Bohemian rhapsody

She lays there. All bronzed. Silences can speak a lot.

Do you not feel like playing with me anymore? Is this change necessary after all these years? Do you not remember how we played all those winters ago, even as tears ran down your cheek? Take me in your arms again, even if it lasts just one night. One time more.


The story of their first meeting was like any other. He was visiting a friend. In the brown walnut-y comfort of his parlor, they sat conversing. He looked over his shoulder, and there she was.

You eyes gazed at me, and I saw how you held your tea cup. Radio 4 played in the background and after a few longing glances, you finally walked up to me.
Do you believe in such a thing as love at first sight?

And so they met and held each other tight the very first time. They almost seemed to belong. He did not care how she was related to his friend. It felt so right. That happens to people, doesn’t it, when your heart tells you it is just right.

Your fingers touched me. On and off. The warmth from the tea cup still lingered. I remember being held to your chest, so close, that I could hear your heart beat, and you trying to match mine.

Boyhood slowly walked away, school was done. Work required a lot of travel. And he did not believe in long distance. She always went with him. Through all those cities and music that filled their lives, through those fleeting moments where you think life is just one big jet plane.

I never got mad you for taking me through all that. Not even when you spilt wine on me. I loved the way cared. Like the time I had that buzz? You did not leave my side. But do you know what I like most?
The smell of a fresh cotton shirt on you.

So life takes you through all these moments, filling you with all these emotions. Emotions are not always black and white. There are shades of grey. Fleeting moments where you feel a little bit of this and that.

I thought you are giving up on me. Men do that these days, I hear. Giving up for a newer, sleeker model. But not you.
You picked me up again today. And I stare at your beautiful face, sitting at your feet. You have aged well. Your fingers are so ginger, when you pick me up from my box.

He is sipping his coffee, eyes ruminating about some music notes and a faint tune plays on his lips.
The unmistakable red mark from holding a violin is on his chin.

Morocco, Day 2

Thanks to not making advance hotel reservations, Danielle’s French and my inherent ability to space out, we have survived our first night in Morocco.
Time to head out into the city of Fes.
Fes can easily be called the intellectual and spiritual capital of Morocco. As you wander around, bundled up in cotton clothing and layers of sunscreen, through its arched gateways, winding streets, hand carved wooden window panes to wonder, enchanting courtyards, you see the spirit and soul that is Morocco.
Here and there are traditional mansions, which are also called Riads. Some of them have been turned to hotels, which for the wary tourist can be both cheap and comfortable.
Meal time is a ceremony of a gastronomic kind. Traditionally, it starts with a cleansing of the hands, with stuff that smells like rose water, on a silver dish.
For starters there are salads of seven kinds. A tomato salad, potato and cream, olives and something, loads of meat (I understand it is a traditional dish called kefta, or meatballs) all served and meant to be licked off with bread.
Bread here is a community thing.
Every street has a bakery. Families bring their own bread and leave it here to bake. Interestingly, every family puts a pattern, a design on their loaf so they can identify which ones belong to them. The baker tells us that just by looking at the size and shape of the loaf, he can tell which family has made it.
So, back to lunch.
For main course there is a traditional Tagine, cooked over a coal fire in a beautiful clay dish.
Being vegetarian, the rest of lunch was best avoided. Danielle tells me the pigeon meat was “extraordinaire”.
If you are a pigeon in New York, watch out.
For dessert, they have a piece of heaven. It is a light almond pastry with hints of cinnamon and the honey-ness and buttery-ness tickles your taste buds.
Just melts in your mouth, I tell you.
To help digest lunch, a walk through the market is in the offing.
We are greeted with the smell of spices and herbs wafting in the air, and more food.
Each market and province in Morocco has these markets which are filled with fresh fruits and vegetables. And olives.
Green olives, dark green, red ones, olives in vinegar, pickled olives, salted olives, olives in lemon, olives and olives and more olives.
Little wonder that they are the country’s primary export to the rest of the olive starved world.
What catches my fancy in this market is this green looking thing. You know, a bright leafy green.
Turns out to be figs filled with a dry fruit stuffing. Outrageously good.
Our guide Basheeer takes us to our next stop. The tannery.
And you have to thank me here that there are no visuals.
The tannery is filled with carcasses, all stacked up till the sky. If you think the sight is grotesque, wait till you smell it. Sticking your nose inside a fish will prove to be a delightfully aromatic experience compared to this one.
Basheer also tells us that the skin is treated with pigeon shit to toughen it up.
This is one country where they know what to do with their pigeons. From feathers to meat to even shit. Productivity at its best, huh??
So it turns out that Fes has a sizeable Jewish community. The cemetery here has pilgrims from the world over.
Next stop, Marrakech.

Les environs de Marrakech.

From Fes, it is an 8 hour ride by train. Pretty comfy coaches, air conditioned and all, for the price you pay.
Food and little walks to the end of the train was enough entertainment.
Walks to the end of the train for puffs of hash.
For someone whose idea of a high is a tablet of Vicks action 500, this can make you highhhhhhh.
Everything seems so high.
One thing about the whole experience is it can make you appreciate the simple things in life. You look out the window and go “the mountains are so highhhhhhhhh…”
And then there is this other part of you that tries to shut you up saying “of course you dope, mountains are meant to be high”.
I start contemplating my visit to Morocco. About the wonders of travel, new cultures and new countries, this feeling of living without boundaries. The way it jolts you from the patterns of life and lets you see things from the outside. Perspective.
And all these images for your mind and wonderful conversations with friends, strangers in the market, wisdom from random people, all forming these dots in your head. And how as you take yourself from city to city, day to day, life unravels itself, connecting these dots and a strange familiar pattern seems to emerge.
The markets, also called a Souks, are a must visit. There are various to choose from. Like the carpet market. But the golden rule to remember here is to bargain your head out.
One that needs a special mention here is a food market that starts late in the evening. Full of varieties of street food, this is also a world heritage sight.
Imagine, the United Nations endorsing a yummy street full of food.
Apart from the f factor (food factor, you pervert) and the shopping, the mere entirety of this place just absorbs and soaks up all your senses.
Just like Marrakech, built on an oasis with huge palm grooves surrounding, Morocco is has a spirit that unique in its own way.
With its tangy, delectable mix of Arab, Africa and Europe, of tracing patterns, splashes of wild colour, friendly smiling faces, tortoises trying to find their way through your linen, it is sure to be a travel experience like no other.
At the end of it all, reality almost feels like an illusion.
On my plane ride back home, to work and my desk, a green fig melts in my mouth.
And I feel highhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.