Bloody Thanksgiving!

Nov27

Thursday, November 27, 2008
London

“Being Thankful is not something you do. It is something you are. It is something you have become”.
(From the sermon delivered this morning at the Thanksgiving Day service at St. Paul’s Cathedral for Americans in London)

I awoke to the bloody news of the terrorist attacks in my native Bombay that, to date, have killed over a hundred innocent people, injured several hundred more and taken innumerable foreign tourists hostage. This on the morning of Thanksgiving. Of course, I called my parents and my brother’s homes, respectively, to ascertain that no loved ones are harmed; but their safety does not mean that my heart was not torn out by the scenes of unleashed grief that have unfolded on television. All morning, I was glued to the BBCs Breakfast show and flipped from one channel to the next in an attempt to stay abreast of the continuing story. Then, I had to jump into the shower to get to work as I was teaching today and I had to put myself into American Thanksgiving mode as I was taking my students to the Special Thanksgiving Day Service for Americans in London at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

I cannot believe that I have just one more class next week before the semester ends. It seems as if only yesterday it was September and I was trying to learn the ropes in my new professional environment. Today I was issuing instructions on the final research paper and final exam and making arrangements for the party to be held at my flat after our finals. It will be a lot of fun and I am looking forward to it–though not to all the grading that I will have to complete at that stage.

We arrived at St. Paul’s Cathedral to heavy security checks. All our bags were searched before we were allowed to enter the Cathedral which was already packed at 10. 45 am. It was a marvelous sight to see so many Americans united together in one place on foreign soil and celebrating a holiday which they hold so dear. The clergy walked down the aisle to the altar followed by the US. Ambassador to the UK, Robert Tuttle and his wife. The service was meaningful and very emotional, especially for those of us who are so far away from our nearest and dearest on this most American of holidays that goes completely unnoticed in ole’ Blighty.

Naturally, I missed Llew and Chriselle dearly on this day and since the time difference made it still too early to call them in the States, I had to wait until the evening before I was able to speak to them. In a program that included American music (I belted out ‘America The Beautiful’ with much gusto) and the choir of the Armed services as well as the American Church in London, we were reminded once again about how much we have for which we can be thankful. I was especially thankful about the fact that spending a year in London was only a vision I saw in my mind’s eye until the hand of God made it a reality. The Ambassador invited all of us to visit the American chapel at the back of the altar that is dedicated to the 34,000 American soldiers who gave their lives in the First and Second World Wars to preserve the values that the two countries hold dear–liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

In keeping with his advice, we did walk through the American chapel where we saw the great book that lists the names of all the Americans who died fighting. A page of the book is turned daily so that a different set of them might be exposed. It was turned today to the page that contains the name of Major Glenn Miller, singer-songwriter. The preacher also quoted the famous lyrics of Vera Lynn:

There’ll be bluebirds over
The white cliffs of Dover
Tomorrow just you wait and see…
There’ll be love and laughter
And peace ever after
Tomorrow when the world is free

I also used the visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral as an opportunity to show my students of Anglo-Indian history the memorial monument to the tens of thousands of Indian soldiers (many of whom were Anglo-Indians) who died fighting for British causes during the Raj in India. Apart from a large stone tablet mounted on the wall, there is a memorial embedded in the marble floor to the WAC (I)s–the World Auxiliary Corps (India). It brought a poignant immediacy to the history of the Anglo-Indians which we have been studying in class.

Then, it was back to campus where I taught my afternoon Writing class. After keeping office hours, I got together with my American colleague Karen Karbeiner and her husband Douglas to eat Fish and Chips in a good ‘chippie’ in Covent Garden called the Rock and Sole Plaice–multiple puns there, all obviously intended. The cod and chips were very good indeed, the chips douzed in malt vinegar and the fish bathed in tartar sauce very well flavored with dill. We thought it a bit ironic that instead of eating turkey with cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie, we were eating fish and chips, but then we figured we’d eat something for which the Pilgrims might have felt nostalgia during that first Thanksgiving in New England while they were sharing their meal with their native American friends!

It was still fairly early when I got home which gave me a chance to transcribe another one of my Anglo-Indian interviews and spend some time chatting to Llew.

The day started out miserably with the tragedy that befell my beloved Bombay but it did improve as the day went by. My prayers contained thanks for all the blessings that I enjoy each day and the request for peace in our increasingly troubled world.

Interviews in Greenford and An Evening of Sheer Indulgence

Nov26

Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Greenford, London

My day began with another series of interviews with Anglo-Indians in Greenford. This meant taking the bus and traversing parts of London that I had never seen. I passed St. Mary’s Hospital, for instance, where in a room on the second floor, Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin and changed the course of medical history. Down Edgware Road, I passed Little Lebanon with its Middle Eastern restaurants and delis. I actually saw the outside of Paddington Station (where Paddington Bear who completed fifty years this year was born). I passed through Portobello Road for the first time in a bus and could barely recognize it without the Saturday antiques stalls. This gallivanting all over London on the top deck of a bus beats walking through it any day and I am enjoying this immensely. It really is taking me through the farthest reaches of the city which I would never have seen on my two (fatigued) feet!

However, I have to admit that it takes forever to get to these London suburbs on the bus and at East Acton Tube station, I did transfer to the Tube to get to Greenford from where I needed to take another bus to get to the home of the folks I had arranged to meet. They were fascinating people with completely different experiences from the Anglo-Indians to whom I have been talking so far. It is amazing how varied are the points of view and the conditions that Anglo-Indian immigrants in the UK encountered. What’s more, I found a fellow freelance writer in the gentleman I interviewed who happens to be the London correspondent for The International Indian magazine that is based in Dubai, a magazine for which I once served as New York correspondent! Talk about a small world! I find it grows tinier by the day!

Upon returning to Central London, this time on the Tube–a fact that made my journey MUCH shorter–I arrived at Leicester Square having made plans with Chriselle’s colleague, Ivana, to see The Duchess at the Odeon. She, however, was swamped with work and had to cancel our plans. Finding myself in the Covent Garden area, I popped into one of my favorite places, Stanford’s, the Travel Book store, to find information on Belfast, Ireland, to which I will be traveling next weekend. I spent a good hour in there and gleaned a great deal of helpful information.

On my way back home, I passed by Carluccio’s, the wonderful chain of Italian restaurants to which my next door neighbors introduced me. I popped in to buy myself a tub of their caponata which is the best I have ever eaten and their Lemon Tarts and picked up some for Tim and Barbara as well.

And since I was in a rather self-indulgent mood, I stopped at Hope and Greenwood, the cutest old-fashioned chocolate shop in London and bought a few of their precious morsels–chocolates in the most unusual flavors. I picked up geranium and lavender flavored truffles, praline centered dark chocolates, rich rum truffles shaped and decorated to resemble miniature Christmas puddings, and chocolates with strawberry and black pepper centers. So though I did not see the movie, it was not half bad an evening.

I got home with my precious goodies and decided to spend the evening with my caponata and my lemon tarts and chocolates and a good movie–P.S. I Love You–a real tear-jerker of a chic flic but one I completley adored. It stars Hilary Swank and a really sexy Gerald Butler (whom I had first seen in Dear Frankie and loved) and whose Rocknrolla I just missed. But hey, that’s why I have Love Film!

An Early Thanksgiving Celebration

Nov26

Tuesday, November 25, 2008
London

My day began with a visit to my physiotherapist who says that she is very pleased with my progress. What she says does not please her is my impatience at wanting to get “back to normal” again. She tells me that it will be a while before I am back to normal, whatever that means. As long as I am not in pain, can go about my day with no discomfort or alternations in schedule, she says that I should consider myself well. The occasional tightness in my feet is a result of many factors, she explained. My posture, primarily, even when I am seated might have an impact. The nerves are a strange entity, she says, and while inflammation is subsiding in the tendons, the nerves may play up and cause me to feel twinges of pain or a bit of discomfort or tightness. All of this, she tries to convince me, are positive signs and not all pain should be construed as a negative thing.

In keeping with her advice, I am trying to focus on my progress and not on all the strange symptoms that seem to change daily. Meanwhile, she has changed my exercises and wants to me to do all kinds of contortions that involve a loosening of the muscles in my knees, thighs and butt as all of these affect the nerves in the foot, she says. Meanwhile also, she informs me that she is leaving for a two month vacation in her native New Zealand and wants to put me on to another physiotherapist in her absence. When I suggested a podiatrist instead, she was not enthusiastic, though she did not dissuade me either. She told me that if I simply continue all the exercises she has recommended, I will definitely get better provided I am patient and stay positive. I have now decided to find a podiatrist within my medical insurance network.

Right after my appointment with Megan, I took the bus to Trafalgar Square and spent an hour in the 20th century section of the National Portrait Gallery which I found the least interesting epoch in the gallery. Half of the section was closed anyway to accommodate the retrospective on the work of Annie Liebowitz for which the Gallery is charging a hefty entrance fee of 11 pounds. I decided to pass as I am bound to see her work in the States.

I got home instead to transcribe another interview I did with Doreen Samaroo and to rest before I started off on my evening’s jaunt.

When I told my English friends in Southport, Connecticut (John and Diana Thomson, William and Caroline Symington, for instance) that I was headed to London for a year, they put me on to their contacts in London to enable me to create a small circle of friends with whom I could socialize once I arrived here. The Thomsons’ contact, Janie Thomson Yang, and I have become good friends and have already done a few very exciting things together (the opening of a new art exhibition followed by dinner in Mayfair, dinner in Primrose Hill when Llew was here, Syon House and Park) and yesterday, I spent a lovely evening with the Symington’s contacts, Robert and Caroline Cummings.

Robert Cummings is, in fact, the Director of Boston University’s Study Abroad Program in London–a position he took on 4 years ago. He is himself an art historian (and, for my docent friends who are reading this), once taught Thomas Campbell who has just been appointed as Director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York in the place of Phillipe de Montebello. Robert is exceedingly proud of his former student’s new appointment, by the way.

Anyway, Robert sent me an email, a couple of weeks ago, inviting me to a music recital at 43 Harrington Gardens, a lovely mansion that is called Boston House. Supper, he said, would follow “in someplace inexpensive”. I accepted the invitation immediately, thinking what a great idea it would be to mark Thanksgiving in some concrete fashion (though I do intend to accompany my students tomorrow to the special service at 11 am for Americans at St. Paul’s Cathedral. This will also allow us to take in the monument to the fallen Indians in the cathedral–including thousands of Anglo-Indians–who served in the British army in India.)

The bus ride was one of the most excruciating things I have ever taken and I have promised myself not to take them during peak hours and when I have to make an event at a fixed time. Also with night falling so rapidly and the freezing weather showing no signs of abatement, it is no fun looking for bus stops from which to take connecting buses, especially since I am unfamiliar with the routes. So, back to the Tube it will be for me in such circumstances.

I reached the concert late but managed to catch enough of the program to realize that these BU students are hugely talented. They presented a program of chamber music that included a variety of composers and instruments in a setting that was gorgeous. First of all, the interior of the building has been recently refurbished and glows with a colonial splendour. Secondly, the room in which the concert was held was recently wall-papered (was that a William Morris design I recognized?) and the old wooden panelling shone in the light from the brass chandeliers. The program of music ended with the community singing “Old B.U.”, a song that Robert found on Ebay when surfing the web. It is an old college ditty that was ‘lost’ to time until it surfaced on Ebay! He had a group of students rehearse it, distributed photocopied sheets and invited the audience to join in a stirring rendition. It was a load of fun.

Cheese and wine and tiny pumpkin cupcakes with cream cheese frosting were served in the hall during the intermission and at the end of the program during which time Robert introduced me to his guests, I met a number of lovely people (which was the whole point of my attendance–I really am eager to make friends) who immediately included me in their circle and told me they must meet me again! I was pleased to see that they joined us for supper when I got to know Robert’s wife, Caroline, a horticulturist by profession who designs residential gardens. I asked her if she was familiar with the English mystery series called Rosemary and Thyme and she said she had not, but would make an effort to see it. This series features two female landscape designers and gardeners who run their own business together and end up solving a murder mystery in each episode. Their knowledge of plants and gardens in some shape or form leads them to the main clue that helps them crack the murder. In addition to designing gardens, Caroline is also a independent movie buff and runs an indie film club close to her home in the country in Buckinghamshire. Needless to say, we had a LOT to talk about during dinner!

Dinner, by the way, was in a lovely restaurant (the “someplace inexpensive”) called the Langan Coq D’Or (which translates from the French into the Golden Rooster of Langan!). Apart from Robert and Caroline, there was the lovely Swiss lady from Geneva Marilyn Rixhon (with whom I clicked immediately) and her Belgian husband Phillipe with their 13 year old daughter, the truly delightful Emma-Louise. There was also Loulou Cooke and her mother Helen whom I only got to a know a little bit during our ride home on the Tube as we were seated too far away across the round dining table.

I enjoyed every bit of our dinner. A few of the folks at our table ordered ‘starters’–Caroline passed around her Beef Tartare with Celeriac Remoulade as a sort of amuse bouche–it was superb and according to Marilyn, flavored with truffle oil–ah, no wonder it was so good!). In keeping with the Thanksgiving theme and since I will not be eating turkey tomorrow, I decided to pick something from the menu that I thought came closest to American turkey–English partridge!! Indeed my dish was called Pan Roasted Partridge with Bacon and Chestnuts and it was superb–a sort of partridge au vin. It had been simmered in a rich gravy composed of red wine and roast drippings and the bacon gave it the richest flavor–throw bacon into anything, I always say, and it tastes fantastic!–and the whole chestnuts had a very unexpected texture indeed. Despite the fact that it was so delicious, my portion was so huge (somewhat unusual again for London, isn’t it?) that I could only eat half of it and, since I am told that requesting a doggie bag is not kosher in the UK, I did not. Well, there went half my partridge and it broke my heart that it would be consigned to the rubbish bin. But when in London, eh?

Before we left the restaurant, Robert presented me with the business cards of the restaurant that featured paintings by David Hockney–it turns out that he and the Langan who opened this series of restaurants scattered all over London, were very close friends. The cards are tremendously eye-catching and will make a nice addition to the memorabilia that I am collecting for my scrapbook based on all my doings in London this year.

On the Tube on the way back home, I got to know Loulou and her mother Helen a little more as we had little chance to chat during dinner. Loulou is involved in a number of charities. Her husband, she informed me, used to date Caroline during their years together in Cambridge and remained friends over the decades. She has a home in Farringdon, not far away from my flat at all, as well as a home in the country where she resides most of the time. Her mother Helen specially came down on the train from Labor, North Yorkshire, where she lives, for the concert and a bit of Christmas shopping and, of course, to spend a day with her daughter, Loulou. By the end of our Tube ride, before I hopped off at Holborn, Helen told me that if I ever re-visit the Yorkshire Dales which I told her I loved so much, I must come and see her! Loulou and I made plans to meet for coffee while Marilyn and I said we would definitely get together before I depart for the States for my own winter break.

It was a glorious evening and truly put me into the Thanksgiving spirit. Llew has informed me that close friends of ours from Toronto, Canada, Tony and Sylvia Pinto and Trevor and Loretta D’Silva will be visiting us in Southport, Connecticut, over the Thanksgiving weekend. Llew has decided to make his signature dish, “Turkey Indian-style” for them. Chriselle will be spending Thanksgiving weekend with Chris and his family, the Harrises, in the Hamptons. I, of course, will be here in London where there is no sign at all of any Thanksgiving festivity but I will be at the service at St. Paul’s, then will go out to dinner in the evening with my American colleague Karen and her husband Douglas who, I hope, is fully recovered from the annoying bug that the two of them picked up in Turkey. We should find a typically American restaurant that will serve us roast turkey and stuffing with gravy and cranberry sauce and corn bread and pumpkin pie but…I guess if we’re looking for something traditional tomorrow, we might have to settle for good ole’ English pub grub instead.

Ealing Interviews and Thoughts on the National Portrait Gallery

Nov24

Monday, November 24, 2008
Ealing, London

I’m becoming quite adept at messing around on buses! Today I spent about four hours on them! Two getting to Ealing and about an hour and half getting back to Central London. It is the easiest thing in the world to find out how to get from Point A to Point B on the buses using London Transport’s excellent website with the handy Journal Planner facility. You merely put in your starting and ending points and the instruction that you only wish to use buses (not the Tube or the River or the Docklands Light Railways–all of which fall within the network) and within seconds, you receive return instructions on how to map your route.

I also managed to review a series of first draft essays that my students had handed in to me…so my time on the bus was also rather productive on a day which was cold and wet and overcast and would have made walking on the streets rather unpleasant.

I am rapidly learning the bus routes and the easiest ways to make connections and, in the process, I am seeing London in a unique and very inexpensive way indeed. For example, today for the first time. I actually passed by Kensington Palace. I had no idea where this was located though I had heard of it following the death of Princess Diana as it was allotted to her as part of her divorce settlement from Prince Charles. Then, suddenly, there it was…a beautiful brown mansion set in a sea of expansive green lawn. I do intend to tour it before I leave England; but my To-See List is expanding in proportion to the diminishing days that I have at my disposal to accomplish it all!

I had scheduled two interviews today with Anglo-Indian sisters Doreen Samaroo and Cheryl Whittle. Since they live in Ealing and Southall respectively, Doreen preferred me to meet with her at Ealing. I did get to Doreen’s place at 11.30 am and spent almost two hours interviewing the sisters. They spoke to me so candidly and with so much emotion. It truly was a pleasure talking to them and I am grateful to all these individuals who are opening themselves to me, a total stranger, with so much warmth and ease. As is the case with the entire community, Doreen was warm and hospitable and offered me a selection of Indian snacks (samosas and pakoras) and her “homemade Anglo-Indian ribbon cake” and a comforting cup of coffee that sustained me through the long bus journey back.

Arriving in Central London, I hopped off at Trafalgar Square and headed straight to the National Portrait Gallery to continue my perusal of the portraits on display there. This time round, I started on the first floor with the 19th century and spent an hour and a half in the company of the Victorians, the men all mustachioed, the ladies in their high necks, stiff crinolines and ringlets. Victoria and Albert were, of course, well represented in portraits, sculpture and etchings, their love story providing the backdrop for some of the conventional and revolutionary relationships of the day–Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barret Browning for instance, George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) and the married George Henry Lewes, etc. I found the entire backdrop of history against which the literature, music, science and technology of the era was created deeply fascinating and I read the curator’s notes with the greatest interest. So many names from my own Indian heritage were there to be contemplated: Thomas Babington Macaulay (architect of English education on the Indian sub-continent), Clement Atlee and Ramsay McDonald (20th century Prince Ministers who thwarted Congress vision for Home Rule), Rudyard Kipling whose literary creativity took inspiration from the folk lore of Northern India.

As the 19th century gave way to the 20th, I was profoundly absorbed by the Bloomsbury Group in whose former stomping ground, I now teach and live and work. What a wonderfully rare synergy existed among all those deeply creative people in that one era and in that one spot!There was Virginia Woolf”s portrait by her sister Vanessa Ball, Lytton Strachey’s by Dora Carrington, Clive Bell by Roger Fry, Vanessa Bell by Duncan Grant. Having just returned from Cambridge where I learned about the Group’s beginnings at Trinity College, I scrutinized each portrait carefully trying to recapture in my mind the marvelously close affinity they enjoyed that began when they were undergrads and continued for the rest of their adult lives. From the Apostles’ Club at Cambridge to The Memoir Club at Bloomsbury (the Group met at the Bells’ home at 46 Gordon Square which I must now try to find on my map and then locate), they contributed such a wealth of artistic, intellectual and literary creativity to the last century! Yet so many of them were deeply troubled. Virginia Woolf and Carrington committed suicide, E.M. Forster and Lytton Strachey struggled with their homosexuality, Vanessa Bell had a long term relationship with Duncan Grant though she married Clive Bell. What, I wonder, precluded them from finding personal happiness? Was not their professional success adequate? Clearly their wealth and privilege, class and education did not enable them to find fulfillment. These were my thoughts as I perused those works–some oils on canvas, some pastels, some pen and inks, some photographs. They were all deeply moving and kept me enthralled.

I now have the 20th century to cover and I will be done with the National Portrait Gallery–perhaps later this week I will fit it in. Then, I can turn my attention to the Victoria and Albert Museum (whose Highlights I have seen before) and the Dulwich Picture Gallery which I have never seen.

By 5.15pm, having taken care to rest my feet in-between viewings and before leaving the Gallery, I caught the bus to Bloomsbury to attend a faculty meeting at NYU. We were felicitating Prof. Hagai Segal who won the award for Best teacher of the Year for the last year. Over beer and wine and a selection of sandwiches and pastries, we congratulated him, then turned our attention to a number of issues in a lively meeting that included many varying points of view.

My dinner having been eaten at the meeting, I took the bus and was home in ten minutes. Just a quick look at my email and then the writing of this blog was all that was left before I could chat with Llew for a few minute’s before retiring for the night.

Hangin’ Around Indoors

Nov23

Sunday, November 23, 2008
London

I awoke to the sight of snowflakes falling softly upon the sleeping city. Holborn remains undisturbed until well into mid-morning on weekends. As I stayed in bed with steaming cups of coffee and my PC, hammering away at pending email and writing, I realized that it was the perfect day to stay indoors and catch up with chores. For the next couple of hours, I cleaned my kitchen and bathroom, tidied the papers overflowing around my night stand, filed so many bits and pieces on my Anglo-Indian research and felt exceedingly pleased with my accomplishments in the domestic department.

As the day crept on, I finished creating the pages for my Greece trip on my website, then sat down and spent a couple of hours transcribing an interview with Dorothy Dady that I had completed several weeks ago. Somehow, the thought of not having to venture out into slush and freezing rain was very comforting to me. It would also do my feet and my legs good, I thought, to treat them to complete rest after the busy day I had trekking all over Cambridge yesterday. Of course, I did my exercises as I am trying to be extremely religious about those.

At lunch time, I sat down to a very proper British dish–fish pie–which was just what the doctor ordered on this wintry day. I also did a batch of laundry which left my place smelling nice and fresh as my washer-dryer is in my kitchen. Overall, I felt as pleased at Punch as I surveyed my sparkling flat and I realized that I do not miss Felcy at all as I can quite easily undertake my own cleaning, thank you very much.

In the evening, because I was mentally exhausted from transcribing the interview, I sat to watch The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, a film, that won Julian Schnabel the award for Best Director at the Cannes Film Festival last year. From the first frame to the last, I was deeply absorbed and, by the end of it, deeply moved as well. Schnabel has taken the true story of Jean-Dominique Bauby (known as Jean-Do), Director of Elle magazine in Paris, who had a massive stroke that left him paralyzed and afflicted with “locked-in syndrome”. This is a condition in which the patient is fully conscious and sees and hears everything but cannot speak, move or swallow. Through the patient working of a speech and physiotherapist, Jean-Do learns now to communicate by the use of his eye which he is able to blink. He uses this device to actually write a book, which he ‘dictates’ by way of his blinks to his stenographer. The book was published and in it he acknowledged the role played by all the women in his life who helped him, with love and care and concern during his therapy. He died ten days later.

The triumph of the movie lies not just in the extraordinary resilience and initiative of this writer who did not allow his physical condition to limit his mental capabilities but in Schnabel’s masterful film making–he uses a novel method in which the viewer becomes Jean-Do facing the various people who populate his life on a daily basis. In-between, we are afforded glimpses into his life prior to his stroke, his relationship with Celeste, the mother of his children (though not his wife as they never married), with his father and with his love, Inez. Also sensitively documented is his relationship with the personnel at the hospital who nursed him through the excruciating months of his stay with them in Berck-sur-Mer near Calais. The film is made in French (with English subtitles) and uses several of the real people who helped Jean-Do during his own life, in minor roles. I was so keen to see this film when it came to our Community Theater in Fairfield, Connecticut, but somehow had missed it. Seeing it through Love-Films meant that it did not have the same impact as seeing it in the cinema, but I was enraptured throughout.

The snow stopped just as soon as it started but it left the day feeling sombre and silent. I was glad I was able to curl up and enjoy it from within the comfort of my flat which, incredibly, despite the bitter chill outside, does not need any heating at all. Of course, I was very warm all summer long, but now I am grateful for the insulation that will probably keep me feeling as warm as toast all through the winter.

The Other Place–Calling on Cambridge

Nov22

Saturday, November 22, 2008
Cambridge

For me, Cambridge is ‘The Other Place’, i.e. not Oxford. As my friend Annalisa says, “You can either be an Oxford Person or a Cambridge Person” and we are Oxford Persons! Still, having last been to Cambridge 22 years ago, on a brief day trip with some Oxford classmates, I warranted the town deserved another look. Besides, there was so little I remembered of it and, looking at the pictures I took then, I felt sorely tempted to revisit those parts of it upon which my youthful footsteps had once trod. So, when I discovered that National Express had a special funfare of just 3 pounds one way, I grabbed the opportunity and booked my ticket online.

It invariably happens that when I have to take a day trip some place, I do not sleep well the previous night–partly because I am terrified that I will oversleep and miss my bus (or ‘coach’ as they say here). So I tossed and turned all night, then fell asleep in the early hours and awoke, not at 6.30 am as I had intended but closer to seven. Tearing out of bed, I actually managed a shower (though not breakfast) and raced out of my building at 7.20 am–just five minutes behind schedule. I need not have worried. With everyone else curled up tightly in bed, the bus flew through the streets and dropped me off at Victoria Coach Station well in time for my coach.

I used the two hour journey to read up on the town and acquaint myself with its highlights so that I would use my day as productively as possible. Since I had a 7 pm return ticket, I would have about eight hours to spend in the town. While it was a bitterly cold day (it was 2 degrees–temperatures in Celsius always sound worse than the corresponding Fahrenheit figures), the sun shone bright and skies were clear and on the way into Cambridge, two things came to my mind: the nursery rhyme that goes “the sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn (that’s Little Boy Blue, I believe) for I saw little woolly dots speckle the stubbled fields and then my thoughts turned to Keats and his Ode to Autumn in which two lines go:

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue…

Before long, we were pulling into Cambridge, the approach as nice as the town itself, lined with lovely Tudor cottages and stone churches. The coach parked by a large field and the driver pointed out to me the route I could take to get to the main shops. I consulted my map and decided to head first to the Fitzwilliam Museum which I hadn’t seen before. This made a lot of sense since it was a frigid day, I was grateful to escape indoors, and most colleges open to visitors only after 1 pm anyway…leaving me with a few hours to see the collection.

Treasures of the Fitzwilliam:
Using the campus of Downing College as a short-cut, I arrived at the Fitzwilliam and gasped. Seriously, nothing had prepared me for the majesty of the building. I felt as if I were in Greece all over again. It is an impressive Neo-Classical building, complete with carved frieze on the pediment and Corinthian columns and it spreads itself out expansively across three blocks. But the exterior is only the least of it. Mount the main stairs, cross the grand threshold of the main entrance and you drop dead in your tracks. The foyer is straight out of a Robert Adam’s mansion. It is opulent with stone statues, shell topped niches, gorgeous plasterwork and gilding, more molding than you imagine and marble everywhere. It reminded me very much of the Baroque interior of the Kunthistorisches Museum in Vienna and I simply couldn’t tear myself away to see the collection. So right off, if one has to make a comparison between Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum with which, of course, I am very familiar, I would, at the risk of sounding disloyal, say that Cambridge wins on the museum-front.

The Fitzwilliam might be small by international standards, but I realized by the time I saw the first gallery, that it is a stupendous collection and would take me much more than the 2-3 hours I allotted to see it. So, as usual, I decided to look at everything cursorily, but carefully only at its ‘highlights’. The receptionist tried to turn me towards the ‘special’ exhibits, but I decided to see Hobbema’s Wooded Landscape, Titian’s Tarquin and Lucretia, Reuben’s The Death of Hippolyta, Monet’s Springtime, Renoir’s La Place Clichy (delightful indeed), the finest collection of works by George Stubbs that I have seen anywhere, Will Lott’s Stour-side farm seen from a different angle in a painting by Constable (as opposed to the famous one of it in The Haywain at the National), several stunners by Tintoretto including The Adoration of the Shepherds and some Picassos. I also feated my eyes upon Ford Madox Brown’s circular painting The Last of England which Marina Versey considers one of a hundred Masterpieces of Art in her book of the same name. I also realized that by focusing on the paintings, I was completely ignoring the amazing collection of antiques in the form of furniture, urns, sculpture, carpets, etc. that adorned the rooms–but to see all those I’d have to spend days. Also, with my feet still weak, there is only so much I can do…so.

Apart from these Old Master paintings, the Fitzwilliam has a magnificent bookcase that supposedly belonged to Handel. These contain 20 large leather-bound volumes, his own original manuscripts. It was astounding! Asking around, I discovered that my favorite poem of all time, Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale was not in its normal position, but tucked away in a room that contained manuscripts that had been acquired by Sidney Cockerell, the museum’s most illustrious director. There it was, the piece of work that Keats’ reportedly scribbled in the garden of his home in Hampstead upon hearing a nightingale sing its throat out on a tree by the backdoor. I have to admit that I teared up on looking at it and thinking of his short, sad, wasted life cut down in the prime of its youth and productivity by tuberculosis and his anguish and desire for the lovely Fanny Brawne next door, whom he would never wed. I had the same reaction while gazing upon this sepia-ed scrap of paper that I had seen at Keats’ House in Hampstead, several years ago, when I had actually stood upon the spot where my beloved poem was composed.

Going in search of this treasure then brought me to another clutch of priceless works: a number of superbly illuminated medieval religious manuscripts–apart from the obvious Bibles and Psalters, there was Firdausi’s Shahnama in Persian (I gazed at it in awe), and a number of letters and poems from other famous poets–the Pre-Raphaelites, for instance, were very well represented though most of them were at Oxford (William Morris and Dante Gabriel Rossetii and Edward Burne-Jones) and a number of original first-editions from Morris’ reputed Kelmscott Press. And, then, of course, I was quite blown by the original manuscripts of Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure–imagine, his own hand-written work, then the first page proofs, with Hardy’s notes in the margin and then the first edition of the book itself! How could I possibly leave these cases without drowning in emotion? Cockerell famously and justifiably declared, at the end of his tenure as Director, “I found it (the museum) a pigsty and turned it into a palace”. It was just too much for me and, naturally, I spent far more time than I had intended in this magnificent place.

I did have a look at the Special exhibit on “The Gold of the Golden Fleece”, an exhibit that displayed the gold jewelry and other artifacts that have been unearthed by the discovery of several graves on the shores of the Black Sea in modern-day Georgia, an area that Jason of the famous Greek epic, Jason and the Argonauts, is supposed to have reached in his quest for the Golden Fleece. Then, I was tired, very tired and hungry, and I found sustenance in the museum’s cafetaria over a lovely pot of golden Darjeeling that cheered me up no end and allowed me time for some people-watching and eavesdropping. A lady at the next table, apparently a Cambridge don, was complaining to her companion about a truant student who had stopped attending her seminar!

Exploring the Colleges:
The universities of Oxford and Cambridge are unique in that they are composed of a number of colleges, each of which boasts its own ‘campus’, most consisting of the following: a quadrangle or “Quad” around which the college is built–this, in turn, usually consists of a Chapel, a Dining ‘Hall’, the Master’s Lodge, narrow spiral stairways leading to the rooms occupied by the dons where tutorials are usually held (small very intimate intellectual exchanges between the professor and students) and students’ rooms. Beyond this main quad, lie a number of smaller quads or gardens, such as the Fellows Garden, the Junior and Senior Common Rooms with their gardens, etc. Depending on the time in history when these colleges were built (usually under royal patronage), their architecture differs. Each one is a gem and visiting them is always a delight for me. Not only do I feel steeped in intellectualism which always stirs me, but being built around the medieval principles of the monastic life (most of the earliest scholars were, in fact, monks who were preparing to serve the church through a curriculum that focused on Latin and Theology), they fill me with a sentiment of deep religiosity.

At about 1 pm, my exploration of the colleges began as I walked along Trumpington Road, my feet having rested adequately. This brought me first to the small and very charming Peterhouse College whose most famous alumnus is the poet Thomas Gray (Elegy in a Country Churchyard). A few weeks ago, one of my Anglo-Indian interviewees, Randall Evans, had informed me that the church and graveyard of St. Giles in Stoke Poges which inspired the poem was not too far from Slough where he lived. The best part of my exploration of Peterhouse was getting to see the 13th century restored Hall where, because it was term time, lunch was still being served to a lone student who sat in the semi-darkness and munched. This Hall and the one belonging to Clare College are the only two I was able to visit and since it is a long time since I did see the inside of a medieval college hall with its medieval portraits painted on wood and inserted into pockets on the walls, High Table with its chairs all askew, and the marvelous timbered ceiling, I was taken back in time to my own meals at Exeter College Hall in Oxford where I had lingered over lunch in similar fashion. I also went out into the gardens to explore the extensive grounds that border the Fitzwilliam.

Across the street, I entered the quad of Pembroke College with its lovely landscaped gardens, Big Ben-like Tower and the adorable Christopher Wren Chapel where a rehearsal was on for a recital to be performed later that day. Wren’s uncle, Matthew Wren, Bishop of Ely, had spent 18 years locked up in the Tower of London, courtesy of Oliver Cromwell, and had vowed that when released, he would build a chapel in his college. And build it his nephew did. Against the red-brick walls of a section of the college, the Baroque Chapel makes a fine architectural contrast.

Following my map, I then walked down Silver Lane, to arrive at the fabulous red brick gateway to Queens’ College, founded by two medieval queens and named after them: Margaret of Anjou (wife of Henry VI) and Elizabeth of Woodville (wife of Edward IV) in 1448 and 1465 respectively. Their heads, carved in stone and painted, are found on one of the gateways that link the many quads of this lovely college which is most notably associated with the Dutch scholar and reformer Erasmus, who lived in a tower here from 1510 to 1514. This college in whose unusual cloistered quad, I rested for a long time, is remarkable for the Tudor facade of the President’s (or Master’s) Lodge and the fact that you can walk across the River Cam on one of the oldest bridges built across it–Mathematical Bridge–that was originally constructed without any nuts or bolts. Naturally, I walked across it, and for a moment, thought I was back in Venice. I caught my first glimpse of the Cam then, of course, flowing serenely on this brilliant morning, with a few punts gliding by, their passengers, well wrapped in red blankets. On the opposing bank, autumn with its gilded foliage, allowed me to see a medieval corner of England bathed in its golden beauty as coppered leaves burnished the landscape.

Then, I was out on the King’s Parade following signs to the tourist office as I badly needed a better map. This took me past a fascinating clock embedded into the walls of Corpus Christi College which featured a colossal gold Pendulum, pushed along by a fierce-looking grasshopper. Entering that lane, I found myself in a warren of little streets and into Market Square where one of Cambridge’s famous Christmas Arts and Crafts markets was being held. I resisted the temptation to browse as I knew that the colleges were open for three hours only and I still wanted to see King’s and Trinity before the light faded following sunset.

King’s College, built by Henry VIII and full of memorials recalling his stormy reign, is famous for its Chapel, the one with the extraordinary facade, which when viewed across the River Cam, provides one of the most easily recognized scenes in the world. The college quad is larger than most, but it is towards the Chapel that most visitors are drawn. I decided to look at it from the outside only as I intended to attend Evensong at 5. 30 pm. when I would be able to see the famed interior. So I strolled towards The Backs–that manicured strip of grass so-called because the backs of the colleges can be viewed from this perspective, to the banks of the Cam where, while I would have loved to have been punted along, I would have chosen a warmer day for such a special excursion.

I hastened out of Kings’, past the impressive carved stone entrance to the Old Examination Hall and the back of Gonville and Caius (pronounced ‘keys’) College and eventually, I was at the entrance of Trinity College with the cheeky sculpture of Henry VIII adorning its main portal–cheeky because some former students took off the sword that he carried in his right hand and replaced it with the leg of a table which has, inexplicably, stayed there ever since! Once past the entrance, one can’t help but gasp because the Quad, a whole two acres of it, is so gigantic and so crammed with interest that you know not where to look. I hurried across it, to the next quad hoping to enter the Wren Library which contains the original manuscript of A.A. Milne’s Winnie The Pooh. Alas, the Wren Library is not open on weekends. I had to content myself with a picture of the front facade with its sculpture-crowned roof, and return to King’s Parade.

I had not yet seen the Bridge of Sighs and with the light fading quickly, I wanted to catch a glimpse of it before it was too late. I hurried off to St. John’s College and was enchanted by the mass of Tudor and Jacobean architecture that separates its various quads, each characterized by a towering red brick gatehouse. The clearly-marked ‘Tourist Route’ took me to the Chapel where another rehearsal was in progress, and then I was hurrying along to Kitchen Bridge which offers the best views of the Bridge of Sighs. I did shoot a few last pictures at the very same spot where I had posed 22 years ago and, of course, I was filled with nostalgia. By this point, my feet were sore again and I badly needed to rest and get out of the cold for a bit. A student directed me to a low modern building where I used a rest room and rested in a parlor and ate a few biscuits and then, to my delight, on leaving the College premises to make my way back to King’s College Chapel for Evensong, I actually walked over the Bridge of Sighs! It was so wonderful to be able to do that and to straddle the Cam over this lovely covered bridge that links two parts of the college together.

Evensong at King’s College Chapel:
Of course, though it wasn’t quite 5 pm yet, night had fallen and the festive lights were switched on all over Cambridge turning the town into a fairy land. Tracing my steps back to King’s College, I joined the line of visitors who were there early for the best seats. As always happens when I am in a queue, I got into conversation with the two ladies in front of me, visiting from Surrey and Australia respectively. They said they recognized me by the pompom on my hat from having taken my picture earlier near the Chapel!

Within ten minutes, on a night when the temperature went down to 2 degrees Celsius, we were inside the Chapel and, once again, I was struck speechless. There it was–the famous fan vaulting that Wren so admired. He is reputed to have said of King’s College Chapel that he could have built it if someone had told him where to place the first stone! The high ceiling towers above the narrow nave. To approach the main altar, you pass through the wooden carved choir screen that was donated by Henry VIII to the chapel. This church was built by his grandfather Henry VI but was embellished by his father Henry VII and himself when he was still the Pope’s Defender of the Faith and it remained a Catholic church until the Dissolution and its conversion to an Anglican chapel.

The chapel was lit only by candle light and its soft flickering glow gilded the stone walls. Inside, I was amazed to notice that each carved altar seat bore the signature of Henry VIII–HR–for Henry Rex, or in Latin, Henry the King. The altarpiece is famed for the painting The Adoration of the Magi by Peter Paul Reubens and I resolved to examine it closer at the end of the service.

I found a seat on a back bench, then had to pinch myself to believe that I was actually here in King’s College, Cambridge, listening to its internationally-renowned choir sing a service in the great chapel itself. When he built the chapel, Henry VI stipulated that a choir consisting of 6 lay clerks and 16 boy choristers–educated at the college school–should sing daily at service. This custom continues at term time. Hence, I was lucky enough to catch one such service. Seating was done in an extremely orderly fashion and it was very easy to follow the service with the books placed at each pew. Then, the clergy and the choir streamed in and took their places and worship began through word and music and in that candle-bathed ambiance, there is only one word by which to describe it–magical! This is the same choir that sells tickets to its shows all over the world, that presents TV performances that everyone in England has seen, and here I was listening to them in an atmosphere that was transforming and intensely prayerful.

One of the things that struck, about the service were the two Readings from Scripture. I have never in my life heard anything read like this. The Lectors weren’t reading, they were dramatizing. I thought they were on stage and I in an audience listening to an Elocution performance. Word by word, they presented the Scripture with such high drama and much modulation of voice and tone. As a Lector in my own parish church in the States, I have to say that this was over-the-top and certainly not something to which I am accustomed. But then perhaps the high dramatic space within which the Word was being read accounted for this elaborate manner of presentation.

At any rate, I was absolutely thrilled that I was able to crown what had been an extraordinary day with this extraordinary service and when it was over, and I filed out of the church (having taken a closer look at the altarpiece), I wished I could linger longer amidst the enchanted Christmassy world of Cambridge. There was one more thing I’d have liked to see: Magdalen (pronounced ‘maudlin’) College whose library contains the collection of 18th century diaries penned by Samuel Pepys, of whom I happen to be a latter-day disciple; but lack of time didn’t allow for that. Besides, there is always one thing they say you should leave unfinished, to ensure that you will return.

So instead I paid a visit to the loo at the deluxe University Arms Hotel before crossing the Green and boarding the coach at 7 pm. that took me back to London. I hopped off at Stratford from where I decided to take Bus 25 home to Holborn, but had to wait for almost half an hour before a bus condescended to show up and then it took me 40 minutes on the bus. I had no idea how far away Stratford was from Central London, but this bus pass is allowing me to see and learn about parts of London into which I would never have ventured.

Despite a supremely busy day, surprisingly, I did not feel physically tired though my feet were very sore indeed. A good soak and a massage and a few exercises and a bit of Moov applied to them and, on a wing and a prayer, I got into bed, looking for an early night but chatting with Llew for a bit before I finally hit the sack.

The Other Place was a revelation and I realize that as I see places with the more mature eyes of my advanced years, I am appreciating and enjoying them far more than I ever did during my gawky youthful ones.

Face to Face with an Auto-Icon

Nov21

Friday, November 21, 2008
London

NYU-London has the rather unusual custom of ‘making up’ days lost to holidays. Because we recently had a week’s long Fall Break which caused my students to miss one class, we had a ‘make-up’ class today. This meant that I taught for 2 straight days in a row, something of a change for me–though I better get used to this as I have a Monday and Tuesday schedule for next semester.

So, it was something of a ho-hum kind of day–nothing very exciting happened. I taught my classes and but for the fact that I used my lunch break to go out in search of a true oddity at University College, London, there’s not much to report.

But the oddity was horribly odd indeed. I went to see the “auto-icon” of Jeremy Bentham whose name you might recognize as the 19th century philosopher/economist who came up with the theory that the greatest happiness of the greatest number would make for the greatest harmony in society. He was one of the founders of University College, London, and since he wanted to remain a part of the institution long after he passed away, he decreed in his will that his body (read skeleton) should be placed in a prominent part of the university where all could see it and that he should be dressed in one of the suits he usually wore. The Dean of our program, the newly re-christened Liberal Studies Program at New York University, Fred Schwarzbach, who earned his Ph.D. from the University of London, told me about Bentham’s bizarre will way back in September and I had been promising myself that I would take a stroll there to see it for myself.

I had to ask around to find my way to the right spot. I stopped one of the UCL undergrads walking by me andd said, “Excuse me…can you tell me where the auto-icon of Jeremy Bentham is?” She responded in all seriousness, “Well, I don’t know where that is…I know where HE is”. Oh well!

I expected to see a body lying in a coffin or, at any rate, in a horizontal position. Imagine my shock when I found Bentham’s skeleton, all fleshed out, of course, clothed in one of the stipulated suits, sitting in the foyer of the college’s grand Neo-Classical building complete with dome and quadrangle, in what looks like a telephone booth with a small tea table by his side. Apparently, the head which for some reason, was detachable, used to be used by students as a football and the governors of the college finally thought it fit to place it in a safe in the college. The head that now sits on Bentham’s body in the booth is a wax replica–the kind of thing that you see at Madame Tussaud’s. At any rate, I only stayed there for a couple of minutes, read the extract from Bentham’s will and the explanatory note put up by UCL and fled because it gave me the creeps. Between the day I spent in Barnes and this afternoon, I seem to have had too many close encounters with ghosts, dead bodies, coffins and graveyards.

After teaching my two classes today, I took the bus and went to the National Portrait Gallery at Trafalgar Square where I spent an hour and a half completing my perusal of the portraits on the second floor. In a museum in which art works are arranged chronologically, I have now gone as far as the 19th century and shall start with the contemporary sections on my visits in the next couple of weeks. It is hugely enlightening to read the curator’s notes that provide wonderful information on the sitters and the painters. My Writing students are working on an assignment that requires them to research and respond to three portraits in the museum and my visits have allowed me to study the ones on which they have chosen to focus.

I also realized, after having looked at them more closely that the Annie Liebovitz portraits of the Queen are not in black and white (as first appeared to me) but in faint color–they look as if they are in black and white because her expressions are so forbidding, so lacking in any color (pun intended!). There is a special retrospective on Liebovitz’s portraits at the Museum at the moment and I intend to spend an evening studying them carefully.

It is expected to turn bitterly cold overnight–of course, that would have to happen on the eve of the day I have chosen to visit Cambridge. Still, I refuse to allow this to chill my enthusiasm. I shall bundle up and be gone at the crack of dawn in time to catch my 8.30 am coach at Victoria. I intend to use the journey to read up on Cambridge from the pages that I have photocopied from many guide books and if the weather promises to be as biting as the forecasters have predicted,I shall probably spend a great deal of time in the Fitzwilliam Museum rather than on the banks of the River Cam! This will not be half bad as the last time I was in Cambridge, 22 years ago, I did not have the opportunity to visit the Fitzwilliam because I had dallied too long in the Backs! Well, even if I had to wait for 22 years, I am sure the contents of the museum will make it seem worth the long wait.

Alas, Something of a Set Back

Nov20

November 20, 2008
London

I am saddened to admit that I have had something of a set back and purely because I brought it upon myself by my long walk yesterday in Barnes. It is now clear to me that no matter how improved my feet feel, I still cannot thwart their limitations. There is now only so much walking I can do before my feet begin to show the ill-effects of such exercise. This morning, it was not just my left knee that felt uneasy but, sigh, my right knee as well–and this knee has never shown any signs of wear prior to this.

On the other hand, this new knee constriction might be a result of new knee-focused exercises that my physiotherapist Megan has asked me to do. They are challenging, create a burn in the knee area and could well be producing this reaction. Who knows? I do admit that I overdid it yesterday; but it is my belief that, in the long run, these new exercises will strengthen the knee muscles and that eventually all pain will disappear. But for the next two days, I will take it easy.

I took the bus to get to our Bedford Square campus today and also rode the bus back. Since I am teaching tomorrow as well (make-up class for the day we missed during Fall Break), I came straight back home to prepare my lecture for my class on Anglo-Indians in the two World Wars. Besides, Karen, my colleague, with whom I usually keep a dinner date on Thursday evenings, was also out of sorts, having picked up a stomach bug probably in Turkey where she spent fall break. She bowed out of our Thursday arrangement and also went straight home after teaching her class. With just three weeks to go before we pull the curtain down on the semester, everyone is feeling a little jaded, most of all my students who see the finish line ahead and are pushing themselves to crank out papers and start studying for final exams.

I finished editing my Christmas essay for The Examiner and should have it in the bag by tomorrow when I will email it to the editor.

Also with Ryan Air having emailed me information about their new free tickets drive, I managed to book tickets to Berlin once again and propose to be there at the end of January. There was also room at the Youth Hostel and I went ahead and made my reservations there as well. Hopefully, this time, I will be able to keep my date with the Fatherland!

I shall probably watch a little bit of Clockwork Orange over dinner and then have an early night.

Hauntingly Beautiful Barnes!

Nov19

Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Barnes

I awoke to a sunshiny morning and felt the day just hollerin’ mah name! Unable to resist, I finished grading another batch of student essays, caught up with my parents in Bombay, mapped out a route I would take to Barnes exclusively using the buses and set out with map, hat, camera, water and packed lunch.

It has now become something of an adventure to find my way to my destination using only buses. My monthly bus pass (purchased yesterday) allows me to use the bus network anywhere in London. That is pretty incredible and I decided that I must squeeze maximum value of out it. So since I am teaching both tomorrow and on Thursday this week and am going to spend Saturday in Cambridge, I figured today would be the best date to make use of it.

So off I went. I took Bus 19 from Gray’s Inn Lane and Theobald’s Road to Piccadilly Road from where I transferred to Bus 22 going to Putney. The driver was so kind and so informative. When I told him that I was headed to Barnes, he told me to hop off at Putney Bridge and catch Bus 485 from The Embankment (this is the Thames Embankment at Putney). This bus took me to Barnes Pond from where my walk began. I used Frommer’s 24 Great Walks in London and had the glories of a stunning fall day all to myself to celebrate the season, the weather, nature and the joy of being alive and (almost) recovered from Plantar Fascittis.

I had been to Barnes before, a few years ago, on an exploration of the Thames. I remembered how charming this little village was and how difficult it was to believe that I was not twelve miles outside London. This time round, my forays began at Barnes Pond where the few yellow leaves still clinging to the trees made the scene magical. It was as if a bag of gold flakes had been shaken over the trees to bring them some holiday sparkle. As the ducks and the swans skimmed the surface of the pond in which a few stray weeping willows were also reflected, I thought of Shakespeare’s sonnet:

That time of year that mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or few, or none do hang
Upon those boughs that shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

It was so heartachingly beautiful and my heart sang in ecstasy at the warmth and splendour of the season. Temperature-wise, it was cold…colder than I had expected–I have yet to learn how to interpret Celsius temperatures–what does 9 degrees mean? I had worn a long sleeved cotton shirt, a cashmere cardigan and a suede jacket and I had thought those would be sufficient. But how mistaken I was. I really ought to have worn my down jacket, a scarf and my gloves too. Oh well…live and learn. NO regrets, though. Once I strode briskly along, I warmed up a little bit. And oh, I was also grateful for my new Ecco shoes which fit like a dream and made me feel as if I were walking on a cloud.

Across Barnes Green, I arrived at the memorial to rock singer Marc Bolan who was huge when I was in high school. He died suddenly in the 1970s when his girl friend who was driving a car back from a party, lost control. Bolan died instantly, his side of the car taking the ferocity of the blow. The memorial is placed on the exact spot in which he died. It is a quiet, almost hidden spot and is deeply moving. Placed there on the 25th anniversary of his death, it is also stirring for those of us who are Bolan’s contemporaries. He died just before he turned thirty and it made me realize how death has frozen him in age and time–he will forever remain young. Wasn’t it Laurence Binyon who wrote in his poem “For the Fallen” these lines when talking about England’s tragically lost war dead?

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

I thought of those lines at Bolan’s memorial, then, in thoughtful silence, resumed my walk across Barnes Common. I was the only walker on this rather chilly day and I have to admit that I started to feel jittery about halfway across it. It didn’t help that my walking notes informed me that I was entering the least frequented part of the Common, a part of London in which the notorious highwayman Dick Turpin lay in wait with his accomplice for people crossing the Common then attacked and robbed them. A little later on the same walk was a part of the Common in which a lone walker once reported being waylaid by a frightful creature who scaled the iron railings that bordered the park and landed in front of him with a thud. For years after that, walkers all over the vicinity reported sightings of a hideous creature who appeared fearsomely and scared the living daylights out of them. I decided that I would not walk alone in such deserted stretches again–at least not on days when most people are tucked up cozily by roaring fires at home!

Just when my thoughts threatened to make me feel deeply uneasy, I reached the end of the deserted stretch and found a bench on which to eat my sandwich lunch. A few people passed by, clad warmly to walk their dogs, their garb including the traditional olive-green very English “wellies”. When my feet had rest sufficiently, I resumed the walk again, this time arriving at Milbourne House, the home that 18th century novelist Henry Fielding had purchased just before he became a success with the pulication of his novel Tom Jones. Surprisingly, no one I asked knew where Milbourne House was though it stared them in the face not two hundred yards away!

Around the corner from the antiquated Essex Lodge, I walked along Barnes High Street with its rather smart shops to The Terrace, a quieter embankment which I recalled having walked over the last time I was in Barnes. There was Barnes Bridge with a pretty part of Hammersmith evident in the distance at the opposite end. I walked beneath it, passed the house once occupied by composer Gustav Holst and arrived at the historic White Hart Pub for which the White Hart Lane is named.

This street contains a number of very enticing stores selling one-of-a-kind items. Two of my favorite stores are on this street–The Dining Room Shop and Tobias and the Angel. The former was so crammed with shoppers that I wondered if there was a pre-Christmas sale on! They fell all over the merchandise which consists of antiques for the dining table including crystal and glassware, china and linen. There were baubles and ornaments of every variety and a whole load of items that would make handsome gifts–no wonder everyone and her sister was there! Best part of all was the fragrance in the store and whether these came from the bags of pot pourri (“still only ten pounds”) or the candles that lent their golden glow to the room, I am uncertain. Business was brisk and items were flying off the shelves. What I did know was that though I did not intend to shop, I could hardly tear myself away.

But then just next door, “The Angel” sat in her shop which exuded the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked mince pies. This store features handmade ornaments, mainly made of fabric and scraps of vintage material. It also sells antiques with a ‘country’ feel–lamp shades and pitchers and bowls and and accessories such as scented pouches filled with dried lavender. Though I have little doubt that all these things are handmade, I find it hard to reconcile the prices which are just outrageous. While I saw many browsers such as myself, I saw few buyers–which, I suppose, speaks for itself.

I then rounded a lane and found my way to the Roman Catholic Church of Mary Magdalen where in the adjoining graveyard was the strangest memorial in the world! This one commemorates the death of Richard Burton…no, not the actor, but the author, linguist and translator of The Arabian Nights. As a tribute to the long years he spent in Arabia, his memorial is a Bedouin tent! If you climb the ladder at the back–which I did–and peer into the glass window, you can actually see the ornate coffins of himself and his wife, Isabelle Arundel. I was so spooked by this sight that I quickly scrambled down the ladder and rushed out of the graveyard!
But then as I was leaving, in the midst of all those aged gravestones, mossy with the passage of time (Burton died in the 1880s), I passed a freshly-dug grave whose marble headstone was sprinkled over with pure white marble pieces. “This can’t be an old grave”, I thought. And so I paused to read the headstone and I swear, you could have knocked me down with a feather. The grave contained the body of a man who had been born in 1904 and had died in 1933. In the very same grave was buried his wife, a woman named Edith, who was born in 1905 and who had died in March of this year! Yes, she died at the age of 103 having spent 75 years as a widow!!! I couldn’t help but stare and imagine all those years that she lived alone, without another companion in her life. Somehow, the sight left me feeling terribly despondent while, at the same time, stirred by her extraordinary devotion to her husband.

Soon, I was crossing the street to get into yet another churchyard–this one the church of St. Mary the Virgin at Mortlake. Dating from the mid-1500s, the church is notable for its graveyard which won the award for Best Maintained Graveyard in 2001–imagine that! They actually do award prizes of this kind! A plaque inside explained the history of the grave sites. The oldest dates from the 1600s and many of them contain the remains of figures who were prominent in their respective fields in their day and age. I also visited the inside of the church which was eerily quiet and empty and had me rushing off in a hurry.

Then, before the sun quite set, I decided to find my way back home on the buses. I did so enjoy the long bus ride coming in and it was better on my return. The discovery of new spaces always interests me and the villages on the banks of the Thames are especially pretty containing as they do some very pricey real estate and very fancy shops that cater to the upscale tastes of this segment of suburban London.

I hope now to explore Putney and Chiswick and Hampstead and over the course of the month, before I return to the US and India for my winter break, I will have covered some pretty fascinating pockets of the city.

Back home, with my feet and my legs protesting loudly, I worked on a feature article for the Christmas issue of The Examiner, a Catholic weekly in Bombay, to which I have contributed a Christmas essay for the past six years. Naturally, since this is my first Christmas in England, I decided to pen a piece about my impressions which have been ‘cooking’ for several weeks in my head. I entitled the essay “Yuletide in Ole’ Blighty”.

I have finished the first draft and will start to improve on it over the next couple of days before I send it off for publication.

Another Visit to the Physiotherapist…and Christmas (Window) Shopping

Nov18

Tuesday, November 18, 2008
London

You know what they say…listen to your parents. Mine had told me weeks ago about Moov, an ointment for muscular aches and pains that is only available in Bombay. They had sent a tube over to the States through my brother Roger and Llew brought it from the States to me, two weeks ago. However, in the midst of preparing for our departure for Greece, I had stashed it away and only now that I have returned to routine with Llew’s departure, did I decide to try it out.

If you believe in miracles, you will believe in Moov. I applied some to the soles of both my feet last night before I went to bed…and believe it or not, this is one for Ripley’s Records! For the first time in at least seven months, I had no pain in my feet when they touched the ground first thing in the morning. I was so thrilled, I wanted to dance the polka! Incredible, astonishing, amazing. I lack words to express how splendid it felt not to have to face pain and discomfort first thing in the morning. Needless to say, I used another application this morning and have been relatively pain-free all day.

This morning, I had another appointment with my physio-therapist Megan Sumner who was very pleased with my progress. She did some more “soft tissue work” (read a massage of the soles of my feet and my calves) and also used the ultra sound machine to stimulate healing in my left foot which, ironically enough, is now giving more trouble than my right–which had been the one that had first driven me to the hospital. She told me that this is very normal. Patients often tell her that while the foot that had troubled them initially has healed, the other one starts to ache–a somewhat sympathetic reaction, as it were, brought on by signals from the brain during the healing process. She also gave me new exercises for my left knee which still has a bit of pain (because she says, the plantar wraps all around the leg and goes up to the thigh). When I told her about Moov, she said she was very keen to see this miracle medication. We can market it in this country, she joked, and make a fortune!

Back home, I returned to the grading of my students’ essays, did some writing on my blog and started to create web pages for my travels in Greece for my website. Then, after lunch, because the sun condescended to show itself, I decided to take advantage of its watery rays and hopped on to a bus to do some window shopping at Piccadilly and Knightsbridge.

Yuletide has arrived in ‘Ole Blighty if one goes by the exquisite windows in the major department stores. Despite the credit crunch and economic downturns, the festive spirit has not diminished. Though shoppers are seen at their frantic worst during the weekend, there were enough people at Fortnum and Masons and Harrods where I decided to check out some of the upscale merchandize that this country has to offer the discerning buyer. I found a wealth of luxury items to delight even the most jaded acquisitionist. At Fortnum, there was every possible edible goodie from teas and coffees to jams and marmalade, from chocolates and candy to cakes and puddings, from champagnes and caviar to smoked salmon and pate. The decorations matched the quality of the items being offered and as I scoured the shelves, I created my own little wish list for what I most coveted. Fortnum has a lovely porcelain tea strainer and cup custom-made for it by Herend of Hungary. Now I would love to see that in my Christmas stocking!

I took the bus next to Knightsbridge with the intention of checking out Harrods’ handsome inventory. Here, I became waylaid by Ecco, the store devoted to the manufacture and sale of quality walking shoes. My friend Cynthia Colclough had told me about Ecco when she came to visit me a few weeks ago and found my feet in such poor shape. I decided to go in there and see if they could provide me with an attractive pair of walking shoes with high supportive arches. Well, I was delighted to find that they had a mid-season sale on and a fine pair of brown shoes that fit me like a dream seemed to have my name written all over it. Without any ado, I asked the salesman to wrap them up and away with me they went! I am so pleased to get out of my sneakers, in which I have lived for the past four weeks. They are in rather a ratty condition now and it is time I placed my feet in something less clunky, though no less comfy.

Then, Harrod’s beckoned and in I went. The sight of so many scarlet wreaths all covered with metallic baubles was just too much. I felt as if I had been hit by a baseball bat, so violently did they seem to whack me in the face. Harrod’s had a mass of “traditional gifts” in their Christmas store from cashmere scarves and logo umbrellas to shopping bags and pen sets. There are hampers here too filled with wines and crackers and other temptations. There was also a Limited Edition Christmas Pudding for a whopping 50 pounds that came in a ceramic pudding basin packed in a velvet box complete with a signature seal! Two demos featured a magic black board and instant snow–both really novel but too pricey, in my opinion (as is everything in Harrods!) In the bakery section, I sampled the Chocolate Ganache Cake which was scrumptious and from the same section, I purchased a Cheese and Bacon Baguette which was still warm from the oven. What would I want in my stocking from Harrods? Well, I would settle for their wooden chest of assorted tea bags with the Harrods logo on the top. And I wouldn’t mind that LImited Edition Christmas Pud either.

It was time for me to rest my feet and return home on the Tube. I had the sudden brainwave to inquire of the assistant at the booth about the possibility of buying a monthly bus pass as I use buses so much now that my feet are incapacitated. He told me that I could have one for just 50 pounds and that it was valid for 30 days from the date of purchase. I promptly purchased one as it will serve me well until I leave London to return to the States exactly a month from now on December 19.

Back home, I did some more work on my web pages before I decided to call it a day.