, he stayed on this structure had a current flowing along underneath would drug into further debacles in thought. Summer has gone. Another kin left home with family. They are inspired by the family’s collective aspirations. Each evening at the feasting table, they would describe the day and chalk out what ought to be done tomorrow. This was the family’s condition in a flourishing time when they had landed at each alcove of the nation.He didn’t realize what to do precisely. He only desired to sit somewhere and disregard all that stuff, his own choice to bring a taxi with his life partner with the euros his father had given yesterday at the air terminus and come here and partake in the most absurd movement ever and fiddle away all. All of a sudden he wound up plainly conscious. His mouth can still sputter a few more sagacious sounds. In any case, his life companion did not endorse any of those awful episodes. For her, it was all similar to living on a cruiser that was about to capsize. But, most likely he will recuperate from it. His devotedness for odd numbers rode on some notion he obtained from an old buddy and again it turned out to be disastrous for him which forbade to go back easily to his old normal self. 2 Her home in Sighisoara was one of only a handful few in that old style with an unmistakable perspective of the Tanners Tower. The structure was displayed on a stage house, with great veneers a couple of kilometres far from the old religious community. She met her father before going to roulette with the fiance. His absence of excitement was clear in the grin right now of parting. Still, he gathered himself and favoured her and reminded her to discern the daisies in the garden that have effloresced yesterday. She did that and culled a couple of blooms while holding her St. John’s cross towards the right bosom and convoking every single great vagary conceivable. In the event an exclusive otherworldly occurrence could have ransomed her out from this future program, she thought… She fled the dwelling abruptly, her garments still on the drier. She had just a plain cascava and frappes in the morning which her mother had given her. She made her take the spotted parasol for she supposed that it may rain in the regions she went. She took the train to Brasov to reveal to her companion that she would be away for a week and advised while she is far in a remote domain and furthermore appeal to God for her till she returns. Nevertheless, she didn’t perceive that she was fleeing with her life partner, in an insidious fancy to astound her when she returns after the adventures at the roulette board. Seldom his obsessive conduct disturbed her. He had no proven calling. In any case, that did not inconvenience her extraordinarily. He had aced in Theatrical Studies in flying hues from a similar college where she contemplated and was higher ranking than her by two years. When she entered the academy, his name was all over the place, at ball arenas, debating centres, and chess. He was a paragon to many. He never attended the classes to the full and left the hall before time, telling some reason to the teacher. When he exited the class, he strolled like Franco Nero, as though he had another mission to accomplish. Later he told his companions that the classes are underneath his standard and that he had dense volumes of a related title, presented by his father, which was a half-truth. His dad had all Constantin Stanislavski in his home library. He was exceptional on a primary level, she deemed, however all he lacked was grace. In Bucharest, she met a juvenile duo, the musical performers. She noticed in the young lady’s eye, that extraordinary aching for future just ladies of the world has, a noble and chaste zest of spirit and hope. Essentially the equivalent of a saintly lady spending her days in a forlorn cloister, setting herself up for something pure and consecrated and deserving of presenting to eras to come. The pair was rehearsing a musical show composed by the boy on Emily Dickinson’s poem No-712. What a coincidence, she thought, she has perused the poem for the nth time. She was overwhelmed by the last vision of the steed’s heads turned towards eternity.
He stayed in the chamber three sequential nights, in some situations disclosing Libystic tales while she would recline on the sofa, her eyes fixed towards the roof and head trouncing on the yellow pad. It was on the third night that it rained. She had no knowledge of seasons. But by all means it rained cats and dogs. She held her face toward the murky void of the sky that was still yet dormant, with blended emotions. The branches soaked in the downpour, coyed for some other point. The torrent was pounding find he stowaway with a mystery similitude that exclusive the branches and the earth and the ether knew.The sprinkles fell in gigantic sheds and wet the heretofore dry turfs in flashes and the water in strong puddles occupied at each surge. She returned to the lodging and incredibly, a profound moan of longing and love filled her soul. When he returned from his walk, doused in water, she passed the towel towards him and he wiped the head and body and with sudden energy, stood beside and touched her beribboned hair, his heart ticking speedier. In any case, she realized that he couldn’t extinguish even a bit of what she actually stood for in this life, a constant deepening of being, in her scan for something honourable and excellent and will keep going forever…
3 From his side, he didn’t realize what she was, what she proposed to be. Notwithstanding the truth that he knew her since adolescence and they frequently played together being cousins and being individuals from more scattered kinsmen, cooperative in times of need and crisis, at great and tough states, he didn’t have any acquaintance with her unmistakably enough. This wedlock was a little stun to him as much as it was to her. It was his beloved mother’s wish and he never aspired to affront her debilitated state….
She amazed him in the debating club by contradicting his views. He was taking after Clark Griffith’s line of contentions and portrayed Death as the dignified beau. She said that Emily Dickinson ought to be explained in her own terms. First, no one caught on. Still, after she made solid harangue against the commentator and stated, was it after all the wistful aspirations of a spinster, who was denied by all and her own attempts to compensate for that feeling of denial through her poetry.. That was the moment he took a slight interest in her. He realized that she was marginally unique in relation to her friends, however, they were by all accounts winged animals of the same feather. Now, she smiled to herself and thought of how she will take up at the club her old argument, that is already in some circles that Odyssey is written by a woman.
4
All on a sudden, she saw her American Literature teacher, toward the finish of the lobby joined by a young fellow who had an interesting coiffeure touching shoulders. Yorick’s skull, she thought. She went close to the professor and wished him. The teacher was somewhat astounded seeing her. He presented the young fellow as his son to the rest of the gathering. Meanwhile, she acquainted her life partner with them. The educator said that he comes to Monte Carlo, twice a year and he adores the session of roulette. She contemplated over this data and this was for her another look into a man’s life which she thought as loaded with numerous conceivable outcomes, might be some part obscure to her. They shared a table. The teacher and her life partner had a mojito kind of drink. But his son requested plain water, and in the wake of opening the pack, took the French variant of ‘Romola and began reading it while sipping the plain water at successive intervals…
Her life partner smiled at the croupier warmly as they had associated each other before. She was not amazed. He had before posted concise notes from different Italian and American gambling clubs last summer. With the scholar, he had a spirited conversation on Italian table games of Hoca and Biribi and besides some French prepackaged games. He was reviewing 1886 Hoyle betting books, single zero and double zero and such things. She was not enraptured by such talk. The teacher was asking him additionally points of interest. He was in the meantime telling that some inner organ of him is giving regular turmoil and he may require serious resources for restorative costs this year, and his doctor’s facility protection has some issue.The teacher’s son was stoic in his demeanour, yet raised his head frequently from the book and took a look at others on the table in grinning graciousness and further appeared to be snatched by the book’s stream, by and by tasting from the glass of water regularly and filling it once more. He, several times asked her in all sincere, what she would drink and she replied red wine and he obliged to that. Yet, other than that, had few talks and took a gander at her in a loving manner as though he were in a bar with his dearest sister with a spoilt father and a equally spoilt brother in law.She glanced around and saw men and ladies in an uncommon excitement, somewhat wild yet purposeless at root, putting down wagers as the ball spun around the haggle merchant told no more wagers. At the point when the merchant got done with making payouts, the marker was expelled from the board and players were assuaged and gathered their rewards and made new wagers. The triumphant chips rested on the board. She had gone to a year ago a town by Swiss Alps to see his grandparents. It was the business that conveyed his folks to Bucharest, in addition to his dad’s liking to music and theatre. On Berchtoldstag, he made wonderful hawks. She met him again that night, her mind loaded with whimsical contemplations. The day she met him once more, she was at Ticino, at Fiesta di Sant Antonio. She recollects that he confessed all with a donkey to her home and afterwards they both went to the congregation and in a similar night, he trusted some of his private musings to her, however, she didn’t take it very seriously. Her betrothal was somewhat an understanding between two families, as her father and his dad were partners and had hunting endeavours together. It resembled an assertion of kinship that they would not like to be broken by time. They thought that they needed to deify their friendship with a bond that spanned another generation, if not eternity…
The young gentleman with the grin of a dervish stood up before the reflection of the dazzling frame. He had brought his canine. He held up by the paws crossed to each other and parading the tongue that was long and spiked and jittery. In the following room was a craftsman family. The kids were conveying sheets, half painted and in part secured and they were glad. In her eyes flickered encompassing globes and granules and she was away in districts hazy yet invariably listened the rustle of a tyke. He returned with an anguished feeling all over while he was thumbing down everything that tagged along with his way and lastly confessing all is not well and required more time to settle…. She was fussing for many minutes and finally, his deep-throated voice was audible and he announced of his decision to go back to the country and called the taxi.
5
The train halted at the station. It was an old country junction that was not the standard stop of travellers. There was a declaration that it will take a few hours to advance. Some concealed things occurred in transit, maybe a mishap, slaughter, or sudden political change, she didn’t have an inkling. Her fiance suggested that they put the halt in the country, which may be an odd thing to do – and meanwhile wander in the in the countryside . He still had that dazzling ring presented by his mother, which she got from her own mom, and he could pledge it or even sell if essential and have a decent time, and if things are not settled that way, despite everything he has his stopwatch and he could accomplish something with that too and she could rest assured that he will take her back to Bucharest securely. All things considered, she is his future mate and she will approve of him now and always… Presently they passed the wrap-up of a line of the ziggurat and minor edifices and a shopkeeper was quickly withdrawing from day’s work, today earlier than usual, as his wife was pursuing him as he had accomplished something not reasonable. All sights got cloaked in the shimmer of a passing day. He was gawking down toward the stream, a pleasant waterway he saw as though in a vision in an eastern town he ran with his uncle where a holy person had assembled cottage into edge of the stream that was fed seasonally, and the sire staying there for months,however during monsoon…. His uncle was an individual who took road contracts and went to various towns and villages of the country and was fond of thisman…So, this is her prospective mate and she will approve of him now and her grandparents need no doubt about it. From the network of roads, they took a turn to the left which was inhabited by an ethnic neighbourhood and there were lodges and also some expenses of mountainous terrain and ridges and falls and a livid stream and there in the sky appeared the first rains of the season, As they were moving, the rain broke the skies with thunderous bolt. And from nowhere he has had a joke, a known one on his lips and he only uttered it half and it rained more and more. Her fiance was not agitated over the change of clouds and instead of further complaining about the rain, called a carriage after several endeavours, as two or three of them moved along without conducting them.And ultimately they got one, a carriage pulled by a single sturdy horse, and there was the little area inside the carriage which smelt of coir and hay and sackcloth. He got inside and he pulled her hurriedly into it with a little laughter and she also laughed, this time not thinking anything about tho dismal events at the roulette table, but reflecting about her companion at Costesti who will wait for her at the dance hall. Yes, for further reception of the tale. She closed her eyes for a moment….. and then few more moments. He was motionless and apparently with a host of feelings was looking deeply into the rain and trying to hear from it a common language that all human people in all seasons and locales can discourse without an interpreter. The cart advanced rocking them and she saw herself, much exhausted to the border of a slumber, and her crest lay on his moving shoulder. They were like two kids, in a drizzly season, innocent of the world and its dismal passions which made them unsuited for further lapses……
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..5 Paris Nights
1 These episodes befell over the most recent days of my halt in Paris -I proceeded to Rue de Flore and set out towards the Seine and then to the purple of wisteria close to Notre Dame. My wife was confronted with calcaneal heel and could not walk much. She was an athlete in her youth, now into sedentary occupations and ill-designed travel. She, this time told me that she had ample participation with me and desired rest. Alighieri, my friend, took me to an ancient and prominent cafe at the 6th arrondissement opened by a Sicilian gentleman, wit and bon vivant. We relished dinner at Cafe, where Voltaire and Danton and Balzac – nay, more, Napoleon, Hugo, Gambetta and Anatole France also dined, seizing an alternative way to enormity, not doing any of the stupendous acts the sires have done. The cafe was refurbished in the eighteenth-century fashion, with Pompeian red dividers and crystal chandeliers and waiters serving in quasi-revolutionary outfits.
This was my third trip to Paris. First as an undergraduate at Sorbonne, with a Heidegger scholar, but eventually dropping out due to chest ailments, that carried me far to an ocean town in India. Next, with a woman – And I envisioned myself sun, while she was the Zambezi in blistery season. She as the primordial rock. And I like an endemic worm. I was the Panthera pardus. She was Pelecanus onocrotalus. And the roles often switched. My third journey did not take place, as I aspired to get my mama to Paris for sounder treatment when she was diagnosed with the uterine disorder but as some predicaments meddled, I could not do so and had to get radiotherapy done, at a nearby hospice. She was ridden of terminal malady but later succumbed to asthma, a disease that had chased her for more than a decade. Alighieri had known some person in Paris whose mother was a friend of Katherine Mansfield when she stayed here for some otherworldly quests. Alighieri’s friend was into esoteric mysticism and following manifold phone inquiries, Alighieri unveiled to me that she had moved with family some interval ago. It seemed she was into the perfume industry in another city in Europe.
This is the third journey to Paris. Despite all the engaging shows and rues and promenades and cute stuff, I was not comforted, for my wife belatedly found that she had enough of me, living with a listless husband who did not care her profound reflections, as I have converted into a hindrance than a mate in her life. Will her life, from this point forward, be devoted to some greater ordeals that have a tie with redemption? I was impressed but did not entirely get a hook on her chain of deliberations that surpassed my understanding and, in extension, two mosquitoes were vying with each other, to hit my hands from both sides and also essentially at no point in life could I disdain my body well enough, to hoist the mind to higher musings. She said she is leaving for a monastery in Meteora, near Thessaly and Macedoniaprefectures overlookingg Lithaios River where she could soon meet another a companion who shared her sympathies. There, they will live a cloistered existence, away from the transitory world’s whims. However, she said, I could meet her, at times- not frequently of course- not as husband, but as a friend..
2
Wife left yesterday. The motel I stayed had some issues with water supply and it would take several hours to free myself from the shower quandary. My friend had the pleasure to get up, at five o’clock and after a shower engage in an hour’s contemplation, which could only be interrupted if there is a catastrophe. This practice made him fairly a master of humors, unlike me who has been a bundle of caprices and incongruities. Alighieri included some private research into this Paris trip. Just yesterday came from Flaubert’s statue and talked about themoustachee. A walk on Flaubert’s Boulevard and the Flaubert Gallery at the Hotel Dieu is on the agenda. Yes, to see the bird with green eyes. A more likely calendar for winter days, and I can opt for any other route if the sinews are strong – Versailles and Winter ice – a classy jugalbandi over freshly brewed wine.
Alighieri has revealed to me that Normandy beckoned him. Bravo. But these Parisian days test me from another perspective. Still, I am not going to compose my innermost thoughts in sealed envelopes and open them after years. No, that is Flaubert’s route, not mine. Alighieri should forgive me in this regard. The winter was in Paris, a wonderful moment, with ducks of Jardin Yitzhak-Rabin – Did he say that?
My friend will soon leave for Normandy, a part of his Flaubert affair. But, before that we must celebrate, he said – On the third Thursday, November, Beaujolais Noveau, the six-week wine, Burgundy cheese with its Cistercian reverberation – grapevine-sarments- Besides these, the giant barrels were opened. This was his way to calm me down. I had wine. Alighieri had saucisson and garlic bread and I ate tartiflette. Man, if he wants to continue, must modify everything to the current state – because all things will leave, but not the present moment – This was the key I learned from my mentor.
My friend returned with a new pair of boots and I was looking for warm gloves. We have to celebrate winter, he said and gave me ideas – Christmas lights, a vision of Versailles, frost and fall, the glitter gratings. You can run truant and be present. Your wife is not here to enjoy your heart’s content- Chestnuts cooked in coal at the corners of the street, and a walk around the Champs-Elysees to watch the fir trees that will stretch you over several boulevards of genteel thoughts. Tomorrow or another day, my friend will go for skating as the stakes and rents are low. But I will not go – Instead, sit in a bistro by a grand avenue and sip coffee, hour after hour, and see the city twirling through the windows, resurrected in my eye – I will remain here for some more days and read this winter’s thousand and one tales.
3
From the balustrade my room met the feasting halls that were dimly lit, a large portion of the hours of the day and the entrance had works of art of taste and some semi-human shapes, icons with well-formed arms and – at the edge a hollow from where a nave was visible and a little group of late worshipers moved out into the twilight ways – Alighieri called in his fine husky voice from some place far, and proclaimed that he would reach anytime – at the open passage, a man with bristly head and a lady fashionable at most novel trends invaded, and the man hesitated at the ridge and both later joined – He swung his shoulders, the left one marginally twisted than the right, maybe not feigned but his custom or attitude or a certain minor handicap.
I entered from the main access and had a nearby peep of the motley masses inside, individuals of all assortments, the most portion of buoyant youth and in incessant chatter – a woman of wide girth with a male figure of gigantic torso and limbs, slightly shocking from my small town benchmarks – the man, obviously a film running in his cerebral screen, had rapid outbursts of emotion, that showed up like lightning on his face -Behind him, a young lady in Victoria’s Secret style entered in fresh gaiety, all consummately confident about their masculinity and girlhood – Everything was flawless and articulate in a show that was going to take place this evening – The nave was visible from the windows – and those structures of gray Gothic stones that matched well in the huge canvas of a genius artist with its close bunch of Windsor greens and forest looks, a few separations away from the aisle -A picture shone on the grizzled cobalt walls, a class painting of wild asses some old explorers may find in their trips, creatures of fine Tibetan breed – an odor reminiscent of permeable vinegar in the air, various alcohols, and smoke – Here one, all of a sudden, aches for a new zephyr from the open planes, under a sweltry, familiar sun with my father by the side . In any case, that is not my street this late evening. This evening of knocks and mishaps in Paris. I trusted, he would reprove me into the correct space and I will submit to him in reverence as I am aware, his grand purposes are adequate enough to make up for some of those shallow moves. For me, his living nearness is greater than the Nobel Prize.
I switched the motel a few days ago in light of the fact that I favoured a room with a view into the city’s life and furthermore to get away from the water issues which denied me of my night shower. Now, moved to a better one, as a senior kinfolk had put an amount into the account, seeing my debased state. There were sounds coming from the inn’s store of books, as the pre-publication of a new author was taking place. It was a book of amorous content and some entered the hall, with the book that had the cover of a lady reclining on the man’s tourniquet. I picked the table at the farther west end, and the host clearly did not identify me. It was an old rendezvous, where I would occasionally come with her and we both did not know how to dance – that even a child over here knew. The roulette was in the opposite hallway. I got Alighieri’s phone that he has reached the hotel and consequently invited him to the dance floor. He didn’t demonstrate stun, instead asked which floor it is and of coming there without mishaps.
Finally, we met as two doted old buddies. A woman scantily attired comes near the table, here she pulls back to the one abaft, after a minor qualm. One benefit of seniority is that you are justly deprived of envy and discern that in any domain, there is someone superior to you, and that competition is not, however, one of the life’s cardinal virtues. You are gifted with the biggest gift ever at origin itself and that is life. The more one loses willfully the deeper – I don’t recognize all that stuff -but this straightforward oddity is the core of things –
At the farthest end, a solitary lady, not touched by the action that was mounting in the anteroom, was opening a book and reading it seriously, however, tasting the champagne-like drink from the container, the server in conspicuous familiarity – may be a seasoned visitor. Music was becoming heavier and nearer – Alighieri pulled back as time turned out to be late, some point close midnight, into his room, and I found myself in the hall with people and shadows farther into the heart of the night .The Parisian night.
Suddenly to my amazement , the woman who was sitting at the farther end of the honky-tonk, as my eyes were laboring in lesser sobriety, closed her book, and rose from the cathedra and turned around, as if she had a private tryst in view, walked towards my direction – now I see her visage which was altogether distinct from the other folks, and more closely I see her when she approaches, cleanly costumed and elegant in strides and with a kind and blazing look in eyes, not bothering the masculine figures with huge arms and advancing to my small figure steadily – and suddenly to my greatest bewilderment, kissed on my right cheek and called me by my first name. This ultimate night. My Paris night. Here, I am purged of sinning, than further sinning.
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6 Watercrafts by the Seine
1 These episodes occurred during one of the latter days of my stay in Europe. I was seated in a Parisian café at Boulevard Saint-Germain, fully lit with classic sapwood, and the eatery looked like a vessel, and the servers wore pirate berets. Alighieri, my companion was to explain individual vagaries and I was also taking part in these reviews. This was because of the fact my wife temporarily left me for a respite in a cloister overlooking the Thessaly Plains. And as she said, she needs time for contemplation. Because of these events, I was partially crushed and further was lost in reverie. But Alighieri was enjoying a version of Balzac as well as food, garlic bread, and corn cheese filling. I had tabbouleh. As some of the cafes had reverberations to the writers I cherished in youth, I bought some of these titles, such as “Sun also Rises’ summoning reminiscences of Hemingway reading in the University city.Now a couple entered the cafe, the most optimistic match, probably in the primary stages of conjugal bliss and obviously had much to take part in. Every good purport of the time, family aspirations or figments of tomorrow. The young lady gazed into my eyes with all the precision and with a swift discharge of agitation grabbed my right hand and asked to my dismay if I remembered her. I responded in negative. She mumbled, ‘You bought me samosa in the Caxton Town’.Samosa is a famous Indian snack that I ate in the evenings during my sojourn in Asia.The name ‘Caxton Town’ hurled a dazzling vibration to my heart. Yes, I abruptly recalled the wanderings around the amazing pastures with my friend, Alighieri. Watching the birds in their ligneous habitats. Those clubs of Woodswallows, Ioras, Shrikes and Monarch Grey Hypocolius, Larks, and Bulbuls… • And still, to my confoundment, thinking of the little lady who had such an effect on my life in the Caxton Town. I could not believe that the tiny girl who took samosa from me in one evening under a banyan tree could change to such an extent. She said that she is a well-known author now and taking one of the copies from the bag, extended it for me. The book had a plain black jacket and the name of the writer was on the cover and I had definitely heard the writer’s name on my recent trip to a book celebration. Critics adulated the author’s distinctiveness, the autopsy of the human mind and dynamic digressions in Laurence Sterne style. Instantly I felt delighted to see one of my former friends ascended to this estimated height and also the fact she recognized me in an eatery in Paris. She introduced her partner to me and told that I was her first mentor. That was too generous to say. An exaggeration that confessed to her incorruptibility. This astounded me when I noticed important people, even condemning their early mentors alive. One late occurrence was a famous soloist meeting his old mentor, who organized external tours, meeting the latter, many years after, expressing, “Oh, we meet again”, and swiftly turning to more recent fans. He seemed to be more affected by the sale of recordings than honouring his first patron. These are the people who go wrong to the grave, though I wish them otherwise. They have not been able to know the authentic thing in life.2My friend, Alighieri was to depart this midday as he got a call from his folks. He proceeded to the apartment to collect the luggage. I really relished my walk in Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine etching the brightest hues of Paris, that joined place de la Bastille and Place de la Nation which was signalized by a history of its own. It reminded of the “Bastille storming” of 1789, an event considered as the beginning of the French Revolution. There was a traditional neighbourhood nearby, a working-class type from the twelfth century, a centre of trade and craft. I ate at a moderate restaurant, a bakery like a facade and some were coming and quitting with bright mackintoshes and ornate bonnets and were either talking about the past exploits or the nearby target. A cavalier opened a map from the gearbox and checked after keeping his camera down and his right limb crossed above the left one and after catching the call of a lady standing at the door, departed speedily and their mixed laughter like distant detonation echoed in the hall. There were much fervour and motion in the air. A couple of people dressed in cornflower blue and magenta pink were sipping a liquid at the next table. I selected an item, that was served as dense olio on a roof of injera, a fermented bread made from teff, a sort of old grain, that’s is an alternative to wheat. The food was savoury and appeared Ethiopian.There I met an old man and he had radiant eyes and dressed in thick gaberdine and I thought he must be an offbeat sort of man and engaged in conversation. The old gentleman had a Johann Strauss II type beard, moustache, and sideburns. In the following dialogue which lasted for about an hour, we were talking mainly about beards as the old sire knew more about beards and moustaches than I knew about literature. In the fifteenth century, most European men were clean-shaven. Beards were allowed to grow in the sixteenth century, to an astonishing length, John Knox or Thomas Cranmer. Some beards of this time were the Spanish spade beard, the English square-cut beard, the forked beard, and the stiletto beard. In 1587 Francis Drake claimed, in a figure of speech, to have singed the King of Spain’s beard. And he knew the whole story by heart. There were more growing and migrating groups of customers.As I walked further into the boulevards, I met an aficionado, a companion on my morning walks and conversations about art and life, in general, took place. Although I have no profound insight into these areas, my hiking buddy has had interesting perspectives – who was connected to the art gallery of the Louvre and told me that many viewers took Mona Lisa to be a human being and not as a work of art and used to do many acts of foolishness. Alighieri left a note which I read now. A whimsical and sad minute and I was incredibly surprised by the chain of thoughts. He retained some private wounds and had held back revealing them, perhaps looking for a better opportunity to reveal. Such as a mind that went truants and its annoying recollections, and a disease that began a few months ago and also some voices and dreams. I had a similar experience in Warwickshire, hearing a sound of melody from a closed-door, in a manor house that had to some Robert Bruce connections. A musical bell from the nearby room, which, somebody told was the visitation of a feudal count, who was a composer in his lifetime and on whose life, volumes are drafted. Later, these turned out to be a big hoax. I wrote back to Alighieri that he was, after all into many journeys corporally and intellectually, and his brain cannot apparently accommodate all the stuff, and he wanted sound repose and probably simple walks in country greens, as a remedy. And about the voices, I have no knowledge about such questions so as to pass a remark. Still, he should investigate it rather than believe blindly, and history abounds in such fabrications. He asked me the name of someone seriously into these areas. I told him that presently no, still will try to find out one. After that, I made a friendly call, and we laughed simply, just to hear the sound of each other’s laughter. This note I felt quite sad to read and this was additional labour for my brain and took my thought to several of our wanderings together in various parts of India. I have always liked it in a romantic way that life is the same wherever – human beings, gentlemen or ladies have the same kind of predicaments, although some nuances in this fabric are darker or weaker than the others, and a course from murk to light or from daylight to gloom is a relative story. I spent quite a lot of time in the streets and cafes with bas-reliefs to find sustenance.In the present, in this Paris of the past, a mighty stream called The Seine flows, in its ever-widening and grabbing virtue, inspiring writers and performers, and explorers of all season, approaching to a radial net holding civilization on both sides with 777 kilometres of trail. I liked it anyhow and tried to put some of my sentiments in it like any traveller. Like Ms Bovary or Hugo, this river termed Sena, once Sequana of Dijon, is a timeless entity that can influence. Maybe I will not come again. Maybe I will come again numerous times. But that does not matter. Sena, in this navigable holden, in pallid and cerulean essence. And individuals who have bought vessels and lived in pontoons and boats, crafts, which transmits trade articles and so on. I spent a day in the library as I used to do in India when there is enough time at hand. With a hundred or two hundred rupees per day, I can have the most amazing life in India, spending an hour on the benches of Connemara. 3Paris is different. Please leave me for some time, when I recollect these old tales of war and love on both the banks of a river. How many tracks have transpired, amazingly wonderful, and still how could one retain that original splendour? This tenderness and history are fed into a certain part of my brain in order to get revived later. I took a cruise. The Eiffel Tower. There was a restaurant on the second floor. It was at Pont-Neuf, which was really the oldest. The nineteenth-century marvel. Notre Dame with its statues on the outside. And also Sainte-Chapelle with equally great Gothic spells. I have had some setbacks in the past few months, but that does not take away my freedom as a man on this planet.In this royal realm, I will wander for an hour if breath allows with great enthusiasm -more viewing, more living, more engaging and exploring. Maybe we live once. Who knows for sure? Amazingly, I was also not ready to adjust to the spasms of the legs and joint torments that were upsetting me in the hiking. Paris remained vague, in dim sanctuary chambers, boulevards, and cafes and later in a growing diary of memories with lots of footnotes by various scholars. Causes, destinies, and challenges as in an epic story that can be rewritten by another author. In my case, some disillusion apart, this was a lovely excursion. In the sense, I met you. River, I’m communicating with you. I have to assume that it is astonishing, sure. Furthermore, this is a felicitous comfort in moments of affliction as well as times calm. Before Sena, I bow down, humble to the last threshold of humility. A lady leaning down in the footsteps at the back of a rostrum. Another crouching figure may be a child, each by the side of the other, as a blanket to the other in a snowy landscape. And a fog that meets a few more frosty trees at a distance and receiving accolades from unknown hands.I went to the left bank that had an offbeat aura with a diverse group of its guests, craftsmen, travellers, bards, vagabonds, and couples lost in their own dreams and gentlemen in waterproof and oilskins to adorn these winter days. From my small salon, I make a glance at this grand virtuoso not as an apprentice, but from an impartial point of view. Sena in manifold tones, similar to a great darling who gave her heart for a reason for the posterity to cajole, looking for treasures that are not of these worlds. In this life everything will be better than ever in the last scrutiny, I assured myself.I saw it now, a colourful watercraft sliding to the bank with bantam sailcloths, not for some explicit utility, but for elegance and embellishment. And the mysterious sign on its frontispiece of my wife and mine at the betrothal season, with initials in stygian blue and crimson characters inscribed on it. Am I imagining it when once before taking the keys and throwing at the Pont de Arte? I asked a passerby who the owner of the watercraft was, and he answered that it was dedicated by a princess of Indian origin to her lover, for the poor passengers who can not afford a ride and wished it in the beautiful waters. And the lover had a name similar to mine. The envoy said he obtained this knowledge from an architect who is managing the watercraft in this season. .
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r

 

 

Winter Chestnuts

Hiver dans l’hospice-2

Châtaignes d’hiver

Il faisait frais en ville et les feuilles des arbres de la passerelle sont tombées. Une dame marchait autour de lui quand il commençait sa promenade nocturne comme un somnambule. Cela dégageait une impression d’extrême fantaisie sur le degré d’atmosphère. Les cyprès de la cour surplombant le porche bleu ciel étendent leurs cheveux colossalement en hiver comme un animal surnaturel. L’odeur de hot-dog des cafés, les scènes comprises quand il se souvenait de la mémoire de sa mémoire, se développaient, comme un sorcier sur une couverture usée, il se répandait, une sorte de cadeau généré par la maladie pour cette saison.

Quand il pourrait relire de mémoire, les scènes froides hostiles avec ses alliés peuvent être très loin, mais de toute façon, il s’agit d’un besoin primordial, c’est un autre souvenir.Sans aucun doute, même les arômes des avenues qu’il pourrait revoir maintenant. Cependant, tout n’était pas heureux pour lui à ce moment-là. Il avait ses fardeaux, les énormes difficultés qu’il avait traversées, en partie, un échec pour son parcours régulier, conduit par un homme égocentrique, loin de l’image qu’il voulait créer à l’époque. Mais en réalité, ne gardant pas cette identité interne, il devrait rester en contact avec son père ou sa mère. Il a senti que, par inadvertance, il avait nui à l’amour qu’il avait eu, l’avait gaspillé, comme un cochon avec des perles, dit-on avec moins d’inquiétude pour tous, même pour son avenir. Celui qu’il avait acquis de l’autre, surtout maintenant, la dame de la saison ressemble à un arbre sur lequel se pencher, un marronnier du sud-est de l’Angleterre.

Il essuya la transpiration de son corps et repartit. Elle a marché autour de lui jusqu’à ce point. Elle a quitté sa famille pour lui et il s’est demandé s’il pourrait l’obliger à faire ce dont elle avait besoin en cette saison. Elle devrait prendre après une autre jeune femme à la saison du mariage. Ce que tous veulent ou était-elle sans précédent. À l’improviste, une fourgonnette est passée et ça craquait. Les marchands gonflables dans un rire divertissant. Le temps des riches et des exclus. Vagabonds et souverains. Le temps du désir, de l’amour vain, de la misère, des épreuves, du désespoir. Il prit son journal et créa le haïku qu’il avait commencé vers le début de la journée…

– (d’une oeuvre de fiction en cours)

Jockey-1(Short Fiction)

  • [SHORT FICTION]
”Segui il tuo corso et lascia dir les genti”
(Follow your road and let the people say) 
–Dante Alighieri , ‘The Divine Comedy’
  Purgatorio, Canto V.

 

The Jockey. Who does not know him in the city? He was behind every cultural activity, the organisation of music programs, fairs, and pageantry in the town… The jockey was seen at those free polio vaccine campaigns and cholera awareness crusades and children’s book fair and art classes under Rotary club.  He presented the key oration at functions when the chief guest was late or cancelled the trip due to unforeseen reasons. When celebrities are available for the inauguration, he made the welcome talk or thanksgiving speech. This was in fact towards the end part of his career when I saw him amidst my eighth standard class in the Mission school (Founded by Basel Missionaries). Earlier in life, he used to liberally fund these shows or events but now he is somewhat in dire straits and cannot do so. Still, his presence was honoured. He had a gracious grin and a way with ladies. He could speak daintily, which many women preferred to imposing appearance or some other qualities- He was a good company in general……
Now he recollects in the special ward of the Meradosa  Hospital where his better half was admitted, due to arthritis. and colon predicaments and he is here to help get the medicines or the food for his darling wife when the clinic canteen is not working. The hospital is the major branch in the town for serious patients and sometimes the delivery cases. The main establishment is in another state and it has been noted in the last fifty years or so, for risky cancer operations. The interesting part is that the head doctor of the earlier epoch is himself smarting under the same malady he had healed for decades and is in Europe for a special treatment connected with heat levels to curb the malignant cells and oxygen analeptics,which is said to have cured the  President of a country…..
The old professor had left the hospital. He is replaced by his own student. It must be said to the credit of this student that he was lucky to treat his own teacher, which is sometimes a fascinating fact, using the same techniques one has learned from the master on the master himself. This is an ironical situation in life and I have found the repetition of such a thing in some later scenes.
So this in fact, is a simple tale of ironies. Quite similar to the bard in our state who was fortunate enough to study his own volume of poetry  at the B.A. Honors class [Changampuzha Krishna Pillai, the Malayalam poet – 10 October 1911 – 17 June 1948). I don’t know whether the ingenious teachers  catechized the romantic lyricist, the nitty-gritty of his verses while trying to teach him the very poetry he created… In my life too, some ironies of a similar sort are seen echoed…

I had , several years ago, one such occurrence while vacationing in the fraternity of my extended household that consisted of my wife, many cousins, nephews and nieces and some aged aunties and  uncles. It was a trip that went on for many weeks and once we landed up at a theme park that was modelled on Rajasthani oral lore and archetypes. Some visages and cantons, that have deep connotations to the subconscious psyche of that particular populace. For example, certain words, images or themes that were self-evident and eloquent within the cultural group, but quite alien or even, blasphemous to another passel.
We enjoyed the experience and the group consisted of twelve or thirteen members.  We were jet-setting sometimes in the style of Romany or didicoi. Once the group chanced to be on elephant, and many ladies in the troop were overjoyed at that ‘jolly’ ride and among them were my wife and sister-in-law. My brother-in-law was in steering position, however not replacing the mahout.. I was asked to join but I denied outright knowing that the transport will not be a jolly one, at least from my point of view . In case  the cushions are not quite soft , you will have a hell of a time .Having come from a place with elephants all around, in the festivals and elsewhere, I had known these creatures perhaps, well… For me, the elephant was more like a member of everyday life and there was practically not a single day in my boyhood, that I had gone to school by walking, and not bumped into an elephant….

The elephant in the present story, after a few paces moved awkwardly and my sister-in-law was unco scared, but not my wife, for she was ebullient and had always preferred such adventures and her favourite was ‘Tora Tora’ which I had never ridden in life. Finally, the group landed safely.

Then we reached a swimming pool. I thought it was my turn now. When I saw water, I jumped into it headlong,in minimal clothes and started swimming the pool to and fro and the young folks in our family were watching and in a way admiring, along with other people around who were also viewing the scene. I had a sort of ‘special’ feeling while being the cynosure of so many eyes.. When I came out of the pool, two onlookers who were young asked me the tips to be in such an activity for long. I gave them some sort of clues and marched confidently out of the pool. My brother-in-law, meanwhile was scared to see the water and was just standing by the side of the pool, where children go, not knowing how to swim. He avoided my eyes in such a pathetic moment, because all the time during the trip he was wearing the shades and talking the Mughal talks and I thought now that millions have no use in deep waters and smiled at heart about the false emphasis of people. When I came out of the pool, Shirley auntie, a very distant relative of our extended family, whom I meet only at nuptials or obsequies, reached to me and complimented me in a warm mode. I was fairly pleased or pretty elevated before the thin old lady.

Then my wife beckoned me to a distance and told with a mischievous smile that this auntie was a great swimmer in her twenties and her visiting salon in the country residence is embellished with a multitude of gold and silver commemorations she hoarded at the interstate and global tournaments. That was, in fact, a great lesson of wonderment in my life in that season, and I reminisced that event quite often even years after that, in various stages whenever people expose their petty egos or act oddly at the so-called achievements of life…..I had almost the same downcast air of my brother-in-law when I faced him in the still waters of the tarn. But instead of dodging, I aspired to speak to her that evening, coming to know that old ladies carry mystery…..

 

Scottish Aunt



My aunt, my third uncle’s wife-

In these columns, I think, I had written about my aunt —

Her father was into coal mining in Scotland.

My third uncle’s wife was an English woman by birth. To be exact, she was Scottish, whom my uncle met when he studied in the University of Edinburgh and got married.

I had previously jotted down in one of the earlier posts, how my uncle had to use guile to get hitched to this particular lady, because his father was the most orthodox of people, and abhorred all people who ate meat. Perhaps it is difficult for a modern reader to guess the travails and tribulations my uncle had to get over before, he triumphed in his holy trek towards love. When I met the couple at a later phase of life, I came to understand that this kind a love is worth a hundred or more such previous hazards.

And my aunt shocked everybody in the household because of her adaptability to the local customs, except her faith in her spiritual matters.

Till the old sire kicked the bucket, they both stayed in a separate section of the big household, and seldom showed up at the dining table, though in other areas, their presence was most welcome.

My uncle, you can say was far ahead of his time in many matters, though he wore the most conventional of dresses. This I think was his strategic move to walk and work unhindered in a society that did not approve of any of his views.

He was gentle and calm, and generally of good manners, except for his addiction to bottles at a particular phase, from which he,

in due course got out miraculously.

But none of his rivals was equal to him in wisdom or even looks, and many were very cautious to use the exact words while speaking to him, for they all feared him in a way from the core of their hearts.

Though my auntie lost the good texture of her skin due to long exposure to the hot sun, I must admit that there was a sparkle in her eyes, and a grace in her words, which made her stand out from the crowd.

I think I have also broached that she went with a lady of our neighbourhood to proselytise in rural areas, studying the local language. She was called ‘Madamma sister'[foreigner sister]

My uncle, it must be told that he influenced my attitude to a good extent, that in so many later years, I kept his attitudes to certain things of life, knowing only farther still in time, that it was not actually my view, but his view[and for which I got applause from some quarter],..

One such obiter dictum is about the bird dove, though associated with peace, he said, is quite a jealous bird, and I told it to some people, and this was not exactly my view on the matter, but my uncle’s view, and even now I am not sure about this idea. Some of you readers may know the real truth.

And another view was people who use black cooling glasses should not be trusted, because they want to hide the expressions in their own eyes, at the same time know the expression of others, till at a later stage, I was to live in a hot city and had to use dark cooling glasses regularly in order to protect the eyes from the hot sun and hot wind. I knew the lack of depth in such a judgement.

He was a versatile genius, a good speaker, an adept in musical instruments, composing songs in various ‘ragas’ and had a lot of disciples who came after his afternoon slumber whenever he was at home, to study music. But I did not learn any music from him, though he forced me to read classical works from his vast library, that contained good books in many languages, English, Spanish, French and Slavic languages and made me write a summary of a classical work, I read during that week and regularly check the content. Since my parents were away for work in another distant place, taking my elder sister with them, I was with this uncle’s family for three years. His coaching, though did not make me a scholar, indirectly helped me to get a scholarship for my further studies, and he was the first mentor, who taught me with example the possibilities of a human mind…

My aunt took beet juice and pomegranate juice often and converted a portion of arable land till unused into a farm with a good lot of vegetables and various types of mangoes. The local names of these mangoes were Alphonsa, Kalappadi, Neelam etc. and the mango which we called ‘kalappadi’ was the tastiest ones I ever had in life.Also she culticated

palm trees that gave coconuts in a shorter number of years. We had a poultry too consisting of native[very healthy ones] and foreign Whitelegon, Rhode island red, etc..

My aunt being an English woman was not familiar with the customs of the country. One of the  relatives, a senior lady was appointed for this purpose, to bring her up in the household manners and customs and she ,later became an adept in this matter.There were a couple of old widows in the household who were our relatives, whose children were either not caring them or they were in far off places, and these ladies had extremely orthodox styles  of living and always moved in known circles, doing known things, and talking about known things. In fact they seldom talked except when it is very necessary, but in special functions, they had good roles to execute, because they were adept in some classical topics. My aunt got one among them as her tutor and in a short while became well versed in those themes.She for some months tried to teach me Gaelic and told later that I was her dullest student.

My mother was in government service, first in British and later in the independent nation, and was facing frequent postings in Nasik, Deolali or Madras. When she came for a long vacation, she was a good help to my aunt and she being educated  was less biased.And after retirement, and later after my uncle’s death, these two were to form thick bonds of friendship.

My aunt had prayer sessions in the morning, and it was an open forum, and we youngsters sometimes attended it out of curiosity(she had composed a whole book of hymns from which she sang in her free times. One hymn starts like this and I remember that part well because she repeated it often-My Savior is my friend/What a unique blend/He took my sins and sorrows for a Life without end…… and so on..) One of my cousins who is an agriculturist in the country has written me that her old library is still there in the dilapidated section of our ancient house that had many quarters and yards. Perhaps I may find her manuscripts there and I have planned to go to that area in my next vacation. This aunt, after my uncle’s death went back to Scotland where her younger brother, a miner by profession lived. The last part of her life is shrouded in partial obscurity and most members of our family attest to the fact that she died there and her body was inhumed in a less known Church cemetery in provincial Scotland.

-(From a work of Fiction in progress).

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