Invisible cities made Visible

City of Zobeide 

From there, after six days and seven nights, you arrive at Zobeide, the white city, well exposed to the moon, with streets wound about themselves as in a skein.They tell this tale of its foundation: men of various nations had an identical dream. They saw a woman running at night through an unknown city; she was seen
from behind, with long hair, and she was naked. They dreamed of pursuing her.After the dream they set out in
search of that city; they never found it. but they found one another; they decided
to build a city like the one in the dream. In laying out the streets, each
followed the course of his pursuit; at the spot where they had lost the fugitive's
trail, they arranged spaces and walls differently from the dream, so she would be unable to escape again.
This was the city of Zobeide, where they settled, waiting for that scene to
be repeated one night. None of them, asleep or awake, ever saw the woman again.



City of Tamara

Finally the journey leads to the city of Tamara. You penetrate it along
streets thick with signboards jutting from the walls. The eye does not see things
but images of things that mean other things: pincers point out the tooth-drawer's
house; a tankard, the tavern; halberds, the barracks; scales, the grocer's.
Statues and shields depict lions, dolphins, towers, stars: a sign that something--
who knows what?--has as its sign a lion or a dolphin or a tower or a star. Other
signals warn of what is forbidden in a given place (to enter the alley with
wagons, to urinate behind the kiosk, to fish with your pole from the bridge) and
what is allowed (watering zebras, playing bowls, burning relatives' corpses).

City of Esmeralda 

In Esmeralda, city of water, a network of canals and a network of streets span and
intersect each other. To go from one place to another you have always the choice
between land and boat: and since the shortest distance between two points in
Esmeralda is not a straight line but a zigzag that ramifies in tortuous optional
routes, the ways that open to each passerby are never two, but many, and they
increase further for those who alternate a stretch by boat with one on dry land.



City of Olinda

In Olinda, if you go out with a magnifying glass and hunt carefully, you may find
somewhere a point no bigger than the head of a pin. That point does not remain there: a year later

you will find it the size of half a lemon, then as large as a mushroom, then a
soup plate. And then it becomes a full-size city, enclosed within the earlier
city: a new city that forces its way ahead in the earlier city and presses it
towards the outside.



City of Thekla

Those who arrive at Thekla can see little of the city, beyond the plank fences,

the sackcloth screens, the scaffolding, the metal armatures, the wooden catwalks hanging from ropes or supported by saw-horses, the ladders, the trestles.If, dissatisfied with the answer, someone puts his eye to a crack in a

fence, he sees cranes pulling up other cranes, scaffolding that embraces other scaffolding, beams that prop up other beams. 'What meaning does your construction have?' he asks. 'What is the aim of a city under construction unless it is a city?
Where is the plan you are following, the blueprint?'
'We will show it to you as soon as the working day is over; we cannot interrupt our work now,' they answer.
Work stops at sunset. Darkness falls over the building site. The sky is filled with stars. 'There is the blueprint,' they say.

Invisible Cities- A review

Title: Invisible Cities
Author: Italo Calvino
My first thoughts on the book; Marco Polo has a vivid imagination.
This book simply put, entices, allures and sends the reader into a road trip of his own.

Kublai Khan, the great emperor of Tartars and Marco Polo, the foreign Venetian traveler share a special bond which is fuelled by not words, but charades. The traveler gives mystical accounts of his travels through dramatic gestures, expressions, sounds, enactments and his stunning display of souvenirs. Unlike other repertoires, he succeeds in evoking all the senses of his patronage; sight, sound, touch, smell and taste.
He leaves each of his accounts or cities open to interpretations and only chooses to gently guide your thoughts to imagine the whole.

“The connections between one element of the story and another were not always obvious to the emperor; the objects could have various meanings: a quiver filled with arrows could indicate the approach of war, or an abundance of game, or else an armourer's shop; an hourglass could mean time passing, or time past, or sand, or a place where hourglasses are made.”

While he closes a few doors, he opens several others which tease the reader’s mind and leave it spinning.

The author’s style of writing at a glance appears disconnected; each city is titled and can be read with a certain level of understanding without reading the book from page one. But once you begin reading it from first principles, you realize that there exists a common thread underlying the superficial disconnect.
Each city described has an inherent quality of surreal. Most defy logic and the norm. Cities like Armilla, Octavia, Isaura etc. conjure images with excellent graphic quality in the mind.
Cities of the dead, cities of the mute, cities under eternal construction, cities without walls, floors, roofs; the list is limitless and endless.
I personally connected with cities like Esmeralda with its crisscrossing, zigzagging network of waterways and roadways. Each day a different route; each route a different destination. The imagery was synonymous with that of life itself.
The descriptions of the cities are interrupted by the little tete a tete’s between Kublai Khan and Marco Polo. Together they ponder about various aspects of life and governance and raise philosophical discussions.

This book is best served with a lazy afternoon, chilled ice-tea and an open mind. Maybe a hammock.

A Place Re-visited

The first drops of rains tingled as they fell upon my cheek. I welcomed the oncoming shower which would relieve me of my exhaustion. Cold, damp and looming clouds had threatened to rain the entire morning. Finally they were to do their bidding.

On the morning of our trek uphill at Vaishnodevi, located in the state of Jammu and Kashmir, I felt slightly apprehensive and at the same time excited. From what I had heard and from the perspective of a 14 year old, a trek of 11kms sounded highly strenuous and intimidating. I was accompanying my father, brother and a maternal uncle’s family. When I reached the base point at Katra, there was a lot of hustle and bustle mingled with loud devotional cries of “Jai Mata Di”. Scraggy makeshift shops and eateries lined the cobblestone path that led to the temple of Vaishnodevi along the first hundred meters. Nescafe booths teemed with localites and foreigners drinking hot beverages to begin the day. The air was heavy and moist and dark clouds loomed overhead. The path was slippery owing to the collection of horse dung in the crevices of the stones. For those devotees incapable of the climb, palanquin bearers and horses could be rented.

As we moved higher, the shops ceased to exist and occurred only at larger intervals. Soon we came to a point where we knew that it was now only us, fellow climbers and the mountain. The path was now beginning to get steeper and the views more breathtaking. Owing to the fact that there was no or inconsistent railing on the side of the path, the journey seemed treacherous.

Many hours later, by midday we reached Ardhkuari which when literally translated reads “Half way”. There was another temple and several eateries. Trained foot masseuses were offering their services to the weary travelers. After a hot lunch of Potato cutlets served with bread we resumed our trek. The greenery was lush and thick. Tall trees and dense forests with predators like tigers were on either side. This time the path took a fifteen degree steep slope. The effort required for each step forward was doubled. The first drops of rains tingled as they fell upon my cheek. I welcomed the oncoming shower which would relieve me of my exhaustion. Cold, damp and looming clouds had threatened to rain the entire morning. Finally they were to do their bidding. The rain came pouring down, drenching us and making the path even more slippery.

After about five hours we finally reached our destination. We felt jubilant and offered our prayers. After the darshan, we stopped at the only eatery in the vicinity. Hot Rajma Chawal rejuvenated us and after an hour of rest on a public bench, we started our descent.

The mountainous landscape, the fresh foliage and engaging determination of our fellow trekkers left an indelible mark on my mind. We came across a myriad of people from different backgrounds and cities and yet felt united for a single cause. The experience besides being religious was also holistic. A must visit for believers and non-believers.

Book Review (Theory of settlement)

Book Title : Swami and friends

Author: R.K.Narayan

Simple language, familiar settings and an aura of homeliness make up the crux of this brilliantly worded novel.  Eleven year old Swaminathan and his friends; the mighty Mani, clever Rajam and meek Pea; paint the town red with their juvenile antics. Set in Malgudi, the entire story is projected as a satire and written through the eyes of young Swaminathan. Hence, even the most mundane happenings are larger than life. The simple joys of running downhill with a hoop and taking a dip in a river with friends are described with all the innocence of a tween. The indomitable teacher, Vedanayagam; Swami’s sullen headmaster and all the rigours of school life are described in tactful detail.

The town of Malgudi is an idealistic south Indian setting along the banks of the fictitious river, Sarayu. Like any other society, it has its own street divisions based on occupation. Vinayaka Mudali Street where Swami lives is a middle class neighbourhood housing doctors, lawyers and the like. Lawley extension which is also Rajam’s neighborhood is an upper class lane consisting of several rows of neat bungalows, mostly occupied by government officials. Abu lane (a low class neighbourhood), Grove street, Ellaman street (occupied by oil mongers) and Nallappa’s mango groves are all other featured aspects of Malgudi.

Malgudi is a very real interpretation of a typical South Indian (tamilian) lifestyle. The author has accordingly played up the importance of religion, Hinduism in particular, in day to day living. His description of Swami’s home, its linear layout and dark vestibules is apt. The threshold with its open drainage on which Swami floats paper boats and the compound walls which provide Swami and friends with ready seating are all subtle reminders of a past which is timeless. Albert Mission School, the bane of Swami’s existence, reflects colonial influence on our society. Images of the school evoked by the author include large vertical French windows and corridors lined with classrooms opening into a playground. Sunset on the sandy banks of the glistening river Sarayu, the gentle breeze ruffling the leaves of Peepul trees lined on the dusty roads, the occasional tinkling of a bullock cart, the hustle and bustle of Ameer Mart and the cheerful banter of young boys rolling along a hoop in the scorching heat; all make me want to break the reality-fiction continuum to enter the town of Malgudi. Its sights, sounds, simplicity and humbleness lure me into a nostalgic reverie.

The author’s expertise lies in the fact that although Malgudi is deep rooted in realism; he manages to give it a certain fictional sheen which lends the book its docile charm.

A sense of something lost and something gained prevails as a footnote long after the book has been kept aside.