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…