Escape from Crete

I'd hate to be Minotaur stuck in the Labyrinth. There's not a door, not a window, not a hole dug through an outside wall.

It's comfortable here, to be fair - Daedalus saw to that. The poor sod, he was tricked by the treacherous Minos too. If I hadn't shared my food with him, he wouldn't have lasted two days. Skin and bones, he was, glued to his craft. These are his books here, actually. It took him a while to get used to the taste of human flesh. 

"But D-Man", I said to him, "you gotta eat. How else will you escape this place?" He didn't think there was any escaping possible, he told me. He was proud of this maze he'd built. A proud man. But a naïve man. Seriously, who trusts a king that gets his own queen to do it with a bull? A mighty fine bull, might I add - that's who I get my looks from - but a bull and a human! The cows never gave him the time of day after that.

Daedalus is a true friend, though. I mean, who else would construct a palace for a monster? Yeah, you heard that right. It maybe tough to get out of, but it's a right ripsnorter. He even had an oven installed. He told me, "Min-min, you have human hands. You have no excuse not to learn to cook." That we were short on single-ingredient recipes never fazed him.

He took to eating and cooking human flesh like a champ. Me, I'd have eaten the diseased meat raw. But it was nice to have company at mealtimes. And D-Man couldn't have survived the rotting food. That's what they used to throw down to me. All those who died healthy wanted decent last rites, not end up as some freak's dinner. No, our food largely involved leprosy and flesh rotting diseases. My friend tried to study them by keeping the freshest looking corpse for the longest. But he isn't really a biologist (don't tell him I said that!) I encouraged him as I could, offering to gouge out particularly interesting parts with my horns.

But it all ended too soon. His son turned up one day. What a weird fellow he was - obsessed with wings. He had only been searching for his dad because he couldn't get the wings stuck on himself. Daedalus cleverly thought of wax as an adhesive. And then Icarus, the selfish son, told his father to dream bigger and higher, insisting he wanted the whole pair of wings to be constructed of wax. I should have called out his idiocy, but who am I to come between father and son?

My friend agreed with a heavy heart. He knew he should be with his son, if only to keep him safe from his stupid ideas. But I understood.

I understood he would miss me as much as I'd miss him. But neither of us uttered a word about it. Icarus was new to this dynamic, he wouldn't get it. It was best to keep our feelings from him.

It was easy enough to get into the Labyrinth, as Icarus had discovered. The question was how to get out. Yes, the two could fly now, but that had only been tested indoors. They needed a large enough hole in the roof and there was no conceivable way to make one.

In the meantime the food supply started to run low. After all, there were three people now surviving on rations meant only for me. 

What Happened Between Scylla and Charybdis

People had warned me against Sicily. They had told me about the Mafia and con men. But my experiences are, at best, tame and universally occurring.

I landed in the port closest to Sicily in mainland Italy at 6:35 AM. Spending the night on the train with three other wonderful women (who spoke no English) had put me in a mood that wanted to take everything that came my way with a smile on my face. One of these wonderful women seemed to be going my way to the ferry. By dint of sheer willpower, she explained to me the next ferry would be at 7:15 AM. Along comes a mop-wielding man to clean the ticket office. While he sold me the ticket easily enough, he was insistent I didn't loiter in the vicinity for more than ten minutes before ferry departure.

So I lounged about a dilapidated escalator when a scatter-haired man offered, "Are you Indian?"
"Yes."
"I'm just coming from India."
Curiosity piqued, "Oh, where in India?"
"Delhi, Rajasthan, Orchha, Agra..." he goes on. He's the third European I've met who has told me they have been to Orchha. Some time, I really need to go and see for myself what's so attractive to tourists there.

Scatter-Hair showed me the luggage tag to prove he was indeed flying from Delhi. I squinted, but still couldn't read. Nevertheless, I swore requisite loyalty in vague and non-verbal terms. Encouraged, he informed me that the Strait of Messina is the only place in the world where the train is carried on board the ferry. If there was a big enough ferry ready to set sail when the train arrived, he said we could be lucky to see the operation in motus. But not if us lowly foot passengers were boring enough to take the first ferry out, regardless of size and train-carrying capacity. Turned out, we were lucky and were spared the ignominy of appearing insipid. The ferry was sufficiently massive and I could view THE sight (described for my purposes in How to Take a Train Across the Strait of Messina - thanks JetSetCD!). Man, I might as well have stayed on the train! But if I had, how would I have encountered the whirlpool Charybdis? Odysseus-like, I witnessed the ferry monster (though lacking the six heads of Scylla) gulping down our train. In fact, the meek little thing seemed to willingly submit itself to its fate as it slithered down the wide-open bow. I realised much later that I was on top of the prey. Which was cool, as I'd never before climbed atop a train.

On the deck, there was some ogling going on - at me. After several unheeded attempts, the man walked across and said something. I was still in the mood which wanted-to-take-everything-that-came-my-way-with-a-smile-on-my-face. So I went, "No Italiani."
"Non parlano Italiano?" he persisted. Just in case, probably.
"Si," when I meant No. But what the hell.

He scratched his unmentionables looking thoughtfully at me. "Tu solo?"
"Si."
More scratching. And then it started drizzling.

He motioned me inside the lounge area. Well, there was nowhere else to go. He sat opposite me. My photo session was getting to be bad business, as Mr Weather and Ms Luck had parted ways. Anyway, there's only so much that interests you from inside a ferry's lounge. He pointed at his wrist and asked something. I assumed he meant the time and began taking my mobile phone out to check. He walked up to me and tapped on the ganglion cyst in my wrist. Super sweet thing to do, if you ask me. I shrugged. He returned the shrug with a smile.

Scratch, scratch.

"Psst," I heard after a while. When I turned, he was pointing to his ring finger with another question. For what joy I told him the truth, I don't know. But I did. Abruptly, he asked in English, "You are my friend?" I conveniently assumed him to mean that he was my friend and replied, "Grazie!"

Scatter-Hair ambled in and there commenced a glowering contest between him and Unmentionables-Scratcher, shortly after which the latter disappeared.

And I set foot in Sicily.

Huh?!

A cat this is not,
For you that I’ve bought.
A gift in red -
You can tell it’s dead.
If nine lives had it,
Nothing can save you from being BIT!

Braggartry

Honestly, there is no reason for me to post this here. A few of us in the team had got promoted and were throwing a party, which had to be postponed. After years and years, this found me delving into my hidden repository of rhyme and...

Ahoy CoE!

It's time once again to dance under the disco light
and sing and gorge through the night!

It's the CoE Promotion Party!!!

<Details on venue, menu etc.>

Voting Button Rules:

While clicking "I'm In" would gladden the heart,
A chance for a negative option has to depart!!

- The Party Hosts

Hi Again CoE!

The sensation of addressing a large group is great

Despite having resulted from a quirk of Fate

That our enthusiasm has not reduced is known

And the party excitement nowhere near gone

But something has sprung up in its stead

And several issues this has bred.

Let us update you on the plans anew:

Travel exigencies have come up for a few.

In Tuesday's plan of being jolly and festive

a change in schedule is hence imperative

Not much is known now of the correct day

But you can be sure it's not far away

Please be assured we shall write to you

As soon as probable dates are reviewed.

Thanks for all the patience shown hitherto

In reading this lengthy excuse and surviving through!

If I'm God, save me from myself

Director Bala, in intermittent conversation with Kriti
(because he values her opinion)

Three years back

B: I'm planning to make another film.
K: Sure. Do go ahead.
B: It's about an Aghori who is plucked from his habitat in Kashi.
K: Aghori? Oh, that stuff reminds me of Kipling's The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes.
B: Stop pretending to know all about everything. Do you know how the plot is going to unfold?
K: [Peeved] I'm sure you don't either.
B: [Changing the subject] These are abstract ideas - good and evil, life and death, salvation and rebirth. It is for the cognescenti to comprehend all that and present it in a manner a lay person would understand.
K: Highly convenient that cinema is toted to be something everyone easily understands. Anyway, why would you want to take some Aghori out of his Kashi context? Where would you put him?
B: Is that so tough to figure? Obviously interior Tamil Nadu, where I can use my creative genius to the fullest. From my experience I have come to know that urban Chennaiites believe whatever we film-makers portray in our movies about rural Tamil Nadu as absolutely true.
K: I've noticed. Churn out a new concept amidst gory scenes, and rest assured the coffers will fill - isn't that your style? Plenty of scope for your Aghori to turn cannibalistic!
B: Great idea, though I don't think our Censor Board will approve... Sigh!
K: Ummm... I get the feeling you're willing to devote some more time into developing the story. I errr... have to meet someone. Before you ask, we're just friends.
B: [Levers moving furiously in his brain] Aghori shunning cannibalism... Aghori being a cannibal... Aghori saving someone from a cannibal and getting a Man Friday...
Uh, yeah... Carry on...
Aghori falling in love with a cannibal...

Some two and a half years back

B: Which character did you find most striking in Oliver Twist?
K: The Artful Dodger.
B: I've scripted him into my Aghori movie. Him and Fagin.
K: Kewl! I guess it makes life so much easier when well-etched characters are readily available. So, what's the connection between the thieves and hermit?
B: Give me SOME credit! My story doesn't have petty thieves. It showcases the sad plight of beggars, how they...
K: Let me guess - how they have some kind of a monster for a master, but sure enough there is a kind soul in the group who is unfortunately cornered, who is helpless.
B: Wow?! Something told me this is the right thing an Aghori should battle against. Though how these two are to be linked beats me...
K: Oh, it will come along. If you don't mind, I have some recruitment to do.

One year back

K: Beggar cast ready?
B: Almost. Arya and Pooja strike well together, don't they?
K: [Dreamily] "Biriyani-ya kushka-va?"
B: What? Oh! I'm counting on just that effect which Arya has on women.
K: ARYA?!!! The best choice to show off a near-nude bod ! You'd have to use dubbing, though. The poor dear has a sad knack of making Tamizh sound so painful... But then, being an Aghori he won't have a lot of dialogues, would he?
B: In Tamizh no, but in Sanskrit and even a little Hindi. I'm leaving no stone unturned to make my story sound credible.
K: Story...???
B: Go away! Get on with banging on your ERP system. I've got loads of work...

Six months back

K: What's with the "Aham Brahmasmi"? If he's Brahma, the Creator, how come he believes himself to be Kaal Bhairav, the Destroyer?
B: No wonder folks call you Miss Curious. Did you enjoy watching Arya?
K: I enjoyed the way his hair magically combs itself whenever his eyes need to be seen.
B: An actor should always look presentable. Or else he would lose his appeal. But I did bestow immense care on his costume.
K: Yeah, I noticed his sandals changed to Fitness shoes when he had to go jumping from rock to rock.
B: Anyway, I've successfully moved the Tamizh cinema-goers away from the run-of-the-mill romances and the humble hero fighting social evils.
K: By getting God in human form to end human trafficking. Tell me, what is it that Pooja was trying to convey towards the end? Do you think talking endlessly was her method of settling scores with Arya for hearing her sing the first time?
B: In case a Hollywood buff didn't realise, Naan Kadavul is the first of it's kind in Indian cinema.
K: I bet you expect an award is not far away - for Best Story!
B: Naah... Awards are not my style.
K: Whatever. People in Europe are waiting for me...
B: It's God's blessings that I seek. Om Aghoraaya Namaha!

Very recent past

B: It feels wonderful that the audience is comparing my film with Saw and Apocalypto... While my only intention was to prove to Surya and Vikram that they have competition!
K: Are you buying them DVDs of Fear Factor? Reality shows can also bring out the actors in people...
B: Eh?
K: Don't bother. I'll go run the payroll. And entertain myself by watching English movies on TV.

Disclaimer:

1. It pains me to reveal that Bala had never taken any directions from me.
2. There are those who believe the film is good and hard-hitting. I silently snigger.

How much is €9 worth in terms of Flamenco?

Although I say it myself, I'd planned out my Spain trip well, giving every place just as much time as I needed in it. The only exception was Granada, where had I stayed the night, I'd have been able to catch a Flamenco performance. Actually, the Andalucia area of Spain (Granada being part of it) is where Flamenco is supposed to have originated. To top it all, my Segway guide had shown me Venta El Gallo, saying it was the best place to see Flamenco. Just cause for me to be miffed at setting off to Valencia, instead of spending the night at Granada and going straight to Barcelona the next day? Yes, hindsight made me think so too. But my aim while booking the train tickets was to save the hotel expense for a night. I suppose you could replace that "miffed" with "a tad disappointed".

With Barcelona turning out to be such a bore, and me getting a discount having taken the City Sightseeing tour, what other choice did I have than ending my vacation with a gala Catalan Flamenco?

So when the Bus Turistic stopped near Las Ramblas, I rushed to Teatre Poliorama. By a very sweet lady who spoke great English, I was from there guided to Palau de la Música Catalana, where I could use my discount for the same night. In my mind, I'd pictured a Royal Opera House sell-out show, for which I'd have to shell out €100. If it had been so, I was determined to go the whole hog and get a dress, matching shoes and a trendy clutch-bag from Zara. Well yeah, haven't you heard of "throwing good money after bad"? In any case, one more dress and a pair of shoes never hurt a girl. Agreed that a clutch lying unused would be a shame, but if it was going to be a hundred-euro opera, I had to be dressed for it, hadn't I?

It turned out that a good seat costed €27 (after discount) and a place behind the performers came to €18. I was impressed the way the lady at the counter showed me both the seat as well as the view from there on a monitor facing me. The costlier one was surprisingly good, as even though it was quite a distance from the stage, there happened to be nothing directly in my line of vision. The cheaper was... well, it was behind the stage. I leave you to guess what I went for.

Either way, Zara missed a customer in me and I remained in my cargoes.

Night fell, and I re-entered Palau Música. There was a sharp intake - both of breath and of the modernista (a word that I heard every other minute in Barcelona, thanks to Antoni Gaudí) interiors of the Palace of Catalan Music. As I climbed the steps to the segundo piso, I felt vaguely uncomfortable at not having gone the Zara route. But there was nothing that could be done about it now; I mentally shrugged my inadequately draped shoulders.

The lights dimmed, the singers and musicians appeared, the audience clapped politely. Gradually, the lights on the stage also dimmed and the dancers trooped in wearing unexpectedly simple costumes. They danced quite well and exited the stage. Leaving the musicians to unleash the magic all on their own. There were two male singers, between who sat a female singer. To their right were a percussionist and two guitarists. All three musicians were young and something hot. (They were Spanish - need anything more be said?!) But all said and done, music without dance isn't my cuppa tea. Then entered a solo dancer and tapped her feet and twirled her arms looking, for all intents and purposes, like a gazelle clothed in green, but I still wasn't getting my money's worth.

Suddenly to my (and I think most of the spectators') surprise, the female singer walked into the spotlight, began to sing, and dance! We all know how difficult it is to do both at the same time, but she managed it with élan, and to a resounding applause. For good reason too, as it wasn't just a middle-aged lady having a shot at something practised years ago. It was (from what I could tell) as good Flamenco as the three young dancers' - only it was a much shorter piece ensconced within the larger vocal routine.

After the multi-tasker had returned to her seat, came the other dancer in a dress that must have made the entire female audience swoon with delight. It was pink, had a tail and the way the dancer had it about her, reminded me of a tulip in half-bloom - spectacular! But that was just the beginning. I was wondering how she could possibly tap dance with that kind of a dress on, and figured it would only be a series of elaborate - and slow - steps. But my reasoning was shattered into smithereens each time she delicately swooped the dress away with her leg when it came in her way. Ummm... let me rephrase. Playing with the tail of the dress seemed as much part of the dance as the fan <more swooning!> was. Ooooh, "heavenly" falls meaninglessly short of describing the spectacle! Thunderous applause.

I couldn't help feeling the male dancer was short-changed in his attire. It wasn't even the puffy-sleeved dress that I'd seen in 'Alex & Emma'. A very staid three-piece suit, albeit sparkling, did nothing to match the drama which the gowns of the female dancers thrust upon them. I watched him effortlessly overcome this handicap. You see, the dancers were not standing directly on the stage, but on a slab placed on the floor. When the man danced, we, perforce, had to notice that the whole slab was made of six segments, each of which when tapped emanated a different note. He did nothing much with his arms (I vaguely remember him with just his hands on his hips, at times [un]buttoning his jacket), but somehow got us to focus all our attention on his movements from one slab-segment to the other, producing an effect underlined by the absence of any other music.

Standing ovation - and if it weren't such a posh place, I'm sure there would have been calls for an encore and bouquets flying towards the stage!!!

Another dance with all three of them was the final piece. I need to tell you that when they bowed to the audience, they didn't forget the ones in €18 seats behind them!

It all lasted an hour and a half and I wanted to take a tube back to my hotel. Before signing off this set of posts, I have to share one more incident with you - on How I Lost €1.45 To The Barcelona Metro Because It Thinks Everyone Is A Left-hander. I had bought a single ticket, inserted it in the slot and tried to walk through the turnstile at the left of the slot (which is how gates in London and all other cities with a metro operate). Nothing happened. I then saw another couple facing the same problem. The lady was left-handed and automatically tried the stile on the right. She mentioned this to her husband, who had been doing it my way in vain. Unfortunately, since our single tickets had already been passed through the slots, it would not allow us re-entry. We had to get another one. Pshaw!!

In effect, this isn't just a blog on €9, but €10.45.

Finding your balance as a valence electron at Valencia

Yeah, I know the title's pedantic, but allow me to justify its relevance. Valence electrons in an atom are those that are free to form bonds with other atoms (resulting in molecules). And, here I was, for all that I could see, the only Indian in Valencia, out to mix with the Spanish junta, probably to create cultural ties. You may snigger at my highhandedness, but that's what tourists do - we leave behind a little bit of our culture and take away a bit of theirs - simplistically speaking, creating cultural ties!

Anyway, continuing from my earlier post, I arrived at Valencia Nord amidst all the darkness that 5 o'clock of an August morning can muster. Thankfully, it's a city large enough to have people mulling around even at that time. So, I started rummaging my suitcase, pretending to be busy, giving anyone who cared to notice the impression that I was in the station only until my train arrived, and would be off in a jiffy. In other words - no mucking around possible - beware! (Sigh, the precautions women have to take...)

But I'd three hours to myself, because you see, the Left Luggage opened only at 8 o'clock. Hmmm... So, I had breakfast. Petulantly, because the guy who came in after I did was served first. And the lady at the counter conveniently assumed I was "with him" and didn't bother to ask me what I wanted. After 5 minutes of banging my fist on the counter I succeeded in making my presence as a customer felt "separate" from the Spanish guy. I had tea and a funny spinach-filled samosa.

I washed up wondering why there are no shower rooms in railway stations (I mean, there was one in Kolkata!) and commenced my hunt for a plug point to charge my mobile phone. The lady at a croissant shop pointed to one. Did you know the mains in Spain are for public consumption, and you're not stealing electricity if you plug your gadget in one? So, I bought a croissant from her, heaved a sigh of relief and sat down with my Lonely Planet in the hope of charting out the day's potential adventures - a mighty boring task, I should say. I didn't get much out of the book and decided to have a second breakfast - the aforementioned croissant.

I then lapped up the remaining few pages of my Agatha Christie, when a stream of people started trickling into the station - hard-working office goers. I must confess the last thought in my head was of office. And right now, when I'm typing this, I'm relieved it was so. At last it was 8, my phone was charged, I deposited my suitcase and set out to explore the city. I find the Tourist Information opened at 9. What do I do but have another breakfast - vegetable sandwich and tea. I don't know why Europe's so big on asparagus (I shudder each time I think of the asparagus in Luxembourg, which I had to deal with using a knife and fork. What the devil is one supposed to spear the fork into, if the dratted thing simply tears apart soon as it's touched?) as the sandwich had generous helpings of the vegetable, but that's the fate of the vegetarian traveller.

You can find out more on the sights in Valencia from my photo album. I'm only keen on telling you how I came to have two lunches. There's this baguette place where a cute guy offered to custom-make a vegetarian jacket potato (Yes Shilpa, jacket potatoes once again!) for me. I was thrilled to bits. And floored when I tasted the first morsel - it was that good. I gulped it down along with freshly squeezed orange juice and was happy as a child given a brightly-coloured balloon. I went out with a smile on my lips but something told me to go back there and have some more. Not that I was very hungry mind you, it had just tasted that great.

What do I do but go and ask for a jacket potato with some OTHER stuffing, "with aubergines this time, please." When my second lunch came, it had aubergines in it all right, but with asparagus not far behind. My life reeled in front of my eyes as I choked on the serpent. I realised I'd not given the hotel address to my family. Who was I kidding - I was not staying at a hotel in Valencia! There was no way anyone would know should I pass on in Valencia!! With supreme willpower, I swallowed the slimy monster and resolved never to have 3 breakfasts and 2 lunches again. And certainly have nothing more to do with asp(aragus).