Shoe-Shopping
This title is as unimaginative and boring as the activity itself.
Let me let you in on one of my best kept secrets - When it comes to shopping, I was born the wrong sex. And for some horrible reason, it is presumed that all women are just supposed to know this as if it were some genetically-embedded, pre-historic basic instinct that the survival of the entire species depended on! Not only am I treated like a social outcast when I don't go over shopping-bag(s) full of the day's kill with my female friends, when I'm in a shopping-mall, I actually feel like a fish out of water!
So now that we have established that I belong to that small, dying breed of women who don't believe in the benefits of retail-therapy (even though I have had some ridiculously impulsive adventures with my debit card), you will understand how hard it is for me to be stuck in Russia at the start of the winter in dire need of a brand-new winter wardrobe!
Last week it became evident that I had dealt my best card in terms of winter-clothing. As the temperature dipped below my appetite for shopping, I knew it was time to go sh...shh...shop! So Anya, Meritxell and I made it a Ladies' Day Out sort of a thing and went to MEGA at Ulitsa Dibenko.
With every shop, every try-room, every sweater and every shoe, I was just craving to find something I would like so I could buy what I needed and get the hell out of there. A couple of hours down, we were done with my knit-wear items but one big thing still remained on the agenda - shoes! I needed winter-shoes that would keep the water and ice out and keep me warm.
If there's anything I hate more than shopping, it's shopping for shoes! I think it's probably because the pressure of getting it right is much more. With clothes, you buy plenty. There's plenty of variety, colours, styles etc. And if you suddenly realise - within the 30 day return period - that it wasn't meant for you, you can still exchange it or get your money back. But shoes are a very different game. You buy fewer of them and hence wear the same thing more often. Plus, even if you wore it once or twice, worn shoes are practically impossible to return. And then there is the fact that a slightly wrong size with the clothes may make you look a little out of shape but a mistake like that on the shoe front would kill your feet! In fact, shoe shopping can be a lot like getting married!
And last Sunday proved to be the ultimate nightmare to pick a pair I would take home with me! There were black shoes, brown shoes, white, beige and grey. There were boots with fur and no heels, there were boots with heels and no fur. Some looked too feminine and some didn't look feminine enough. After a couple of hours, I realised there was no scope for love at first sight. Nothing seemed to impress me much, nothing caught my eye that I would even want to try it...
Given my desperate situation - the fact I was running out of time and really needed winter shoes for the following week's snow forecasts, Anya and Meritxell began to arrange a match. I still don't think I was feeling it yet with any pair of shoes I saw but I guess at least I had started to try them out. Some that didn't look so nice initially, didn't look so bad when I tried them but within five minutes started to hurt! Some others looked great but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get my feet into them! Another couple of hours later, I had started to doubt my feet. Wasn't there any pair of shoes that would fit? Wasn't there anything that would look nice and feel great? Meritxell's boots were so nice and comfy and Anya's shoes - cool and classy. Was there really nothing out there for me? Was it too much to ask to unite my feet and the ONE pair of shoes in holy matrimony till death do us apart? (And hopefully the shoe would predecease me!)
After much persuasion, consultation and walking around with one pair of black shoes at ECCO, I decided to buy them and take them home. They fit fine and felt good. Their soft and light fur lining inside was pampering. They looked a bit tougher than I usually like but the shop assistant said that they were water-proof, kept the warmth in and water out so I guess that was for a reason. Perhaps, I just grew into them. I took a deep-breath and walked down the store aisle holding this black pair in my left hand and my debit card in my right. This was it...
PS - Has it ever happened to you that you bought a pair of shoes and within 5 minutes of the purchase saw another pair that seemed to be so much sexier and cooler? I found something exactly like that at Zara...but oh well...I really meant it when I said, "till death do us apart!"
I'm a Slave 4 U
Last thing before I kick-start my Saturday morning (now afternoon) with something more productive than blogging about shoe-shopping...
I have come to realise that at this time in St. Petersburg all Britney Spears songs can be sung to the Sun (that big yellow thing in the sky that's absconding!)
(Oh baby baby...Oh baby baby)
Oh baby baby, how was I supposed to know
That something wasnt right here...
Oh baby baby, I shouldn't have let you goooooo
And now you're out of sight (yeah)
Show me how you want it to be
Tell me baby coz I need to know now, oh because...
My loneliness is killing me (and I...)
I must confess I still believe (still believe...)
When I'm not with you I lose my mind
Give me a sign, hit me baby one more time!
Or...
It’s getting late to give you up
I took a sip from my devil's cup
Slowly...it’s taking over me
With a taste of your lips
I'm on a ride
You're toxic, I'm slipping under
With a taste of a poison paradise
I'm addicted to you...Don't you know that you're toxic!
And I love what you do...Don't you know that you're toxic!
Intoxicate me now
With your lovin' now
I think I'm ready now
And the winner is...
What's practical and logical - What the hell, who cares?
All I know is I'm so happy when you're dancing there
I'm a sla-a-a-a-ave for you....
I cannot hold it; I cannot control it
I'm a sla-a-a-a-ave for you....
I won't deny it; I'm not trying to hide it
Baby, don't you wanna, dance upon me?
Friday, 21 November 2008
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Where did the Fire go?
Sometimes, I wonder what happened to India? Are we the same nation of Mahatma Gandhi, Chandrashekhar Azad and Bhagat Singh that ranks as one of the lowest on Transparency International surveys because corruption has gotten the better of the Mera Bharat Mahaan (My India is Great) idea?
Today, I stumbled upon an amazing poem written by Ram Prasad Bismil, one of India's greatest freedom fighters, 'Safaroshi ki tamanna ab hamare dil mein hai' (The desire for sacrifice is now in our hearts) I've known of it for ages but I think today was the first time I actually listened to what it was saying! I will translate my favourite lines but if you don't speak Hindi/Urdu, I know I cannot recreate the effect this poem has. So do forgive me for unfortunately, much will get lost in translation!
Hum to ghar se nikale hi the bandh kar sar pe kafan
Jaan hatheli par liye lo bad chalein hain yeh kadam
Zindagi to apni mehmaan maut ki mehfil me hai
Sarfaroshi ki tamanna ab humare dil mein hai
...
Duur rah paye jo hamse, dum kanha manzil mein hai
Sarfaroshi ki tamanna ab humare dil mein hai
(We left our homes dressed in cerements
We march on knowing that we may have to give up our lives
Our life is but a brief guest in this atmosphere of death
The desire for sacrifice is now in our hearts
...
There isn't a goal that has the strength to keep itself from us
The desire for sacrifice is now in our hearts)
These bits are my favourite because they make me cry! I feel overcome by this infectious desire that Azad and Bhagat Singh had to change India and get independence from the Brits! If you aren't Indian (or Pakistani or Bangladeshi), those names are probably not familiar to you! Gandhi may have won us our Independence but these names are as immortal, in fact their sacrifice greater than Gandhi's. Hate me all you want but I feel that Gandhi made the Indian Independence Movement some sort of a spiritual struggle, a mental experiment so to speak. And who knows if we got independence because of the over-celebrated ahimsa (non-violence) or as one consipracy theory alleges, because her Majesty's treasury had nothing left in it after the Second World War to run a country as large as ours!
Don't get me wrong! I don't think one should kill people to achieve things. I think 'life' - whoever's it is - is precious and should be respected. But what if you are cornered? Isn't it our basic instinct to fight? Does a gazelle sit and practice non-violence in front of a hungry lioness hoping the latter will become calorie conscious and let its meal go?
Non-violence had its benefits. The public opinion in Britain was in our favour. Had we been blowing up trains and public places where, believe it or not "Dogs and Indians (were) not allowed", the colonial whip would have certainly fallen harder on our spine! But I think non-violence created tonnes and tonnes of free-riders (who got independence for no sacrifice!) and it left this free-riding attitude in our blood! Had we been fighting and dying together, perhaps Pakistan would never have been created because it would have been our struggle - something we did together, something we died for together, something we both valued! But no, instead we were non-violently sitting on our asses and debating the two nation theory!
When I look at Russia, the story is so different. Till date, this country celebrates its war-heroes! And these were not just Admirals and Generals, these were ordinary people who ran buses, worked in the post-offices, studied at schools, stayed at home and took care of the children. When the shit hit the fan, while the Admirals and Generals gave orders and steered their forces, these people drove tanks, decoded enemy messages and signals, worked in ammunition factories and took care of the sick in hospitals. An estimated 20 million people died from the Soviet Union in the Second World War and virtually every family was affected. And whilst British and American history books would have you believe that they won the war, the truth is that they reached Berlin after the Soviets did!
And here is where I start to get angry. The Brits were not giving India freedom but they wanted her people to fight a war for freedom in Europe! Rudyard Kipling could just as easily have called his book, "The White Man's Hypocrisy". And what's worse is that India has forgotten that we did this! In my knowledge (and please correct me if I'm wrong), India Gate is the only monument for Indian soldiers who died in WWI and it wasn't even created by Indians but by the British architect Edwin Lutyens! And, I am yet to come across ANY Second World War monument in India!
This is how we forget things- When I did history in school, I knew of only two parties: Gandhi's The Indian National Congress and The Muslim League. There was never a squeak about The Hindu Mahasabha (the present day BJP) or Azad's Hindu Socialist Republican Association etc. Just like the people in Britain and America who believe that they won the war, we think Gandhi and the Congress won us independence through non-violence! We obviously would not have gotten there without them, but why aren't other heroes as (or even less) celebrated? Why was the statue of Bhagat Singh recently unveiled at the Indian Parliament an absolutely farcical representation of the man? Why has Gandhi hijacked Indian currency notes? Don't Chandrashekhar Azad, Bhagat Singh, Lala Lajpat Rai, Ashfaqullah Khan...have likeable faces?
When we think we got independence through non-violence, we think we can get anyting through non-violence. And we often interpret non-violence as not doing anything!
There is a terrorist attack - The Government needs to increase security and hunt these people down
A 5 year old girl gets raped - This will never happen to me plus there are so many women's organisations and I'm sure they'll make plenty of noise
Pot-holes on Delhi roads because of cement corruption - Shouldn't the Supreme Court start a Public Interest Litigation?
Mayawati spends the State Contingency Fund money for her birthday - I am quite horrified but let me change the channel and watch something else
The media thinks the Shah Rukh-Salman fight is bigger than the 300 million people in India who go the bed hungry everyday - Hmmm, so do I!
Do the likes of Azad and Bhagat Singh ever wonder that this is what they died for? For wimps like us??? (And I'm equally guilty because sometimes I think things are too dirty for me to clean-up that I don't even try!)
Come on guys - Where did the Fire go? Let's pick a cause, anything at all, even a small one, and do something, anything at all so that we are not guilty of ignoring the great sacrifices that went into getting this independence we take for granted!
Inquilab Zindabad!
Today, I stumbled upon an amazing poem written by Ram Prasad Bismil, one of India's greatest freedom fighters, 'Safaroshi ki tamanna ab hamare dil mein hai' (The desire for sacrifice is now in our hearts) I've known of it for ages but I think today was the first time I actually listened to what it was saying! I will translate my favourite lines but if you don't speak Hindi/Urdu, I know I cannot recreate the effect this poem has. So do forgive me for unfortunately, much will get lost in translation!
Hum to ghar se nikale hi the bandh kar sar pe kafan
Jaan hatheli par liye lo bad chalein hain yeh kadam
Zindagi to apni mehmaan maut ki mehfil me hai
Sarfaroshi ki tamanna ab humare dil mein hai
...
Duur rah paye jo hamse, dum kanha manzil mein hai
Sarfaroshi ki tamanna ab humare dil mein hai
(We left our homes dressed in cerements
We march on knowing that we may have to give up our lives
Our life is but a brief guest in this atmosphere of death
The desire for sacrifice is now in our hearts
...
There isn't a goal that has the strength to keep itself from us
The desire for sacrifice is now in our hearts)
These bits are my favourite because they make me cry! I feel overcome by this infectious desire that Azad and Bhagat Singh had to change India and get independence from the Brits! If you aren't Indian (or Pakistani or Bangladeshi), those names are probably not familiar to you! Gandhi may have won us our Independence but these names are as immortal, in fact their sacrifice greater than Gandhi's. Hate me all you want but I feel that Gandhi made the Indian Independence Movement some sort of a spiritual struggle, a mental experiment so to speak. And who knows if we got independence because of the over-celebrated ahimsa (non-violence) or as one consipracy theory alleges, because her Majesty's treasury had nothing left in it after the Second World War to run a country as large as ours!
Don't get me wrong! I don't think one should kill people to achieve things. I think 'life' - whoever's it is - is precious and should be respected. But what if you are cornered? Isn't it our basic instinct to fight? Does a gazelle sit and practice non-violence in front of a hungry lioness hoping the latter will become calorie conscious and let its meal go?
Non-violence had its benefits. The public opinion in Britain was in our favour. Had we been blowing up trains and public places where, believe it or not "Dogs and Indians (were) not allowed", the colonial whip would have certainly fallen harder on our spine! But I think non-violence created tonnes and tonnes of free-riders (who got independence for no sacrifice!) and it left this free-riding attitude in our blood! Had we been fighting and dying together, perhaps Pakistan would never have been created because it would have been our struggle - something we did together, something we died for together, something we both valued! But no, instead we were non-violently sitting on our asses and debating the two nation theory!
When I look at Russia, the story is so different. Till date, this country celebrates its war-heroes! And these were not just Admirals and Generals, these were ordinary people who ran buses, worked in the post-offices, studied at schools, stayed at home and took care of the children. When the shit hit the fan, while the Admirals and Generals gave orders and steered their forces, these people drove tanks, decoded enemy messages and signals, worked in ammunition factories and took care of the sick in hospitals. An estimated 20 million people died from the Soviet Union in the Second World War and virtually every family was affected. And whilst British and American history books would have you believe that they won the war, the truth is that they reached Berlin after the Soviets did!
And here is where I start to get angry. The Brits were not giving India freedom but they wanted her people to fight a war for freedom in Europe! Rudyard Kipling could just as easily have called his book, "The White Man's Hypocrisy". And what's worse is that India has forgotten that we did this! In my knowledge (and please correct me if I'm wrong), India Gate is the only monument for Indian soldiers who died in WWI and it wasn't even created by Indians but by the British architect Edwin Lutyens! And, I am yet to come across ANY Second World War monument in India!
This is how we forget things- When I did history in school, I knew of only two parties: Gandhi's The Indian National Congress and The Muslim League. There was never a squeak about The Hindu Mahasabha (the present day BJP) or Azad's Hindu Socialist Republican Association etc. Just like the people in Britain and America who believe that they won the war, we think Gandhi and the Congress won us independence through non-violence! We obviously would not have gotten there without them, but why aren't other heroes as (or even less) celebrated? Why was the statue of Bhagat Singh recently unveiled at the Indian Parliament an absolutely farcical representation of the man? Why has Gandhi hijacked Indian currency notes? Don't Chandrashekhar Azad, Bhagat Singh, Lala Lajpat Rai, Ashfaqullah Khan...have likeable faces?
When we think we got independence through non-violence, we think we can get anyting through non-violence. And we often interpret non-violence as not doing anything!
There is a terrorist attack - The Government needs to increase security and hunt these people down
A 5 year old girl gets raped - This will never happen to me plus there are so many women's organisations and I'm sure they'll make plenty of noise
Pot-holes on Delhi roads because of cement corruption - Shouldn't the Supreme Court start a Public Interest Litigation?
Mayawati spends the State Contingency Fund money for her birthday - I am quite horrified but let me change the channel and watch something else
The media thinks the Shah Rukh-Salman fight is bigger than the 300 million people in India who go the bed hungry everyday - Hmmm, so do I!
Do the likes of Azad and Bhagat Singh ever wonder that this is what they died for? For wimps like us??? (And I'm equally guilty because sometimes I think things are too dirty for me to clean-up that I don't even try!)
Come on guys - Where did the Fire go? Let's pick a cause, anything at all, even a small one, and do something, anything at all so that we are not guilty of ignoring the great sacrifices that went into getting this independence we take for granted!
Inquilab Zindabad!
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
What's in a date?
A lot if you ask me! And I think getting dates right is important. In fact, in my world, it's more noble to forget a date (out of ignorance or a chance accident or any other excuse you may have) than to get it wrong because to me that only indicates that either you don't pay attention to hard-facts or you simply don't care enough to get them right.
Where am I heading with this? Let me ask you a question. Actually to drive my point home, let me make that many questions. Do you wish people Happy New Year on 28th December? Does your bf/gf get his/her Valentine's Day card (if at all) on 12th Feb? Is Women's Day celebrated on 5th March?
Then why...why oh why have people been wishing me Happy Birthday all week? (Did that narcissism catch you off-guard?) I absolutely hate it! (Not the narcissism but the being wished happy birthday before the actual date...)
Ten years ago, it used to be fun to see who remembered and who didn't. Facebook has taken that simple pleasure away from me! Now everyone is sent reminders and this information is flashed on the Home screen from 72 hours in advance. I don't want to sound ungrateful but perhaps only Mid-nighters retain their charm.
It all started on Monday, 27th October. I logged in to my email account to find an email from my Dad saying, "Happy Birthday...(and other senti stuff)". Believe me, nothing can shake your faith in this world more than your parent getting the date wrong. My first reaction was to check the date. My second was to call him and ask if it had always been the 27th and they had only just realised 23 years after the event that they had always got it wrong. (The event being my birth, of course!)
So I called him - that's too burning a question to not raise. And he explained that he sent it 5 days earlier because he wouldn't have internet access till 31st.
"Then why not send it on 31st itself? After all, that is my birthdate...isn't it?" I yelped all confused.
"Yes but between now and midnight on 31st, this was the only slot so I thought I would send it now," he said, sounding extremely content with himself. There is something you should know about my Dad. Every 31st October, he starts calling me from the time it's midnight in Japan to the time the Sun sets in Hawaii. I think somehow he feels the joy of having his first child all over again so much so that he can never get enough of sharing it with me! And this emailing me 5 days in advance was just another incarnation of this sentiment...
So I decided to overlook that and life went on...till this morning. When I woke up and logged into Facebook, I was once again disappointed. A certain person (who must not be named so we will call her (or him) You-Know-Who as a tribute to Lord Voldemort of Harry Potter fame) had wished me a very happy birthday. Now ordinarliy, I would have bitten my lip and gotten over this little incident but this time, I was a bit more annoyed than on the average occassion. You see, You-Know-Who and I aren't really friends or anything. Except on Facebook, where one sometimes accepts friends out of social courtesy than a desire to snoop into their life and share your crazy photographs with them. And that's when it was so apparent - this person obviously knew my birthday was around the corner because Facebook was advertising it! (Uggghhh...)
But even then, why would you pretend you are 2 full earth rotations ahead of me and wish me 48 hours before my birthday??? Do I look like someone who cannot wait till the actual date? Or is You-Know-Who too lazy to log in two days later and do the deed? Or does You-Know-Who think she (or he) will forget it by then despite that impersonal-as-hell Facebook reminder?
I still haven't replied to You-Know-Who and I probably won't till my anger (I know that's a strong word but I can't think of anything else that fits the bill) subsides a little and I sound a little grateful for the "careful thought"!
Here's the deal people: If you are reading this, you're old enough to remember your birthday. And you never forget the date because it's your day! Even 23 years on, I think of it as my special day. But little surprise remains when the likes of Facebook and BirthdayAlarm advertise it as if some stupid boy-band were going to perform in town in a couple of days. I used to say, "Thank you for remembering my birthday" but that seems to have become too much of a presumption these days. So the only little surprise that remains is to NOT hear about it till the actual day - just in case someone somewhere wakes up, looks at the date in his watch and says, "Oh! It's Aanchal's birthday today. Let me give her a call..."
Where am I heading with this? Let me ask you a question. Actually to drive my point home, let me make that many questions. Do you wish people Happy New Year on 28th December? Does your bf/gf get his/her Valentine's Day card (if at all) on 12th Feb? Is Women's Day celebrated on 5th March?
Then why...why oh why have people been wishing me Happy Birthday all week? (Did that narcissism catch you off-guard?) I absolutely hate it! (Not the narcissism but the being wished happy birthday before the actual date...)
Ten years ago, it used to be fun to see who remembered and who didn't. Facebook has taken that simple pleasure away from me! Now everyone is sent reminders and this information is flashed on the Home screen from 72 hours in advance. I don't want to sound ungrateful but perhaps only Mid-nighters retain their charm.
It all started on Monday, 27th October. I logged in to my email account to find an email from my Dad saying, "Happy Birthday...(and other senti stuff)". Believe me, nothing can shake your faith in this world more than your parent getting the date wrong. My first reaction was to check the date. My second was to call him and ask if it had always been the 27th and they had only just realised 23 years after the event that they had always got it wrong. (The event being my birth, of course!)
So I called him - that's too burning a question to not raise. And he explained that he sent it 5 days earlier because he wouldn't have internet access till 31st.
"Then why not send it on 31st itself? After all, that is my birthdate...isn't it?" I yelped all confused.
"Yes but between now and midnight on 31st, this was the only slot so I thought I would send it now," he said, sounding extremely content with himself. There is something you should know about my Dad. Every 31st October, he starts calling me from the time it's midnight in Japan to the time the Sun sets in Hawaii. I think somehow he feels the joy of having his first child all over again so much so that he can never get enough of sharing it with me! And this emailing me 5 days in advance was just another incarnation of this sentiment...
So I decided to overlook that and life went on...till this morning. When I woke up and logged into Facebook, I was once again disappointed. A certain person (who must not be named so we will call her (or him) You-Know-Who as a tribute to Lord Voldemort of Harry Potter fame) had wished me a very happy birthday. Now ordinarliy, I would have bitten my lip and gotten over this little incident but this time, I was a bit more annoyed than on the average occassion. You see, You-Know-Who and I aren't really friends or anything. Except on Facebook, where one sometimes accepts friends out of social courtesy than a desire to snoop into their life and share your crazy photographs with them. And that's when it was so apparent - this person obviously knew my birthday was around the corner because Facebook was advertising it! (Uggghhh...)
But even then, why would you pretend you are 2 full earth rotations ahead of me and wish me 48 hours before my birthday??? Do I look like someone who cannot wait till the actual date? Or is You-Know-Who too lazy to log in two days later and do the deed? Or does You-Know-Who think she (or he) will forget it by then despite that impersonal-as-hell Facebook reminder?
I still haven't replied to You-Know-Who and I probably won't till my anger (I know that's a strong word but I can't think of anything else that fits the bill) subsides a little and I sound a little grateful for the "careful thought"!
Here's the deal people: If you are reading this, you're old enough to remember your birthday. And you never forget the date because it's your day! Even 23 years on, I think of it as my special day. But little surprise remains when the likes of Facebook and BirthdayAlarm advertise it as if some stupid boy-band were going to perform in town in a couple of days. I used to say, "Thank you for remembering my birthday" but that seems to have become too much of a presumption these days. So the only little surprise that remains is to NOT hear about it till the actual day - just in case someone somewhere wakes up, looks at the date in his watch and says, "Oh! It's Aanchal's birthday today. Let me give her a call..."
Sunday, 5 October 2008
Moscow, Day 3: The famous dead…
The last day was bright and active. The Sun was out and I had fully recovered from the fatigue accumulated over the last few days. So, I packed my belongings in my Lehman rucksack (a highly coveted souvenir now!) and headed out early.
My first stop was the Novodevichy Cathedral near Sportivnaya. To be honest, I had almost overlooked this one. But when Sergey said that it is definitely worth a visit, I read up my Lonely Planet on it and realised that if for nothing else, I was going to go there to see a particular person.
Some Russian women like Catherine, the Great and Valentina Tereshkova are famous of their own accord. But most - as in other cultures - are famous because of the men they were with. And I was interested in precisely such a person. The Novodevichy grounds are the final resting place of Nadyezhda Alliluyeva, Stalin’s second wife!
I walked everywhere within the walls of the Cathedral. My Lonely Planet had a picture of her tomb so I would have recognised her immediately. But even after 30 minutes of an unsuccessful safari, I hadn’t found her. My time at the Cathedral had started to eat into the rest of my itinerary so I finally decided to open my dictionary to find the Russian word for ‘tomb’ and ask the information desk where she was. (I did bump into some very interesting people though. One Olga Mikhailovna Marinskaya had a witty sense of humour. Her tombstone, read, “Uvidimsya tam!” i.e. “See you there!”)
The lady at the desk told me that I needed to go to the Novodevichy Cemetery, which was next door. I took out my Lonely Planet to protest that she must be there at the Cathedral grounds itself and that’s when I realised that it did in fact say, “Cemetery”! Suddenly the words, “Attention to detail!” echoed in my head from the two years I had spent in investment-banking. I hate making mistakes and when I do, I can be unreasonably it-is-the-end-of-the-world hyper-critical of myself!
The Novodevichy Cemetery was just stunning! Never in my life have I seen such exquisitely beautiful tombstones! Everyone’s tombstone there silently demanded a few seconds of admiration and I felt so guilty for rushing through the cemetery to get to Mrs. Stalin! I followed the map and walked to one end of the cemetery. Even before I got to her, I recognised her. Not that her tombstone was the most beautiful but the glass case around hers, probably to protect the underlying stone from Russia’s unfriendly climate, immediately gave away her VIP status!
The Sun peeked through the canopy on to her white granite face that emerged from a plain column, on which the inscription read, “Nadyezhda Sergeivna Alliluyeva Stalina; 1901-1932”. Her right hand emerged inconspicuously and rested under her chin, apparently a tombstone paradigm to indicate that the person had committed suicide.
As I left the cemetery, I saw many people taking photos near the entrance against a stone that was painstakingly done to look like the Russian flag, swollen in some places as if laden with the wind. I walked to it and clicked a couple of photos myself. And then suddenly, I saw the inscription across it, “Boris Nikolaivich Yelstin; 1931-2007”. This is where the first Russian President lay buried! The Russian flag was the perfect posthumous garb for him. My Lonely Planet had obviously not prepared me for him as it was the 2006 edition but I felt lucky to have bumped into the ex-President!
Walking out of Novodevichy, a peculiar feeling overcame me. During the Second World War, many dead in Stalingrad, Leningrad and hundreds of other cities were dumped as one giant mass of rotting bodies into huge cavities dug overnight in the ground. This was because during the War there was no space in cemeteries to carry out deserved burials. And here was Novodevichy, an elite burial ground with tombstones carved to perfection and adorned with various motifs and plaques…
I wonder if Marx and Lenin have organised a revolution to overthrow this bourgeoisie on the other side of life as well!
Friday, 3 October 2008
Moscow, Day 2: Communism’s Mummy
In Russia, they say “Lenin zhil, zhit i budet zhit’!” (Lenin lived, lives and will live!) Move over King Tut, Communism has it’s own Mummy - Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. Marx may have written The Communist Manifesto but it was Lenin who delivered. And for that reason every city in Russia has a Lenin Square, a Lenin Avenue and a Lenin Street. But Moscow has one more thing. Moscow has Lenin himself!
On Sunday morning, when I got to Krasnaya Ploschad, it was easy to guess what most people were there for. A long line extended all the way to the end of the Square and it looked like Lenin had more security in death than when alive! Nothing was allowed inside the mausoleum - no bags, phones or cameras. Moreover, you were not allowed to speak lest you would disturb this ‘great’ (a debatable adjective!) man’s slumber.
No signs were posted; no instructions given, but things were clearly understood. People followed those who were in front of them. Once you crossed the metal detectors, the guards indicated the way by their hands. The entrance of the mausoleum was dark. I went down the black malachite staircase and turned right, following a guard’s muted signal. Everything there - from the dim light to the reticence to the dark décor - reinforced the melancholy of the mausoleum.
I walked into another dark chamber where only one soft-light was shining on the object of everyone‘s interest. And this is where he lay in his glass coffin. I walked through the side and to the front of the glass case, right opposite him. Lenin was smartly dressed in a dark blue (or black) suit. The palm of his right hand was lightly clenched, his left weakly stretched out. His face was drained of any colour and if you looked hard enough, you could sense his pain. His last wish was to be buried next to his mother in St. Petersburg. But Stalin wouldn’t let that be. And since Stalin, the mausoleum has become some sort of a hybrid between a temple of communism and a popular tourist attraction.
Perhaps, one day someone sitting in the Kremlin will change this and Lenin will rest in peace. But for now, he remains incarcerated behind glass walls, coated in layers of immortalising chemicals and continues to pay the price for his fame and influence. And as long as he is out there, Russia’s love-hate relationship with him will go on…
Thursday, 2 October 2008
Moscow, Day 1: The Day I defeated God
I woke up at about 5:40 AM, just 10 minutes before the train was to reach Moscow’s Leningradsky Station. As I slipped out of my blanket to get ready, I could feel the chill through the train’s walls. Yandex had predicted light showers in Moscow but it had also predicted light showers in St. Pete all week, when we were pampered by the Sun so I was bullish on the weather conditions despite my first impressions.
When I stepped out of the train, I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath, taking my own sweet time to soak in a bit of Moscow right there, with a complete disregard for those behind me. (This is what happens when you watch too many Bollywood movies. You think this is an absolutely legit way of entering a new city!) For a time when it was cold and pitch-dark, Moscow displayed an unusual energy. People scurried on the platform, kiosks were already busy, a neon-blue ‘МОСКВА' sign told you where the main entrance was and taxi-drivers pounced on you as soon as you entered the main hall. In the main hall, Lenin’s porcelain bust inspected everyone from atop a column that dwarfed every other structure. And there I was under that column, my eyes betraying that I hadn’t slept much on the train but full of an emotion that was stronger still - that of hunger. I was starving for Moscow!
From the station, I took the metro to Sportivnaya, where I was going to stay with my friend, Aishwarya. Even though Moscow is bigger than St. Pete, the metro makes it seem smaller. With its tentacles entrenched all over the city, the Moscow Metropolitan ensures that you are never more than 45 minutes away from your destination!
After the usual exchange of pleasantries, Aish and I headed out to the city centre. As we got out, I realised one thing - Yandex was right this time. It had started to rain. But I’m a Delhi girl, who is used to heavy monsoons. I wasn’t going to let this spatter bother me!
Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. This probably shouldn’t have been the first stop. I was dying to see the Kremlin, Krasnaya Ploschad (Red Square), and St. Vasil’s Cathedral, so this Cathedral was a reluctant stop and only because it was on our way to Krasnaya Ploschad. My impatience was visible even through the layers of warm clothes, I was wrapped under. I seemed to ignore the imposing character of the Cathedral, its golden domes and the gardens that skirted it. Lenin would have loved me - I was thinking only Red! And it was perhaps this blasphemy that enraged God. Ten minutes later, the wind had picked up speed and it was raining even harder!
The walk to the Kremlin from the Cathedral had become a trek. The wind clawed at my face and the rain dampened my overcoat and gloves. Crossing the roads was tricky as well. I realised Moscow isn’t pedestrian-friendly and zebra-crossings were rare. This meant you had to gamble every time you crossed the road. Ordinarily, thanks to my Indian origin, even that isn’t a problem but judging the distance and speed of cars in the rain was getting harder and harder .
After a couple of trips in and out of my gloves to click photographs, the fingers of my right hand were dissolving into senselessness. I was breathing in ice and breathing out vapour. I had clearly picked the wrong day to upset God. I went into a few grocery stores asking for cognac to warm up but vodka was all they would offer. And of all the Russian things I love, vodka isn’t one of them!
We finally got to the Kremlin. Somehow! God may be bigger and better than me but I am more stubborn than he estimates. I wasn’t going to seek refuge; the Kremlin tour continued! (Notice how self-obsessed I am and keep saying things like “I wasn’t going to seek refuge”. The Kremlin was absolutely flooded with tourists like myself!)
Aish and I walked for about 4 hours in the rain. We went in and out of cathedrals and exhibitions - sometimes just to get warm! Kremlin’s walls hid so much within them - the golden domes and icon paintings of the various churches, the Diamond Fund exhibition, the Armoury, the Tsar Bell and Cannon! Even though my appetite for vodka was increasing; the more I saw, the more I was determined to see.
Finally, we walked through the Alexandrovsky Garden to Voskreesenye Gate where Marshall Zhukov’s statue greeted us. And there I saw it! Across Krasnaya Ploschad - St. Vasil’s Cathedral! It was so beautiful! I just couldn't control myself and screamed like a little child! (Recall Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City, when she sees the Eiffel Tower from Petrovsky’s balcony. It was exactly like that, only I wasn’t being paid thousands of dollars to behave like an idiot!) I have seen St Vasil’s a hundred times on TV and in pictures but nothing, NOTHING compares to the frenzy of colours that stands before you! It’s like the difference between staring at a bottle of wine and getting intoxicated; between literotica and an orgasm! You just have to go to there to see what I’m talking about!
That’s when I started to absorb all that was around me. St Vasil’s in front, Kremlin’s red-brick wall and Lenin’s Mausoleum to my right, the History Museum behind me and an exquisite building that covered the entire left side of the Square!
“What’s this?” I asked Aish.
“The GUM.”
“The GUM? This is the GUM? The Gosudarstveni Universalni Magasin?” (The State Universal Store). This building’s entrance resembled the Winter Palace’s Jordan Staircase. In style it could shame Harrod’s and its collection had all the top brands in the world! But what had surprised me was that this was a State store - a wreck of the Soviet Empire - and it was so far away from the impoverished image I had in mind!
After spending a long time at the Kremlin and Krasnaya Ploschad, we made our way Park Pobyedi, which was home to the monument of Russia’s victory in the Second World War. When we came out of the metro station, I saw that it wasn’t raining anymore and the Sun played hide-and-seek behind the clouds. I guess even God needs a break ;) To be honest, the Sun brought welcome respite. My overcoat and jeans were wet. The wind had tested me all day. My hands were numb and my legs exhausted. My hair was in a complete disarray and my eyes blood-red with insomnia.(I looked perfect for a George Romero movie!) I was crumbling under fatigue but I was happy that I hadn‘t let the weather cripple me. I had done my full day’s worth of sight-seeing and most of all, I hadn’t betrayed my religion by drinking vodka. (My religion is cognac…and champagne…and B-52...but not vodka!)
Resilience is always rewarded in Russia. And once again, I was rewarded in the form of the massive obelisk in front of me. As Aish and I walked closer, we saw its reflection in the little pools of water the rain had left. An arc caressed the giant column from behind and the way up the platforms and stairs was paved by small bronze and malachite structures that hailed the achievements of the battle various - Leningrad, Ukraine, Minsk…
The 142m long obelisk itself - where every 10 cms represents a day of the war - bore names of the various cities that had fought the war - Moscow, Stalingrad, Leningrad, Kiev, Sevastopol…
Just in front of the obelisk, stood the giant figure of a horse-man, who had slayed a deadly snake with his spear. The bottom of the obelisk was adorned by flowers and bouquets, a tribute to all those who perished in the war. Whether in the armed forces or not, they are all war heroes! And it is this sentiment I admire the most about the Russians. They haven’t forgotten their war heroes, the heart-breaking conditions the war had created and the countless sacrifices made to protect the Motherland. No one celebrates their war heroes as much as the Russians do, and hats-off to that!
The rain was back with a vengeance but the day was almost over so it didn’t matter much! I had overcome the rain. And in some strange way, it felt like I had defeated God. (And the self-obsession continues...)
I was off to Oktyabrskaya to meet former Lehman colleagues for dinner at The Pancho Villa, an excellent Mexican restaurant on Bolshaya Yanimanka. It was a great night and good practice for my Russian. No points for guessing that, amongst other things, we all spoke about Lehman, which had filed for bankruptcy on 15th September 2008 becoming the largest corporate bankruptcy in history. At the end of the dinner, Sergey and Oksana did not let me pay for the tacos and tequila I had enjoyed. “Don’t worry, Aanchal! Thanks to Nomura, we still have jobs,” Oksana laughed.
When I stepped out of the train, I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath, taking my own sweet time to soak in a bit of Moscow right there, with a complete disregard for those behind me. (This is what happens when you watch too many Bollywood movies. You think this is an absolutely legit way of entering a new city!) For a time when it was cold and pitch-dark, Moscow displayed an unusual energy. People scurried on the platform, kiosks were already busy, a neon-blue ‘МОСКВА' sign told you where the main entrance was and taxi-drivers pounced on you as soon as you entered the main hall. In the main hall, Lenin’s porcelain bust inspected everyone from atop a column that dwarfed every other structure. And there I was under that column, my eyes betraying that I hadn’t slept much on the train but full of an emotion that was stronger still - that of hunger. I was starving for Moscow!
From the station, I took the metro to Sportivnaya, where I was going to stay with my friend, Aishwarya. Even though Moscow is bigger than St. Pete, the metro makes it seem smaller. With its tentacles entrenched all over the city, the Moscow Metropolitan ensures that you are never more than 45 minutes away from your destination!
After the usual exchange of pleasantries, Aish and I headed out to the city centre. As we got out, I realised one thing - Yandex was right this time. It had started to rain. But I’m a Delhi girl, who is used to heavy monsoons. I wasn’t going to let this spatter bother me!
Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. This probably shouldn’t have been the first stop. I was dying to see the Kremlin, Krasnaya Ploschad (Red Square), and St. Vasil’s Cathedral, so this Cathedral was a reluctant stop and only because it was on our way to Krasnaya Ploschad. My impatience was visible even through the layers of warm clothes, I was wrapped under. I seemed to ignore the imposing character of the Cathedral, its golden domes and the gardens that skirted it. Lenin would have loved me - I was thinking only Red! And it was perhaps this blasphemy that enraged God. Ten minutes later, the wind had picked up speed and it was raining even harder!
The walk to the Kremlin from the Cathedral had become a trek. The wind clawed at my face and the rain dampened my overcoat and gloves. Crossing the roads was tricky as well. I realised Moscow isn’t pedestrian-friendly and zebra-crossings were rare. This meant you had to gamble every time you crossed the road. Ordinarily, thanks to my Indian origin, even that isn’t a problem but judging the distance and speed of cars in the rain was getting harder and harder .
After a couple of trips in and out of my gloves to click photographs, the fingers of my right hand were dissolving into senselessness. I was breathing in ice and breathing out vapour. I had clearly picked the wrong day to upset God. I went into a few grocery stores asking for cognac to warm up but vodka was all they would offer. And of all the Russian things I love, vodka isn’t one of them!
We finally got to the Kremlin. Somehow! God may be bigger and better than me but I am more stubborn than he estimates. I wasn’t going to seek refuge; the Kremlin tour continued! (Notice how self-obsessed I am and keep saying things like “I wasn’t going to seek refuge”. The Kremlin was absolutely flooded with tourists like myself!)
Aish and I walked for about 4 hours in the rain. We went in and out of cathedrals and exhibitions - sometimes just to get warm! Kremlin’s walls hid so much within them - the golden domes and icon paintings of the various churches, the Diamond Fund exhibition, the Armoury, the Tsar Bell and Cannon! Even though my appetite for vodka was increasing; the more I saw, the more I was determined to see.
Finally, we walked through the Alexandrovsky Garden to Voskreesenye Gate where Marshall Zhukov’s statue greeted us. And there I saw it! Across Krasnaya Ploschad - St. Vasil’s Cathedral! It was so beautiful! I just couldn't control myself and screamed like a little child! (Recall Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City, when she sees the Eiffel Tower from Petrovsky’s balcony. It was exactly like that, only I wasn’t being paid thousands of dollars to behave like an idiot!) I have seen St Vasil’s a hundred times on TV and in pictures but nothing, NOTHING compares to the frenzy of colours that stands before you! It’s like the difference between staring at a bottle of wine and getting intoxicated; between literotica and an orgasm! You just have to go to there to see what I’m talking about!
That’s when I started to absorb all that was around me. St Vasil’s in front, Kremlin’s red-brick wall and Lenin’s Mausoleum to my right, the History Museum behind me and an exquisite building that covered the entire left side of the Square!
“What’s this?” I asked Aish.
“The GUM.”
“The GUM? This is the GUM? The Gosudarstveni Universalni Magasin?” (The State Universal Store). This building’s entrance resembled the Winter Palace’s Jordan Staircase. In style it could shame Harrod’s and its collection had all the top brands in the world! But what had surprised me was that this was a State store - a wreck of the Soviet Empire - and it was so far away from the impoverished image I had in mind!
After spending a long time at the Kremlin and Krasnaya Ploschad, we made our way Park Pobyedi, which was home to the monument of Russia’s victory in the Second World War. When we came out of the metro station, I saw that it wasn’t raining anymore and the Sun played hide-and-seek behind the clouds. I guess even God needs a break ;) To be honest, the Sun brought welcome respite. My overcoat and jeans were wet. The wind had tested me all day. My hands were numb and my legs exhausted. My hair was in a complete disarray and my eyes blood-red with insomnia.(I looked perfect for a George Romero movie!) I was crumbling under fatigue but I was happy that I hadn‘t let the weather cripple me. I had done my full day’s worth of sight-seeing and most of all, I hadn’t betrayed my religion by drinking vodka. (My religion is cognac…and champagne…and B-52...but not vodka!)
Resilience is always rewarded in Russia. And once again, I was rewarded in the form of the massive obelisk in front of me. As Aish and I walked closer, we saw its reflection in the little pools of water the rain had left. An arc caressed the giant column from behind and the way up the platforms and stairs was paved by small bronze and malachite structures that hailed the achievements of the battle various - Leningrad, Ukraine, Minsk…
The 142m long obelisk itself - where every 10 cms represents a day of the war - bore names of the various cities that had fought the war - Moscow, Stalingrad, Leningrad, Kiev, Sevastopol…
Just in front of the obelisk, stood the giant figure of a horse-man, who had slayed a deadly snake with his spear. The bottom of the obelisk was adorned by flowers and bouquets, a tribute to all those who perished in the war. Whether in the armed forces or not, they are all war heroes! And it is this sentiment I admire the most about the Russians. They haven’t forgotten their war heroes, the heart-breaking conditions the war had created and the countless sacrifices made to protect the Motherland. No one celebrates their war heroes as much as the Russians do, and hats-off to that!
The rain was back with a vengeance but the day was almost over so it didn’t matter much! I had overcome the rain. And in some strange way, it felt like I had defeated God. (And the self-obsession continues...)
I was off to Oktyabrskaya to meet former Lehman colleagues for dinner at The Pancho Villa, an excellent Mexican restaurant on Bolshaya Yanimanka. It was a great night and good practice for my Russian. No points for guessing that, amongst other things, we all spoke about Lehman, which had filed for bankruptcy on 15th September 2008 becoming the largest corporate bankruptcy in history. At the end of the dinner, Sergey and Oksana did not let me pay for the tacos and tequila I had enjoyed. “Don’t worry, Aanchal! Thanks to Nomura, we still have jobs,” Oksana laughed.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia!
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia is my favourite word in the English language. To some extent that is because its the second longest word* and also because an attempt to decipher its etymology leaves you with words like Hippopotamus, Monster and Sesquipedalian. But what I absolutely love about this word is the irony it is impregnated with. Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia is the fear of saying long words! Therefore, if you have this fear, you probably will never be able to express it - at least not with the word that means fear of saying long words!
And now I have a confession to make. I happen to be hipp...hipp... hippopoto... hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobic (Phew! That was close!) But you see, it's not English that's the problem - it's Russian! I'm no star polyglot but I think I speak and know of enough languages to say that Russian is probably the most daunting language for beginners that I have ever come across!
For instance, consider the word for 'Hello' in Russian - Zdravstvutye! The very first word you need to pick up is almost unpronouncable and the fact that its so long never helped!
Let's move on to manners. Spaciba, which means 'Thank you' is easy enough but have a look at 'Please' - Pozhalooesta! I may only now have gotten used to saying this without mistakes but for a long time, I found it easier to be uncivil than to verbalise this multi-syllabled monstrosity!
And then there are words that are not just unsympathetic to those who are new to learning the language but to tourists as well! Behold, the verb 'to travel' - puteshestvovat'! I love to travel but everytime I was asked in my Russian oral exam what my hobbies are - do you think I was ever able to get that one out? Of course not! So, I settled for less exciting things such as reading books and watching the idiot box!
Even worse, I was at a train station the other day and needed to ask if it was possible to travel to Moscow without my passport.** I knew how to say everything but my tongue divorced me when it came to saying puteshestvovat'! "Pute...pute", I struggled as the lady at the counter looked at me unimpressed! I felt so cheated! Didn't the fact that I could say the rest of the sentence correctly count? Weren't there any points for, "Mozhna, pute-whatever do Moskvi bez passporta?"
Which brings me to the longest word in the Russian language - dostoprimechaatelnosti, the word for 'sight-seeing'! Agreed that it isn't very short in English either but its made up of two reasonably short words that yield the meaning in combination, which therefore makes it easy to remember! (Or is it easy for me just because my English is better than my Russian?)
And here is my point - English has long words too but most of us - especially tourists to the UK or the US - will never use them! I can almost guarantee that it would be another 50 years before you hear (or read) the word, 'hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia' again! In fact, I can bet my life that for most of you, this was probably your first time! And you will probably never hear the longest word* in English in your entire life-time! But in Russian, that's not the case! These are everyday words and if you have decided to learn the language, you just have to overcome them!
* The longest word is 'Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis', which is a lung disease
** You need your passport for everything here - from using credit cards to getting a SIM card to travelling within the country! There is an interesting saying from the Soviet times, "Bez bumashki, mii bukashki" which means "Without a passport, we are little insects." It doesn't sound very interesting in English because things get lost in translation but it's pretty funny and reveals a lot!
Sunday, 21 September 2008
Zita i Gita
There are 1.1 billion Indians in this world. It, therefore, always comes as a bit of a shock when people exclaim, "Ti iz Indii!!!" (You're from India!!!) as if I'm some sort of a cross between a Hollywood celebrity and an endangered species!
Yesterday, I had gone to Novgorod, one of Russia's oldest cities around 180 kms south of St. Pete, with Hanne, Johan and Wille. At a souvenir shop next to the Vitoslavsky Museum of Wooden Architecture, as I checked out wooden toys, matryoshka dolls and jewellery, the Babushka who owned the shop stood up to help me out.
"40 roubles. 30 roubles", she said as my hands investigated the different objects.
"Sorok. Tridsat.", I repeated in Russian to indicate that I did speak the language a little and would prefer it over English.
And then almost out of the blue, she asked, "Devushka, ti iz Germanii?"
"Nyet, iz Indii", I replied.
"Iz Indii!!!!!"
She then went on to tell me that she had never seen an Indian in her entire life and that I should come to Novgorod and to her shop again in the Summer. And to stay true to her sentiment, she offered me a 10 rouble discount for the 2 bracelets I picked up. Whilst I was totally flattered by her gesture, I obviously paid my entire share. If only I could speak enough Russian to tell her that there were another 1.1 billion people exactly like me and it would be positively disgraceful to rob a Babushka of 10 roubles by pretending I was anything special!
But this was just the appetiser...
On the bus back to St. Pete, I was showing Hanne this month's National Geographic Traveller and the 10-page section they did on India. Suddenly, the man sitting in the seat behind me stood up and said the famous words, "Devushka, ti iz Indii???"
"Da", I said proudly, punctuating my response with an anticipatory silence to allow him to express his amazement and joy for having met me. (You can tell I have gotten used to this game!)
Vladimir could barely contain his excitement and told me he has always wanted to go to Balleiwood! Perhaps, I burst the bubble by telling him that Bollywood may be the biggest movie industry in the world but we don't have a location as exciting as Galleiwood's! (The Russians convert the English H to G - so its Gollywood, Galloween, Gimalayas, Gitler...)
Vladimir and his girl-friend, Galina were on their way to St. Pete from Moscow and had made a stop at Novgorod as well. When we got to St. Pete, we exchanged numbers and decided to meet the following day for a drink.
Today, Vova, Galya and I spoke about India at length - about Goa, cows, yoga and why someone would be stupid enough to leave India and come to place as cold as Russia! And we obviously spoke about Bollywood...
They told me that when they were little, they used to watch Bollywood movies dubbed in Russian on TV!
Galya asked me if I had seen the one with the Indian Charlie Chaplin. Upon a little probing, this turned out to be Raj Kapoor's Mera Naam Joker, unarguably the most famous Bollywood movie in Russia - if only because it had a Russian circus and Russian actors!
Then Vova jumped in his chair and said, "Aanchal, have you seen Zita i Gita?" ('i' is Russian for 'and')
"Zita i Gita? What is that?", I asked. Gita is definitely Indian but the Zita completely threw me off. I couldn't think of anything that fit the bill.
"It used to come on TV all the time...with the two girls...who looked like each other...and a fat lady...", Vova explained, unable to hide the desperation on his face.
"Seeta aur Geeta? Seeta aur Geeta! You have seen Seeta aur Geeta!!!"
Oh my God! They have seen Seeta aur Geeta! Even my sister hasn't seen Seeta aur Geeta!
How incredible! But it's a shame that India and Russia don't have such strong ties anymore. During the Cold-War, we may have been non-aligned but our non-alignment wore the Soviet hammer and sickle. Just as my parents were taught to call their parents "Mummy and Daddy" at a time when India was recovering from British colonialism, my sister and I were taught to call our parents, "Mama and Papa" which had become popular with the Soviet influence! When Indians were naming their children Natasha, Irina and Vanya, some in the USSR named theirs Indira!
And today, we may maintain workable relations with Russia but the strength of our relationship has certainly weakened! We have come to love America more! Even long after the Cold War, it seems like a choice between heads and tails on a coin toss, between a hit and a miss on the dartboard - you can't have both!
Perhaps, we need to get back on Russian television! What say, Bollywood?
Yesterday, I had gone to Novgorod, one of Russia's oldest cities around 180 kms south of St. Pete, with Hanne, Johan and Wille. At a souvenir shop next to the Vitoslavsky Museum of Wooden Architecture, as I checked out wooden toys, matryoshka dolls and jewellery, the Babushka who owned the shop stood up to help me out.
"40 roubles. 30 roubles", she said as my hands investigated the different objects.
"Sorok. Tridsat.", I repeated in Russian to indicate that I did speak the language a little and would prefer it over English.
And then almost out of the blue, she asked, "Devushka, ti iz Germanii?"
"Nyet, iz Indii", I replied.
"Iz Indii!!!!!"
She then went on to tell me that she had never seen an Indian in her entire life and that I should come to Novgorod and to her shop again in the Summer. And to stay true to her sentiment, she offered me a 10 rouble discount for the 2 bracelets I picked up. Whilst I was totally flattered by her gesture, I obviously paid my entire share. If only I could speak enough Russian to tell her that there were another 1.1 billion people exactly like me and it would be positively disgraceful to rob a Babushka of 10 roubles by pretending I was anything special!
But this was just the appetiser...
On the bus back to St. Pete, I was showing Hanne this month's National Geographic Traveller and the 10-page section they did on India. Suddenly, the man sitting in the seat behind me stood up and said the famous words, "Devushka, ti iz Indii???"
"Da", I said proudly, punctuating my response with an anticipatory silence to allow him to express his amazement and joy for having met me. (You can tell I have gotten used to this game!)
Vladimir could barely contain his excitement and told me he has always wanted to go to Balleiwood! Perhaps, I burst the bubble by telling him that Bollywood may be the biggest movie industry in the world but we don't have a location as exciting as Galleiwood's! (The Russians convert the English H to G - so its Gollywood, Galloween, Gimalayas, Gitler...)
Vladimir and his girl-friend, Galina were on their way to St. Pete from Moscow and had made a stop at Novgorod as well. When we got to St. Pete, we exchanged numbers and decided to meet the following day for a drink.
Today, Vova, Galya and I spoke about India at length - about Goa, cows, yoga and why someone would be stupid enough to leave India and come to place as cold as Russia! And we obviously spoke about Bollywood...
They told me that when they were little, they used to watch Bollywood movies dubbed in Russian on TV!
Galya asked me if I had seen the one with the Indian Charlie Chaplin. Upon a little probing, this turned out to be Raj Kapoor's Mera Naam Joker, unarguably the most famous Bollywood movie in Russia - if only because it had a Russian circus and Russian actors!
Then Vova jumped in his chair and said, "Aanchal, have you seen Zita i Gita?" ('i' is Russian for 'and')
"Zita i Gita? What is that?", I asked. Gita is definitely Indian but the Zita completely threw me off. I couldn't think of anything that fit the bill.
"It used to come on TV all the time...with the two girls...who looked like each other...and a fat lady...", Vova explained, unable to hide the desperation on his face.
"Seeta aur Geeta? Seeta aur Geeta! You have seen Seeta aur Geeta!!!"
Oh my God! They have seen Seeta aur Geeta! Even my sister hasn't seen Seeta aur Geeta!
How incredible! But it's a shame that India and Russia don't have such strong ties anymore. During the Cold-War, we may have been non-aligned but our non-alignment wore the Soviet hammer and sickle. Just as my parents were taught to call their parents "Mummy and Daddy" at a time when India was recovering from British colonialism, my sister and I were taught to call our parents, "Mama and Papa" which had become popular with the Soviet influence! When Indians were naming their children Natasha, Irina and Vanya, some in the USSR named theirs Indira!
And today, we may maintain workable relations with Russia but the strength of our relationship has certainly weakened! We have come to love America more! Even long after the Cold War, it seems like a choice between heads and tails on a coin toss, between a hit and a miss on the dartboard - you can't have both!
Perhaps, we need to get back on Russian television! What say, Bollywood?
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
Three weeks into Russia...
Lazy is my middle name. For the sake of accuracy, it should have been my first and last name as well!
I have been thinking of breaking my cyber silence and starting a blog documenting my experiences in Russia for quite some time now and after 3 weeks and some very interesting experiences, I have finally decided to let my fingers loose on the keyboard...
This is my second time in St Petersburg. Admittedly, I wasn't as fascinated this time as much as in June 2006. Piter (as the locals call St Petersburg) and I have moved on from the initial rush into something more meaningful. But no matter what, I still feel like a child in a candy store - inquisitive and hungry!
Anyway, I won’t recap everything in the last three weeks so this will have to be short (and perhaps a bit abrupt) - just that I’ve been super-lucky with the people I have met. Have made some amazing friends - My flatmate, Meritxell (pr. Mari-chell) from Barcelona is my best-friend here! Then there are Richard (pr. Rick-hard) from Hungary, Hanne (pr. Honn-eh) from Norway and my room-mate, Junko from Japan. These are the people I have laughed and cried with - when the University bus broke down, when there was no hot-water and when it turned out that the heart-achingly handsome German guy* came with an engagement ring attached to his finger!
PS - I'm still recovering from the Heiner* incident...if God were Michelangelo, Heiner would have been the Sistine Chapel! Oh my God...I've started to sound like Carrie Bradshaw, haven't I?
I have been thinking of breaking my cyber silence and starting a blog documenting my experiences in Russia for quite some time now and after 3 weeks and some very interesting experiences, I have finally decided to let my fingers loose on the keyboard...
This is my second time in St Petersburg. Admittedly, I wasn't as fascinated this time as much as in June 2006. Piter (as the locals call St Petersburg) and I have moved on from the initial rush into something more meaningful. But no matter what, I still feel like a child in a candy store - inquisitive and hungry!
Anyway, I won’t recap everything in the last three weeks so this will have to be short (and perhaps a bit abrupt) - just that I’ve been super-lucky with the people I have met. Have made some amazing friends - My flatmate, Meritxell (pr. Mari-chell) from Barcelona is my best-friend here! Then there are Richard (pr. Rick-hard) from Hungary, Hanne (pr. Honn-eh) from Norway and my room-mate, Junko from Japan. These are the people I have laughed and cried with - when the University bus broke down, when there was no hot-water and when it turned out that the heart-achingly handsome German guy* came with an engagement ring attached to his finger!
PS - I'm still recovering from the Heiner* incident...if God were Michelangelo, Heiner would have been the Sistine Chapel! Oh my God...I've started to sound like Carrie Bradshaw, haven't I?
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