A Special Post : Two Stories --Same Human Connection

Today I am writing for those who visit this specially.

Those come here to read my updates and those who have followed it for years. As I have mentioned else place on this blog, I have YouTube channel and I have another places where I contribute regularly. 

So, coming here is not as regular. 

But I will never give up this space. 

This blog holds special meaning for me. Not just because this was the first blog I ever created. But for a few other reasons.

1. Those special people who still click on it, on purpose. I know there are many (I get about 200-600 hits a month) who come here for  topic or images.  But then there are others who come for the writing or simply to check up on what have I been upto. So, this post is specially for them, who come to get an update about me, and sometimes email me or leave a comment on the blog. 

Thanks, and please leave comments, it always makes my day. 

2. I have documented my life here in some way for the last 12 years. 

Yes, 12 years. 

This blog does not give a detailed account of my personal life.

Yet, if you read through many of the posts, you will figure out many themes and meanings in my life.

On an average I have about 36-37 posts a year. 

Considering that during this time, I have travelled through 17 brand new countries (not counting those before 2010. The year 2009, which I still need to write about in detail, was something special. I travelled through 13 different countries, on train, bus, boat, and ofcourse planes). 

I have published about 12 professional articles,15 non academic, one short story on amazon, started a youtube channel, working on a larger book length project right now...and released my first 24 minute film last year. I have been India about India about 11 times, to the US 6 times, to Spain 4 times, Germany 3 times, Japan 2 times...so and so forth....

Yet, on an average 36-37 posts a year.

During this time writing emails has gone downhill, although I am one of the few people who still writes emails. 

Most emails, with most people were repetitive.  

Around late in first decade of 2000, people started to put their pictures and thoughts on FaceBook. 

Something, I still do not do.

I share the pictures I take, to give a perspective. Not pictures of me or my family.

Somethings should remain private. My simplistic thinking.

There is a tradition in India of not saying the name of those you love. Especially between married couples. Its a way of protecting that energy. Keeping it sacred. 

Same with images of people. 

But also, a realisation that my pictures should not be imposed on other people's feeds. My pics are not important.  Even if I think they are.

So they remain with me. 

Although to be honest, I have a hard time finding pictures of myself. I am always behind the camera.

A little creativity --and  picture becomes more intriguing rather than a show 

The ones I take of myself are usually on my computer, in Photo Booth. Its like a time lag of 200 photos over 10 years. 

But I choose to write here, because it brings me back the simplicity, when I wrote simply to write, and wrote for a few friends.

And I continue.

Many of the posts here are not saved on my computer. I think they should be. 

I have so many precious incidents documented here.

The past decade has always been difficult with regards to life issues.

Yes Life issues, something that I hardly share on this blog. At least not openly. 

Sometimes, when I return to this blog, I am amazed at how much I have recorded. I could not have written it all in my hand written journals. 

I must admit writing in a journal is different from writing on this blog. I know that this can be accessed by strangers, no matter that it is anonymous. There is always a fear of being found out. And I want to limit some thoughts to my journals. 

There are many ways of adding story to a picture....I love what light and camera angles can do, even with computer's Photo Booth

So, today, on a Saturday, even though I generally post on Friday evenings, I decided to dedicate some time to this blog.

I want to share two incidents from this week. First about food, and second about unplanned conversations that can evoke nostalgia, a strong yet fleeting connection and rejuvenate us because it brings us human connection. 

I have been working in Gothenburg. Love the city. 

But also some days I buy cooked food to save time. And because I am simply exhausted, working between two towns. But more importantly here I have access to so much 'international food'. Even getting nice Chinese or Italian in Karlstad is not easy.

Here in Goteborg, I can get Indian and Greek, and Chinese and Vietnamese ....you name it.

I stay in city centre. Even better, close to metro and buses, and very close to many eateries.

So, this last week I visited an Indian restaurant for a take away twice. I have been having some 'gum' issues.  So have restricted my food to soups, rice and noodles for a few weeks.

Rice and daal, sounded wholesome and warm and healthy.

I got it two days ago on Wednesday. The  yesterday, that is friday, I went again and ordered the same.

The person serving me at the counter insisted I have something else. 

'No try no 81, or 83, they are all vegetarian'.

At some point, he asked me where I was from. He told me the last time he was from India. This time, he told me he was from Nepal and asked if I could speak hindi.

We started chatting in hindi. He insisted that I try something other than what `i ordered.

I have to be careful, and need to have something soft., I said.

'yes,' i assure you 81 channa masala is soft and delicious. he repeated.

Ok, I ordered, and then asked, 'but why do you insist when I am fine with what i had two days ago?'

'Because you have to try other things from our place, because it is good for your mouth and taste to try something new.'

I simply smiled. It was a combination of 'care and pride'. He wanted me to have a good experience, also wanted me to think good of his restaurant.

There's an asian touch. As we call it, Apnapan. The feeling of belonging. 

I smiled, and we talked about a few other things. How he came to this country. He told me he had been here for 5 years. He shared his name. I told him I knew another Kamal *meaning lotus, from Nepal. I told him people usually thought I was from Nepal or Mexico or Spain or Italy, its interesting how I am perceived. 

I asked him I could get a small packet of sweetened aniseed, which you get in Indian restaurants after meals. Its is a digesting and a mouth freshner.

He packed the anise, and two types of chutneys.

Ah, the feeling of familiarity lasted the whole evening. For a short time, on a cold evening, I felt like I was home.

Second Incident.  Three days ago. Wednesday. The first time I went to that restaurant to get rice and daal, I stopped at Kvillefoto (https://kvillefoto.se) to ask if they could get me a few negatives of a few glamour shots, some old family pics etc. (you can watch the video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02T6b4NHX7w)

The best part was that without thinking I did my first few minutes of conversation in Swedish.

He said that they did. But today there is no need for a negative because they make a digital image of it and can remove any scratches etc. 

I wanted to ask him about getting a camera for my youtube channel. 

'Oh I know nothing of it' he said. I was surprised. Then he pointed at the long row of cameras behind him and said, 'All these are analogs. These are old cameras. Film is still hard to find, but they are getting more and more demand. Analog is coming back in fashion, people want to see pictures that are not perfect....'

I was listening intently. I talked about my first Pentax and realised that even that was not an analogue. I had forgotten. I never owned an analogue. Maybe the disposals ones.

I have two of my father's cameras. One of them, Minolta, really dear to him. 

So I talked about Minolta, long lenses, and another one that my father gave me, a really old camera.

The man smiled.

Then I told him to watch Sean Tucker's youtube channel.  He said, he already did.

He shared a few pictures, told me about following natural light and showed me various ways I could get some pasteboards if I wished. 

I have been meaning to get pasteboards made of flowers from different countries. 

Then I asked him, if I could interview him about photography for my channel. He agreed.

I was so happy. Only I know how hard it is for me to find time. I have gazillion ideas but to keep it all up is hard.

But still such a soulful conversation, that when I stepped out of the photoshop I had a spring in my walk.

Such power, human connection has.

So, I wanted this to be focus of my very first story of 2023. I hope you will remember and I wish you experience many warm moments like this in the coming year.

P's Memory--Once Upon a Childhood

Last published on May 22, 2014, I am publishing this again, since I just spoke with P. I will polish this blog and make it a little more formal.  P and I are trying to do video series. This song came up....thought you would like to read it...

Originally published on June 9, 2012---I am republishing this story, for two reasons. The story was searched recently but more importantly, I had been humming the song mentioned here.  

P's mom and her choir.  Archiestown, around WWII.  Music takes us back to our heart, our memories.  Here is the link to the song in Elizabeth Schwartzkof's voice.

The following story was written by my friend P.  I met him in Fiji.  He is originally a Brit, but in a larger sense a dreamer so a drifter. He, has lived in many countries----Kenya, Mozambique, NZ, England, Malaysia, Fiji, Papau New Guinea, and the most recent, Sudan.  He has travelled in many more. I will not compare him to me, because I think he is content with his state.  I am sort of the same and yet -not content and restless.  As if I have not arrived home yet.

P, has taught me so much.  I love his writing, simple and yet thought provoking.  I have two very  favorite memories of him.  First, shortly after I met him we had our departmental end of the semester party, where I saw him stand up and dance to Pacific music. There was a flower garland around his neck. He danced casually with a gentle smile on his face.  I was a lot more conscious than he was.  He has his share of feeling uncomfortable and he often remains quiet in large groups.  But that one memory of him, made me see the simplicity to his personality.  The second one I have of him is when I visited him in NZ.  I walked into the living room and he was sitting quietly on his living room listening to an opera.  Just bathing in music.

I sat quietly on a chair on the side.  When he opened his eyes, I asked him...

'So, what..."

'Just listening to good music he said.'

I think this following story reminded me of those two memories of him.  Py, love of P's life, told me once, 'he is like a little boy you know.'

And I remembered that when we were in NZ and I had missed my ferry to Picton, he, very excitedly had said to me, We have some time and we should go to the large aquarium in Wellington. (if I remember clearly that is what it was).

And we went to see the largest squid ever captured.  When I told Py about it, she had said, 'Oh it was he who wanted to see it, and used you as an excuse.'

I present this story here with his permission.  The above picture is actually from his family album.  He is not there in the pic, but his siblings are.  He also sent me the music that goes with the story.  I have not been able to upload it as an mp3 file, so am attaching a link to the youtube, here

At the end of the story is the translated version of the song.  I hope the readers enjoy it as much as I did.

*********

It’s Good Friday – April 2012. Yesterday I bought a CD of a singer I enjoyed. It had a number of tracks of opera, operetta and lieder.  Today I played it for the first time. One track  gives me  a huge shock and a memoir of thoughts flooded my head and down to my heart. What is this tune– why do I recall it…with my mother and a  musical concert evening in Archiestown in Morayshire, Scotland. It is possibly August 1945. I know it is after the end of World War Two and … school holiday time. I am home after yet another bruising term in boarding school.

Mum was always producing music plays and cajoling people into taking part in them. We have lived in Archiestown for several years – since 1940, I think.. and she is now well known in the village. Each day she goes out on her black bike with a bag on the back. She is a trained nurse and delivered most of the babies born here during the last four years. Some in homes and some in the doctor’s surgery and one in the police station. I remember that birth, as Mum talked about it. It happened in winter and the woman could not get home so the baby was born in a police cell and stayed there until the snow and ice had retreated and her husband arrived. Mum washed old people, bandaged the children and got angry with the young boys who got beer and cigarettes from soldiers who seemed to be everywhere.

We had prisoner of war camps near us - some with Germans and some with Italians. They did not mix much. Local people hated the Germans – dirty Krauts, they called them, but the Italians were seen differently. They were allowed on farms and helped local people and repaired the roads.

Mum got to know a few of the Italian prisoners and she found out that some could sing well and some could play the piano. I am sure the Germans could do the same – but they were kept in camps, isolated from the village, and only a few men were ever seen in town. Before long the Italian singers and pianists were part of her concert party and when they were not singing they helped to put up, and take down the scenery and move Mum’s piano  from our little cottage to the village hall and then move it home again after the concerts.

There were many concerts and I learned about theatre by watching how rehearsals were conducted and stage movements were used to emphasize mood and emotion. 

But this August concert was special. The war was now over and the prisoners, both the  German and Italian prisoners were  being given more freedom and allowed to walk about the village during the day time. Mum planned a special World War Two victory concert, as soldiers were coming home from the war. Prisoners were to be sent back to Germany and Italy. Peace was here.

Mum is practicing for this concert. The song is called “Don’t be cross” about a girl and a boy.  Mum spends hours rehearsing this song and she had a fine voice – I heard someone call it – a dark soprano – don’t know what that meant, but that was it. Someone  at the local BBC in Glasgow said it, I think. Mum loved operetta – Emmerich Kalman and Franz Lehar. 

Mum spoke French and a little German – but I had heard her say many times that she would never speak German until the war was over. She practiced this song again, and again and I asked her what it meant -  love… she said giving me a big smile.

Her concert were always good – I loved mum and all her music too  –her songs were beautiful. I used to think she  composed them herself. This concert had all the village children in it, we were being Indians from India. . We boys knew nothing about India, but we knew about Red Indians  and we thought both were the same.  Mum never told us the difference, as I think she needed all the children  she could get for the concerts.

That night the song “don’t be cross “ was sung as a solo by Mum and it made me cry with the light melody that was like a stream on a mountain. At the end of the evening, for the last song – Mum asked for one Italian, one German prisoner and one soldier guard  from the camp and for all the local soldiers  who had returned from the war to come on the stage. I was then invited on the stage too with my brother and sister.

Mum spoke – she said she was born of a French mother, an Austrian father, lived in England and  was also Scottish, ( which got a big laugh). She then said that it was a time to be friends again and we should not be cross with one another any more. She sang the song again and at the end there  was so much cheering and Mum sang it once more in German. I remember Mum crying and crying. I thought she was never going to stop sobbing and her lovely red dress got all wet from her eyes.

So. Back to me. The song is sung on the CD by Elisabeth  Schwarzkopf. I have attached it to this file with the lyrics too. I hunted them out on Google I feel so lucky – after so many years coming across this song and my memories.

Sei nicht bös’  -Don’t be cross (a song sung by my mother at concert in

Archiestown, after the end of World War Two – August 1945 (I think)

Wo sie war die Müllerin,                             Where there was a miller-maid,

Zog es auch den Fischer hin,              a fisher-boy was drawn there too.

Doch sie lachte ihn nur aus,                But she only laughed at him,

Denn sie wollte hoch hinaus!               She had her sights set higher than that!

Nachts, da er zum Fischen geht,                 At night, when he was going fishing,

Klopft er leise an und fleht:                 he knocked lightly and implored:

Werde mein und mach mir auf!             Be mine, open up!

Doch sie singt spöttisch drauf:             But she sneeringly replied,

Sei nicht bös’, es kann nicht sein,                                      Don’t be cross, it cannot be;

Sei nicht bös’, und schick dich drein,                         Don’t be cross, and send yourself away,

Sei nicht bös’, und mach kein G’sicht,                        Don’t be cross, and don’t make a face,

B’hüt’ dich Gott, vergiss mein nicht.                          God keep you, forget me not.

Kann nicht sein,                                                         It cannot be,

Schick dich drein.                                             send yourself away.

Mach kein G’sicht…                                           Don’t make a face…

Und zu zog die Müllerin                              And so the miller-maid

In die Welt mit stolzem Sinn.                         went off into the world with a proud mind.

Endlich kommt sie wieder her,                       Finally she returned,

Aber stolz ist sie nicht mehr.                        but she was no longer proud.

Fährt nun nachts der Fischer aus,                            Now she went to the fisher-boy,

Ruft sie bang zu ihm hinaus:                         and called out to him timidly:

Tröste mich und komm zu mir!                      come and comfort me!

Doch jetzt singt er zu ihr:                                                         But this time he sang to her:

Sei nicht bös’,…                              

Putting Smiles on Public: One Stich at a Time

 

So here you, another picture of goodness,

This one made me smile. So I went back to look at the hanging note. 

Some people though...sooooo beautiful.  I will write more about this later. For now, I wanted to bring you all a smile too!!

The Shyness that Lasts Only a Short Time

Earlier published on September 18, 2020, here it is again, but with new pictures. I promised to put new pictures here. These were taken almost the same day. As you can see, he is happily riding is bike. The momen he sees me, he hides his face. May because he is self conscious, may be because I stare at children....because I find them fascinating.... :)

There is also some new information about his sister, later in the post. 

Calmly riding his bike, unti he sees me. 

So this child lives in the neighbourhood.  He has now grown up.  These are from 2016-17.  But is so shy that every time he sees me, he looks away, hides his face.  Of course, not any more.  But for about 1-2 years, every time I stopped to stare at this face, even when his mother was at his side, this is how he would behave. Curl up, look away....put his head down.  And I just had to capture that...how we loose that self-consciousness. How we become bold, and less vulnerable.  And how it happens within a month.  So, for me capturing these is very important.

I have a few more of his pics that I will locate and share.   (The two top ones have been added). 

Here is his sister.  She is now a tween.  Boy! When I saw her yesterday I was surprised ....Shoulder length strange hair --and a top that was tied at the waist to look like a crop-top, with skin hugging pants. She is ready to grow up! How fast these kids grow. 

I try to capture their young moments. Its been important to me to notice children.  It used to be such a thing for people who spent their entire lives in one neighbourhood.  Sometimes neighbours knew each other better than relatives. There was a sense of  peace and security about that. I try to bring that to the places I live in.  These pics are ---from that older side of me....where II notice children around me like a matriarch does!!

March, 2022

Let me add an anecdote here. This happened the time I wrote this blogpost first. Its about the young girl. I tried to speak to her in Swedish. She responded in english. Knowing that Swedish was not really my first language. She was very comfortable in the language.  I said, 'Your english is very good.'

"Thanks, yours too!" she said.

Hmmmmm......

Bella!!

First published on January 5, 2013, here is this story again.

Simple and beautiful.  Bella!

October 9, 2012, 

Taktseng Monastery, Bhutan 

(Notice that structure above her her, to the left, ...that is Tiger’s Nest, Tak Tseng). 

We were on our way to TakTseng Monastery (Bhutan).  I met such beautiful, interesting and fun people on the way.   Every twenty minutes or so, I would either pass her, or see her walk past me.  She did not talk much.Quietly, gently going onward.  In deep thought, without many words.  Every time I saw her something in me just stopped.  I spent most of the time with Irma, that lovely woman from Israel and her friends.  Then on our way down from the monastery,  heard this a bunch of happy people talking in this poetic language.  

'Is that Portuguese.' I asked?

'No, Italian', they said. 

Ah, makes sense!!  For we all know that Italian was actually created to sound poetic.  All the stereotypes apart, Italian is melodious to our ears!!

At the mid way stop to the monastery, on our way down, I saw Irma speaking to her.  That gave me the courage and I finally said, ‘Your face is so beautiful’.  Although I wanted to say 'Do you know your face is where one wants to rest.’

She smiled.  Irma joined me enthusiastically in saying some really kind words.

'May I please take a picture of you?' I asked.  And may I put it on my blog? She joined her hands, thanked me, and smiled. I took that as being granted the permission.  If anyone feels that I should remove it, please let me know.  

Irma had called her ‘Bella’ --the italian word for ‘beautiful’ and we all smiled.  If, calm, self satisfaction and grace were to become flesh, I think, the picture below might be one of its faces!!

October 9, 2012, 

Taktseng Monastery, Bhutan

Ordinary People Like Us!!

Last published on TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 2014, ORIGINALLY pubished in 2013--actually from 2012...here it is...This one of my favorite posts. 

Handmade mats, and the salesman.  Mr. Kind Smile.  Bangkok, Thailand, 2011

Originally, published on January 13, 2013----!!

What you see on the table are handmade mats.  They are made from scraps of fabric.  Nothing is wasted in developing countries. At least not yet. And in their dearth of material goods, they have also become quite creative in using the left overs.  There are numerous recipes for the left over food. One of my favorite from India is to use the left over vegetable curry and knead it into the morning dough.  So the chappatis are flavorful.  Or another one, take the dry vegetables cooked the night before, and stuff them into breakfast paranthas (shallow fried bread).  Ofcourse, we can make sandwiches from the left over potato (dried) curry.  

But I seriously do not think that it is ‘(just) the lack of having the material that makes us in Asia creative with everyday life.  I think it is civilization.  Because people have lived long (in these places) before modern technology and throw away culture arrived.  

The basic organizing principle of the lives (in developing countries) remained the same for centuries.  Let us create something.  So, the girls were knitting sweaters or sewing dresses.  Even making their own shoes.  Ofcourse there was cooking, and preserving, and maintenance of the house.  For boys, it was carpentry, knowing electricity and electrical gadgets, or automobiles.  And there were always new ways of doing things.

The trend was the same in many of what we call the ‘developed countries’ today.  Even in the US.  But the US, must have been one of the first countries to be heavily industrialized...before it could develop a deep culture around ‘home and hand made’ goods.  That disrupted its culture of creating things at home early on.  Today, in developed countries creativity often involves making films, digital media, and other activities related to computer.  

What of creativity/construction that can be applied to our daily lived experience, food, clothes, etc. In the developed countries, we have outsourced our daily living .  The smell of bread being baked only comes from bakeries.  Or rarely comes from homes.  We do not go to the local dairy to get the milk in glass bottles, where we must pass through fields smelling of animal excreta---instead pick up our choice of milk from the local grocery store--that is clean, odorless and very sterile.

In a sense we move from individual to ‘generic’.  That is why I always had issues with this idea of ‘individual’ culture of the west.  I think it is more generic.  Everyone wears clothes bought from stores, not home made or sewn by family tailor.  The food they eat often comes from boxes.  There is little concept of preserving, picking, juicing, unless done for special diets.

I will have to write a separate entry on my memories of food being preserved, throughout winter, so we could taste it in summer.

It was still fresher than the ones we get in cans....and it had a personal-family touch....

Back to the above picture.  I had seen this young man in 2009, on my visit to Bangkok.  But when I saw in 2011, I recognized him right away.  Ofcourse, he did not.

I clicked a picture with his permission.  And spent the next ten minutes chatting with him.  All the time, wondering if he can fill his stomach on what he makes by selling those handmade mats?

May be he has other ways of living, may be he deals with drugs, may be he is a recovering alcoholic...you know all these things we are told about the people who make a living by setting up street stalls?  They live on the margins.  In reality, may be he is married, with children, and his wife makes these while he set up stalls in different places through the week to maximize on his sales.

We will never know!

But whenever I see them, and whenever I have enough time to stop and talk to them....I do..and bow to them silently, for among all the ills they may be associated with, they are merely trying to make the best of their circumstances from the information and opportunities they were given and the wisdom they gathered--just like the  most of us!!  

Diwali Gratitude!!

First published on October 25, 2014--nearly 6 years later, here it is again.  Its today and like 2014 I got the date wrong. PS: The original title was Belated Diwali Gratitude, butt since Diwali is today...deleting 'Belated'.

These diyas (lamps) are home made.  Made out of wheat flour dough--special touch with vermillion powder used in prayers colour and turmeric.  A friend suggested to make them at home. I have some clay ones --from Fiji and India I think.  But these were a joy to make...

So here goes the original post.

While I've had years where i have not been able to celebrate it, there has never been  a year when I got the date for Diwali wrong.  But this year, I did and therefore did not do anything special that day except set up a shrine, after which I was too tired to do anything and offered my prayers the day after Diwali.  Unlike Botswana 7 hrs), the US (10-13 hrs) or Fiji (17 hrs), Sweden is only 3.5 hrs behind the US and therefore holidays fall on pretty much the same day.  My lovely niece in India sent me pictures of these Rangolis---which are floor art in India.  They can be made with coloured powder, coloured sawdust, spices, rice, rice paste, special colours made for Rangoli (called aplana and other names in different states), coloured tapioca, or flowers.  

It was a quiet Diwali, as I tried to ask friends to come over at the last minute but everyone was busy.  So I bought my middle eastern sweets, --we have no Indian store here and these sweets are sweet enough to be considered Indian.  I also bought Zaleba which in India is called Jalebi.  Until I came to Sweden, I did not know that it was actually a persian sweet, that we Indians have borrowed and made it our own.  And a fresh coconut,which we must have for all celebrations.  I played my bhajans (devotional songs), and had as merry a time as I could.  Deadlines looming, this was enough. 

And I came across this article on how so many people are not able to take time off to celebrate their holiday.  And this video--while its great, I think the fact that it was made by Pepsi, upsets me. Many Pepsi folks over work their staff.  Many Pepsi like companies are responsible for this wonder of stress in our lives.  I also remember how my Jewish students in the US would come sheepishly to me to let me know that they were taking a few days off to celebrate their holidays since there were no days off for any other but Christian holidays in the US.  I guess Fiji and India spoilt me. South Africa, Singapore, Malaysia and some other countries do give days off for all the religions represented in the country.  As it should be.  But the problem is not just the US, but Australia and NZ and even many Islamic countries that do not acknowledge the changing demographics.  

But these pictures of rangoli, sent by my niece, made me smile.  Due to my regular visits to India I have forged a relationship with these children who were barely 2-3 years old when I left or not yet on this planet.....that is something that only technology could not bring us.

This Diwali, I am grateful that I can afford tickets and time --mostly--to maintain some important relationships in my life.  

And this post goes to all my friends and family members...thanks for being my life.  With you my life is Diwali!! 

Aidan Chambers: A Brush with Celebrity

First published on December 20, 2014, here it is again.  A simple post but quite memorable.  You can look up the author. 





The following post was started in 2012, but as is life, I am just wrapping it up.  Just in time for some nice positive stories for the New Year.

I was talking to a friend/student and she asked me, 'So anything interesting happen?"

Well, no, nothing really.

Yeah, but you meet all these interesting people.  No one on the plane?

''Oh, yeah...I actually.'

                                        

She laughed, She knew.

Aidan Chambers: The Author of Dying to Know You

Yeah, I was on my flight from London to Stockholm, and I sat next to this tall gentleman, and started chatting.

At first we only talked about what he was reading. ---P.G. Woodhouse----We talked generally about the weather and life in general.

Then I asked him what he did. 

In very simple terms, and very modestly he said, 'I am a writer'

Really? My eyes went wide.  

And then we talked about this work.  He writes novels for young adults, and has written in general on writing and education as well.

We talked about academic writing and he wrinkled his nose, ‘not my cup of tea’

Ofcourse I am interested in people and their stories.  So, I asked him how he got into writing, did he always want to be a writer, did he ever pursue any other profession.

He told me that he was a Catholic priest and as he grew he disconnected from his faith, it meant less and less because it was restricting to him.  I assume an imaginative mind cannot be put down.  Since I have had a personal issue with monotheistic religions, and absolutely disagree with the rigidity that is imposed by such thinking, I asked him about meditation and other practices in the church.  He stated that the point of meditation was not to meditate and to be free of thoughts, as it is in Asian traditions, where the aim is to go beyond duality (us and others) and find the divinity and vastness within, instead it was only to focus on the idea of divinity prescribed by the church.

I could understand many of the things he shared, from having read Joseph Campbell and other authors who talk about their monotheistic faith falling apart, as they expanded in consciousness. 

He spoke with as much love as anyone can imagine. He had no bitterness or pain as he spoke.  It was as if he was relating a story he had read.  When I realized that, I instantly felt that he had reached his nirvana.  He could not be bound by a limited idea of divinity, and may be that is what led him to delve into the hearts and minds of humans, and being compassionate. 

Why was he flying to Stockholm, I asked. Oh because I have to be at this university for a lecture….

‘Wow, that is where I work’

‘Really,’ he gave a gentle smile.

Yes, if its ok, I would love to attend the lecture.

Sure, it would be nice.

Soon as I got home, I googled him.  He is a well-published, well-read, well established, award winning novelist.  

I sat just being in awe of the fact that I had met and had a personal conversation with him. 

The next day I saw him in the hallway, and he talked to me like I was an old friend.  He held both my hands in his and said, ‘Did you arrive at home ok?¨

Yes, I nodded nervously. ‘I have some work to do, but I will be there for your lecture soon.’

Sure, you’re welcome.

I arrived there a little late for the lecture.  I had gotten a simple gift for him—a handmade folder I bought at an emporium in Delhi.  I thought I would give it to him towards the end of the lecture.

He discussed children’s literature.  The lecture was fascinating. And two years later, I still remember him discussing ‘Where the Wild Things Are.’  And that the shape of the moon in the book would even imply that the story takes places over several days, rather than one day, as many assume.

He was center of attention there, but I waited a while to find him alone so I could hand him that folder.  But he was never alone and I, for some reason felt that it may not be appropriate.  I could not step up to hand him the packet.  However, I did walk up, showed my face through several people who surrounded him, ‘Mr. Chambers, I am going to leave, I have a class shortly’

He again held my hand so warmly, ‘Thankyou for coming.

We exchanged one email after that. But I know that we are busy and emails can end up being trite, and that real relations and friendships happen only over a period of time.

But just meeting him had me feeling giddy for days.

In that short meeting I learnt much, and experienced the warmth of his person. 

At one point, when we were on the plane, I asked him, ‘Does decision making and making grown up decisions become easier with life?¨

He thought for a short while. 

‘I mean are we less concerned about taking wrong decisions as we get older?’

‘No’ he said with a big smile, and no remorse on his face.

He seemed to be in a good place in his life.

Same place I would like to be, when I am his age.