There's a Coterie!!

When you get to know people through a virtual medium, do you get to know them better? Do truer pictures of who they really are emerge more rapidly, as on Polaroid film, rather than on film that needs to be turned in for dark room development and is seen at a later date?

Perhaps you do. Over the past few years I have befriended many people through contact established on the Internet. Mostly by virtue of running a network of writers on a social and business networking site – Ryze Business Networking. Many of these connections feel strong and binding, the friendships established, unshakeable, come hell or high water. Then there are the others, oh so many others, who appeared normal and sane at the outset. They presented themselves as people who had something substantially larger than a pea knocking around within the confines of their skulls.

The writers’ network is flourishing and the quality of writing remains high. I can, at the very least, vouch for the quality of prose that we get to read on this network and for the most part I am proud of what my friend and I created in one moment of disenchantment with another network. I am not in a position to say much about the poetry. I certainly enjoy reading and analyzing poetry and have even attempted verse. But I express myself better in prose. Most poetry I read on this network and others is either incomprehensible to me or inconsequential. It has always amazed me to see how poetic people can get about love and angst.

But, I digress; poets have always been as welcome on Shakespeare and Company as have prose writers. Humor is also an integral part of how we write and an underlying subtext in how the network wants to progress and grow. So things should be hunky-dory, shouldn’t they? Well, I don’t know if it is jealousy or the affinity for disequilibrium that members of our species show. They get tired of seeing a good thing; they get tired of things running on an even keel and are always on the look out for creative ways to summon chaos. They want to unsettle things, they set out with a wrecking ball; the idea of breaking, damaging and later settling down to analyze the results of the destruction they wrought, like erudite scholars, is of immense appeal to them.

I have a fairly healthy self image. I have a strict sense of fairness, my objectivity knows no equals (not amidst my contacts), I treat people with respect believing that is the only way to get respect and, most importantly, I am consistent in my behavior. I don’t present myself as someone one day and as an evil, alien twin of this someone the next day. It is precisely this trait in people that I don’t understand, and in fact abhor. I have no patience for inconsistency even if the excuses offered are:

“I had a bad day”
“I don’t know what I was thinking”
“I was off my Prozac”
“I suffer from bipolar disorder”

I just don’t have the genes that it takes to understand inconsistent people or to sympathize with their condition. I don’t change from day to day, so do not change on me.

So back to the original question, do you learn about two-faced, inconsistent people sooner online than you do in a real interaction? In a virtual interaction, other than the ubiquitous Yahoo emoticons, there is no way to observe body language, no way to read between the lines or to collate and compile subtleties of communication from that which is left unsaid. But perhaps one could see a cyber connection as one where the message is pure, from brain to fingers, to high speed cables to the screen of the person you’re addressing; messages that are not disguised by the aforementioned non-verbal cues. So maybe the masks drop sooner. In my experience they have and every time a new ugliness is revealed in all its glory, it takes my breath away. An analogy would be an unsuspecting victim of a house on fire who decides to make an exit through a door and turns the knob only to be blasted into nothingness by lashing tongues of fire.

People are often adamant on the stances they choose to adapt. Calling a truce, talking things through, trying to be objective and seeing things from other perspectives is out of the question, although these ideals of human behavior often get significant lip service, in all quarters. They are given names like “healthy discussions”, “agreeing to disagree”, while getting even more firmly entrenched in dogma and a belief that one is always correct no matter what.

Running a network, occasionally two, has been quite the learning experience. Shakespeare and Company – a network of writers on Ryze - is nothing more than what it says it is – a network of people who enjoy writing English correctly and derive pleasure out of having their work read as well as from reading what others write. We never said we would train people to write well. We are not professional literary critics. We don’t have contacts in the publishing world and we exist as a network only because I pay Ryze $100 per year for us to exist. C’est tout. But people never cease to amaze me with the expectations they have. Some causes of dissatisfaction, accumulated over a year and a half, are summarized below [these are paraphrased and said in context, not direct quotes]:

1. I was staging a play and Shakespeare and Company ignored my requests for the provision of a ‘corpus’ for my audience. They also ignored my pleas for an army of photographers and videographers.


2. Some of us are merely tolerated and unfairly “critted” while others garner favorable feedback. I thought I would learn at this network but I am mostly ignored.


3. No one reads my poetry.


4. I am just here to post; I don’t care what others are writing.


5. I only read Individual A. Others are not worth my time.


6. No one comments on what I write.


7. I thought this was a network of serious writers so how come I see so many humorous posts?


8. Why are so many people using pseudonyms? There are fake people on the network.


9. Individual A = Individual B, believe you me.


10. If I can’t use obscenities while commenting on others works then I feel my freedom of expression is being violated. The moderator is a Nazi.


11. I want the freedom to call the members of the board morons. I want to make personal verbal attacks on people and if you stop me I will draw the conclusion that your network is a front for transforming Indians into Americans, especially since you work in the finance industry.


12. I will offer one word feedback to people and say “nice work”, “wonderful”. I won’t acknowledge or thank people for their praise of my work. Yet when others do the same I will once again repeat that the network is full of morons.


13. I can’t bear this network, but I’ll continue to lurk, use it as free advertisement for my stories.


14. I will greet people’s posts by typing up “YAAAAAAAAAWN” as a response.


15. I will write bad English, clichéd stories and pathetic love poems and if you don’t respond I’ll tell the world through my blog that the network does not appreciate good work.


16. Oh and the poem someone wrote, about the ‘love poetry’ genre the other day? Well, that was a nasty personal attack on me. I won’t post here anymore and I will sever ties with any friends who post here as well. They will have to choose between me and this network.


17. There’s a coterie! A nefarious ring!

This last often has me wondering if I should employ a private investigator to unearth this conspiratorial coterie. How dare there flourish a coterie on a network I moderate that doesn’t include me!!

Despite these provocations my stance has usually been one of leaving things alone and letting them resolve or die out by themselves. Reacting only aggravates matters. But perhaps I can say a few words that express my astonishment at what people feel they have a right to tell me, or the libelous remarks they feel they have a right to spew just because they think the Internet is largely standards-free. They fail to realize how lax my standards are on the network as opposed to the behavior I would expect from people who cross the threshold of my home. There is a code of conduct in my home. You can’t enter unless you are invited. If you litter, if you verbally abuse people, if you generally behave deplorably then chances are you will be thrown out. Or perhaps your presence will be tolerated once but you will never be invited again. Also, the people who accept my invitation, I would assume, would be people who share a fondness for me and my family. If that is not the case, I expect they would either turn down the invitation or wouldn’t have been invited in the first place. But if you wreak havoc within my boundaries you will certainly be paid in kind. Not so on the network; there are considerable freedoms on the network.

Before getting a driver’s license in the United States one is told driving ones car on the roads of this country is a privilege not a right. And so it should be with network participation, with being a guest in someone’s home, it should be seen as a privilege and not a right. And one certainly does not have the right to stop being a civilized human being simply because one is a member of a cyber community.

Pacific Northwest on My Mind - Sestina

Up empty streets lined with alpine greens,
Heading for a log home in the mountains
of the west, that would be ideal, I feel.
The neighbors would be more than a handshake
away and the green grocer, at the bottom
of the hill, next to the lone gas station.

Once a month I’d drive down to this station
To feed the car and get bread, milk and greens
and show Mae Jean the face that hit rock bottom
once, in a quest to climb every mountain.
Things would be simpler. My steely handshake,
a trifle overdone, I sense Mae Jean would feel.

Yes, Mae Jean would heal these wounds, I feel.
I’d walk the line like my radio station’s
Oft-played Cash song and would finally shake
these blues, leave them scattered amidst the greens
that take my breath away. In these mountains
her love would pull me up from the bottom

to live! For once you hit rock bottom
and can't dream or love or laugh or feel
That’s when you leave, and head for the mountains.
Confusion, long lines at bus stations,
complete exhaustion, pallor - sickly green,
inconsequential specks I must shake

loose for Mae Jean. I’d relax the handshake,
grab a fishing rod, reel in some bottom
feeders*, while she prepares the salad greens.
Then choose a vintage wine, one we can feel
going down smooth. She’d wait at the gas station
bags in hand, for a night in the mountains,

with an easterner in awe of mountains,
who extends a most uncertain handshake
as he unlearns, unwinds at this station
unfamiliar, scraping the bottom
of his waders in the meadow’s lush greens.
Revived, resplendent, just how life should feel!

I dream of mountains, curled at the bottom,
Crumpled, shaken and dejected I feel,
longing for Mae Jean and those verdant greens.

Letter from NYC -2

On my way to NYC today, I was reading a book of haikus. Someone corrected me and said that the plural of haiku is still haiku. But I persist in saying ‘haikus’. Since haiku isn’t an English word it is as easy to say that the plural demands an ‘s’ as it is to say it doesn’t. Who makes the rules about plural forms of words that aren’t English?

But I have digressed. I was reading this book that I purchased at the British Museum. That itself sounds strange and irrational enough, in retrospect. Why would one buy such a book at a museum? Perhaps because the museum suggested “Shop and Exit”? I took that as a command, I always obey the shopping god’s commands.

So now I am idly browsing through this book of haiku(s), to learn about this form of poetry and to understand why it captivates the imagination so. Why are poets so taken by this form? The authors of the book suggest that a haiku conveys a profound sentiment in as few words as possible using nature and the seasons as useful tropes. The idea being that our wants and desires are often effectively mirrored in nature. Nature encapsulates our wistfulness, sadness, joy, anger perfectly. A harvest moon, a new leaf, the clouds, a bend in the river, sunset, sunrise, dewdrops, they all have a story to tell in a haiku. That is indeed fascinating. But, in that context, how sincere are these modern day efforts?

Or am I the only one, who is so far removed from anything natural, who finds it insincere? I don’t remember the last time I saw a dewdrop on a blade of grass, or a river bend, or glanced up at the stars or stared at the moon. Instead I am eating food laced with additives, breathing toxic fumes and generally functioning like a wound up toy. And let’s not be too glib about the word ‘natural’. What is natural? Isn’t man a part of nature and therefore aren’t the things man makes natural as well? Or as someone suggested, isn’t synthetic as natural as authentic? Well then, why don’t we see more haiku works that use synthetic elements – skyscrapers, industrial waste, processed foods, Blackberries, cell phones, Web 2.0, Hummers?

Well, back to the book and a haiku within – about an angler and the intensity of his effort in the evening rain:

The angler –
His dreadful intensity
In the evening rain!
- Buson


That’s all the haiku essentially says but it has the power of sending ones thoughts scampering toward the angler, his dreadful intensity, is it simply a single-minded dedication to this pastime? What brings him to the river on a rainy evening? Why the dreadful intensity? So much more is left unsaid here than is actually said, what was said simply underscores that which was left unsaid. The ‘evening rain’ and the ‘dreadful intensity’ in this case seem to have done all the talking. Conveying to the reader that which needed to be conveyed with the barest minimum of words. It is subtle, delicate and satisfying.

However, the thing that satisfies the most here is also the thing that makes one yearn for simpler times for fewer discordant notes, less din, a grounded feeling, a richness of existence. I am indifferent to most haiku because they seem incongruous in a world where I rouse myself from bed exactly at 5:17 AM, check my emails at 5:48 PM and then turn the computer off and leave for work at 6:00 AM. I take the same bus everyday, see the same people, do exactly the same inconsequential things: taking off my iPod headphones, wrapping the cord around the gadget, walking 10 steps to the office kitchen where I add an inch of half-and-half, one Sweet N Low and one packet of sugar in a Styrofoam cup before pouring my Columbian coffee in it. Then taking measured steps back to my desk so the coffee doesn’t spill and turning the computer on to begin the day of work. Any missed step in the morning’s choreography feels like a grain of sand would in contact lens wearing eyes (like on Fridays when the half-and-half carton is empty and one has to make do with skim milk coffee).

Apparently I am not the only one who feels this way either. The paper had an article about the pre-work rituals of most people. There are certain things that need to happen in exactly the same sequence from the time one wakes up to the time one settles in to an eight hour stretch of work. The article (WSJ of 8/14/06 – “Cubicle Culture”) suggested (heavily paraphrasing) that sticking to this routine, however meaningless it may seem, gave us a sense of victory or control before we gave in to a day where the opportunities for us to be ourselves would be close to non-existent and laced with minor, albeit soul-destroying, defeats.

Sad commentary on what we’ve become; pathetic facsimiles of what we dreamt we would be. There is no magic in the full moon peeking in through the skylight, the sunrise only serves to blind us as we navigate our way through a crowded six-lane highway, dewdrops on blades of grass or leaves? Perhaps a stray drop on the leaf of the office ficus that the Brazilian plant-waterer just watered, a plant-waterer whose job would be the first to go during the next cost-cutting initiative, not worthy of a haiku. The expressionless faces that often make me wonder what they could possibly have streaming into their ears, through those ubiquitous white headphones to cause such a stone-faced reaction. Can we write delicate haiku as fine as lace and as richly satisfying as the smile on our sleeping child’s face when all we live for are the couple of hours every morning when we are in control and can choreograph our existence to a tee?

Impressions: The City of Falling Angels - John Berendt

I am currently reading John Berendt's - The City of Falling Angels. The author is most celebrated for his book set in the Savannah -Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. The book was much celebrated and even became a movie starring Kevin Spacey. I haven't read this book nor have I seen the movie. Somehow I am never tempted to pick up 'much celebrated' works. But I was curious enough to pick up his second book set in Venice. I had read a complimentary review or two and while browsing through the local Border's bookstore I decided to pick it up and glance through it.

The first few pages had me hooked, the opening dialog between Count Marcello and the author when they talk about the importance of bridges to Venetians and how they view a bridge as a transition and not necessarily a hurdle as do most people. The discussion leads to the transitional elements in Venetian life, constant shifting, moving, changing, even the sunlight taking a detour into people's homes by first hitting the waters below and then getting reflected back into the windows. I had to read on.

I am glad I did. I am only a little more than halfway through the book and it has already proven to be as memorable as an actual trip to Venice might be. I have been spending many hours doing various searches on The Gran Teatro La Fenice, a Venetian splendor that keeps rising from the ashes like the phoenix. The book is set in 1998 when the last opera house fire happened.

I would like to write a review of the book once I've finished reading it but for now I want to talk about some of the things that have grabbed a hold of my imagination:

1. American expatriates in Venice: Notably Daniel and Ariana Curtis who rejected Boston in favor of Venice and never came back. The legends that surround Daniel Curtis' departure from Boston are even more intriguing in that he supposedly twisted a judges nose and got sent to prison for a couple of months on assault charges. The author further explains the circumstances that may have contributed to Daniel Curtis' move to Venice. For a long time before the unfortunate event that resulted in the assault on a judge Curtis had been mourning the decline in civility in America. He was noticing an erosion of values and had mentioned his concerns in a letter to his sister. The incident that proved to be the last straw for him was in a commuter train where the judge in question boarded the train and proceeded to pile his numerous packages on and around Curtis' limited leg space. Curtis politely requested their removal. The judge reluctantly complied but just before disembarking got up and said, "You are no gentleman Daniel Curtis". This appears to have been the limit of his patience and he twisted the judge's nose in anger.

Upon his release from prison he eventually decided to leave America for good. Four generations of Curtis have been prominent Venetians since then. Among them artist Ralph Wormeley Curtis, a painter who studied his craft under John Singer Sargent.

Daniel and Ariana Curtis at first rented and finally owned and restored the famed Palazzo Barbaro.

The idea of American expatriates really intrigues me. The whole world wants to emigrate to American and yet, historically, there have been prominent Americans who spent almost all their lives out of America - Ezra Pound, his mistress Olga Rudge, Henry James, Gertrude Stein. Perhaps their muses could only flourish away from America. Do their future generations feel American or Venetian? Does their English take on a European accent? Or do they forget it entirely, just like third or fourth generation Germans, Italians or Indians more often than not lose all traces of their ancestry?

2. The other thing that is of interest is the existence of literary and artistic circles in the late 19th century - the Palazzo Barbaro Circle included Henry James, John Sargent, Robert Browning,Isabella Stewart Gardner, Ezra Pound and so many others. They must have felt a synergy of sorts in getting together so often and in such pleasant environs. Their writings, poetry and paintings always reflect that certain something. Such circles were prominent in London, Paris, New York. The late 19th century must have been a literary renaissance of sorts.

3. Ezra Pound's life with Olga Rudge is also discussed in detail. Olga was the one love of his life even as he was married to Dorothy Shakespear. The interesting thing here is that there were many occasions when Pound, his wife and Olga had to share the same quarters even though the two women couldn't stand the sight of each other. They both bore him children and continued living a life where they were so inextricably although antagonistically intertwined with each other. Although Olga was the one who stood by him during his incarceration at the facility for the criminally insane after he was exempt from being tried as a fascist by reason of insanity. Later on he refused to speak and withdrew into a shell, but Olga was always there.

There are several glimpses into a pre-Napoleonic Venice and the ensuing rape and pillage of the Venice that used to be, the masquerades, the general make up of a Venetian persona, a glimpse into a culture I wouldn't ordinarily have been exposed to.


More later.

Letter from NYC - 1

For quite sometime now I have been considering writing a column called 'Letters from NYC'. A friend had suggested it when I talked about the writers' block that I frequently encounter. The question always was one of what I might convey to the reader through such a column. My daily presence in New York City is a slice of my life, how could it possibly be of interest to anyone else? As it is I find my existence somewhat mundane. All my days are colored a bluish grey with the blue to grey quotient varying with a dip to the bottom or an upward tilt to the top of the flatline I inhabit. Sometimes there is a splash of color across the blue or grey. Those are the days when someone says something that keeps me smiling all day, days when people looking at me ask what I am smiling about. But such days are few and far between.

So a letter that I would write from New York would be about what? That is a question I have been asking myself for months now. It is a city of unique sights, sounds and smells, yes definite, characteristic smells. It is defined by a crush of tourists, with slightly annoyed, frowning inhabitants trying to maneuver themselves in and out of blocks of tourists craning their heads to see the tall buildings or people walking towards Third Avenue and asking which direction Seventh Avenue is. It is also a city of street vendors, roller bladers, lately, manual and motorized rickshaw pullers. It is a city like any other where heat, rains, excessive cold or snowfall cause unforeseen problems (they feel unforeseen even if they are experienced at least once every year). It is very possible for a 100 degree day to feel like a 112 degree day or a 32 degree day to feel like a below freezing day. The tunnel effect they call it.

Today was one of those 112 degree days also described by the local radio DJ as the third in a row of no-underwear days. It was impossible to stay cool. The sidewalks radiated heat and one saw just a little less skin on display than one would at a Cote d'Azur beach. Wonder what The Sartorialist would have to say about that! But the clothing decision is one not to be taken too lightly in this heat. One needs to prepare oneself for a freezing commuter bus, the burning sidewalks and pavements and the freezing place of work. The feet prefer sandals in these times but sandals can never be worn without first investing in weekly pedicures. So if one chooses not to go broke getting pedicures then the only options are shoes, sneakers and sweaty feet. One also needs to carry a light jacket for the freezing effects of air conditioning in the aforementioned places. Then there's the question of cooling oneself through frappucinos, iced coffees or ice cream cones but when everyone in the city has the same idea then one needs to evaluate the pain of standing in a long and winding line against satisfying cooling effect of the much coveted treat.

All of a sudden weather has grown from the lowly status of 'small talk' to really BIG talk. There are people in the borough of Queens who have been sans power for two weeks now. They are shown huddled together in the dark in their aparments, food melting and rotting in their refrigerators, fanning themselves. Exploding manholes were reported from another part of town and gas prices continue to soar. Weather is the filter through which we now view everything. I am reminded of the refrain from Paul Coelho's - The Alchemist - about the universe conspiring to get you what you want. Maybe this is something that presidential candidate Al Gore really wanted happening. What better platform to run and win than the weather. If this isn't the The Inconvenient Truth what is? The hurricanes have started, earlier this year, temperatures worldwide are soaring.

Between the months of March 2006 and July 2006 I have been in five countries - India, US, Canada, Britain and France. Every country was hot beyond ones wildest imagination, starting as early as March. There are reports of actual patches of Green in Greenland. There was an article in the Wall Street Journal, the celebratory tone of which came under considerable flak. They had interviewed a Greenland farmer who was happy to see reindeer grazing on patches of green. It didn't seem to matter that the polar bears were dying but Greenland could now grow crops that its reindeers could graze, what could possibly be wrong with that? How oblivious can a newspaper be to reality? Or how interested in shaping public opinion a certain way?

Speaking of newspapers, in the wake of Fidel Castro's gastrointestinal illness and the transference of power to his brother Raul Castro, the WSJ reported on the street celebrations of Cuban emigres to Miami, cheering the prospects of democracy. The esteemed British pink paper Financial Times also reported on Cuba and their view was that Cuba is in the strongest position ever since the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. They also felt Cuba was in strong hands with Raul while WSJ called him a dangerous and mean military intelligence guy. No wonder wise folks advocate reading non-domestic papers, it probably is the only way to get to balanced opinions and viewpoints.

The Financial Times has become a new favorite of mine. The comments, analysis, opinions, reviews are all worth reading and immensely satisfying. I was intrigued by an article by Ludovic Hunter-Tilney in the July 28th Arts & Weekend section of the paper. The entire world is discussing global warming and wondering how concerned they need to be but this reporter escapes the London heat by ducking into the Tate Britain's exhibition on the works of John Constable and views his 1820 painting The Hay Wain as year zero for global warming. Constable was known for his landscapes and detailed attention to weather in all his paintings. If industrialization is responsible for our present crisis then Ludovic suggests Constable's bucolic must have been at the cusp of when it all started. The horse is probably standing in water to to cool the iron around the wheels that tended to warp and buckle at the slightest elevation in temperatures. Although the day depicted in the painting probaly topped out at a balmy 70 degrees Fahrenheit. So apparently I am not the only one out there who seeks connections between far fetched things!

Getting back to the hot day in New York City, instead of Tate, we like ducking into air-conditioned malls. Malls where the ladies from the cosmetics corner used to converge upon you with perfume samples, spraying you without your consent, or inviting you for makeovers. Well, they have gone one step further now. They have a scope. They like to scan your facial skin in microscopic detail. They highlight magnified pores, sags, degenerating collagen and get you worked up to a point where you believe your face is melting, degenerating and that you need to act fast. Then they move in for the kill and tell you that you needn't worry and that for hundreds of dollars a month you could get back to the taut elasticity of your teen years! How perfectly pigeon-holed do they have thirtysomething women! I came across a blog that talked about marketing geniuses and the levels of predictability they achieve. Modern day purveyors of snake oil can never lose. There are women now who carry pocket-sized Evian sprays to spritz their face with water several times a day, to hydrate their facial skin (wouldn't drinking more water be more effective?) I know some women in our super-glam magazine publishing industry who probably don't smile or laugh. Who wants laugh lines?

That's not so much about New York City in the end as it is a tour through the brain cells of someone who has a lot of dead commuting time everyday and can afford leisurely detours through fragmented thoughts scattered all around.

If there really is another letter from New York perhaps it will be more about NYC! Let's hope for the best.

Hyperlinked Explorations

Sometimes I wish there were no hyperlinks in the texts I find during my cyber quests for knowledge, but only sometimes. For someone who is easily distracted and prone to frittering away the hours of the day in an offhand way, this is the worst sort of temptation. The information addiction is like a velvety shackle that can grip and trap completely while appearing like nothing more than a fashion accessory, an accessory you would never willingly give up.

What’s pleasantly terrifying (notice the adverb pleasantly) is how my real interactions and conversations are changing and morphing into my cyber activities. For instance, the day David, Priyanka, Jeff and I met at The Algonquin in New York City, a few weeks ago, our discussions went off on some interesting tangents. Unfortunately, I hadn’t taken any notes (Priyanka had – and we’re still waiting for her report) but some of the things we discussed were the works of Frederico Garcia Lorca, the concept of duende, coincidences, the prevalence of the letter S in the English language and fado music. This meeting was weeks ago but some of these topics were exactly like hyperlinks for me, if you will. Just like you could be reading something on a particular topic on Wikipedia or as a result of a Google search, our conversation was the main focus but Lorca, duende and fado were like the hyperlinks that seized control of my interest and imagination and refused to let go. Until that day I hadn’t heard of this poet, I had never come across the word duende and had no clue what fado music sounded like. Now I can’t stop reading Lorca’s work, or learning as much about duende as I can and am about to go and purchase my first Amalia Rodriguez album!

The shackles are tightening too because when you try to learn about Lorca you get into the Spanish Civil War, Andalusia, Falle, Romanos, cante jondo, siguiriya or Andalusian deep song which leads to a discussion on melody, harmony, rhythmic beats, and of course wherever there is a discussion of rhythmic beats my confusion about taals in Indian classical music comes to the forefront. Siguiriya, cante jondo and fado also tend to come together in having common elements of ancestry – Arabic or Moorish, perhaps Indian. And how could this little fact or conjecture not be of interest to an Indian?

Then learning more about fado takes me into Portugal. This soulful music is characterized by an elusive emotion defined as saudade. Saudade is apparently a national Portuguese trait. It is supposedly the most untranslatable word according to many translators. It is not quite longing, not quite sadness or despair and not quite nostalgia. It has elements of all these emotions. It is also described as a dreamily wistful quality and an interesting analogy I came across was that if nostalgia was a feeling associated with someone no longer alive, saudade would be associated with someone who is still alive but has disappeared from your life forever, saudade would indicate hope that perhaps you would encounter this person once again. How interesting is this? Makes me think how come the Portuguese were the only ones in the world who found this feeling profound enough to attribute a word to it? Don’t people from other cultures and nations ever feel something similar? Thoughts like this were, again, like hyperlinks that sent me in search of other untranslatable words…

And so went an entire weekend, the sun rose, the sun set, I wasn’t bored all day, I had traveled across Spain and Portugal and in and out of some of the great artistic and philosophical minds associated with these countries.

Could I have been doing anything else? Possibly. But I was bound and trapped and had loved every moment of my captivity.