Day 26- Feel good Paris, full of surprises.The only city in the world where u can pay tribute to Jim Morrison at his grave, kiss Oscar Wild's tomb stone; attend a Mass in Latin; get serenaded by a flute playing clown, eat authentic Malabar 'parota', get roses sent to ur table just cos u r pretty, be called 'magnificient' by strangers who click ur picture... I know now why some people get married to Paris!
Soft golden light slipped in through Shilpa's French window, making pretty pattens on our sofa-cum-bed, waking me up ever so gently. The morning was warm and the street below had a happy buzz punctuated with muffled clicks of well-heeled Parisians, nibbling on baguettes and going about life with a definite purpose. I woke up to the fact that it was a Monday morning and for the first time in a long, long time, I wasn't fretting about waking up and heading to work. I was Paris and I was in love -- with the city, its sights and sounds and smells.
I loved this feeling of waking up and living a dream every single morning. But sometimes this heady hedonism scared me. What if happiness becomes a habit, I kept asking myself. Staying content, being at peace with whatever you have and whatever you do, was so easy doing what I was doing right then. And if it could be achieved back home, in the midst of our chaotic lives, then I hadn't paid attention. But I promised myself that I had to master this art of being happy, every single day. That's one lesson Europe taught me.
Another one is about love. And romance.
When India loves, it opens its heart out, asks no questions, sees no logic, seeks no answers. It just gives, till it hurts. And then just to love a little more, it gives some more. Till it hurts again. This is love for us. Be it mother-child, husband-wife, parents-children, lovers, friends... I don't know where we learnt this noble form of love from, but we are masters of it. I don't know if anyone else loves as much as we do.
India has a lot of love, that's what makes us work. Romance however, is another thing altogether. It's a pity. We have no romance in our lives, in our homes, in our relationships, in our thoughts, in our souls. If only all that unending love we have was peppered with a little bit of romance, we could create Utopia. But then I guess that explains it. It's Utopia.
Soft golden light slipped in through Shilpa's French window, making pretty pattens on our sofa-cum-bed, waking me up ever so gently. The morning was warm and the street below had a happy buzz punctuated with muffled clicks of well-heeled Parisians, nibbling on baguettes and going about life with a definite purpose. I woke up to the fact that it was a Monday morning and for the first time in a long, long time, I wasn't fretting about waking up and heading to work. I was Paris and I was in love -- with the city, its sights and sounds and smells.
I loved this feeling of waking up and living a dream every single morning. But sometimes this heady hedonism scared me. What if happiness becomes a habit, I kept asking myself. Staying content, being at peace with whatever you have and whatever you do, was so easy doing what I was doing right then. And if it could be achieved back home, in the midst of our chaotic lives, then I hadn't paid attention. But I promised myself that I had to master this art of being happy, every single day. That's one lesson Europe taught me.
Another one is about love. And romance.
When India loves, it opens its heart out, asks no questions, sees no logic, seeks no answers. It just gives, till it hurts. And then just to love a little more, it gives some more. Till it hurts again. This is love for us. Be it mother-child, husband-wife, parents-children, lovers, friends... I don't know where we learnt this noble form of love from, but we are masters of it. I don't know if anyone else loves as much as we do.
India has a lot of love, that's what makes us work. Romance however, is another thing altogether. It's a pity. We have no romance in our lives, in our homes, in our relationships, in our thoughts, in our souls. If only all that unending love we have was peppered with a little bit of romance, we could create Utopia. But then I guess that explains it. It's Utopia.
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| Staring at the world passing by, together... |
Europe, on the other hand, is full of romance. Couples here have a body language of their own. You'll see their fingers intertwined, eyes locked, their arms around each other in a half embrace as they go about doing mundane things in life. In metros, at supermarkets, on the road, in parks, churches, airports, on beaches -- they are everywhere, doing the same things, just lost in each other endlessly. Sometimes they stop in their tracks, in the middle of busy road to kiss each other tenderly. Then they open their eyes and continue walking to their destination. At other times you see them sitting in crowded metro stations or trains, eyes closed, heads buried in each other. As though they are breathing together. They hold on to their togetherness so passionately as if letting go of each other even for a moment will hurt. It's not just teenagers or 20 somethings. Married folks, young parents, gay couples, elderly couples, high school couples -- they all have the same body language. Something that's distinctly different from what you see in couples from other continents..
Romance here is serious business. And then again, romance is not restricted to couples alone. At least not in Paris. It took more than a week and a 100 little instances to convince myself that Paris is indeed the city of romance. It's not a tourism cliche. It's a way of life. If you need proof, you'll find plenty of it. But not if you are a tourist herded around in a group by a tour leader; not under the Eiffel tower. You have to live Paris and feel Paris like the Parisians do. And then you will see.
There's romance in the way a waiter serves you coffee at a cafe, there's romance when a passerby stops to ask if you have a lighter, there's romance when a stranger greets you for the first time and says he's 'enchanted' to meet you. Men open doors, pull chairs, lift bags and ooze chivalry in the most natural fashion. Women whisper and laugh, smile and pout, flirt and blush in response. Everyday. Everywhere.
The French, like most others in the world these days, are too busy loving themselves to really love someone else selflessly. But they are masters at romance, just like we are masters at love. They even have a name for someone who loves you, or whom you love, but isn't your husband/wife/partner. L'amore -- they say. My love or my lover.
I met a pretty girl who said she has two such lovers. Both are not her boyfriends. My lovers, she said. She has no clue whether they have other women in their lives, nor do they know about the men in hers. But she is convinced they love her in the most true, pure way possible whenever they are around her. She is their Muse, they tell her. She believes.
And soon, I came across such lovers and love stories pretty much everywhere.
What will become of their love stories no one knows. But they believe what matters is the story itself. Not how it ends.
Can a life time full of beautiful, sparkling romances match up to a lifelong love that may be listless, spark-less? I don't know...
...I guess all that matters is that we don't forget to love.
--C
 |
| Everyone else disappears... |
Romance here is serious business. And then again, romance is not restricted to couples alone. At least not in Paris. It took more than a week and a 100 little instances to convince myself that Paris is indeed the city of romance. It's not a tourism cliche. It's a way of life. If you need proof, you'll find plenty of it. But not if you are a tourist herded around in a group by a tour leader; not under the Eiffel tower. You have to live Paris and feel Paris like the Parisians do. And then you will see.
There's romance in the way a waiter serves you coffee at a cafe, there's romance when a passerby stops to ask if you have a lighter, there's romance when a stranger greets you for the first time and says he's 'enchanted' to meet you. Men open doors, pull chairs, lift bags and ooze chivalry in the most natural fashion. Women whisper and laugh, smile and pout, flirt and blush in response. Everyday. Everywhere.
 |
| Romance by the river |
The French, like most others in the world these days, are too busy loving themselves to really love someone else selflessly. But they are masters at romance, just like we are masters at love. They even have a name for someone who loves you, or whom you love, but isn't your husband/wife/partner. L'amore -- they say. My love or my lover.
I met a pretty girl who said she has two such lovers. Both are not her boyfriends. My lovers, she said. She has no clue whether they have other women in their lives, nor do they know about the men in hers. But she is convinced they love her in the most true, pure way possible whenever they are around her. She is their Muse, they tell her. She believes.
And soon, I came across such lovers and love stories pretty much everywhere.
What will become of their love stories no one knows. But they believe what matters is the story itself. Not how it ends.
Can a life time full of beautiful, sparkling romances match up to a lifelong love that may be listless, spark-less? I don't know...
...I guess all that matters is that we don't forget to love.
--C
hey christina,
ReplyDeleteIt's beautiful!!!!!!