Kapitan Niemand

marked the days beginning togetherness.

“Wind swirling and lifting, beating up a fine lather of sand.

Laughter floating in the air, mixing up with abstractions of happiness and timeless bits of the mother.

Ropes and threads, tilting and lifting the soul as and when.

Bricks and mortar, patching and making way to flesh, as shadows move.

Voices in the air, lives come and go.

Rocks on the beach, tide making way and coming back in equal time.

Leaves tilting their heads, ethereal light maestring a fine performance.

Water is around, leading life in it’s wake.

Salt and sweat, playful interludes.

I am you and we are us.

Time & Again.

Be with me and leave me when I am asleep.”

- Abhilash

With P. One of my favourite HRCs and by far the band was unappreciated but brilliant. P still has the drumsticks the drummer gave her. The place is a tribute to the Beatles, more that any of the other HRCs I’ve been to.

None the better or worse for being now owned by the Seminole tribe of Florida, HRC Mumbai was worth the visit. The service has been derided by some press, but I found it’s only the constraint of popularity and not the initiative that is lacking (unlike the London HRC, which stretches the concept of ‘stiff upper lip’ to near rudeness, in spite of boasting the best collection, and a vault). Admittedly, it is crowded. And yet, they did well to dispense with my fear that once we reach, I’ll see Sonu Nigam’s guitar or Bappi Lahiri’s sunglasses framed above the bar. At 6000 sq. ft., it is decidedly large (the third I hear, after Barca and Abu Dhabi, but chirpier than the Barcelona HRC definitely, though the prices are pretty direct conversions of the euro prices, notwithstanding PPP). The quietest HRC I’ve been to in the world is Amsterdam, but that’s probably because it’s a long stoned ride from the main attractions of the city, and the population is mostly visiting tourist. Anyhow, rock on Mumbai.

En route from Mumbai to Paris CDG, and three months later on the ‘retour’. A great duty free. Almost got offloaded EY205, narrowly catching my flight after dozing off in the four and a half hour jet lagged wait on the first floor. Picked up 2 bottles of Glen (got a bag free) and a 20-pack of Lucky Strike. Eyed the Canon Digital EOS.

...stays mainly in the plain.

Not this December though. There was a water shortage in Madrid, as the notice outside the shower room at Los Amigos said. True to it’s name though, the Los Amigos hostel, at the Metro stop Opera and a little off Grand Via, was a great place to make friends, which Joe and I did while we were there.

Of course, the first day at least, we did the whole Madrid on a shoestring touristy routine. First stop Grand Via, and then covering the Royal Palace, the Cathedral (Alumenda), a cheap city tour on the circle route 2 bus, the edificio espana, the egyptian temple De Bod, et al and the promise of topping it off with drinks at bohemian Chueca. Of course, a good amount of the afternoon was spent at Del Prado, admiring the two Majas and other Goyas, plus the singular Rembrandt. Missed finding out if I had the stomach for a bullfight, because there weren’t any scheduled while I was there. Slept till late the next morning, after Cana de Espana with newfound amigos from the hostel, and made my way to Sergovia, before returning to Madrid en route to San Sebastian.

Welcome sunlight after the Parisian december night, stayed at La Ramblas, a great youth hostel which seemed funnily and favourably skewed in its gender distribution. But who’s complaining? Got shafted with a 3.5 euro tapas the size of my thumbnail at Qu Qu. Walked five hours and into the night, declining the furnicular, up till the cathedral.

Took a raincheque on the Parc Güell and FCB. Spent the first evening at Rambla de Mar and finding the Torre Agbar for some pot shots with my digital. Caught a movie being shot at La Ramblas, nightlife (mainly at the Travel Bar). Slept through the next morning, a brief visit at La Sagrada Familia, most of the day at la Rambla, and off to Madrid.

Si, Me gusta!

Wrong season. Wrong budget. My error.

Sante! mezv-dall… Hic!

“The movie will begin in five moments,
The mindless voice announced,
All those unseated will await the next show.”

The cemetery, and all that makes it, is an unfortunate excuse for a tourist destination more than the repository of Jim’s body or soul, or that of Wilde or any of the others for that matter. If there is one place in the world I would not like to be buried, it is at the Cimetière du Père Lachaise. Scatter my ashes off La Pointe du Raz any day. I am sure now, that his soul is not here… perhaps, even less is. And yet, one must go, to know that.

Perhaps a full moon night at the cemetery must be stolen and an offering of a different nature made to evoke what one cannot recognise by day… behind the iron fencing, the worn album cover, the withering dandelions and the watchful gaze of the uniformed Sûreté.