July 2007, Èze.
It was hot and humid. The sun beat down upon me like a bully intent on inflicting bodily harm. The heat was different from the dry heat of Hyderabadi summers I knew so well. In Nice, the heat had a burning quality. As I stood by the unfinished bus shelter waiting for the correct bus to take me near my hostel, after having gotten on the wrong bus, with my camera bag pushing down on one shoulder and the backpack weighing down my back, I could feel every inch of exposed skin burn. But it was a change. It was a change from the cold, wet, grey and miserable ‘summer’ which was on offer in Cologne. So even though I felt like complaining I did not. I just cursed my stupidity in not having taken the correct bus, continuously wiped the sweat off my brow and rejoiced silently when a refreshingly cool breeze off the sea blew across my face.
The waves sounded different. They did not have the majestic power of the waves on the Bay of Bengal nor did they have the soothing synchronicity of the waves of the Arabian Sea. They seemed dispirited and mild. It was as if the Mediterranean herself was tired from the sun. But she made up for the lack of drama with the brilliant blue of her waters, an endless deep azure that seemed to hold infinite beauty in her jeweled tiara. The beach itself was stony, soft and rounded pebbles that could hurt and soothe at the same time depending on the way you walked, sat or slept on them. But they hardly troubled me. On the contrary, they soothed my tired feet by applying pressure on seemingly the correct points. I lay down and amid the cries of children playing in the water and the waves breaking; I read a book set in Ottoman Istanbul and dozed off by the white fence in the shade offered by the shrubs.
She was slightly different from the way I had imagined her from her photos. She was as slim as she was in the photos but not as tall. The spectacles she wore were like a wall, distracting one’s gaze from her pretty face and hiding her big beautiful eyes. Her lips were as lovely as they were in the photos. I had not been wrong.
July 2007, Nice.
June 2007, Luxembourg.
(Press F11 to view the photo better)
June 2007, Luxembourg.
Fuji Neopan 400
It is 06:17 am and I’m done. I’ve finished the book after having read it through the night. And even me, never a big fan of the series, am strangely content. No, I’m not elated. I’m not even sad that the series has come to an end and that perhaps there will be nothing more. No, I’m just content. Content that I’ve finished a rollicking good read. Something that I was not expecting to say as I plodded my way through the first half of the book, through pedestrian prose and middling dialog. But from that point on the book picked up like a beast unleashed. And I found myself getting caught up with the events hurtling towards their singular conclusion. Who had time to pay attention to the language then? Who had time to stop and raise eyebrows at the derivative ideas that drove the story forward, the horcrux which was eerily similar to Tolkien’s great ring, the parallel quest of the Three and the Fellowship and many more similar literary devices and themes? There will be critics in the days to come who will go into excruciating detail over such things. But in the end I’ve to give Ms. Rowling credit where it is due. She excelled herself with the second half of the book and gave a fitting and cinematic end to the series (I can only imagine how exciting it would be for many to eventually see all that easily translatable action on the big screen). The last fifty or so pages passed by in a blur of breathless action and never ending danger. Even if the end is to be expected and perhaps mocked at she brought it to a close with confidence and without resorting to mawkishness.
Yes, read the book. Not just the fans but those of you who look down their long noses and wrinkling brows at a world gone crazy in the grip pf Potter mania, get off your high horse and immerse yourself for a few hours in a world which while inevitably simple is exciting. Take off that chip from your shoulder and place it aside for a few days. While you may justly mourn the death of good children’s literature, put it off for a few page turning hours and give yourself up to the hollow but unique charm of the book. I assure you, like me, you will forget time between those pages.
December 2006, Salzburg.
July 2007, Gerolstein.
On the outskirts of an echoing sob
I found you weeping big fat tears.
It was your legs that were spread
out, your cleavage that called,
I only opened my zip.
My breasts are too small doctor. Can
you fix me up with some silicone? I want
to push these bad boys out.
You were looking at me. I know you wanted it
so bad babe. Don’t blame me. You needed me to
take you in the car, somewhere in the shadows.
More lipstick here. This neckline is too modest. Where
is my lucky bra? I hear this perfume is divine and in
thirty steps you can have your finest fantasy fulfilled.
Take this. Take that. Yes, just like that you bitch.
Make some noise. Move some more. Don’t lie
there like a tub of lard. Don’t bite your lips.
Girlfriend, you need to run them on a string.
The power is between your legs. Uncross
when the shopping season starts.
Twenty three is my magic number. I’ve
been to more ports than Captain Nemo.
They all love my twelve inch tortoise!
On the outskirts of a suppressed sob
I found you breaking beer bottles.