Parmanu's blog has made me nostalgic and this is the result.

If I took a left turn from our one room apartment in Amsterdam, the road took me past ‘coffeeshops’ and canalside apartments to a building standing there since 13th century. The old church in Amsterdam is just called that, The Old Church or Oude Kirk. It houses a world famous organ dating back to the 1700s, has a floor littered with graves and looks out onto the red light district!
To me the BIG curiosity factor were the tombstones that were set into the church floor. Most of these are of famous Dutch people I couldn’t recognise, including Rembrandt’s wife, who was married to him the same church.
I loved Oude Kirk. Not just because my first visit coincided with a rehearsal for an upcoming organ concert. There was something so distinctly ancient (and even a bit musty) about the place it was magical. Since the church was almost next door, I’d go there when the tourist flow wasn’t much, sit in a corner and lose myself imagining life centuries ago.
Later I asked a friend if he had seen Oude Kirk. We'd gone to the new church on the Dam square, he said, and skipped the old one. Don’t make that mistake if you ever go to Amsterdam.
I couldn’t leave Amsterdam without seeing another church. The Westerkirk next to Anne Frank House. Remember Anne writing in her diary about the bells ringing every fifteen minutes and giving her hope?
On my last day in Amsterdam, I joined a tour to the bell tower to see how they rang. We climbed stairs, ladders, huffed and puffed and followed our guide, who looked like a hot long haired rock star and we found ourselves in the bell tower. After explaining the mechanics, we stepped outside on what is the tallest church tower in Amsterdam. The view was to die for. Never mind complicated bell mechanics.
This wasn’t supposed to be a blog on churches but it is turning into one. I love sitting in churches. The light filtering in through stained glass windows, the strange smell of frankincense and the stillness in the air has me hooked. I love history and old historical sites and in some way churches bring you closer to that.
Like the church in Aachen. Like Bill Bryson, I hated the touristy and overhyped Cologne Cathedral and loved the less-visited one in Aachen.
The dimly lit interiors, the chapel, and the amazing mosaics on the ceiling are mesmerising in this church built under Charlemagne’s supervision in medieval times. I could have spent hours here. We spent whatever time we had on our hands and moved on to the treasury or Schatzkammer. It was an exercise in eye-popping, especially the golden bust of Charlemagne. But I guess a man who built a church like this, deserves a bust like that!

Amazing how one mail can change your day.

Was typing away listlessly on the keyboard, trying to edit horror story in a hurry, staring at the walls in utter boredom, thinking of beaches, mountains and holidays when got this mail from Meeta that read:

'Hiiiiiiiii. Am bored. Sitting at airport. Waiting for flight to take me to another idiotic meeting. Must prepare pre-meeting notes but don't feel like. Want a beach...You too?'

Telepathy? That's what friends are for?

Book That Flight

I hate flying. Nothing troubles me more than air pockets, turbulence and seat belt signs getting switched on during boring calm phases of long haul flights.
My mind throws up a million ideas from the moment the plane takes off: Omygod! The plane is almost vertical! Why haven't we been served food yet? What's wrong? Why haven't they switched offseatbelt sign yet? Why is it circling the sky and NOT LANDING? Did the pilot say somehting about flying over mountains and turbulence?
Unlike some lucky people who start snoring the moment they hit the sky, I stay wide awake during the entire duration of the flight, whether it lasts for one hour or fourteen.
The end result of being the worst example of in-flight bad nerves is that, while flying, I need distraction. Loads of it. This means not the eye-straining in-flight movie or ear-popping channel music but books.
If it's a two hour flight I carry at least three books in my hand baggage. The numbers increase with the flight duration. The max I've carried is five books and three newly bought mags for a 16 hour flight with a two hour changing halt.
There is of course a perfectly good reason (To me obviously) for this book mania. The first book I put in is something I've been reading. Which means there are chances it could be over by the time the flight is halfway thru'. What would I do then? To prevent such panic attacks I carry Book No. 2. However, I have no idea whether this is an engrossing, enjoyable read and if it isn't, then I'll be reminded of being suspended over oceans and mountains again. To avoid this extremely unpleasant situation I carry Book No. 3 and so on...
The number of books to be carried is always a sour point between the man and me. He thinks I'm plain crazy. I think he's one of them lucky peoples who can sleep through the entire journey.

If you live in Gurgaon, you can’t escape the malls. You want to watch a movie, you go to the mall. You want a drink? Head to the mall. A cup of coffee? The Barista in the mall. You even go there for your buckets, Surf Excel at sasta rates and vegetables.
All this was too much for my inner villager (yeah I know v politically incorrect) when we first moved in. I’d move up and down the see-thru escalator at Metropolitan, wide eyed at the display all around me. Never mind the fact that I’d seen it all before in various shops in Delhi, but what chance did expensive Benetton pants in dusty South Extension shop window have against the ones in clean and shiny glass?
I grumbled about the crowds on weekends, wished the car park was bigger and wondered for the umpteenth time what I was doing dodging Chunnu, Munnu and Nita bhabi in the crowded food section of Big Bazaar on a Sunday afternoon!
But reluctance be dashed, I was a convert soon. And so was my wallet. Converting into nothingness. I couldn’t catch a film without attacking the linen section of Shoppers’ Stop and buying Fab India inspired kurtas at Good Things.
And I couldn’t stop eating. At the Food Court. At the stall selling masala corn. At the Chat Kiosk...
I couldn’t help but go tut tut at the price of two metres of clothing in places like Marks and Spencer and Tommy Hilfiger (what else could a loony looking smiley firang give you!) but check them out all the same.
But that was the distant past. The present is even more dismal.
Even with the inner villager suitably placated, even after the discovery that all that glitters is not gold (Don’t go to Arcus for furniture. Go back to good ole’ Amar Colony), going to one mall is never enough.
I have to cross the road and raid the others. Never mind that this involves weaving thru rush hour Haryana traffic. But who cares for life when there are things to be admired, envied and er...even bought? The wallet has all but disappeared by now but who cares when the Inner Villager has met and fallen in lust with the Inner Mallrat?

Pune

I dreamt about Pune last night. The Pune I knew in my college days. Don't remember what exactly the dream was abvout but woke up with a great longing to be in Pune.
...Walking up and down FC Road for entertainment; checking out Super Shoppe (which we thought was one hell of a superstore!); bunking lectures to sit in Vaishali, eating SPDP; night outs in Thousand Oaks; Going to Jasbir for an expensive and trendy haircut; Sunday evening outs on MG Road and the cheapest sandwiches in Marzorin; the Chinese near Univ circle; Anda-Bun in snack breaks; Vada pav; rushing in rain in between lecture through the vast Fergie campus; learning to ride the Kinetic on the University campus; debating over now laughable intellectual issues in Kimaya; sabudana vada in the hostel mess with evening chai; the balgandharv music fest; a year of Insynch with a T-shirt to show; five women creating a racket in one tiny hostel room (I'm out of touch with all of them now); long bike rides and goofed up dates; studying just before the exams...
I want to be a student again!

Where Shall We Go This August?

It all started with an innocuous phone call. ‘I want a break,’ I whined to AN. ‘Yup. I want a holiday too,’ she whined back.
‘I dunno why we don’t go anywhere, even Jaipur would do’ said whiny me, flipping through Outlook Traveller’s 52 weekend breaks from Delhi and wishing I was anywhere but here. AN was apparently in the same frame of mind. ‘Hmmm…I’ve never seen Rajasthan…could meet you in Delhi too...’ she droned on.
That did it.
Suddenly the idea of seeing Rajasthan in 40 degree heat has taken us over. None of us had seen much of this glorious land and we wanted to go there. Now! Never mind the heat.
And since AN is a good driver we even chalked out a plan. She comes to Delhi, chills out at my place for a day or two and then we take off on an all-girl desert drive. Ok…nothing so glamorous. All girl shopping trip to Jaipur.
Like all big ideas, this one started with a bang. And started flickering down to a whimper as fast.
NS, AN’s significant other (no man can be called a better half) got wind of our plans and decided he too could spare time off work.
But why Jaipur, Delhi's weekend backyard? Let’s drive down/up to Uttaranchal instead, NS suggested.
Impressed by his self-proclaimed hill driving skills, we women gave in. And from then on, the holiday plans had a life of their own.
Spurred by our excitement-charged research activities, i.e, surfing the net, trying in vain to read a map, etc, P decided he needed a break too. But let’s go in August, that’s the earliest I’d be free, he said in his best ‘am-pretending-to-be-busy’ tone.
Now there are four of us. We agree on a weeklong holiday. What we don’t agree on is where to go.
Rajasthan isn’t my thing anymore. In 40 degree plus Delhi heat and sweat, I’m longing for the hills, solitude and a verandah in a bungalow with a book. The Cottage in Jeolikot is looking more tempting than ever. Do nothing!
AN has shifted focus to Udaipur and is also eyeing Jaisalmer and Bikaner.
NS wants the hills like me but he wants to do something as opposed to my do nothing.
P wants Nepal and is already dreaming of lazing it in Thamel.
Never knew the search of a holiday could be so tedious!

Relationships are such difficult things. One off the mark word here, one falsely interpreted gesture there and something you’d built up over time, conversations, arguments, fights, memories, hugs and moments is gone in a flash. Almost.

In a flash you see yourself too. You see a corner of yourself that wants an end to the misgivings, to the explanations, to the effort that just being part of this person’s life brings you. And you tell yourself again and again about staying away, being indifferent, impassive and quite the bitch.

But you are a sold-for-life-slave to old friends and habits. You know they are easy to acquire but hard to let go. So you stay silent. For days, weeks and even months and then one day when you are dull, bored and numb from the heat, one day when you aren’t thinking, you pick up the phone again…

It happened last night (should've been posted yesterday)

9.40 pm: The husband is on phone with friend. Plans are being made for good dinner, good booze and a good match of football (on TV thankfully) later. I’m lovingly thinking of bed and yesterday’s leftover chicken in the fridge.

10.00 pm: Friend is coming over from his 40-mins-away home. He is husband’s pal from college days and lives in Bombay. He is also someone with a tendency to dance on the dining table after downing a couple of Old Monks. I’ve seen this with my own eyes and serenaded him during the performance in days of yore. He’s seen me passed out on kitchen sink after too many tequilas in the days of yore. Result? Emotional blackmail of gullible female by men aiming to spend rest of the night pissed drunk.

10.10 pm: Friend-on-phone: Arre yaar Rash how can we go out without you…
Husband-at-home: C’mon baby (signs that he is already drunk) don’t be a spoilsport
Gullible Me: Hmmm…these gorillas are old friends after all. Even the one am married to
The Gorillas: Hmm…she’s falling for it…we’ll have a driver for the night if things go out of hand (evil chuckle in Gorilla head)

11.00 pm: We are sitting at trendy and very expensive restaurant (because the men want food and booze and good music). The men are ordering booze in great numbers. They are trying to patao waiter to get them drinks even after the bar closes. Waiter grins=pataoed. I get familiar sinking feeling.

11.30 pm: The men have finished all the booze on table (including mine) and are discussing legendary boy’s nite out in college centuries ago. I am getting a bad sense of déjà vu because any moment they’ll discuss the enormity of Duggu’s puke on that legendary night, followed by Sandy’s vital stats, followed by more fond analysis of past misbehaviour.

11.35 pm: We have shifted to a corner table where booze can be surreptitiously passed. Am wondering if waiter has been bribed before/is gay/is boy bonding champion/hates women. The men are singing to each other. The hide-out area under the table looks very comfy.

12.00 am: Have told waiter to get the food packed. Have flicked three sexy steel stirrers to make myself feel better.

12.10: The men are not coming out of the loo. Call the one am married to. He answers the phone and sings: ‘It’s the time to disco!’ I think fondly of housewifely things like a good home-cooked meal, dinner on time, early to bed, etc.

12.15: Slight tussle as I try to drive but the husband doesn’t let me. ‘You don’t think am drunk do you?’ Hah!

12.20 am: Car halts at theka. More booze is picked up. We drive homewards with music (hip hop) in full blast. I have out of body experience as the man deftly manoeuvres car through a pile of sand/mortar/whatever and the friend keeps shouting ‘Schumacher!!!!’ Car reaches apartment gate and it is decided that it’s too early to call it a night. My fervent pleas of ‘Mujhe Jaane Do’ are ignored. Car driven to super trendy nightclub.

12.45 am: Entry refused at super trendy nightclub on account of being oddly numbered. I do a little jig and thank the Gods. The men have luck on their side. They spot some bouncer type they know from their ‘basketball days.’ We are stamped and pushed in.

1-2: The men have taken to the floor. In fact the floor is full of mostly men. All the women seem very happy to be left draped over table next to wall nursing drink/chatting with female friend, etc. Come to think of it, it’s tough to top a bunch of super sloshed guys trying to do a Yana Gupta.

2.00: Finally give up resolution of not drinking much and go in search of sustenance in crowded bar. The husband has just whispered in my ear that he wants to become a DJ. This requires booze.

Ungodly Hour: Drive two grown and sloshed men home. It is a distance of only 4 kilometres and the parking lot is near empty so can manage this supremely brave feat (Am no driver). The men protest and say they can drive. You throw them a look that says…(well, can’t be described)

Rest of the night: Reach building. Ignore grinning watchman (aaj madamji gadi chala rahe hai). March very happy men to lift. Reach door of own flat. Push happy men in. Lock door. Take out packed dinner. Warm packed dinner. Leave on dining table for the happy men if hunger strikes them. Go to bed. The men are pouring rum and coke down their throat and celebrating Portugal/Ethiopia/whatever’s victory by watching last moments of match/match analysis whatever.

7.00 am: Wake up to the doorbell. Bai enters and throws disgusted look. Turn around to notice two not-too-shapely human bodies sprawled on different parts of floor (one on the gadda the other on bean bag and floor to be exact), along with half finished bottle of rum, many empty glasses (never occurred to them they could use the same ones?), CDs and cassettes…

End result of emotional blackmail