coldnoon: travel poetics (jul '12, 1.4)

COLDNOON: TRAVEL POETICS (INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF TRAVEL WRITING)

(ONLINE ISSN 2278-9650 | PRINT ISSN 2278-9642)

NO. 4 | JUL ‘12 | 1.4

ED. ARUP K CHATTERJEE

COLDNOON: TRAVEL POETICS

(INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF TRAVEL WRITING)

COLDNOON: TRAVEL POETICS

(INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF TRAVEL WRITING)

| POETRY – RESEARCH PAPERS – NONFICTION |

ISSUE IV | JUL ‘12 | 1.4

ED. ARUP K CHATTERJEE

COLDNOON: TRAVEL POETICS (INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF TRAVEL WRITING)

| POETRY – RESEARCH PAPERS – NONFICTION |

Coldnoon envisions travel not as flux but instead as gaps in travelling itself. Coldnoon means a shadowed instant in time when the inertia of motion of images, thoughts and spectacles, comes to rest upon a still and cold moment. Our travels are not of trade and imagining communities; they are towards the reporting of purposeless and unselfconscious narratives the human mind experiences when left in a vacuum between terminals of travel.

First published in New Delhi India in 2012

Online ISSN 2278-9650 | Print ISSN 2278-9650

Cover Photograph, Arup K Chatterjee

Cover Design, Arup K Chatterjee

Typeset in Arno Pro & Trajan Pro

Editor, Arup K Chatterjee

Assistant Editor, Amrita Ajay

Contributing Editors: Sebastien Doubinsky, Lisa Thatcher, G.J.V. Prasad, Sudeep Sen,

K. Satchidanandan

Copyright © Coldnoon 2012. Individual Works © Authors 2012.

No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or copied

for commercial use, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of cover other than that in

which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent

acquirer. All rights belong to the individual authors, and photographer.

Licensed Under:

Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Jul ‘12, 1.4) by Coldnoon: Travel Poetics is licensed under

a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.coldnoon.com.

Jawaharlal Nehru University

New Delhi 110067 India

www.coldnoon.com

Contents

Editorial

Poetry

Arjun Rajendran

Sarita Jenamani

Stephen Rosenshein

Kanchan Chatterjee

Salma Ruth Bratt

Chandni Singh

Nonfiction

Excursio – Robert Fox

Living in the World of Padre Pio – Claire McCurdy

Chilmark and Cheltenham: A Travel Diary – Ananya Dutta Gupta

Editorial Board

1

4

5

11

16

23

29

35

40

41

58

64

73

INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF TRAVEL WRITING Jul ‘12, No. 1.4 | www.coldnoon.com

Editorial | p. 1 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Editorial

Chatterjee, Arup K. “Editorial.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics 1.4 (2012): 1-3. Web.

Licensed Under:

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Editorial

In this little space of the world, from where I write, recently overburdened with

inertia of rest, two films – Rain Man and The Rainmaker – have clustered with

the intermittent rain mist around. There must be no direct relevance of this

cinema here; or so you may wonder. Let us see. Charlie Babbot’s automobile

business is bust in the face of a possible inheritance of three million dollars.

Rudy Baylor, on the other hand, wins a lawsuit of fifty million dollars; and he

drives away from his profession. Our simple, and by now drab, inference

would be that travel is all around us, and always at work. Our job here is to

alienate and complicate this easy understanding, which leaves out the joy of

philosophizing travel as a literary concept, in most great studies of literature.

We travel, even intellectually, not without luggage. So, travel,

ideologically, is the ritual of carrying clothes and accessories. In writing about

travel people have come to invariably rewrite facts and documents presented

by their predecessors. The average travel essay is a documentation of ritual

visits to places of touristic or popular interest. Frequently it qualifies at best as

an advertisement on behalf of forefathers who have visited the place; the place

and the essay is footnoted with “how to reach” sections as if to chart a

systematic cartography and untransgressable routes. This is the greatest

deterrent to the total unravelling of the travelled to the traveller’s senses, and

vice versa. Travel becomes a pilgrimage whose sacredness is consecrated time

and again in the footsteps of the pilgrims taking the same roads, eating from

the same shops as indicated in the travel “scriptures”, and ticking on the

journal of “to do list” of duties when on such a pilgrimage that is oft-recorded

in the annals of travel-ideology. And this, essentially, is the death of our innate

powers of subjective negotiation with the terrain; it is a destruction of the

individual spiritual capacity to dwell in the poetic moment of journey and a

reinstatement of the mercenary power of a religious territorial passage. The

paradox that remains is the pilgrimage becomes secular and communal.

Further, this is no less coercive than a military reconnaissance of a site of



combat where cartographer after cartographer is commissioned to ascertain

the unchangability of geographical and anthropological data.

Sigmund Freud described the act of travelling, “A Disturbance of

Memory on the Acropolis” as that which is in opposition to the boundaries of

the family, and especially those drawn by the father. When one finally is at the

brink of a dream destination it undergoes a derealisation of the originary

conceived reality. Travel thus sought within permissible limits is the most

accessible and the corresponding travelled site the most durable. It is then like

a shrine. The purity is lost no sooner than the traveller begins to conceive a

journey to that which is beyond the limits of his societal conceptions.

Consequently, the poetics of travel is a highly inaccessible discipline as travel

becomes more and more utilitarian.

It was time for us to usher a long issue at last, especially in the non-

fiction series. It was also time when we noticed how “travel is all around” was

not just a gimmick but a solid philosophical statement, that travel was at once

power and disempowerment. Every author in this issue (who will be

individually annotated in our forthcoming print publication) deals with travel

never in proxy, if at all to criticize such travel vehemently. Their travels do not

come from merely a tradition of colonial or governmental registers but

through personal engagement with objects that could be anywhere but where

they were, and were yet unrecorded. We warmly welcome you to take another

journey, albeit virtual, but coming from the most real spectators of that one

shared moment of collapsing identities we call Coldnoon. I welcome you all

to the July, 2012 issue.

Happy Coldnoon

Editor


Poetry | p. 4 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Poetry


Arjun Rajendran | p. 5 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Arjun Rajendran

Rajendran, Arjun. “Poems by Arjun Rajendran.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics 1.4 (2012):

5-10. Web.

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Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.




Arjun Rajendran

First night on Big Island

Though the sunset is free, the cigarettes

cost so much –

The GPS is still in shock and continues

mapping the mainland.

The taste of airplane peanuts haunts

my mouth. The table is

littered with brochures.

Our shoes: in a state of recovery.

Humorless suitcase wheels.

It’s hard to believe we are in the middle

of the ocean; I’m still in the air

while you’re on the phone with someone

somewhere, asking you for the time.

I jetlag at midnight, leave my dream

in shambles. From the balcony, the sight

of clouds bathing a homesick moon.



The Wooden Castro

Outside a cigar store in Hilo, I stumble upon Castro –

as his uniform dries in the sun, an ant braves his beard.

He lets me wrap an arm around him, smiles for the camera.

Smoke from my lungs is Che’s ghost, posing alongside.

The caption of the photo is: two comrades and a traveler.



Lehua Blossoms

According to legend, Lehua was

a girl before she became a blossom.

They flourish beside volcanic rock,

curving the sky with their ardor.

Seeing them, I am reminded

of my own passion; how it was

stoked by the simplest things—

rain, ruins, a frock on a mannequin.

A longing so palpable, it wrapped

me inside a cocoon; I’d emerge

days later, frail and unrecognizable,

dragging behind me a hapless shadow—

and now Lehua is alone on a branch,

symbolizing unrequited love.



In the Cemetery of the Painted Church

Tombstone orchids. Crosses dividing

the air into four quadrants.

A sense of being in two places:

the cemetery and nowhere.

Ants trudge along grassy boulevards

like serfs during wartime.

Birds on an angel’s wing having

a lover’s tiff—

Even this church, with its wondrous

ceiling of fronds, waves and sand,

must paint some shadow.



Mauna Kea

En route to Mauna Kea, a sign that warns

of Invisible cows—(now I have seen everything!)

Within observatories, heads work riddles

buried in infinity’s heart.

A day moon watches clouds cannibalize

while the temperature drops.

The wizard whose name is snow breaks

light into flints; the wind’s fins

lunge at our jackets,

withdraw then return with renewed vigor.

From the shuttle, we see the growth

of sunset; a constellation blooms overhead.


Sarita Jenamani | p. 11 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Sarita Jenamani

Jenamani, Sarita. “Poems by Sarita Jenamani.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics 1.4 (2012): 11-

15. Web.

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Sarita Jenamani

They Depart

They depart

And more houses sink

into darkness

The street shrinks a little bit more

Night clenches

the morbid left-over light

From the Tower of Silence

flocks of fear-symbols descend

in quest of a morsel

Those remaining behind

continue to slumber

under a thick layer of indifference

They wake up

only to move

from dream to dream

and murmur

unanswerable questions

They depart

And life shrinks

a little bit more



Door

I tap on the door

and it opens

But before I enter

the door enters me

and keeps on opening countless doors

inside myself

I cannot decide

Am I crossing the thresholds

or are they crossing me

one after the other?

Confounded, I search for a roof

but before I detect one

the earth beneath my feet

slips away



Exile

All through life

an unending journey

accompanies you

And in the absence of

a destination

much of what’s inside gets lost

And the warp and weft of being

Keep on breaking



Song of a Walkway

The darkness deepened even more

In my veins sinks the night

Slowly the stillness pierces

a knife into my heart.

My body is stretched out

on the wet grass

Distant is still

the night of union

I am no tiny plant

not the night hidden between the stones

neither the moonlight

that falls in the fisher’s net

nor even the silence

before the storm

On the road of quest

I am a walkway

awaiting him to come home

who had gone over me

in an evening like this

Sarita Jenamani, Vienna, Austria


Stephen Rosenshein | p. 16 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Stephen Rosenshein

Rosenshein, Stephen. “Poems by Stephen Rosenshein.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics 1.4

(2012): 16-22. Web.

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Stephen Rosenshein

How to use the Lonely Planet Guide in South America

Never try to do anything the way The Book says to do it.

It is likely the rules, prices and routes have all changed

since the articles were written, 3 months ago.

Never count on The Book to explain just how absurd

a bus ride in the Peruvian Andes might be.

8 cent adjectives won’t smell like half-frozen mud or press against your chest

with thin air or sell you giant corn

boiled in a copper pot with a slab of salty cheese.

The Book will not tell you to take the giant corn and shove it inside your jacket

to stay warm when 15,000 feet above sea level.

Never pay a fee, tax or additional charge

The Book does not mention.

The Book, though vindictive, is frugal.

You can rely on it to save you money.

Never stay in a hostel recommended by The Book.

It is likely they have grown lazy and/or raised prices since receiving this

international seal of approval.

Also, never stay in a hostel recommended by the taxi driver

who picked you up at the airport, bus or train station.

The dueño is a relative and the driver will return later for a kickback.



Never describe places using adjectives you find in The Book. Everyone you

meet just read the same page.

They all know the air in Baños,

Ecuador is charged with sexual energy.

Regurgitating 8 cent a word descriptions will not get you laid.

The Book is heavy and bulky. It takes up valuable space.

When you leave a country behind, tear its pages out and leave them on the

nearest bookshelf.



How to Buy a Mummy

When you are hiking to pre-Incan ruins in Peru

and an old man emerges from behind a white washed building

to offer you unfiltered tap water in a tin cup, always accept.

You will probably suffer a serious case of diarrhea, but

accepting this water is a customary way to express interest

in buying a mummy.

As you sip from the tin cup, the old man will crouch into a ball, cross his arms

around his chest and lower his head.

This is the universal sign for mummy.

Nod knowingly and smile.

Now, agree upon a price. Consider the mummy’s place in life: was this an Inca,

a Moche, a Cañari, a Wari? Was this a warrior, a priest, a runner or a common

field hand?

Consider the mummy’s place in death:

is it a long hike, well buried, well preserved? Is the mummy

large or small? Is the mummy covered with artifacts?

Be a professional and the first to name a price. If the mummy is royalty, bid no

lower than 200 soles. For anything less than a priest, go no higher than 100.

Before you reach an agreement, you must have the following items: Tobacco,

jewelry, cocoa leaves, coins and chichi

for an offering, solid boots for the hike, a shovel

to move the dry earth, a flashlight for the dark tomb,

and some means to wrap and transport your mummy.

Beware, without these items the attempted removal and disturbance of a

mummy can only result in the flagrant violation

of the honor of the ancestors and their descendants.

Unless you came prepared, make sure to empty the water



from the tin cup. Hand it back to the old man. Thank him for his time and his

water. Continue on your way. Next time,

you will be prepared. Next time, you will have your mummy.



The German

Santiago, Chile

Every exit is just an entrance to something else,

exclaimed a swaying German tipping his drink

enough to send several drops over the clear plastic rim

and onto the beer advertisement on the green table.

You must leave like the band-aid, quickly and with much pain.



Porteños

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Passing a construction site

wet cement vaulted the walls

splattered over the right side

of my green valor jacket.

I paused, from nowhere

a couple came to me

pañuelos in hand

blotting up the grey muck

cuidado, cuidado,

te vas a manchar.

Frozen in place

strangers patting me down

with wet handkerchiefs

I could do nothing

but thank them profusely.

When they left

I found myself

feeling in my pockets

feeling for my cell phone

feeling for my wallet

feeling them in my pockets.


Kanchan Chatterjee | p. 23 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Kanchan Chatterjee

Chatterjee, Kanchan. “Poems by Kanchan Chatterjee.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics 1.4

(2012): 23-28. Web.

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Kanchan Chatterjee

Beginning

there are

plastic bags

empty beerbottles

napkins

old newspapers

strewn all over...

I look at them

then the road

the rising sun

and the hill

at the bend..

and start

anyway



An Encounter

'nothing is urgent'

he says

after finishing the first shot

orders another...

looks at my fidgety fingers

tapping the table...

finishes his second one

looks out the window

squints his eyes

observes the setting Sun...

looks back to me

'everything happens at the right hour'

he declares...

I nod

and sip

my glass

silently



That strange feeling

Put the coffee flask

In my backpack and

Kick started the bike

Just before zooming off

Thought I saw you

Standing in the paddy field

Smiling at me



The journey

So we’ll take the right bend

From here

And get onto the NH 33

His eyes sparkling

I nodded

Checking the brakes and clutches

Of my beat up Yamaha

Oh yeah

He said

It’s been a long time

Yeah,

I smiled and

Patted

The

Bike



Coming Home

I look at the

ghost of a bus

then at the

tobacco-chewing

conductor

again back to

the rickety bus

and the crowd

throbbing inside

the blazing sun

sweeping

the road ahead

still some 400 kms

to go

what the hell,

I tell

myself

and

jump

in...


Salma Ruth Bratt | p. 29 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Salma Ruth Bratt

Bratt, Salma Ruth. “Poems by Salma Ruth Bratt.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics 1.4 (2012):

29-34. Web.

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Salma Ruth Bratt

Henna

Once a young Moroccan girl decorated my arms and hands in henna

It was her gift to me

If you think this gift faded away as the designs disappeared from my skin

It isn’t true

I can still look at my hands and remember

Just where the vines of green and gold swirled

Around this knuckle or that fingertip



Migrant

No need to empty boxes

Just leave the books inside

Take one at a time

To read at your leisure

No need for the lush green sunrooms of past days

This small place hasn’t much sun

And the wilting discomfits you

If you don’t fit in, don’t worry

Be a square in round spaces

Until your edges smooth over and gloss



Rabat

The mosque is mostly imagined

Unfinished columns hold the sky

Imagine yourself veiled and flowing

Serenity descends as a lopsided heron

Forget for a moment

You hectic fretful tourist

Stop for a moment

Without past and future

Leave your identity and relations

Watch a tugboat hew the surface of the sea.



Sleepless in Morocco

Anxious thoughts toss and turn him through the night and keep him

from sleeping. He looks around the room at all the people he loves, sleeping

together along the cushions that line the walls of the room. Here they are, all

together, not like in New York, where each child sleeps alone in a big

bedroom, but all in one room, breathing in a unison rhythm. He wonders if

they are dreaming the same dreams as they lie, head to head and toe to toe,

around the room together.

Once, in New York, he heard his son describing these sleeping

arrangements to his friends. One boy said, it sounds like camping in the

Adirondacks. The comparison upsets Adel, who has never been camping and

who desperately wants to go. “It’s not the same at all!” He almost shouts at his

friend and Adel’s big sister Salma rushes to his rescue.

Daoud remembers listening as Salma describes her grandmother’s

home in Morocco with great tenderness, and Daoud realizes then how the

children look forward to these visits – not just to see people and places, but to

be close to their parents and relatives – to breathe together and even dream

the same dreams. Comforted now from his immediate concerns, Daoud is able

to drift into a deep and restful sleep.



Templo Mayor

Under the National Cathedral, Mexico City

Tell the truth, but tell it slant

- Emily Dickinson

When Coatlicue became pregnant

During a ritual sweep of the palace

She swept up the truth

A ball of feathers

A celestial visitor

A likely story

Jealous, perhaps, her daughter

Planned an attack

Roused her hundreds of siblings

Dressed in snakes and fish

Climbed a mountain of sin

To rout the enemy

Huitzilopochtli was born

In riot gear

Fought the moon and stars

Sent them hurtling into space

A likely story

Of slopes and slants

Like the story of her, the hurtled one

Coyolxauhqui

Who landed askew

Bells hanging from her ears

Obsidian sandals

Legs going round the truth

Suspended

In endless motion


Chandni Singh | p. 35 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Chandni Singh

Singh, Chandni. “Poems by Chandni Singh.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics 1.4 (2012): 35-

39. Web.

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"Poems by Chandni Singh" by Coldnoon: Travel Poetics is licensed under a Creative





Chandni Singh

Two Cups of Tea

Experiences in Britain and India

I held the cup gently,

Unsure whether to cocoon it,

In a maternal grasp

Or curl my fingers

Against its slender handle.

The blue flowers

traced pretty patterns on its edges.

I sat demure,

Sipping Earl Grey

Biting into a buttered scone gently,

I sat silent,

As silent as snow

In this gray world of The Unfamiliar.

My mind catapulted into another world

Where I drank my tea sweet

Overboiled and milky

From a small glass

Often chipped at the edges.

I knew how to hold it,

In a firm, familiar grasp

It belonged to my hand

And around it

My conversations flew fast and merry

My loud words littered with laughter.



Little Laxman

Little Laxman runs to me,

his feet

second guessing his eagerness.

Balancing in one hand a cup

slightly chipped at the rim,

and in the other, a plate

with a samosa on it – piping hot.

As he puts them down carefully before me,

I catch his eye.

His face breaks into a ready smile

I can’t help but mirror it,

so warm is its touch.

His eyes widen as he sees me

blow gently at the tea.

“It’s very hot”, I say.

He nods, lingering in the presence of my strangeness.

I munch through my samosa,

watching Little Laxman – at once the waiter,

at once the dish cleaner.

Washing and scrubbing, scurrying and stacking.

As I get up to leave,

he runs to me – I pay.

And he whispers, “Thank you Madam”.

The bus blows its horn twice

And just like that,

Our moment breathes its last.

I walk away, his wide smile

Already a memory.



At Piccadilly Circus

He made a flower fly

this clown at Piccadilly.

It fell near my feet and I

picked it up, and skipped away.

He called out to my turned back

asking for his flower.

Then pointed cheekily to his cheek,

“Will the Miss grant a Kiss?”

I hadn’t touched another’s skin

For so long now.

At home in this foreign land,

I was a lover out of love.

He looked at me impatiently and

I quivered unsure

but nodded. “Yes.”

As I moved to kiss his painted face,

He turned, catching me

Squarely on the lips.

I breathed sharply and then

putting on my best smile

I laughed with the clapping crowd –

They, at the humour,

I, at the irony.



Romancing Lansdowne

For Siddhartha

It is in places where time stands still

That my soul rushes forth.

We walked across the small crowd of shops

That was the main bazaar

No hungry touts, breathed down our necks

Only the pines whispered in welcome

Pots of geraniums hung outside the houses

Whites and yellows blushing into pinks and scarlet,

The blue room stood so still

Shivering slightly in the early evening frost

We whispered, anything louder seemed impure.

A fog stole over us in a blanket of anonymity

The Milky Way faded away, the cicadas grew sleepy

I made my home in my lover’s arms and

Slept the night away.

For it is in places where time stands still

That my soul rushes forth.


Nonfiction | p. 40 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Nonfiction


Excursio | Robert Fox | p. 41 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Excursio

by Robert Fox

Fox, Robert. “Excursio.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics 1.4 (2012): 41-47. Web.

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Excursio

by Robert Fox

Yalta, unlike the rest of Ukraine I had already seen, had a more modern,

“westernized” feel to it. In other words, it didn’t feel like somebody was going

to fuck with you every time you rounded a corner. What Yalta also had in its

favour was that it was located on the Black Sea – which is perhaps the only

thing Ukraine can’t find a way to totally uglify. But they certainly tried. If Yalta

was in the United States, it probably would have looked something like Miami

Beach, lined with luxury resorts and condos that took full advantage of its

seaside setting. Instead, you just got rows of Soviet-style apartment buildings

nowhere close to the water. At least the city square was on the water. A large

stage stood at one of it, where a hip-hop group was performing Russian rap.

The rest of the square was filled with numerous attractions and kiosks,

including rides, bungee jumping and exotic animals, including monkeys,

muzzled bear cubs and parrots forced to pose with humans for a photograph if

one was so inclined to spend fifty grivnas.

Across the square opposite the stage, I noticed a small set featuring a

jungle backdrop. I assumed that some entrepreneurial Ukrainian with a

monkey decided to go all out. But what I saw just about made my jaw drop. As

we got closer, what I saw on display were not monkeys. But rather, African

men in full tribal garb—including grass skirts and spears, dancing to the beat

of their own bongos. I just had to take a picture of this, so I pulled out my

camera. But just as I was about to snap a photo, both men waved a finger at me

– in rhythm – as if to say “Don’t you dare … unless you are willing to pay” as

they continued to dance. So we walked away. And when I was at a safe enough

distance, I pretended to be taking a picture of the entire landscape, aiming the

camera in their general direction. Moments later, a group of girls paid to pose

with the tribesman. After all, a black man in Ukraine is truly an exotic novelty,

on the same scale as bear cubs and parrots wearing skull-and-crossbones eye

patches.



We headed to a booth to sign up for an excursion that would take us to

various historical sites around the Crimea. After we purchased our tickets, we

had some time to kill before our departure and continued exploring downtown

Yalta. We returned to the ticket kiosk, where we were greeted by a shady man

in leather pants. “Follow me,” he said. And so we did, toward a row of buses.

Of course, I had no idea what was going on because I was under strict “no

English” ordinance.

“Wait here,” the man instructed as he approached one of the buses and

started speaking with the driver. After a few moments of intense negotiation,

the man in the leather pants came back to us and presented our tickets. Katya

paid him and next thing I knew, we were climbing into the back of a hot, stuffy

bus that would take us on our grand tour of the Crimea. The tour was sold out,

but “sold out” in Ukraine simply means “let’s negotiate.” And that’s exactly

what Katya did.

In an attempt to breathe in the oppressive heat, I pulled a window

down, but it only went down two inches, doing next to nothing for airflow.

“Maybe he’ll put the air on when we get on the road,” Katya said.

“Somehow, I don’t see that happening,” I said back, sarcastically. And of

course, I was right.

“Stay here,” Katya said, getting up.

“Where are you going?” I asked in fear.

“To visit a relative who lives nearby. She’s old and sick, so I’m just going

in to say hi. It’s probably he last time I see her.”

“You’re going to leave me here by myself?”

“You need to hold our spot.”

As apprehensive as I was to be left alone, she convinced me that I would

be fine. As it turned out, my concerns were completely justified. After ten

minutes or so, the driver started the van. Should I be worried?, I thought to

myself. What if they leave without Katya? I looked at my watch and realized we

still had fifteen minutes before our scheduled departure. But judging by the

driver’s body language, it was time to go. After about a minute or so, the driver

got up and stood before me, saying something in Russian that I couldn’t

understand.



“Nyet, English,” I said in desperation, drawing the stare of everybody

aboard the bus. But apparently, that meant nothing to him, so he repeated

what he had told me, only louder. “Nyet, English,” I repeated louder.

A young, attractive woman in front of me said in broken English: “He

wants to know where your friend went.”

“She went to visit a relative. She’ll be back any minute.” The woman

translated for me.

“When will she be back?” the man demanded. The woman translated

for me again. However, her English was so choppy, I had to ask her to repeat it

several times.

“Any minute.”

He then added something else in Russian, before kicking my backpack,

which was on the floor on his way back to the driver’s seat. The woman didn’t

translate this final comment, but instead, offered a look of pity. It was all she

could really do. In the meantime, there was nothing I wanted to do more than

to disappear off the face of the earth all together, as everybody continued

staring at me with a mix of disgust and amusement.

Minutes later, Katya finally got on board. Everyone glared at her and

the bus driver greeted her by pointing at me, shouting: “Is this your foreigner?”

“Da” Katya said, heading to the back of the bus to join me in embarrassment

and shame. Not to mention the increasingly oppressive heat.

Several minutes into our trip, I once again risked the ire of our driver by

begging Katya to ask him if he could put the air on. And to my surprise, he did!

But less than two minutes later, he turned it off, never to be turned on again.

Meanwhile, Katya translated into my ear all the historical information

that the tour guide was passing along and it was clear that people were

annoyed. I found a great deal of it interesting, but mostly, it was irrelevant

without further context. And considering the heat, it was really hard to focus.

The large amount of body odor swirling around the packed route van certainly

didn’t help matters.

Our first stop was a medieval monastery built into a mountain.

Contemplative Orthodox priests with long beards roamed the premises.

However, sustained contemplation must have been difficult, considering the

constant passing and rumble of trains directly across the road.



Let me pause here to point out once again that Ukraine is a place where

nothing – and I mean nothing should come as a surprise. And usually, those

surprises involved discomfort or severe irritation typically caused by Ukrainian

irrationality. Or a language barrier. But being forced to wear a skirt before I

could enter a church was the last thing I possibly could have expected. And yet,

there I was, forced to put on a skirt. Before I entered a church. There’s a

reasonable explanation, though. Since I was committing the grievous sin of

wearing shorts, it was imperative that I covered my legs before entering the

monastery. We were directed over to a trunk, where I grabbed a random cloth

with a floral pattern that I then wrapped around my waist. After Katya found a

scarf to wear on her head, we headed inside for a tour. It was utterly fascinating

to think of centuries of devotion and spirituality those walls had absorbed over

the years. Even when wearing a skirt, while a passing train rumbled the walls

surrounding us.

Our next stop on our little excursion was the Yalta conference, where

Stalin, Churchill, and Roosevelt gathered to work out a few kinks in their

relationship at the Livadia Palace. I was looking very forward to this, as I

vividly remembered the famous photo of the three leaders sitting outside the

former summer retreat of the last Tsar of Russia (Nicholas II). But of course,

as Ukrainian luck would have it, we happened to arrive on the only day of the

week the museum was closed – on a Wednesday of all days. Go figure. But

even though we couldn’t go in, I was able to see the exact spot where the

triumvirate of world leaders posed for their famous photo. The cardboard cut-

out was all the proof I needed.

Our final stop was the ruins of an ancient Greek settlement. I had no

clue Greeks had anything to do with Ukraine. Yet sure enough, here were the

ruins to prove it, sitting on the vivid blue Black Sea, which glistened and

sparkled in the sun. But before we could see it with our own eyes, I had to

endure yet another babushka battle. And once again it was on the account of

my camera. It all transpired after Katya entered through the gate ahead of me.

As the gatekeeper was taking my ticket, Katya got absorbed in the crowd,

unaware that I was being denied entry on behalf of the camera case attached to

my hip. At least that’s what I interpreted the woman pointing at my camera

case to mean. I naturally assumed no cameras allowed. But I was apparently

being asked a question…a question I could not understand. I desperately



peered through the gate in hopes of spotting Katya. But I couldn’t locate her.

In the meantime, the attendant was growing angry, as was the mob of people

in line behind me. As the woman continued jabbering away at me in Russian,

clearly refusing to accept the fact that we did not share a common language,

Katya pushed her way back to the gate and clarified the situation. I was

essentially being told that if I wanted to take my camera inside, I would have to

pay. On principle, I refused to have to pay to use my own camera. So we took

the camera back to the route van. I would later regret this decision, considering

how absolutely breathtaking the place was. But unfortunately, the only

pictures I have are stored in the recesses of my mind, like so many other

moments in life.

The ruins concluded our tour. As we were heading back to Yalta, Katya

realized we were going to be passing right through Gaspora. So rather than

driving all the way to Yalta, Katya asked the driver if he could just drop us off

on the side of the road, rather than going all the way back to Yalta. To my

surprise, he obliged and dropped us off on the side of the road. We headed

toward what we assumed was Andrei’s apartment. After all, everything

certainly looked the same. But then again, when don’t things look the same in

Ukraine? But after a few minutes, Katya began to realize that things just didn’t

seem right. This became especially obvious when we arrived at a spot that

should have been Andrei’s apartment building. We assumed we just went

down the wrong street, since street signs are a foreign concept in much of

Ukraine. I certainly wasn’t going to be of much help in finding it. After a little

more futile searching, Katya stopped a couple walking toward us along the

road.

“Excuse me? Is this Gaspora?,” she asked the couple.

“Gaspora?” the man said, and then started laughing, as did the woman

he was with.

“What’s so funny?” Katya asked.

“This isn’t Gaspora. Gaspora is the next village over.”

Katya thanked them and explained to me what was going on. As much

as we wanted to give the bus driver the benefit of the doubt, we were pretty

sure the bus driver purposely did this to get back at us for dare asking him to

drop us off without any form of payment. In any event, we found a route van



stop on the main road and headed back to the real Gaspora ten minutes down

the road.

There’s a famous Russian movie made in the 60’s with a very similar

concept. It’s called Irony of Fate. It’s shown every year on New Year’s, making

it sort of like the former Soviet Union’s It is a Wonderful Life. It’s about a man

who gets drunk with his friends before he heads off on a business trip. He ends

up arriving to be in the wrong town, which happens to looks identical to his

own city, including the apartment building itself. He enters what he assumes is

his own apartment, only to find it inhabited by a beautiful woman. Hilarity

ensues and they fall in love. Life certainly imitates art. More often than we

usually care to admit. And this was more proof of that.


Living in the World of Padre Pio | Claire McCurdy | p. 48 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Living in the World of Padre Pio

by Claire McCurdy

McCurdy, Claire. “Living in the World of Padre Pio.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics 1.4

(2012): 48-63. Web.

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is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0

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Living in the World of Padre Pio

by Claire McCurdy

The tale of Padre Pio, a Catholic saint, informs this story of a rediscovered

friendship of thirty years duration. Friendship found across time and landmass

and cultures and equally quickly lost again. And, as I learned, he played an

active role in the lives and beliefs of my friend and her family.

Thirty years ago, Padre Pio’s disciple A. had been a good friend of mine

and a fellow college teacher in Nagasaki. About a year ago, I had rediscovered

her on the Net. The New York Times described her as the manager of

Arachne, an important Venetian business. I had positive memories of my

friend as, charming, kind, and valiant. I had witnessed her successful battle

against a wild enraged turkey by opening an umbrella abruptly into the

turkey’s beaky hostile little face. It squawked, flapped, gobbled, hopped, and

ran away. I was really pleased to have found my friend the foiler of turkeys,

once again.

My friend had invited me to visit her in Venice for the 2010 Biennale,

an international exhibition on architecture. The Biennale had its first ever

woman director, a Japanese woman named Kazuyo Sejima, and a very

accessible theme “People Meet in Architecture.” It seemed like an amazing

opportunity for a writer. Of course, I accepted. We fixed the date for my

arrival in Venice at the end of August, just after the Biennale opening. At

Marco Polo Airport, I spotted her. A shock of bright grey hair, wide smile, clad

in sweater after sweater, her little white spotted dog with her curled around her

neck. It could have been no one else.

“Cigarette?” A offered me an unfiltered Camel which looked and

smelled intensely acrid,. In the Munich airport en route to Venice I’d seen a

glass cage filled with smokers and smoke: the Camel smoking area. Noisome

smoke billowed inside, and people exiting trailed their own personal noxious

clouds. American anti-smoking rules were not the fashion here. Would that



Padre Pio had been there on this occasion, to shower us with his flowery

perfumes. I declined.

We made good time from the airport to Venice despite the downpours

of rain. Padre Pio must have exercised his powers, briefly stopped the rain and

made it possible for a huge, beautiful rainbow to stretch over the entire sky. I

thought it was a positive omen for the coming week. And I was very pleased

that A had invited me to stay on the island of Giudecca. It is still one of the

last true Venetian villages.

Giudecca itself is fluid in name and character. The name is said to be a

corruption of the Latin "Judaica" (Judaean) for Jewish ghetto, but this is in

dispute. The Island has undergone significant post-industrial change - new

shops and an exclusive residential area where warehouses used to be.

Giudecca has also recently become unexpectedly fashionable. On a shop wall

one morning I found the graffiti “ALL CITY CREW,” signifying that the artist

had tagged all five NYC boroughs. As freighted with cultural symbolism, in its

way, as the logo of the new, nearby Hilton Hotel. But still Venetian, still a

village.

As we travelled to Giudecca A described her life and times in a way

which I did not at first understand. “I live in the nineteenth century. In the

world of Padre Pio.” Even after she had described the saint I simply didn’t get

it—that a person could live a 21st century life and still believe in saints like

Padre Pio with stigmata, timeless charms, spells, the evil eye, miracles, and

magic. In fact, as I later found, tiny refrigerator magnets and little icons with

Padre Pio’s bulging eyes and toothy glare were everywhere in A’s apartment.

Blessing the stove, the boiler, the washing machine, even the moribund Mac

PC. Possibly even watching over the non-working bidet, which was filled with

a bright green plastic watering can so that no one might accidentally sit on it?

As if to make this plain, we were soon to encounter A’s 21st century

version of the evil eye. After our arrival, A. suggested we go to an osteria – a

waterfront bar. We took a tiny table in the corner away from crowds. A

confided that this was necessary. “I must be careful. You see the tables in the

osteria? Each political group sits together at his own table. I must be friendly

with them all. But not too friendly. Especially to the Communists. You see

they are watching us.” No, I didn’t see. I began to be wary.



A then sternly instructed me on the protocols of drinking in the osteria.

“When you come to an osteria, before you order a drink you must first eat

tramezzini (egg salad on white bread sandwiches)—they soak up the alcohol.”

She elaborated. “You remember in Japan it was the fashion to drink heavily at

parties. One night I got very drunk and fell into an urn at the jinja (shrine). I

was there all night. Out cold. In the morning a monk came, peered down at

me, and helped me out. It was a lesson. I am still ashamed.” Consequently,

A’s way of avoiding intoxication was to emulate Japanese salarymen who

routinely consumed sticks of butter or cheese before a drinking bout. She

consumed tramezzini. Another warning sign to me.

This was not the happiest way to form an introduction to La

Giudecca— on the surface, so beautiful and welcoming. But then the entire

visit was marked by this contrast of light and public – exciting events, new and

interesting people – Venice, La Giudecca, the Biennale – and an abrupt shift

to the dark and personal. And often painful.

But I shook off my foreboding and determined to immerse myself in the

world of the Biennale, write furiously, and generally enjoy this unprecedented

opportunity. And the island of Giudecca was beautiful, and the people

themselves were all that Italians are reputed to be—charming, ebullient, warm

and welcoming.

Who were the Giudeccans? (Human, female) Based only on that

simple signifier, dress, women appeared to span the socio-economic gamut

from very high international fashion (backbreaking gladiator sandals with 4

inch heels) to very old fashioned peasant house-dresses, gray hair in buns.

Virtually everybody held a cell phone in one hand and a burning stub of a

Camel unfiltered cigarette in the other. Offering a smoke from a pack of

Camels was a regular part of the meeting and greeting rituals.

In addition to politics, the economy, and the unwelcome flood of new

Eastern European immigrants, the central topic of conversation was the state

of the Canal and its waters, i.e., the aqua alta or high waters. People in Venice

continually exchanged account s of the stage of the moon, the moon’s possible

effect on the waters, how high the waters may rise, (the aqua alta—high water)

and what to do if the water rose too high.

For a tourist, perhaps the loveliest and most memorable features of

Giudecca were the constant ringing of church bells, the incessant barking of



happy dogs in the central square, and most of all, the light.—soft, muted,

gilding, golden. You could sit on a bench by the sea every night and view the

spectacular Turneresque sunsets. As the sun went down the lights on the

opposite shore would come up, highlighting the buildings blushing golden

pink. Buildings nearby were of warm golden stone painted in elegantly muted

pastel aquamarine, soft gold, Tuscan red, shocked by bright carnival splashes

of brilliant colored laundry.

After our uneasy interlude at the osteria, we adjourned to A’s

apartment. The furniture and appliances appeared to have been frozen in

time, perhaps the ‘40’s or ‘50’s. (Certainly the gas stove and incredibly tiny

refrigerator were vintage). No TV. No electronic devices whatsoever. But the

place was fitted out for a typhoon—piles of umbrellas, leashes, walking sticks

and rain garments which lunged at the entrant from behind the door. Venice

is a watery town.

The major concession to modernity was a large elderly blue Mac PC.

One could use it only for short periods—then the screen would convulse and

spark and go black. A believed it was a sentient being. It would work well only

for me but not for her. At no point would she ever consider getting it looked at

or fixed. Thankfully, A was willing to put aside her hatred for machinery for

the really essential things—an espresso/cappuccino maker.

The next morning, over espresso, I attempted to wrest the conversation

around to work. A described herself as a spiritual daughter to Padre Pio, and

her work as a devotion to the lives of others. “I have spent many years devoted

to the care of my old ladies, to my grandmother, great aunt, and to my boss.

You may remember my aunt the Contessa. A friend to Mussolini – after all he

was in power— and at the same time, a friend to Jewish refugees in Venice—

she helped them to escape.”

She continued. “My old ladies were exhausting but enchanting and

they taught me many things. Louisa Crawford Landi, owner/manager of the

factory, was the most vital of them all, the most insistent, the most demanding,

and the most productive. She worked 20 hours a day—she got to the office at

7:00 a.m. and by midnight was still taking clients out for dinner. She

demanded no less from her employees, especially from me. For twenty years I

took no vacations and never went to the doctor.”



The 12th International Architecture Exhibition had opened in August

2010 and would close in November 2010. The exhibition featured 48

participants—firms, architects, engineers and artists from around the world,

and collateral events by international individuals and firms. The theme of the

exhibition: “People Meet in Architecture.” and the Biennale’s first woman

director suggested that this Biennale would mark a great departure from

tradition.

And it was. I did notice a compact, elegant Japanese influence on

models of city planning, and a dedication to transparency and accessibility for

the visitors. In addition, many exhibits invited the visitor to communicate,

touch, and play: the Canadian pavilion exhibition’s brilliant white tendrilled

“creature”; from Hungary, enveloping curtains made of pencils suspended on

string; through which the visitor walked; from Korea, an ancient Korean

wooden house (Hanok) with children happily crawling all over it; and two

extraordinary exhibits featuring intangible elements filling space, clouds or

music. And last but not least, there was the brilliant posthumous collateral

show of Louise Bourgeois, centering on a statue of a giant spider; and its webs.

The Arsenale, site of many of the Biennale’s most significant exhibits, is

a grand former munitions warehouse with cathedral-high ceilings, sandblasted

brick walls, flooring of huge wooden planks, arched brick doorways r. It is a

long continuous space so that one wanders through it, dazed, by massive

structures or illusions. The exhibits in the Arsenale were voted by critics to be

exceptional.

Many visitors particularly admired “Cloud Storm”” and “The 40-Part

Motet”, two exhibits not traditionally architectural. Using the intangible to fill

and inhabit space— the first, clouds, the second, sound/music. Both were

astounding.

In “Cloud Storm,” visually stunning, a huge space flooded with clouds,

domed windows reflected light and cloud; and if you ascended the giant iron

staircase you would come up above the clouds and could look down to see the

mist continually generated. It was an extraordinary way to begin my Biennale.

But after my epiphany at the Arsenale, I had to return to the apartment,

and to the ongoing strain of sustaining conversations. At dinner, over the

fettucine alfredo, I waxed rhapsodic about the exhibits, hoping that we might

enter into a discussion about them. But it was not to be. A ignored my



remarks and began a series of rants directed at my many personal flaws. . And I

think she believed that by sheer force of personality she might regain control

over the conversation. She could eradicate my many erroneous beliefs and

replace them with her own. It was part of an unspoken campaign to mould me

into a potential long term companion. The more vehement, because

unacknowledged.

A was determined to educate me first about health. “Doctors are

butchers. Why do you think you are ill? Because the doctor told you so. If

you don’t go to doctors you remain healthy. I won’t go to the doctor; I won’t

go to the dentist.” I forbore to note that she had already lost several teeth and

was probably going to lose a few more.

Similarly, A had strong views on literature. Although I was there in

Venice to write, A told me that this goal was pointless. She said, “Nobody in

Europe reads. It’s all Harry Potter.” Her attitude became a little more

comprehensible when she told me that John Berendt, in his The City of Falling

Angels, celebrating beauty, fantasy, and corruption in Venice, had interviewed

A extensively and cited her as an informant for many potentially embarrassing

assertions, causing great fury among her family. “Never assist a writer, my

dear.”

But of course this was pure rhetoric. A had some very interesting

collections, including antique books in vellum, Storia dei Dogi Venetzia”

(Stories of the Venetians Doges) piled next to Berendt. Archaic images and

objects were scattered everywhere: engravings, paintings, etchings, Greek and

Roman classics, photographs and letters from before the turn of the century to

the present.

That evening, before a party, A segued to her next topic — bodies,

beauty and fashion. A explained that she was much fatter than she had been,

squinting closely at me to see how much fatter I might be. Peering intently at

my white roots, she remarked, “My boss tells me I should color my hair.”

Considering that her reference points for high style came from her buying trips

to Manhattan 20 years ago, she could not possibly have found their

counterparts in me.

As to contemporary fashion, she was determined to keep me in line.

Re: the party, I said that I assumed jeans would do. “JEANS!!? NEVER! It is a

formal occasion.” With difficulty I kept my mouth shut. A’s idea of fashion



was idiosyncratic to say the least, in this temple of high style. Her pantry held

possibly a year’s worth — of multi-colored clothing heaped up, dried in

stubborn rigid wrinkles. So that she could just peel off one or two layers and

throw them on, then on with the many sweaters covered with little white dog

hairs, finally wrapping the adorable little dog around the neck like a boa. And

off. Very formal.

But in this case she was quite right—the partygoers were in full suit and

tie. I was glad of the backless frock and bright woollen Indian shawl I had

brought. In fact, I needed all the ammunition I could get to deal with this

glittering array of Irishmen and Venetian expats. For, it was the social

occasion of the week— a party held by my friend’s expat neighbours for their

friends, Irish visitors to the Biennale.

Who were our hosts, these Venetians? Artists, expats, former

Bohemians many years resident in Venice, now landed gentry with children,

land, palazzos. The evening was Irish night and the conversations were

intensely competitive. The central theme —establishing the pecking order by

means of demonstrating the ability to talk the hind leg off a donkey. The talk

was entertaining, often deadly. I was put to the test.

Robert our host was English, an eminent painter. In fact, a notable

English woman academician whose portrait he had painted paid us a surprise

visit that evening. We all had to shift our places at the table. Some of us ended

up clutching oily, sandy cold plates of clams on our laps far far away from the

table, in Siberia.

Alison, Robert’s wife, an American, blonde, and charming, ran a gallery

in Venice. Alison starred in one of the evening’s documentaries, featuring the

invasion of bees into her Italian country house. The film showed her, friends

and family as they struggled to cut out the combs, trap the combs and the

honey, and lead the bees to a new locale.

The guests were Irish folk in town for the Biennale—architects, writers,

documentary film makers. Highly articulate, funny, fond of slipping subtle

insults into the chat. These Irish were fluent, dramatic, ardent filibusterers.

They may possibly have reserved some special zinger for me—I had been

billed as a female “journalist.” Red rag to these bulls. I did have one point in

my favor— the fact that I was Irish (remotely) on my father’s side. I did not

tell them my mother was British.



The leader of the group was documentary filmmaker Dylan. Dylan’s

opening leer to me about his own girlfriend: “She’s like a bloke as a friend, but

she cleans up nice, doesn’t she?”

There were some interesting tensions. After a two week holiday in

Japan Dylan was now a self-proclaimed expert—on the country and on its

women. Dylan explained to his audience that any Japanese woman could be

described as one of three G’s- Gucci, Geisha, or Goth.

However, Dylan’s Japanese documentary was beautiful. The ryokans

(country inns), brilliant autumn leaves; the temples and shrine festivals— it

was deeply nostalgic. The man was gifted. I had tears in my eyes.

Dylan’s next Italian documentary was about a plague of bees, at our

host’s country Italian estates. Images—the large dripping combs of honey; the

swarms of bees circling menacingly and stinging our hostess. We saw the dead

bees; we saw the blood. Finally, we saw the giant combs of honey drained and

stored. It was more ominous than charming.

The next Irishman I met carried photos not of family but of his stately

home, his land, and his pigs (he had advised his wife to keep pigs to occupy her

mind). I had no pigs and no land. So I kept mum. We did establish one thing

in common. I learned that my favourite Biennale exhibit had generally been

acknowledged as among the Biennale’s best: “Motet for 40 Voices”, The

Motet was a piece of musical architecture showcasing the exquisite Spem in

alium nunquam habui by Thomas Tallis. The music echoed throughout the

Arsenale. Every one of the voices, miked alone, stood on its own speaker in a

huge semi-circle. One could listen to this single voice, travel around the circle

and hear the voices joined, or stand in the middle and hear all forty voices at

once.

I commented that technically it was stunning. I said, it must have been quite a

trick to get the mikes positioned exactly so that the ambient noise would not

interfere. My respondent was affronted. This was his métier, not mine. After a

discussion about Obama (I liked him, he didn’t) and about Sarah Palin, whom

he purported to love, and I didn’t, he abruptly went silent, then turned on his

heel to go for a smoke.



The third man, named “The Little Monk” in Gaelic, a Gaelic linguist

and historian, and a writer, was a little too interested on what I was doing.. He

became agitated. “How much of the Biennale are you covering?” “Who’s your

editor?” “What is your page count?” Fortunately, at this point, the party broke

up.

Next day, over espresso at breakfast again, A said in tones of deep

disapproval, “I think they liked you.” It did not sound like a compliment. With

a lifetime of experience as a good enabler, I quickly moved on to less

controversial subjects: the lives of our animals and children.

Me: no husband, two cats. A: one cat, no husband. One child. But a

former husband. “My cat, the one you knew in Nagasaki, lived for twenty

years.” (Padre Pio must have performed a resurrection). In Japan A had

carried her cat in a holster everywhere. This little white cat had recently been

replaced by Fanny, a little white dog. A photo shows the little dog happily

riding on A’s shoulders, like a feather boa, as she jogged along the waterfront.

Children: “This apartment is a shrine to my daughter.” Indeed it was.

The central figure in A’s life, whom she clearly loved dearly but never

mentioned without a biting criticism, was her daughter, born late in her life.

(Remember Padre Pio healed barren flowering almond trees.) In a beautiful

formal family photo, her daughter was the white-lace-bedizened baby. A’s

then partner French Canadian chef Jean Claude, huge, moustachioed, towered

over A, wearing a giant chef’s toque. She was holding the baby, attended by

another little white dog. The photo was haunting: the partner and the little

dog were either deceased or vanished, and the mother had raised the child for

many years, alone.

Indeed, A never ceased to talk about her daughter – it was her most

endearing characteristic—but never with approval. Portraits of the daughter

were everywhere. In one painting, at the age of ten, she was lovely, solemn, but

compelling—it was not the face of a child. Another, a large photo of her at

twelve, depicts a young woman on the brink of sexual maturity: very knowing,

beautiful, and provocative. Her presence on Facebook had undoubtedly

already caught the gaze of many.

A singular monument to A’s daughter, in the dining room, had begun

life as a huge dollhouse. But the structure now resembled a Pixar fantasy--a

sprawled castle populated with action figures, science fiction creatures, Father



Christmases, Ronald MacDonald, Wonder Woman, and bizarre winged and

fanged and armed caped figures from alternate worlds I didn’t recognize.

Shells. Tibetan prayer flags. The former dollhouse was now so large that it

materially impinged on the dining room. One had to step way around it to get

to the moribund PC or to the dining room and kitchen. But I loved it. I had

had one too.

In fact I never actually met A’s daughter, she had wisely taken herself off

with a friend for the week. But I feel as though I do know her and admire her.

She is a survivor, of a difficult single parent household. And she has had the

self-possession to have made, at the age of twelve, a near independent life for

herself—not easy on an island and village.

We had reached another conversational dead end. I attempted to move

on, to describe my life and times. “Crazy” a word I used frequently when

describing family, seemed to strike a nerve. She took it as an inverted attack on

her. A: “Yes, you are crazy. Ah, so am I crazy. And my neighbour is crazy too.

But my neighbour and I try to tailor our craziness to each other. We need each

other.”

A took great exception to my comments about my family. Although her

own family stories displayed marked ambivalence, clearly family was supposed

to be sacred. “Your family stories are like pus seeping from a wound.” And

then, with a sneer: “You are exactly like my sister in LA – always complaining

about how she is estranged from the family. Always wanting me or my

daughter to visit her. You must make amends with your family.”

I could not let these assertions go without a challenge. I pointed out

that what I wanted was to look forward rather than backward. That reuniting

with my family was a lost cause. I thought I’d made my point. But she

brusquely dismissed me.

At a later dinner conversation, A decided to change tactics by sharing

some painful stories about her own family. “My aunt used to lock me in the

cupboards as a punishment.” Another: “My father does not treat me with the

respect owed to me, the eldest daughter. “I gathered there had been a painful

incident at her parents’ dining table. Despite the fact that A, the oldest in her

family, ought to have taken precedence in the seating arrangement. Her father

had tried to make her get up to honour her (younger) brother’s wife. Clearly a

significant family snub.



Memory is treacherous. I had remembered my friend as genuinely kind,

and caring. A colleague and friend. Thirty years ago she had been the star

teacher at our Japanese college., with a wide circle of affectionate pupils and

friends, and very close to the charming and determined professor who was

expected to take over the headship of the college.

I remembered her also as very entertaining, a clown. Once, after

shooting a Japanese TV commercial she had travelled home to Nagasaki

dressed in full geisha drag wearing a black headdress, white lead face paint,

dramatic eye make-up and bright red pouty lipstick. Admiring travellers

offered her cups of tea, bottles of beer, dried cuttlefish, and bean paste cakes.

Probably offers of marriage to boot. But in real life, clowns are often sad. And

angry, underneath all the paint.

I was forced to recognize that all had changed. A’s Nagasaki-mentor had

suddenly and unexpectedly died. During her time in Venice she had lost her

partner and finally, her beloved Venetian boss. And now, she had attempted

without acknowledging it to import a new companion – me – and that had

gone bust as well.

By this time the conversation had again come to a halt. In a possible

attempt at a truce, A suggested that I come by her Pavilion at the Biennale the

following day, and we could go around the exhibitions together for a while. I

agreed.

We set off for the Canadian pavilion, a wonderful exhibit called

“Hylozooic Ground”, a fantasy of white fronds and tendrils curling up and

down, sparkling with lights, reaching out to touch the visitor’s fingers,

appearing to be a live and intelligent animal.

But even after this, the mood again turned sour and angry. When we

met the people managing the Canadian exhibition, the woman in charge

greeted her: “Oh, here is A- our international bon vivant!” A did not like this.

She muttered “Hah! bon vivant, bon vivant” to herself. I asked what on earth

the problem was. I gradually realized she thought that it meant they were

saying she was a drunk. Another warning.

That night A seemed determined to prove them right. She worked her

way through a couple of bottles of wine—with some help from me. As she

became drunk, she underwent a marked change. Her face became flushed, and



puffy, her eyes glittered, her laugh was raucous, speech mumbled and

incoherent it was as though she had gone from sobriety to alcohol toxicity,

without passing go. Exactly like Japanese businessmen.

And she was a mean drunk. She ran into the kitchen and came out with

a vegetable I didn’t recognize – resembling a stalk of celery with a bulb shaped

root. She shook it at me, cackling uproariously: “Finocchio!” she shouted.

“Finocchio!” Fennel? I asked. Oh yes, I see. “NO! YOU are the finocchio!”

(Italian street slang for faggot, dyke, homo, etc. etc.) Brandishing her bulbous

stalked vegetable. Like something wicked out of Punch and Judy. I looked at

her, appalled. I no longer recognized my old friend.

By the next morning, she was perfectly bland and noncommittal. It was

as though this incident had never happened. I wondered if I could cash in my

plane ticket early. No, not without a hefty penalty. And not without missing

some important exhibits. Clearly I would have to stick it out. In retrospect-this

crisis had probably been inevitable. But I played dumb. Denial had worked

for her just fine; I was determined to let it work for me too. By this time, I was

determined to end the Biennale week happily —attending a memorable

exhibit by Louise Bourgeois—”The Fabric Works”.

This show rang many changes on the theme of feminist/women’s art,

and the ancient divine. The central statue, a menacing bronze “Crouching

Spider” was juxtaposed to its “webs” of fabric. The spider and webs conjured

up images used for women throughout time—of spinning threads and

nurturing, creating cocoons, and also of ferocity and destruction. The witty

webs, on the walls, were constructed of Bourgeois’ own clothing—coarse

mattress ticking and fine lustrous silks and satin, embroidery, buttons, and

sparkling beads. The effect was both rich and surreal.

In a nearby glass cage, a giant silk cocoon was attached to spools of silk

thread. In yet another glass cage, gigantic cocoons hung in mid-air. One could

only wonder what fell creatures were brooding in there.

Bourgeois, who died at the age of 98 in May of this year, was both artist

and a master craftswoman. She created high art with humble stuffs, evoking

thoughts of those ancient spinners the Three Fates. Bourgeois herself wrote: “I

have a religious temperament. I have not been educated to use it. I’m afraid of

power. It makes me nervous. In real life, I identify with the victim. That’s why I



went into art.” If I could have chosen only one show to see that week, it would

have been this.

It was the end of my week in Venice., I hoped that we might finally bury

the hatchet. At yet another espresso breakfast, A announced that she had a job

for me. Which would validate my staying on in Venice. And indeed, was

possibly the real reason she had invited me to come to Venice.

A wanted a biography written about Louisa Crawford Landi, her former

boss, the aforementioned owner/manager of a renowned textile weaving and

finishing factory. Whom she had loved, admired, feared, obeyed in all things.

“Of course Louisa was an American woman! And American women are

so strong, so positive. Louisa absorbed me into her world. She called me ‘the

girl’—when getting ready for a meeting she would say, ‘I am bringing the girl.’

It was a mark of honour. She brought me into the company, trained me, and

then came to depend on me. Like Louisa. I was chained to my desk. I didn’t

take a vacation or go to the doctor or dentist for over 20 years.” I said dryly,

“Some might call this slavery”. But A was very proud of the sacrifices she had

endured.

I was, foolishly, thrilled at this offer. Perhaps Padre Pio was attempting

to make my own barren almond trees flower. I found the story of Louisa Landi

entrancing. Writing her biography could make a name for an emerging writer

like me.

A’s boss, a legend, citizen of Venice/ and New York was a powerful,

brilliant business woman, and an interior designer. Born at the turn of the

century she saved the textile importing and production house from financial

collapse, and founded Arachne Inc. to act as an importer. She continued to

work full-time at the factory and its offices until she was well over100 years old.

After the flowering almond trees, the barbed wire! I realized that this

story could also turn into a nightmare. I would have to formally request

permission from the lawyers who now managed the factory to take on the

project. Not a foregone conclusion.

I tried to get A to talk about fundraising. But A could not see that this

would be necessary. In her mind, the idea was hers. The story was hers. The

kudos and profits would be hers alone. She might hire me but it would just be

work for hire – “hire” being unspecified. The idea of compensating a writer



was utterly alien to her. Why would I need money? After all, I was always

scribbling away anyway!

A crossed her arms and lifted her chin defiantly, turning her head away.

Taking refuge in a grand form of magical thinking or denial. Her convictions

were hers. Her contacts were hers. The project was hers to deal with as she saw

fit.

I left Venice very happy about writing tales of the Biennale, but full of

dread about the Louisa Crawford Landi project. Nothing had been resolved

but I had made an uneasy pledge to begin research and to contact the lawyers.

But I knew that I had to face facts. No matter how viable the project might

once have been, any genuine possibility of its working had been scuttled by the

conflicts between me and A.

What exactly had happened, I can only guess. I believe that A had

decided that she needed a new (unspecified) partner in life. To help raise her

daughter. The candidate must be acceptable socially to her and her

neighbours—hence the invitation to the Irish Night. But that partner must

not be too accomplished or social since that would constitute unacceptable

competition.

The first piece of bait, an invitation to the Biennale, had backfired. So

the second was the Louisa Landi biography. But I had not entered into this

agreement with the docility that A required. Nor did I agree to delay my

departure from Venice. I don’t think A ever recognized her own role in setting

up unrealistic hopes and expectations. Or, for that matter, her inability to

discuss openly what she wanted. She simply felt increasingly thwarted, and she

was bitterly angry.

In the event, unbeknownst to either of us, A had already lost control of

the project. Less than two weeks after I’d left Venice the first flood of blog

items, articles, and Facebook entries about the company and its owners

appeared on the Net. Followed by a chic, hip and trendy new corporate

website. A clear message to a would-be old school unofficial biographer: back

off!

Back in New York, I charged ahead. I called my editor, a designer, and a

costume historian. The designer, a difficult but brilliant lady whose work I had

recently profiled, laughing angrily made it clear she felt the project ought to be

hers by right. She was more cautious but began deluging me with mandates



and instructions. Her last directive was that I must immediately drop

everything and attend a conference in Scotland where a costume historian

would be speaking. I asked, on whose dime? Well, mine of course. Was I not

an independent scholar?

My erstwhile editor, another powerful but difficult lady, was furious

with me. I was undertaking a project which she had not blessed; and, drawing

one of her favourite writers and friends into it as well. How dare I do such a

thing! She hoped I did not have any ideas of drawing on her agent or

publishing contacts. I need not expect any help from her.

Too many forces arrayed against me. And I feared getting entangled

with the company lawyer, reputed to be a relentless litigator. One writer friend

urged me to get out fast, that I was dealing with people capable of bending the

world to their wills, and that I would be unable to contend with them. I felt

that she was right. I sent A a message saying that I was getting out. A’s response

was both sad and funny. First, she said, her computer was broken so she could

not communicate with me. (This was a Padre Pio moment. If he could heal

beat up motorbikes surely she could petition him to fix her computer!)

Then she said she knew nothing of articles about the company and its

owners/managers. Where were these articles? She did not believe there were

articles. I must send her the articles. Time for Padre Pio to arrange for these

articles to be sent to her and to arrive at their destination—without postage.

(A pretty good analogy for email, when you think about it.)

Finally A said that the project had only existed because of me, because I

had been so interested in it! It was all my doing and none of hers. This made

my decision much easier. We were done.

It is possible for friendship to survive distance in space and time, even

after thirty years. Even if one person is a 19th century Catholic, a disciple of

the old religion, living in Venice, and the other an aspiring Buddhist, struggling

to make it in 21st c. New York. But their worlds may simply collide. And

indeed, our worlds did collide, and fell apart. No divine intervention from

Padre Pio could bring these two people together again.

So, someone else – perhaps Padre Pio – will help to battle this year’s

acqua alta, the high waters. To bring up the difficult daughter. And perhaps

most importantly, to tell the tale of Louisa Crawford Landi. But it won’t be

me. It is time to move on.


Chilmark and Cheltenham | Ananya Dutta Gupta | p. 64 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Chilmark and Cheltenham:

A Travel Diary

by Ananya Dutta Gupta

Dutta Gupta, Ananya. “Chilmark and Cheltenham.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics 1.4

(2012): 64-72. Web.

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"Chilmark and Cheltenham: A Travel Diary" (by Ananya Dutta Gupta) by Coldnoon:

Travel Poetics is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-

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Chilmark and Cheltenham: A Travel Diary

by Ananya Dutta Gupta

11th July:

I change trains at Reading and Basingstoke for Tisbury, station just after

Salisbury; first train journey through beautiful, green England. Keep thinking

of Sherlock Holmes catching trains into the countryside. Alight from the train

to a warm greeting from Mr. Woodhouse; hop into the car for a two-and-a-

half-mile ride into the village of Chilmark; pass by an old barn on the way; Mr.

Woodhouse explains that the barn was used by the church to store the one-

tenth of crops it collected from every farm as tithe; ask who sold the grain in

the market on behalf of the church; Mr. Woodhouse waves at a bus-driver and

I find myself asking if everyone in the community knows everyone else; told

with a smile that is not the case; rather it is the minimal mutual civility without

which life in the country would be difficult; bring up the topical subject of

public transport or the lack of it in rural England; learn that private cars are an

absolute necessity , rising petrol prices notwithstanding.

The local river, Nadder, is on the right most of the way. Note the village

pub, The Black Dog, on the way, not realizing that I would be back there that

evening for my first visit to an English pub. The Cottage, as the stone-built

Woodhouse residence is called, comes into view. Step into the house to yet

another warm welcome from Mrs. Woodhouse and Westie, the friendliest dog

I have met. Shown to my room upstairs: full of Holly, their daughter’s

childhood souvenirs; beautiful old dressing-table; lovely low window

overlooking the front of the house; intrigued by a framed photograph of a rat.

Spend a long time trying to identify Holly on the snaps stuck to the side of the

bookcase. Go down to the kitchen for a cup of tea with my host and hostess;

feel instantly at ease; gather that they had spent one whole year in the Nilgiri

Hills and one whole day in Calcutta, without getting the shock of their life.



Talk briefly about Sir Philip Sidney. Hear a proud Englishman’s views

on the autocracy of Brussels and the foregone conclusion of the future

referendum. Told, much to my excitement, that Wilton House, the Pembroke

family-seat where Sidney wrote The Arcadia, is close. Soon afterwards, start on

a trip to Salisbury with Mrs. Woodhouse. Drive through the narrow roads

flanked by verges and hedgerows, reminding me of English countryside-scenes

in television serials; now and then, horses with amateur jockeys trot by; one of

them is a beautiful chestnut; my father loves chestnut horses, I remark; then,

quite suddenly, appears the Stonehenge on the Salisbury Plain. Within

minutes, we are at the car-park. Gaze at the haunting sight of the stately rocks

through “barbed wires”. Speculate on the purpose of the building; the

information that the first rays of the morning sun strike a certain set of three

vertical and parallel rocks with another laid horizontally on them sets me think

about the similar phenomenon at the marvellous Konark sun-temple in Orissa,

India- there the inner shrine is so positioned that the sun shines directly on it

every morning. Find out that those black-and-white birds that guard the Old

Bank Hotel vat in Magpie Lane, Oxford, are called magpies. Take my first

snaps of the day; am photographed peering through the wiry fences; make for

the Old Sarum ruins; share a smile with my hostess about the glib assistant at

the ticket-counter, wander through the grounds and ruins, peer into the deep

echoing well; Mrs. Woodhouse recalls a poem by Hardy I do not know; see the

old cathedral site, climb onto the high ground for a panoramic view, try to

imagine why the cathedral had to be moved stone by stone to its present site in

Salisbury town; scarcity of water and the potentially inhospitable

surroundings.

My hostess, who teaches English as a foreign language, corrects my

phrasing of the question, ‘Do you go to the church regularly’, by pointing out

the superfluous article. Pass through the beautiful old gate-way into the town.

Rush to the Salisbury Cathedral to listen to the Evensong; learn what a ‘close’

is; find the edifice just as imposing, but more inviting than the Gothic

cathedral of Cologne; manage to hear the last couple of minutes of the

Evensong; as always, soothed by the serenity of the Christian religious

experience; watch as the small boy-singers silently walk out of the choir; wish

the hymns had gone on longer; taken on an expertly conducted tour of the

interior; admire the chantries; Mrs. Woodhouse explains what the ‘chancel’



and ‘nave’ of the church mean. Told about the Christian ecclesiastical version

of the Roman Saturnalia, in which one of the choir-boys plays bishop on a

particular day; that night, Edward, the youngest Woodhouse, reminisces about

his turn at playing boy-bishop; I ask if it was his first public speech; ‘yes, but

probably, my last, too’, comes the quick rejoinder from Edward. In the

cathedral, I walk through the cloisters into the exhibition room to look at the

wonderfully preserved copy of the Magna Carta. A suitably proud and portly

guide who has been explaining to an American couple that the Magna Carta

was the father of modern democratic constitutions remarks how the

condensed Latin sentence helped the ‘men’ who had to fit all the contents into

the seventy-six lines of dense minuscule calligraphy on a single scroll. ‘Or

women’, quips Mrs. Woodhouse; I snigger mischievously. Our antagonist

shakes his head saying, ‘We won’t give in on that yet.’

Admire the dazzling stained glass-works and the oldest existing clock in

England. Mark the relative sparseness of the decoration, cleared away after the

Reformation. See two beautifully carved panels imported from India sometime

in the past. The national flag and the plaque in memory of First and Second

World War soldiers remind me of the close ties between church and state;

admire the grand building from the outside; my hostess’s enthusiasm is

infectious. Talk about the famous Constable painting. Pass the former Prime

Minister Edward Heath’s house, a stone’s throw from the cathedral. Learn that

Mrs. Woodhouse was in the choir at his eightieth birthday celebrations.

Nearby is the Georgian house in which Jane Austen’s Sense and

Sensibility was filmed. Drive past the Old Rectory where the poet George

Herbert lived and Claysmore School where Mrs. Woodhouse teaches.

Beautiful stone as well as cob-and-thatch cottages on the way. Back at the

Cottage, meet William and feel gratified to know that I am not the only person

to have ‘studied’ soap operas; settle down with the Hardy-country guides Mrs.

Woodhouse has procured for my benefit. Then, go to the village pub with

William and Edward, sit outside and talk about films and alcohol. Walk back

through a wet meadow, climb over a fence and down a stile for the first time in

my life; reminded of Little Women. Shown the hermetically-sealed Chilmark

Manor, owned by a German prince who comes periodically to shoot deer, and

the new wooden cross inaugurated by the Prince of Wales; gather that the

boys found him unassuming. Sit down with the family for a proper English



dinner; talk about the exotic British-Asian ‘curry’ cuisine; quite disarmed by

Mr. Woodhouse’s question whether India’s hierarchical caste-system offered

the safety-valve of carnivalesque topsy-turvy-dom. Rack my brains to fish out

the one example I know through the good offices of BBC Radio 4, namely, the

carnival among the untouchables of Kerala, where they metamorphose

themselves into deities to rise above their social superiors and oppressors. Try

to think if Kalipuja may be seen as carnivalesque; probably not. I ponder: does

this reflect positively on India’s much-maligned caste-system or negatively on

my paradoxical familiarity with Occidental customs and ignorance of their

Indian counterparts? Use the unforgivably misleading term ‘somersault’ to

explain the acrobatic skills that the North-East Indian dance-form, Manipuri,

calls for.

Told a delightful anecdote about an eccentric aristocrat offering

Edward a twenty-year-old ant-infested lozenge out of her coat-pocket. Enjoy

the ‘alkalizing’ aqua libra and the salmon steak with watercress.

12th July:

Walk around the wild but peaceful garden with Westie, staring at the flowers

and the leaves without knowing their names; avoid eye-contact with a black-

bird because of its hostile eyes; wonder why English birds with their sweet

voices look so aggressive; savour the fresh, almost moist, smell all around me;

peep into the small brick go-down at the back and wonder if it’s a hideaway;

quite frightened by the big shovel; amused by the very unreliable-looking

wooden ladder rested against the tree , tempted to climb up to the arboreal

seat, but desist ; steal a look at the windows of the house, embarrassed as usual

at what might be an invasive act. Westie returns sporadically to her acrobatics

with a piece of battered plastic; wonder if she is trying to entertain me; wish I

could tell her that she needn’t have gone to so much trouble, because I liked

her anyway; smile at her off and on, not daring to speak, lest a chance Bengali

endearment make her suspicious, as it did the Meuellers’ dog in Bonn.

Breakfast-hour approaches, slowly walk back towards the house, very

proud of my wet feet in Indian slippers; not sure what exactly I enjoyed about



the garden; less sure what I had actually managed to see; try to imagine the

many privations of an urban Indian upbringing and the difference a back-

garden might make to many people’s lives back home. Talk about Bill Clinton

at University; told how he dodged the Vietnam conscription because he didn’t

want to kill. It is revealed to me that primary-school teachers are better paid

than even Oxford dons. Mr. Woodhouse opines that school-teachers should

be morally exemplary and university-teachers, intellectually, rather than the

reverse. Enjoy the cool watery melon at breakfast; relieved to see Edward use

fingers to hold his slice, having had a hard time myself negotiating my slice

with a fork and spoon.

Leave shortly for what will be a day-long Thomas Hardy pilgrimage; try

to take in the Dorset landscape, hear interesting anecdotes about life as a

foreigner in Moscow; discuss yet another topical subject- the English school

system and the hardships of parenting in the First World; embarrassed at the

number of questions I have already asked my patient companion; can sense

the palpable attachment that the nation feels towards the land and its

tradition; empathize with the fiercely protective instinct. Before Edward gets

down, we talk about Indian Classical Music. Ask if it is possible to want to live

elsewhere after living here: told, it can get a bit too quiet. That’s why the

English went sailing, I suppose. An elderly man trudges along, with a walking-

stick. But for the car and the mobile-phone, we could still be in the nineteenth

century. Mrs. Woodhouse often raises part of her hand from the steering–

wheel in a gesture of greeting or thanks or both, which, as I have already noted,

is common among vehicular drivers here, especially when one offers right of

way. Like all confident female drivers of private-cars, Mrs. Woodhouse looks

incredibly smart when she does that. A monstrous truck invariably elicits a

good-humoured ‘Ugh!’ from her. A fast car from the opposite direction or the

need for a sudden break or tackle evokes a ‘Woops!’ I will later note whether

Mr. Woodhouse makes that gesture to passing cars just as often; he doesn’t. I

form the impression his wife likes driving, and likes the elegant gestures that go

with it. I even ask her if my surmise of long standing is true: that driving

imparts a sense of liberation, all the more cherished by women because of the

sex’s long-endured constraints. She agrees. ‘Are you feeling peckish?’ my

hostess asks after a while. ‘What does that mean?’ I ask back. ‘Hungry’, comes

the answer. Yet another word, I would never have learnt if I hadn’t made this



trip. Soon, reach the car-park at the bottom of the ‘woodland’ path leading up

to Hardy’s birthplace, hence Higher Bockhampton; love the now familiar fresh

smell of leaves all along the unspoilt path; feel a hint of adventure when Mrs.

Woodhouse holds some branches of holly for me to pass through unpricked;

linger in the colourful unmanicured garden outside the cottage before going

in; love the tiny window beside the staircase through which the Hardy family

paid the workers, make my way through the tiny rooms; find the patch-work

bedspread on the bed where Hardy was born very pretty ; go over the strange

anecdote that the frail new-born Thomas was given up for dead by the doctor;

marvel at ‘life’s little ironies’; as usual, the photographs and framed

manuscripts and letters do not speak to me immediately; relate the curious fact

that The Mayor of Casterbridge remains my mother’s favourite, and Tess of the

D’Urbervilles my father’s , and that I take after my father; very touched by my

fellow-pilgrim’s interest in people whom she has never seen.

Look back at the house several times afterwards, especially at the pretty

floral curtains swaying in the breeze. Meet the village donkeys on the way

back; realize for the first time in my life how gentle a donkey’s eyes are; will

never forget them. Visit the Anglican church of St. Michael’s at Stinsford,

which Hardy used to frequent; stand in front of the stained glass

representation of Elijah put there in Hardy’s memory; learn what a ‘hassock’

means; visit the graves, learn that yew trees in the graveyard are a pagan left-

over; also learn, much to my surprise, that Christians do cremate their dead

like Hindus. My hostess draws my attention to a battered, twisted sign-post by

the roadside and we share a good laugh over it. Visit the West Stafford Church,

admire the green creepers adorning the doorway and the beautifully simple

iron-bolts on the wooden church-door; this is where Tess and Angel were

married. Then the drive to the town of Dorchester; can’t follow the thick West

Country accent of the Park-and-Ride bus-driver; talk about widowhood in

Bengal over lunch; try to convey some of the thinking behind the cruelty

without denying the obvious social discrimination; speak about Satyendranath

Dutta’s poem on the subject. Visit the Old Crown Court where the Tolpuddle

martyrs were sentenced; mention Satyaprasanna Majumdar, my great-

grandfather, who was a judge; visit the Dorchester County Museum, look

closely around the Hardy Wing, especially his recreated third study through

the glass barrier. Love the Vaughan Williams song, which Mrs. Woodhouse



identifies for me; touched yet again by the gift of a specimen of brass painting;

discover William Barnes. On the way out from St. Peter’s Church learn that a

particular mythical gargoyle figure is a ‘gryphon’; its head and wings are an

eagle’s and its trunk, a lion’s. Pose for a photograph in front of what was

Michael Henchard’s house in The Mayor of Casterbridge. Can sense that

‘browns’ are still a novelty in this part of the country.

Last halt: Max Gate, where Hardy lived with his second wife, Florence,

forty-years his junior. Enjoy looking at the old album; amused to be told by the

present tenant and curator of the house that Hardy changed his study thrice;

struck again by the far greater freedom that life in the past must have offered;

in other words, one can only grumble about a room when one has the choice

of moving to another; quite unthinkable in the modern Indian urban context;

quite at a loss as to what to write in the Visitors’ Book; can’t tell our guide that

a slightly self-indulgent writer’s complaints about the lack of space in a

sprawling house is the only thing that has interested me. After staring at the

page haplessly for a while, pen the following unimpressive comment: ‘makes

one think about Hardy the Man’; feel that it has not lived up to my ‘image’ as a

student of literature at Oxford. Hurry out of the house, into the pet’s

graveyard; quite a revelation, again- can’t fit it into my mental image of Hardy

the Writer. On the way back, shocked at my inarticulateness when it comes to

describing in English the biggest Bengali festival.

Back at the Cottage, change into a sari for the evening; embarrassed for

the umpteenth time that day at the fact that my hostess hasn’t had time to

dress yet; find ‘hulling’ strawberries a most interesting occupation; quite

delighted with myself at my first witticism of the day: the observation that

Russ’s nickname is derived from his surname. Led into the sitting room to

meet the guests; abashed at how much of Shakespeare I either don’t know or

have managed to forget. The Head of English at Claysmore, Michael Howard,

does match my mental image of an English schoolmaster. He seems to be a

very earnest man, dedicated to his students. He gives me a useful lead for my

dissertation. Pleasantly surprised and deeply honoured when he later suggests

that I should come to Claysmore to give a talk on Hardy. Answer questions on

the Communist Government in Bengal very shakily, anxious all the time not to

make a grammatical mistake; ask questions on diplomatic ‘meetings’ and

‘interpreters’ misinterpretation’ and the war in Chechnya; still not sure



whether my questions were simple or clever; go inwardly red when I

contradict the host on Sinbad the Sailor, having spoken inadvertently about

something I know so little about; impressed with the spirited, chain-smoking

octogenarian lady’s knowledge of world geography; touched when my hostess

bids everybody watch as I taste my first strawberry; wish my face wasn’t so

expressive; add a spoonful of sugar and begin to enjoy the rest in my dessert-

bowl. Enjoy the post-dinner conversation with my host and hostess just as

much, before retiring.


p. 73 First Published in Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (Print ISSN 2278-9650 | Online ISSN 2278-9650)

Editorial Board

EDITOR

Arup K Chatterjee

Poet, Critic and Researcher

Jawaharlal Nehru University

New Delhi, India

ASSISTANT EDITOR

Amrita Ajay

Researcher, and Teacher of English

University of Delhi, India

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

K Satchidanandan

Poet, and Former Professor of English,

University of Calicut

Former Editor of Indian Literature,

The journal of Sahitya Akademi

New Delhi, India

Lisa Thatcher

Writer

Sydney, Australia



Sudeep Sen

Poet, and Editor of Atlas Magazine

Editorial Director of Aark Arts Publishers

New Delhi, India, London UK

GJV Prasad

Poet, Novelist, and Critic

Professor of English, Jawaharlal Nehru University

Vice Chair, Indian Association for Commonwealth Literature and Language

Studies

Editor of Journal of the School of Languages

New Delhi, India

Sebastien Doubinsky

Poet, Novelist, and Critic

Researcher, and Lecturer, Aesthetics and Communication

Aarhus University, Denmark

coldnoon: travel poetics (jul '12, 1.4)

Documents

chatterjee coldnoon

travel poetics print

terminals of travel

editorial chatterjee

chatterjee cover design

chatterjee assistant

unported license

new delhi india