India Diary - A Long Road Home

The only part that can be appropriately labelled as ‘excruciating’ in a 3.5 week vacation home (India), is perhaps the 20+ hours spent cooped up in an air-plane or counting crows during layovers. An 8 hour flight from Detroit to Amsterdam, wandering aimlessly through the occluded corridors of Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport before boarding the next 8 hour flight to New Delhi, landing in New Delhi hours before the first blush of dawn, napping fitfully on the rock hard benches at the terminal and finally embarking on the last leg of the journey, a 1.5 hour flight to Bhopal – post all this, it wasn’t surprising that I was mere inches away from collapsing in a pitiful heap of cramped muscles and sore bones, yesterday.

Regardless though, the moment I stepped out of the airport at Bhopal, it was as if the familiar smells, sounds and sights of this much-loved city breathed new life into a travel-weary me. Soon enough my jet lagged eyes popped wide open in excitement as Papa meandered through the narrow by-lanes burgeoning with life and past the quiescent ‘bada talaab’ (big lake) over which a translucent curtain of mist hung low, adding manifold to the acute sense of nostalgia that was slowly setting in. The moribund yet charming pink arches of Gauhar Mahal and the quaint minarets of Tajul Masjid seemed to break into wide smiles as they welcomed me back. Even the stern looking Raja Bhoj carved in stone looked pretty pleased to see me. What accentuated the hilarity of the situation was me grinning foolishly back at all of them. This is what happens when one has an imagination that gallops faster than wild horses.

For the first few days everything feels surreal. It is as if I have stepped out of a Skype session with my parents, right into their living room. The transition from miniature 2 dimensional images on my computer screen to real flesh and blood 3 dimensional versions has left me momentarily dazed and I constantly feel the need to reach out and touch everything and everyone around to make sure that this is not a dream. Even the city pretends to unfold slowly and dramatically in front of me, making me believe that I am seeing it in a fresh perspective today.

Small town India peeks cheekily from around every nook and corner – a posse of students crowding a tin shanty, from within the charcoal walls of which a delectable breakfast of ‘poha-jalebi’ materializes on square pieces of newspaper, mothers balancing their cubs on two-wheelers while on their way to drop them at the school bus-stops and old men in monkey-caps and thick wool sweaters, emitting bursts of loud belly-laughs in the park early in the morning. Neither do I have to try too hard to hear the sounds of small town India, as they filter in seamlessly through meshed windows and make their way to my eager ears – the loud whistle of a train zipping on its tracks somewhere in the vicinity, the strains of Hindi movie songs trickling in as they play on someone’s radio-set in the neighbourhood, the cacophony of competitive honking on the roads and the constant hum of life as it goes by.

Picture this - I am sitting cross-legged in the living room, with a blanket of golden sunlight warming my legs and the sound of Ashoka trees rustling merrily in a mild winter breeze. From the corner of my eye I can see Ma shuffling from one room to another, carrying out her ritualistic morning chores. Papa is lounging on a chair in front of me with a cup of tea. He has his nose buried in today’s newspaper. On my left, my brother, Pranay is lying supine on the couch, his eyes glued to the television set on which an India-Australia cricket match is on. This is my very own paradise. None of the harshness associated with life as a grown-up touches me here. With me are those who love me unconditionally, a bookcase that groans under the weight of books from all around the world and crisp mooli/methi/gobhi paranthas that turn golden brown in Ma’s kitchen. I can speak in Hindi all day long without having to see even a hint of incomprehension on the faces of those whom I am speaking to. If this isn’t pure joy, then what is?

A Holiday Treat - Thanksgiving in San Francisco

Experiencing a city during the festive season is like meeting someone on their wedding day. People tend to be on their best behaviour the day they are getting married. In fact, even the most obnoxious ones are amiable and benign on this day and just so, even the most vicious cities are friendly and becoming in the last quarter of the year. Holidays seem to bring out the most attractive features of every city and it is worth the while to spend the extra dough over inflated costs of flight tickets, hotel reservations and other similar logistical expenditures to be able to partake of all the conviviality.

For instance, a city like New Delhi which is infamous for all the insidiousness that festers in its dark pockets any other time of the year, does not intimidate as much, as soon as the streets light up for Diwali and Eid. It is hard to hold up one's guard when wading through seas of happy people on streets swathed in twinkly fairy lights and colourful streamers. The aromas wafting from kitchens where lip-smacking treats are being conjured from scratch further melt away any residues of our guarded self. For a few weeks, the bonhomie and joy brought along by the holiday merriment shines so bright that it illuminates even the darkest nooks and corners and souls.

I had a chance to spend some time in San Francisco, California over Thanksgiving this year. Now, since San Francisco is not a city of ill repute, there were no preset caution bells ringing in my head. Also, as I have been there several times before, I wasn't expecting too many new revelations and experiences either. How wrong I was! From the glittery Christmas tree standing tall at Union square to the red and green mistletoes suspended in every display window of multi-storey retail havens like Macy's and Bloomingdales to the bejewelled Golden Gate Bridge which streaked the night sky like a frozen shooting star to the throngs of happy people crowding every inch of space on the sidewalks - everything was a thousand-fold brighter and more cheerful.

The husband and I are not big shoppers and so we did not fall victim to the crazy Black Friday shopping fever that afflicts most people during this time of the year. Instead, we were part of a small group of bemused onlookers, sitting with mugs of steaming hot cocoa, soaking up the gleefulness of others lugging bags and bags of great steals. Strangely, the excitement of those who have struck gold on this day of deals and sales after camping for hours outside mega malls, is contagious. It rubs on to even people like us who have little patience and inclination to jostle against others to grab that 100 dollar television at Walmart or that 5 dollar knit dress at H&M. Without spending a dime on retail therapy we ended up feeling pretty uplifted thanks to all the tireless shoppers whose frenzy made for quite a show.

Food is an integral part of any celebration and Thanksgiving and Christmas are no different. Merry making without the appropriate stomach gratifiers is just as hollow as an éclair without the custard filling. Imagine a Diwali back home without the customary tin boxes of crumbly gujjiyas and namak paares! The mere thought chills me to the bones. Crisp apple strudels with generous helpings of whipped cream, sandwiches filled with turkey stuffing, rich pumpkin flavoured milkshakes, flaky pies and quiches, piping hot coffee with cinnamon sticks and cocoa with cloud-like marshmallow bits floating on the surface were treats of the season we gladly indulged in and then promptly worked off the calories by walking miles through the city's sharp uphill and downhill streets.

I have always believed that the best way to get to know a city is by walking its streets. Living by this philosophy, we walked through the alleys of Chinatown with all its Mandarin sign boards, antique shops bursting with Chinese pottery, carved dragons and oriental figurines and vegetable markets with wares spilling out on the side-walks. We walked past the beautifully archaic apartment buildings that snake along either side of most streets around Union square, occasionally peeking through open windows to catch a glimpse of tastefully decorated living rooms of the wealthy. We admired the art galleries dotting Fisherman’s Wharf and of course the vast inky black ocean that stretched placidly into infinity. We even walked through the serpentine hairpin turns of Lombard Street, trying not to get dizzy. And when we could walk no more because our feet had gone leaden and were ready to drop off, the famous San Francisco cable cars came to our rescue.

 

The killer uphill walks

A holiday special play at the San Francisco Playhouse theatre, a visit to the land of the bourgeois - Palo Alto - to pay homage to where it all began for us (material for another post), a walk through the cool serenity of Muir Woods (material for yet another post) and several quiescent moments of togetherness later, we were just about ready to give up our jobs and move to California right away. Alas, that is not an option. And so, here I am, back in freezing Detroit, yearning for one glimpse of that crystal blue San Francisco sky. But I will say this: “Every time I make myself a comforting cup of hot cocoa now, I make sure to sprinkle it with a few extra bits of marshmallow, just so that I can close my eyes and let the wisps of steam from my cup and the creaminess of molten marshmallows whisk me back in time to those two beautiful days of colours, sunshine and amity.”

A piece of the blue sky captured by my puny cell phone

Haider - Hamlet in Kashmir

The sludge like greyness that I woke up to this morning was a perfect nod to the movie I had picked for the day – Haider. From the moment the lights dimmed in the theatre and the movie opened to a rather dreary scene, I knew that it was going to be two and a half hours of hard hitting cinema. Through Vishal Bharadwaj’s lens we are whisked to an eerily silent village cradled in the beautiful yet bloodied Kashmir valley of the 90s. The only sound that resonates once in a while is the collective clattering of soldiers’ boots as they hit the stone pathways or the muffled whispers of those who scuttle back home, trying to make it in time before the curfew sets in. Within this premise, unfolds a tale of a boy (Haider) who returns from college to charred remains of his childhood home, a missing father (Dr. Meer) whose name now bears the black mark of a terrorist-sympathizer and a mother (Ghazala) who is seen happily humming Kashmiri folk songs with her brother-in-law (Khurram) instead of being crazed with grief.

Even though the story is primarily about Haider’s hunt for his father and his burning desire to avenge everything that he has lost, there is a haunting larger picture. To me, the poignant exchange that takes place in the first few shots between Ghazala and Dr. Meer sums it up. To Ghazala’s quivering question – ‘Kiske taraf hain aap’ (Whose side are you on - India, Pakistan or the Separatists?), the composed doctor replies ‘Zindagi ke’ (I am on life’s side). It is an exchange that is rife with many unanswered ideological quandaries. On one hand the humanitarian aspect prods us to believe that a human life, irrespective of whether it is that of a fierce terrorist or an innocent bystander, is of utmost importance. On the other hand, the possibility that the same terrorist will, in all likelihood, end up mauling anyone who poses a roadblock in his quest for validating fanatical beliefs, makes us question the humanitarian within.

That the Indian Army isn’t shown in a particularly positive light is definitely a big dampener for me especially because the story feels lopsided in its narration. This is not to say that the plight of Kashmiris whose loved ones have been taken away for interrogation is in any way less excruciating than what has been depicted. What is missing though is the delineation of the circumstances under which troops are obligated to conduct cordon and search operations and catechize those found suspicious. Contrary to what is shown in the movie, this task isn’t one that our soldiers find amusing or pleasurable.

A close personal source once shared his own experience of just how physically strenuous and mentally draining these operations are. Imagine waking up at 2:30 am and preparing for an exercise that will last almost 20 hours, carefully shepherding the village men (many of whom are often hostile towards you) to a designated area, thoroughly scouring the village for hidden troublemakers – all under the constant threat of sudden ambushes and open fire from unseen vantage points that might leave you dead within seconds. Having seen them at close quarters for the better half of my life, I can assure you that these soldiers and officers are far removed from what they are made out to be – insolent louts lounging inebriated in interrogation camps which double as torture cells, deriving sadistic pleasure in the misery of those imprisoned.

Apart from the above, the movie is quite riveting in its account of Haider’s journey. As he painfully exhumes the rancorous truth about the iniquities perpetrated by his uncle, Khurram, the unintentional flaws in his mother’s character and the confusing canons of the ‘Azad Kashmir’ movement, you can see his soul swell with a black rage that eventually pours out and destroys everyone. Tabu as Ghazala, the woman torn between a desire to fulfil her personal needs and those of her enraged son is as usual a pleasure to watch. Her eyes speak a thousand words with the help of which she credibly portrays Ghazala’s insecurities and failures.

Kay Kay Menon plays out an apt version of the treacherous uncle Khurram – a consequentialist who believes that the end justifies the means. Without a flicker of remorse in his hardened eyes, he not only pretends to be a messiah to the grief-stricken masses with the sole intent of furthering his own political interests, but also double-crosses his brother in order to bring to fruition his personal agenda. Irrfan Khan brings a cold metallic insidiousness to the story with his character – Roohdaar – an ISI agent. In sharp contrast to Haider’s fury and Khurram’s greed that profusely dominate their expressions and dialogues, Roohdaar’s calculated vileness is subtle. Yet he is successful in sending a shiver down your spine. It suffices to say that Irrfan Khan has proved his mettle once again.

Shraddha Kapoor as Arshee, Haider’s love interest, breaks the morbidity for a few rare moments with her scintillating smile that calms raw nerves and her hazel eyes that are pools of innocence. And last but not the least, Shahid Kapoor’s aura as Haider himself is a far cry from the chocolate boy image that he has been known for in the past. Dangling precariously between sanity and insanity, Haider’s character demands a certain degree of precision which Shahid Kapoor has painstakingly achieved. Through him you experience the five stages of loss – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and eventually acceptance and at each stage his emotions are honest and palpable.

The director clearly focuses on telling an unsparing tale and carving out characters and dialogues that fit like puzzle pieces in it. Resultantly, the landscape fails to win even a smidgen of screen space. There are no wide angle shots of the serene Dal Lake and the umpteen houseboats bobbing in it or of the breathtaking apple orchards and snow-capped peaks that Kashmir is famous for. Snippets of still life in the region are however recreated by things like carved walnut-wood furniture, multi-hued namdas and firans, rows of arched windowpanes and handle-less cups brimming with steaming kahwa that can be spotted in the background in most scenes.

All in all, in spite of not sharing the storyteller's beliefs on the subject of Kashmir, I enjoyed the multi-layered intrigue of the story itself. And to the naysayers, more importantly the ones who are foaming at the mouth about the movie’s lack of patriotism, all I would like to say is that in a democratic country like India, each one has the right to form an opinion and talk about it. After all, isn’t that what sets us apart from countries like North Korea and Afghanistan where every non-conforming voice is unceremoniously muted?

Mohallas, Kebabs, Colours and more

Years ago, when I lived in Hyderabad, I remember spending most weekends with like-minded food lovers, scouting the congested by-lanes of Charminaar, looking for hidden gastronomic delights. The dusty old city never disappointed me. Under the fairy-light strung canopies that illuminated the bazaar each night, I found flavourful biryanis, melt-in-the-mouth kebabs, spicy qormas and saccharine desserts like khubaani ka meetha and double ka meetha that appeased my taste buds immensely. Aah... those were the days! Without batting an eyelid I could give in to the desires of my palate, for, adding inches to my waistline wasn’t even a speck on my blank slate of concerns.

****************** 

Watching ‘Daawat-e-Ishq’ yesterday, brought back some memories of that time. After Ishaqzaade, this is YRF’s second attempt at a watered down, ebullient version of the more intense cinematic style called ‘kitchen-sink’ realism – one that simulates the domestic situations of the working class. It is a story of a father-daughter duo battling the age old social illness that afflicts the great Indian middle class even today – the dowry system. The backdrop is an ancient mohalla in old Secunderabad where lunch boxes are packed with flaky shaami kebabs at the crack of dawn just as the 323 year old Charminaar stirs to life to the cooing of early morning birds. 

****************** 

 

Let me tell you at the very outset that the story isn’t a masterpiece. It is not something you haven’t seen before. What is captivating though is its depiction of commonplace lives that thrive in those sections of Indian cities that haven’t yet caught the ‘mall-food court-flyover’ bug. Be it purani Dilli, Old Bhopal, Secunderabad or Lucknow, each one has its own network of crumbling nukkads and gallis - remnants of a bygone era that hang on to dear life as wave after wave of modernization threaten to raze them to the ground. Ensconced within their cramped alleys, life goes on unabashedly, without giving a second thought to the cracked walls, frayed curtains, broken lattices, frequent power cuts and open sewers. 

****************** 

 

It is astonishing how, in spite of this decay, everything still feels more refreshing here. The fruits pedalled on wheel barrows under the scorching sun are juicier than those sitting symmetrically on shelves in air-conditioned grocery chains, milk from the steaming handis at a local halwaai looks creamier than that poured out of a tetra-pack, rows of seekh kebabs roasting merrily on a makeshift coal grille under a tin shanty smell more heavenly than anything at a fancy restaurant. I might be totally wrong but even the people working here seem to have lesser worry lines crisscrossing their faces than those working in high rise corporate offices.

****************** 

 

 But, I digress. Habib Faisal, the director of ‘Daawat e Ishq’, deftly walks a tightrope while recreating the aforesaid essence. It is a fine balance that needs to be struck. He avoids going overboard with the cultural stereotypes but at the same time he doesn’t underplay them either. As a result, the Hyderabadi ‘hau’s and ‘nako’s that pepper Gullu’s (Parineeti Chopra) conversations with her Booji (Anupam Kher) do not sound over the top. The buxom aunties with beady kohl rimmed eyes and paan stained mouths do not look burlesque. The narrow lanes flanked by handcarts groaning under the weight of plump mangoes, twinkly glass bangles and earthen pots of tangy jal jeera look very much a part of the picture that is being painted.

****************** 

 

While Parineeti Chopra has proven one too many times in the past that she can do a fabulous job at playing rustic roles, Aditya Roy Kapoor as the roguish Taaru is quite a revelation. The suave, city boy from ‘Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani’ and ‘Aaashiqui 2’ has transformed into a gold earring toting, broken English mouthing heir to the kebab king of Lucknow and may I say, the transition is seamless. There are no residual dregs of urbanity hanging on to him as he rattles off his restaurant’s menu in typical tapori style to an amused group of foreigners. The supporting cast too is sufficiently plausible and in fact quite a riot. Taaru’s potbellied friend Neeraj, Gullu’s first love interest Amjad (Karan Wahi) and Taaru’s greed spewing parents are characters that have not just been etched well by the writer but also convincingly portrayed by the actors.

****************** 

 

Films like these are telescopes that allow us to peer into the heart of India. Their purpose is not to merely tell a tale but to present a snapshot of daily lives in ordinary households – the kind you and I grew up in. As long as they are successful in doing that, it is perhaps easier to let the flaws in the storyline slip by as we sit back and rekindle memories of simpler times.  

Pops – A Heady Shot of Life

For most of my childhood years, I believed with a certain unwavering conviction (that only kids are known to possess), that Papa was no different than one of my bicycle riding, hop-scotch playing, squeals of joy producing little friends. There was something very light hearted and guileless about him that appealed immensely to us kiddies. In a world where most fathers could be slotted in insalubrious categories like – the irritable ones who growled at the drop of a hat, the distant ones who didn’t give a hoot, the strict ones who didn’t spare the rod and the nagging ones whose lengthy sermons could lull the most insomniac ghosts to sleep – Papa shone like a solitary lighthouse whose beacon of light cut through the densest of darkness. Far from being grumpy, nasty or even preoccupied, he was, for the most part, full of life and mirth. Even when ensnared in a complex web of worries – emblematic of adulthood – he somehow managed to keep up a happy demeanour that brightened every room he walked into. Today, as I grapple with worries of my own, I can barely keep up a façade of having my act together, let alone ooze pure contentment and joy from within. How he did it all his life is a confounding mystery.

******************  

A couple of decades later, at my wedding, after a rather hilarious encounter with him, a friend of mine emphatically stated – “Your Dad is super cool!!” Her innocuous little observation made me closely study Papa and his innate ability to build and sustain human ties. Turns out, he is in fact the quintessential ‘Yaaron ka Yaar’. That he can effortlessly wiggle his way into cliques of all kinds and all age groups, acts as an apt attestation of the above appellation. From being a hoot amidst little ones to being a worthy partner in crime to a pack of 20-somethings to being an energy packed ball of witticisms amongst his own classmates and colleagues to being kind and respectful to the oldies, yet bringing a smile to their wrinkled faces by cracking a joke here and a joke there - he is a welcome addition to any gathering under the sun. It is thus not surprising that under every second rock, in every other country around the world; we end up unearthing long lost friends of his. And when Papa meets them, it is almost like they had never parted. Rib-tickling anecdotes flow unbridled and bubbles of laughter permeate every open space and every open heart in the vicinity.

******************  

This is not to say that Papa is just about fun and games. In the face of seemingly insurmountable circumstances, he is like a solid rock that one can lean on without a second thought. I wonder what infinite pool of worldly wisdom and resilience he draws from while patiently (and occasionally impatiently) listening to other’s woes and dishing out sound advice! Sometimes, something as simple as hearing him recite his favourite verse from the Bhagwad Geeta - "Jo hua,woh achchha hua,Jo ho raha hai,woh bhi achchha ho raha hai,Jo hoga,woh bhi achchha hi hoga" serves as a perfect antidote for all maladies. Just like a cup of hot tea, spiced with ginger and cinnamon can get rid of the most stubborn of all sniffles, a dose of Papa’s stoicism laced with veracity and a sprinkle of love can shoo away the fiercest of life’s ogre like troubles.

******************  

Now that the sentimentalities are out of the way, let’s bring back those smiles with an account of some of Papa’s outlandish talents. His snores, for instance, are so potent that even the dead rise from their graves to stuff their ears with balls of cotton wool. If you are still able to somehow fall asleep and wake up in time, you can be privy to a magical sight  – that of him enjoying  a plateful of breakfast – a one-egg omelette, a piece of toast and some almonds. Watching Papa savour his meals can make the fullest of tummies rumble uncontrollably again. After a mandatory one hour nap in the afternoon and a cup of tea, he gears up every day for his favourite time of the day – squash time. On most days he dominates the squash court like a professional player. With the zest of an 18 year old, he smashes the ball against the red-lined wall and mercilessly crushes his opponents. His jubilation was thus not surprising the day Pranay picked up the sport. Not only did Papa gain a lifelong partner to play with but he also passed on the baton and the great news was that it had stayed in the family.

******************  

Thirty two years ago, a pretty Pune-based damsel agreed to give up a cushy job and a cosmopolitan life to marry a strapping young officer whom she had never met. A quick peek at a thumb-sized, sepia toned picture of his was all she had to put a face to the words that consistently arrived wrapped in blue inland letter envelopes. She probably had a stomach full of butterflies and a heart full of anxieties as she read his letters and hoped that he was just as dependable as the frequency of his letters. If only I could travel back in time, I’d hold her hand and assure her of the astuteness of her decision. I would tell her that she is destined to live a happy, fun-filled life with a man who will not only prove to be a good husband but also a loving father. He is going to be the one who will sit by her and watch 3 hour long Hindi movies even though he can barely stand them, just because she loves going to the movies. He is going to share her love for travel, long drives, aaloo bondas at train stations and shelves full of books. He is going to be the one pulling her leg and breaking into loud belly laughs when she reacts and he is also going to be the one melodiously singing her favourite song - ‘Heyyy Neele Gagan ke tale’ to cheer her up on gloomy days. Since time travel isn’t yet a possibility, I will settle for the next best option, which is telling her today – “Ma, you did well!” 

Amsterdam – Of Bicycles and Tulips, Sex and Drugs

Amsterdam is like a mysterious package that materialises one fine morning at your doorstep, kind courtesy a secret admirer. At first, you are sceptical and a tad bit scared to open it but then curiosity gets the better of you. With a slight tug the strings come undone and the flaps swing open. Upon peeking in, you find a deluge of items – some are alluring while others are repugnant. Outwardly discordant elements sit side by side as if they have silently signed a peace treaty. It is strange how pieces of historical and cultural importance like the Anne Frank house and the Van Gogh Museum do not seem to turn up their noses on spectacles of raw carnality at the Rosse Burt (red light district) which brims with kinky sex museums and peep shows. On the contrary, the two snuggle in disconcerting harmony.

******************  

The Dutch capital encompasses two identities. Much like a yin and yang pair, it exhibits an undisguised dichotomy. On an impromptu girls‘trip, I struck up an acquaintance with both facets. By daylight the first mien presents itself – beautiful, unsullied, and pristine. A handful of classic Dutch signatures can be found sprinkled generously all over – a filigree of capillary-like canals, crow-stepped gable roofs atop multi-hued canal houses, beautiful tulips in full bloom, towering windmills feeding power to the city, intricate blue and white Delftware and elegantly painted wooden shoes called clogs. Then there are the ubiquitous bicycles which make the city look like a sea of two-wheeled contraptions. Chained nonchalantly to side rails, ridden breezily on cobbled streets and lying despondently on canal beds – they are everywhere. Coming from a country where bicyclists languish at the bottom-most rung of the food-chain, it is refreshing to see them rule the roost here. 

******************  

Anne Frank 
(picture courtesy Wikipedia)

Amidst all the mayhem of 21^st century routine, on Prinsengracht Street stands an ordinary looking 17^th century structure which in fact houses something extraordinary. In the 500 square feet back house of this building, a 13 year old named Anne Frank and her family hid from Nazi persecution during the dark years of World War 2. Squeezing my way through passages that are a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare, I can only imagine the plight of those who spent 2 years cooped up here. Every page from Anne’s diary comes alive in the sombre confines of the rooms behind the bookcase. Her recordings can be summed as ramblings of an average teenager, yet they stand apart because a shadow of impending doom hangs heavy on each syllable. Even though she wasn’t fortunate enough to survive the war, she unknowingly achieved an elusive state of eternal existence through her journal.

 ****************** 

The setting sun slowly and horrifically transforms a portion of the city (Rosse Burt – the red light district, to be precise) into a giant, seedy, back alley brothel. Through a lacy veil of hashish smoke that descends upon the threadlike lanes, I see the harmless looking bicycles from a few hours ago turn into multi-wheeled, out-of-control beer bikes. Packs of boorish men from all corners of the world crowd around red-rimmed windowpanes and leer sleazily. Curious to know what force of nature can lure men into window shopping, I hone in and find a rather unsavoury answer. Women in all forms of undress strike sultry poses behind each of these shop windows. The tableau they present is both repulsive and pitiful at the same time. 

******************  

How does this image titillate the masses and not make them cringe instead? Is it acceptable to treat another human being, irrespective of gender, as an object on sale? The knowledge that there are government agencies protecting these women from abuse is slightly placatory but it does not make the picture less murky. Adding to the shadiness are dubious characters peddling nefarious articles like tickets to live sex shows and packets of magic mushrooms. Not wanting to be left behind, souvenir shops too try to milk the raunchiness and are stacked with trinkets that conform to the libidinous theme. And sure enough, as the night progresses, their business flourishes.

******************  

Here in Amsterdam, for every Van Gogh museum there is a polar opposite sex museum and for every Anne Frank house there is a ‘House of Sin’. It is for visitors to decide which one is yin and which one is yang for them. As for me, the experience has been a little bit of this and a little bit of that. There was a dash of classic Dutch ‘hygge’* owing to lunches at lovely canal-side cafés, leisurely strolls and shopping for pretty Delftware. On the other hand, to balance it out there was a bitter aftertaste as a consequence of witnessing flesh trade for the first time at such close quarters.

*Hygge: state of cosiness, warmth and relaxation in the company of someone you care about, often involving eating and drinking. (Source: Visit Denmark)