The test (or Why we couldnt reach Scandi)

 

Our biggest miss in Europe was Scandinavia. Perhaps each of the countries deserves a month by itself, but we were happy to cover whatever we could over a weekend. Denmark and Sweden were top on this list, Norway was farther away requiring more time, while we didn’t care much of Finland’s happiness given our euphoria was already ensconced in our little hostel rooms in Cite Universitaire, wrapped in an unlimited Eurail Pass, humble dinners of dal and rice, and late-night bickerings that only strengthened our friendship.

I have always wanted to pay my literary homage to Hans Anderson by making the pilgrimage to the Mermaid statue in Copenhagen, while there is something in the name Stockholm that has attracted me since childhood. Alas, these boxes remained un-ticked. Our plan to conquer Scandinavia evolved towards the latter stage of our stay, by which time Monsieur Boku was already travel-fatigued, and Daddu was afflicted with the Mahajan syndrome (he had to study for some exam certification). With guruji not travelling, protégé stayed behind as well, leaving it to me and Mapboy to continue our conquests in Europe.

It started as yet another weekend trip commencing on a Friday evening. Armed with a fair bit of food and drink, we boarded the Paris metro to reach the main station of Gare du Nord. But railways fail even in the land of the TGV – there was some fault on a line, that triggered a collapse of a few train-routes, with the metro stations turning out to be worse than Howrah station (India’s busiest railway station). Insane crowds were bottlenecked in the few lines that did travel, as a result of which there was virtually no space in stand in either platform or carriage. The route to Gare du Nord still plied on, and we somehow made it to a train, pressed like a sandwich on all sides. And in that thronging hustle and bustle, someone smoothly picked my pocket. I can still remember the feeling – my wallet containing 10 crisp notes of 10 euros (my scanty budget for the weekend) was kept in my front jeans pocket; in the crazy crowds, while I was looking for something to hold onto as the train was decelerating to a stop, I felt a slight sensation on my pocket for a second. The next moment it had disappeared while the passengers began to push in every direction to disembark. I had a sinking feeling knowing all my money was gone – that same feeling you get when you come out of the exam hall and have an enlightening moment that you answered a question incorrectly. I was bereft of emotion, not knowing how to react. My pocket was picked. In Paris. And then I realised, my wallet also contained my debit card. That needed to be cancelled.

I jumped out of the carriage knowing I had to turn back just as the train doors were shutting. I turned around to see the train chugging on. Mapboy who had boarded the next carriage, saw me on the platform and looked quizzically. I just lifted my arms in despair and felt like shouting C’est La Vie. Such is life.

I headed back to my hostel, thanks to the largesse of the station master who listened to my woes and issued a free ticket to get back home.

By the time I cancelled my debit card, I found Mapboy had returned as well. Being Mapboy, he had decided to ignore his ticking ambitions to come back and check what went wrong.

‘What’s the point of travelling alone?’ he smiled while tucking underneath his blue shawl to get some much-needed rest. ‘We can sleep with luxury this weekend’

Boku beamed, as finally we vagrant lot had given in to his philosophy, while Daddu, shivering in his tees began to narrate his list of reasons why Scandinavia was never a great destination. I was already feeling melancholic and only heard a few of his words before zoning out….Maruading Vikings…Frigid nations…Icelandic whale butchers….(even then, in that fuzziness, I was wondering why did this guy never tire of dispensing knowledge)

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It was a very groggy weekend – gloomy, cloudy and raining, as if the early winter outside was assiduously reflecting my inner moodiness. I just couldn’t come to terms with not just losing the opportunity of travelling to new nations, but also losing my euros.

I decided to go out in the city and become an aimless walker, with no ambition or destination for the weekend. Despite its snobbishness, disparity, and exclusiveness, I had come to love the City of Lights. Like my hometown Kolkata, Paris felt special, warm and cosy. She was a muse who had an extremely artistic side to herself, full of architectural splendour, autumnal hues and riverside colours peppered with music and culture. Her streetside riches, bedecked in artists, painters, book-makers and litterateurs seemed to reinforce why this city was the epicentre of the Hemingways and the Picassos and the Rodins, for decades and centuries. Every walk around her streets resonated with iambs of inspiration and trochees of tastefulness, making me believe Paris was poetry indeed.

How could this sonnet of subtlety, then be marred by so distasteful an incident? I couldn’t accept it, and I only walked on its streets, in rain and cloud as if hoping against hope that my melancholy would fail to catch up with me like a Xeno’s paradox. But it didn’t and I failed to forgive myself for that momentary carelessness the day before.

I decided to call my mum, the only person who would have the patience to listen to my nonsense halfway around the world. Perhaps mums are made for this – that endless well of culminating maturity and unlimited inertia against which you can hurl all your emotions until you realise there’s nothing left in the emptiness except a purified version of yourself.

She was initially dismayed that I had lost a significant amount of money but once she had concluded that  I could eat and stay at my hostel and return home safely, she realised the deeper reason I had called her. She sensed the despair and responded calmly.

‘Well, this is not the first time…you need to be quicker in learning your lessons.’

Mum was alluding to the first time my pocket was picked – at Howrah Station.

‘But you fared better that day, didn’t you ace the exam?’ I had got a full A in Electrical Machines that day as I had poured all my anger onto the paper.

‘But this is Paris!’ I tried to justify

‘So what, is it a city of saints?’

‘No, Mum – but everything feels wonderful, I love this place! I love Paris – it is like my artistic dream come true in the form of a city. How can something so ugly happen here?’

‘Why not? What if your love is testing yourself?’

I was silenced as she continued, ‘What test is it when everything goes perfectly well? In that perfect world, how will the universe test who has what strength? How will it distinguish between a winner and loser? If you really love something, you must have the strength to pass the hurdles it tests you with. This ugliness you talk of is a test, for the city you love so much is checking the strength of your love. You can cry and complain, or withstand and win – loving and losing is not very far from each other…’

I was definitely not expecting so much philosophy from Mum but then, Paris does this to you, even on a phone-line. I was quiet as the words set in – and the rains outside my temporary shelter in the Jardin des Tuileries got stronger.

‘Call me when you get over your French styled dreams. Now I need to go and cook…’ Mum disconnected the line in her own brusque style, while I decided to go out for a walk in the rains, this time with a smile on my lips. (I crossed the pebbled path and serendipitously discovered the Musee de l’Orangerie that day – housing Monet’s gigantic waterlilies, perhaps the grandest Impressionist paintings ever made).

As for the city, the love continued. The Art deco buildings continued to shine, the Gothic edifices continued to humble. I also got a full week’s pass of unlimited travel from a ticket-seller (he was perhaps exasperated of my French and wanted me to leave him alone)

By the time I got back to our hostel, Mapboy and Boku were already planning our sojourn the next day to Versailles. Some things should not change – c’est la vie….

28^th July’23