Reflections on Snow...etc

My hypochondriac self has been a little off the hook these past few days—what with my spinal cord playing funny yet again, and a not-so-terrible toothache piggybacking. Spring still plays truant in Łodz (and Poland), as every wee bit of the sun is unfailingly preceded or succeeded by a purgatorial spurt of snow.

 

The worst as yet had been last week. I had to go to Warsaw for my UK visa, what with a conference in Scotland coming up. Yeah! Poland still works that way. For every little piece of paper you’ve got to go all the way to the capital. I wasn’t however much peeved at the prospect. In fact, I was quite looking forward to it. My first look at Warsaw was on the day we had arrived in Poland—lock, stock and barrel. The short drive from the airport to the Central Station hadn’t been much of an introduction to the city, save for a hasty glance at the Palace of Culture. But Warsaw has always sat heavy on my mind. The city of the Warsaw Pact. The city of The Pianist. And here I was with an appointment for 10 a.m. at the British Embassy, and the rest of the day for the city streets that still reek of history.

 

We reached Łodz Fabryczna railway station at 7.30 a.m. for the 7.58 train. The queue at the ticket counter wasn’t formidable by any standard, a dozen odd people at the most. But you know what—it was one of those very commonplace, very inane situations that teach you a thing or two about the unpredictable, dappled nature of life. And I learnt the definition of ‘SLOW’. It was the lady at the counter. She was ‘SLOW’ness from those medieval morality plays. I bet Kundera could have written an entire novel on her. By the time I reached the counter, the station-clock read 7.55and I had completely garbled up the chaste Polish sentence ( I had rehearsed it at least 357 times), that I had to say to buy my tickets. I fumbled in my pockets, brought out the crumpled scrap of paper that read ‘Dwa bilety do Warszay Centralnej iz powrotem, normalne, pierwsza klasa’ (which means that I wanted two first class return tickets to Warsaw Central) and held it in front of SLOWness’ eyes. We boarded the train at 7.57.

 

By the time I had finished with the embassy it was 10.45, and trust British red-tapism, my job wasn’t done. They refused my papers from the university as these were written in Polish and they wanted these translated by a ‘sworn translator’—whatever that means. I would have to come back again. But the streets of Warsaw beckoned and I was still happy. It was a pale, lifeless sunshine when we had gone in. As we came out it was snowing heavily and the electronic thermometer read -6 degrees centigrade. Bangaals that we are, we dared the snow and started off. We headed towards Nowy Swiat (the New World)—the Royal Path that symbolised the spirit of the people of the city that was completely destroyed during the Second War. It was a three kilometre walk and halfway through our Bangaal egos were starting to give away. M was chattering and my limbs had gone numb. My hypochondriac self was muttering strange prayers. We decided on some coffee, a revival of our faltering Bangaal spirits, and a quarter of an hour later we were on the road again. By the time we reached Nowy Swiat, we looked like apparitions from the nether world, pale and reduced, and a wee bit light-headed. Familiarity breeds confidence, and unable to locate any, I started loudly on a song: ‘Ami Banglar gaan gai/Ami Banglay gaan gai’, and wonder of wonders M never stopped me. We had an Italian lunch (it might have sounded so exotic back home, but now I was missing my Parshe-with-Shorshe or lal-lal Pathar Mangsho with bhaat) and another round of Charna Kawa (or black coffee) and felt game enough for the walk back. Our trip to Warsaw had ended in a whimper! Our first experience of what you might call ‘snowbound’!!

 

The snow has not always been so punishing though. Once in a while it doesn’t feel so terrible. Take the other day, for example. It was about four in the afternoon when I had come out of the university, lazing down the cobbled pathway to the tram-stop, the setting sun staring me full in the face. Without a warning, it started to snow. Small white flakes tip-tapping on my black overcoat, mingled with the orange hue, the opera-house in the distance—it was a moment of unbridled pleasure. It was like being a character in a book where the author describes your gait, your situation, your stream of thought…Aha! I was having my bit of a European sojourn…  

The Friendly Neighbourhood...

This has been waiting on the fringes of my schedule for quite some time now. Back home, I had promised friends, students, cousins and people of various reputation and texture, that I’d let them know about my life here in Poland.

 

It has been a quiet beginning of sorts, what with classes twice a week and little research to do as of now. Am kind of resting on the oars of my thesis and do not yet feel upto serious research. Research instincts, however, say wiry academicians, rarely die. Mine have been fed, in the past few weeks, on a rather inter-national group of interesting neighbours. I have an apartment on the tenth floor of a building that belongs to the university and am surrounded by visiting professors, poets, novelists, scriptwriters and weirdos of myriad nature and manner.

 

Take KB for example. Small-time Irish novelist—arrogant, idiosyncratic and interesting. A man from Galway, he laces the staccato rhythm of his conversation with discussions on the topography of Connemara, or the fishing facilities these days on the Aran Islands. Some journey this, for me, the wide-eyed admirer of Synge, to be spoken to about the Aran Islands by one who belongs there. Every Saturday morning KB will unfailingly knock at our door, inviting us in his quiet but certain manner, to a cup of coffee at Van Helder’s…And you cannot say no…The itch for those tales of Dublin…and he can go on about Joyce…about the short-story in Dubliners, The Dead, and how the boy in the story was a real-life love of Joyce’s wife…etcetera. Or once in a while, when all of us have suddenly fallen quiet, as it happens often in a conversation, he will break into The Lake Isle of Innisfree: ‘I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree’ he will begin in his quiet, brooding voice. Its almost like a reverie, and when we leave, late in the afternoon, endless cups of coffee down our pipes, ‘the day so soon has glided by’…

 

AT, the Brit brat from downstairs. Our first meeting was an event that might go into a book on the politics of Indo-Brit relations. It was a particularly quiet morning, and it was snowing outside. One of those mornings when you allow yourself to be in bed till noon. We had woken up eightish, thanks to a call from my in-laws in India—and there had been shuffle of feet, and movement, and activity, and some running around with tea being made, and the daily chores of morning life…And the doorbell rings. We are three days old in Poland and know none of our neighbours. I open the door to a face covered with the forearm, a lean figure of a man bent over the sill, and a rasping voice: ‘Could you keep the fucking noise down!!!! Yes!! Could You? Keep the fucking noise down?’ I am off my guard, scared, febrile. Quick, however, to gather my poise, I politely reply: a) We are not making much of a noise really; b) If he lived downstairs, he must be a neighbour, and should he not introduce himself?; c) Hello, I am Sumit, and this is my wife, and we are three days in Poland, and this is the first time some neighbour has asked after us…Would you like some tea?

 

I see I have made an impression. The man is completely taken in by an unforeseen form of South-Asian politeness and starts to mumble apologies…Its actually the drink last night, what with having been at someone’s party last night..can’t remember who, and having gone to bed really late,,,By the way I am AT, Welsh, script-writer, and thanks for the tea… etcetera. Introduction over, I ask him about colonial hangover—you see the Indian, the British, the drink last night, and the expletives all rolled into one…and that becomes a charged question. ‘But I am Welsh, you see!’ he quickly replies, and breaks into a wide disarming smile. We have been friends ever since, having invited each other over quite a few times…and I must add that AT is one of the sharpest men I have ever met. But he still starts squirming, sometimes, particularly when myself and KB start discussing aspects of British history and look him in the face if we happen to get stuck.

 

This much for a beginning on my Polish sojourn. More to follow…