Chatterjee Blog

​The weekend is about to begin. It is mid November. We already had an Arctic blast last week. Didn’t get to see much of the sun for almost a week. But today it is sunny. A bright sunny Saturday morning. The deck is flooding with the precious golden warmth. It feels good. It must be the presence of “light” that changes everything. One could almost burst into joyous song.

Diwali is over but Christmas is coming. The lights lead to happiness. We need the slightest reason to celebrate the Light with the lights.

In Bengali - “baranday roddur” meaning sunny verandah has propelled many a poet into mind bending song and dance.

39 degrees now. It is already a couple of hours after sunrise which happens early these days, today our nearest star broke into the firmament precisely at 6:47am. The highest temperature today shall be 41 degrees so we are almost there, before it starts declining back to below 30 degrees. So you see it is deceptively sunny. Looking at the gleaming creek I want to go out for a walk or a run. But wait it is cold and windy today. 25 mph winds. I look outside again. There is not a soul in sight. But there is something that beckons from near the roadside. Something that comes packed in a thin transparent plastic cover. Almost like a present. But lying conspicuously on the driveway next to the mailbox. Fluttering enticingly in the wind. I need to go get that.

It is less than 50 yards to the mailbox but I need to dress up like an amateur Eskimo going on his first visit to the dentist. Where is my Point Zero jacket...ok here we go...Thick heavy jacket with a thick hood to protect against the wind. Full pants. Warm socks. Shoes? Nah I think I will just wear my flip flops. The entire expedition would not last more than 2 minutes anyway.

I step outside like Neil Armstrong stepping outside the Apollo. A gust of wind blows my hood and sends a whistle of cold air into my ear canal. The wind plays a little music sequence on my ear drum. Now my ears are beating to the same rhythm as my heart beat. I retreat back into Apollo. Should I abandon this expedition and forego this quest for knowledge? How would humanity judge me if I missed out on something historic, momentous and newsworthy. No I must do this. For the sake of world peace. I tighten my hood tightly around my chin, take a long deep breath and boldly take a step outside the house. It is a small step ostensibly but a giant step for my inner quest.

There are fallen leaves everywhere. It is actually quite pretty outside. The sidewalk is strewn with leaves dancing to a pattern known only to them. As the sun moves up there is a game of light and shade going on under the red oak tree. The leaves start rustling suddenly as if they have to go somewhere special and then they start going up in circles like a bunch of tiny tots dancing to the music of an invisible pied piper. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I wish I could stand there longer to appreciate being immersed in this beautiful setting. But my knees start trembling meanwhile. I better start moving towards my real mission now.

As I half walk half run down the driveway holding on to my flying hood, I notice with pleasure that our lawn is finally greener than the neighbors’. It is truly a bit late now to appreciate the lawn at the end of the fall season but it took an entire summer of seeding and fertilizing and an army of people to fix the sprinklers but it seems we finally won. Hello Neighbor - please come out and take a good look now, will ya...

I snapped out of my reverie as I noticed from the corner of my eye the object of my little expedition slowly flying away in the wind towards the other end of the road. I took a desperate dive to catch the weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal, not unlike a brilliant fielder performing a flying dive to catch the cricket ball before it hits the boundary.

After a successful morning expedition as I sip some black tea and read about how Google shapes its search results, the social revolution in Saudi Arabia, the reasoning behind the death of Socrates, the epic afterlife of Troy and the review of a masterpiece by Stanley Kubrick, I can smell the sweet and savory spice flavors of cinnamon, cloves and ginger emanating  from my cup of tea.
Have a great weekend everyone!

Click. Click. Click. There were more than two dozen people continuously clicking their phones in the darkness. Every click seemed to startle the night. And with every click I felt closer to a ghostly discovery.

“There is a limper that walks the east curtain wall at night. Then there is this woman who appears in the upper level window of the north barracks. There is a scratcher who hides under that staircase. I have seen ‘em all - but don’t take my word for it. Please do take a lot of pictures. You never know when you catch ‘em floating around” said the tour guide in his low-pitched monotonous voice.

It was clear that he knew his script by heart. He was looking in the distance and occasionally his eyes would light up as if seeing familiar things. Dressed in black his T-shirt read: Fort William Henry - Original Ghost Tour. He was standing next to the “original well” from 1756 at the Fort William Henry. This was Lake George in upstate New York.

Many had lost their lives inside that well.
​
There is a lot of bloody history surrounding this fort that has led to the belief - that the ghosts of those who died here more than 250 years ago are still floating around like disembodied spirits.
“One of the skeletons shown here doesn’t have a head. He was decapitated by a Huron Indian during the massacre in 1757, and his head was displayed as a trophy of war. He was buried in the fort’s eastern barracks and was discovered during the excavations in 1957”, the tour guide explained as he encouraged the group to walk down the steps and visit the Military Crypt.

Forensic anthropologists have been studying the bones found here to understand the cause of death of the soldiers. They try to assign an identity to the forgotten soldiers. Many soldiers were found to have herniated disks from carrying heavy loads. The forensic scientists have discovered evidence of trauma including decapitations, cut marks in the chest and stomach areas, and indications that a number of men had been shot in the knee.

The military cemetery is right behind the south east bastion.

The fort was constructed as a square with bastions at each corner. This was meant to be a launching point for military operations by the British against the French.

For nearly a 100 years, France and Britain had been at war for control of North America. The power struggle that originated in the European continent extended to the rest of the world. The imperial rivals used their colonies as footholds to enlarge their empires and to bring as many native tribes as possible under their influence.

The English were primarily after the land of the aboriginal inhabitants. The French on the other hand wanted to fraternize with the natives, they wanted to merge the two races. By inducing the Indians to become Christians, they wanted to have one law, one people and one master.
Whatever their ulterior motive, both the English and the French kept fighting one another to gain control over Lake George.

The British won in 1755. They constructed the original fort next to the lake, christening it Fort William Henry, in honor of the two royal grandsons of King George II.

But then the fort was bombarded and taken over by the French in 1757.

The French General Montcalm gathered a large force and surrounded the fort. He had support from 38 tribes of Indians. He also had more cannons. There were 8000 on the French side including French Regulars, Canadian Militia and the Indians.

The British on the other side were less than 2500, in both the fort and the camp.

The French had nearly 40 cannons, howitzers and mortars. The British had 17 rusty iron guns.

The commander of the fort Lt Colonel Monro tried to get reinforcements but failed. 11 of his cannons burst due to over-use and the British had to finally surrender after six days.

Montcalm was generous and allowed the British troops to keep their property but asked them to vacate the fort the next day and agree to not fight against the French for 18 months.

However - the French had little control over their Indian allies. Apart from language barriers, there was a misunderstanding regarding customs. The Indian allies of the French felt they had been cheated out of the spoils of war. They entered the fort at night and killed many soldiers. The next day when the British troops were being marched away, the Indians attacked them again. It is estimated that 185 British people lost their lives while numerous others were taken captive and brought north towards Canada.

As they prepared to march north, Montcalm ordered the fort to be burned to the ground.
What we see today is a reconstruction that was done 200 years later, based on the original.
The French and Indian War of 1757 was really the first “world war”. Apart from Europe and North America, the fighting between Britain and France also took place in India, Africa, the Caribbean and the Philippines.

In the year 1688 the French East India Company had established itself in Chandernagore in India. Soon after that, the British had established their Fort William in Calcutta.

1757 was a fatal year... 

The same year that the British lost the Fort William Henry in North America to the French, they captured Chandernagore by defeating the French in India.

The power struggle continues to this day on both sides of the “divide”. Even after more than 250 years, nothing seems to have changed for us - on this side. It feels like yesterday.

“I think I got one of them!” whispered a young lady excitedly. She had a heavy camera, perhaps a modern DSLR and was carrying a black bag that had a lot of fancy equipment. She proudly showed the picture of a green apparition on her large glowing camera screen to the curious people around her. People were nodding their heads in growing belief.

Even the tour guide was now looking at the picture seriously.

I chuckled to myself. Catching a ghost couldn’t be so easy. That was most probably just the light reflecting from the top of the bastions, creating an image that was hard to distinguish from the rest of the picture.

The group was now headed to the Arms & Artillery exhibit. A sign on top read “Powder Magazine”. One by one the visitors entered the dark corridor that led to the dimly lit exhibit room at the end.
Smartphones lit up the old corridor.

The sound of shuffling feet echoed in the narrow space. Some people had both their arms outstretched in the darkness, marching forward like soldiers - holding their phones like a modern weapon. I quickly stepped aside to let them go. There was this quiet space behind one of the old log shelves. I wanted to lean against the shelf but then I slipped noiselessly into the darkness. I think I might have stepped on some mold by accident. As the group marched past me like a bunch of giant shadows, I could see their enlarged pupils and smell their bated breath.

What a committed group of paranormal enthusiasts, I thought to myself.

All of a sudden - the young lady with the heavy camera stopped right in front of the log shelf and flashed a bright light at me. Before I could move, she clicked. The shutter speed was faster than one eight thousandth of a second. It felt like a blur.

What a sudden exposure.

Darkness again.

I love my darkness.

“So – do you believe in ghosts now?!”, the young lady was now boasting to her companions in a spirited voice, repeatedly zooming in and out of the picture and showing off her camera screen like a trophy.

The picture showed a nebulous image standing in front of the log shelf.

Some believed her immediately. Others couldn’t see a thing.

I believe her.
​
After all - I am one of 'em.
​

I can see behind my head. As I am walking on the cobble stone square in front of the 350 year old Royal Palace of Amsterdam, I see this kid walking right behind me. You see I have a 340-degree field of view. The kid is floating soap bubbles in the air. The bubbles keep expanding and going up towards the summer sky. There is a wind blowing. The bubbles are now flying away fast with the wind. One of the bubbles is growing really big. I can see through my orange eyes that the kid is chasing the bubble excitedly. The bubble is growing bigger and bigger. The kid gets more and more excited. And then all of a sudden the bubble bursts.
​
Well - all bubbles finally do burst. The Tulip mania was one such bubble. It happened in the seventeenth century right here. It was around the time the Royal Palace was going to be built. The prices of tulips kept rising due to speculation. Suddenly you could become very rich. At its peak 40 bulbs of the high quality tulips were worth as much as a thousand tons of butter! It was complete madness. Some tulip bulbs changed hands ten times in a day. And then the bubble burst quite abruptly.

Crowds can go mad. I try to stay away from crowds, especially mad crowds.

I don’t need bubbles for excitement. My heart beats 700 times per minute.
​
I can fly 600 miles per day at an average of 50 miles per hour. My bones are hollow. They say I am more agile than a shark. I am now flying above the Madame Tussaud building. I can see everything clearly. There are two wax figures standing outside on the 4th floor. I know they are not human since they are not moving. There are two red colored trucks parked on the square. They are selling hot dogs, meatballs and hamburgers. There is a big line of people waiting next to the trucks.

I can smell the hot dogs from a distance. I also smell weed. The unhealthy stinking smell of weed pervades the air. I see young teenagers smoking. I think this is another bubble. But this bubble is more dangerous – it is going to burst people’s lungs.

The square is very busy in summer. Tourists come from all parts of the world. They take pictures of the old buildings. I know each one of these buildings. I have sat on top of each one of them gazing down at the square for hours. The ABN AMRO building on one edge has a lighted sign on top. There is a Rabobank in another corner. The Royal Palace stands in the middle. There is symmetry in front of the palace. Four light stands are in front, equally spaced.

The square gets lit up as evening approaches. A Swarovski shop has shiny crystal lights. The H&M shop has mannequins wearing the latest fashionable dresses. In the middle of the square there is a dude with painted face, dressed like an Indian god with a “trishool” in hand. He stands motionless like a statue as people drop coins in amusement.

There are kids running around. There is music playing everywhere. I can hear every sound. In fact I can hear sounds that are 200 times lower than what ordinary humans can hear. I can tell if a storm is approaching.
​
Sometimes I fly all the way up to the Central Station. I like that place. It is always busy with commuters and tourists. Behind the Central Station is the Ferry terminal. And across the waterfront is the tall building with swings on top. It is called A’dam Lookout. The view is fantastic from the sky deck. The swings go a 100 feet over the edge. They say these are the highest swings in Europe.

The Dutch way to get around the city is on a bike. Amsterdam is bicycle friendly. People say there are about as many bikes as the number of residents in Amsterdam, perhaps even more. Around 15000 bikes are salvaged from the canals annually.

I like to fly along the canals. Amsterdam has 165 canals that run for more than 30 miles. There are over 1200 bridges connecting the islands. Technically the city is 6 feet below sea level. The canals were dug up in the 17th century during the expansion of commerce that required transportation of goods. The wealthy built beautiful houses along the canals. I like to sit on top of some of these beautiful old houses. The canals are a very popular tourist attraction.

Fortunately I don’t need a bike or boat to get back home. I have an internal navigation system in my head. I can sense my position relative to the position of the sun and the stars. I can sense the earth’s magnetic field.
​
I never get lost. I always find my way back home. Home sweet home.

I am a city pigeon. Amsterdam is home for me.
​

“Sir, you may want to try the Tequila Sunrise, it is very popular” suggested the bartender cum DJ of the makeshift outdoor bar at the Sister Cities Park in Philadelphia. It was 87 degrees on the eve of Independence Day and quite humid. I could see young kids dipping in the Swann Fountain at the Logan Square - while their parents watched nonchalantly.

I longed for a cold shower.

Awaiting sunset with a Tequila Sunrise in hand, I thought the name of the cocktail was perhaps a bit anachronistic, but then its name is based on its appearance and not based on when it is consumed. The unmixed grenadine slowly rises into the orange juice in the tall glass and creates the illusion of a sunrise.

People were sitting outside on the lawns enjoying the summer day. Tourists strolled past taking pictures of the fountains. Helmet clad bikers zipped by on fancy bikes.

One guy wore a T-shirt that declared confidently “Life is a Beach”.

Another T-shirt advocated “Stay Wild”.

Two infants were playing in the small fountain area where the water spouted out rhythmically but also quite suddenly from anywhere around them. Their innocent curiosity was fun to watch.

The city of Philadelphia is full of interesting sights at this time of the year.

It is hard to believe that this place served as a public gallows and was used as a burial ground in the nineteenth century! It is truly amazing how things change over time. Even as recently as ten years ago they found 60 graves while renovating the Sister Cities Park at Logan Square. That must have been scary!  

Energized by the cocktail and the history of the city, I started walking the city. I must have walked for more than an hour in the July humidity when I started craving for airconditioned comfort and decided to get back home. But then I realized I didn’t have the car with me. I was standing in front of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts when I thought of calling an Uber. Right then the bus 401 stopped in front of me. I knew this would get me home and I badly wanted the air-conditioning so I boarded it. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the bus driver was the cricketing legend Chris Gayle. Ok not him, but very similar in appearance.

The bus had a lot of vacant seats. I was happy to sink into a comfortable seat next to the window. I had not taken a bus from Philadelphia in two decades. When the bus crossed the bridge to New Jersey I was able to take pictures of the Delaware river. Something I am never able to do while driving. But then at the end of the bridge, instead of turning south the bus turned north towards Camden. I had no idea that  the 401 goes via Camden.     

Camden is perhaps the poorest city in the nation. Nearly 32,000 people live below the poverty line. The poverty line is defined as an annual household income of $22,000 for a family of four.

At the next stop there was an urgent care facility. An old lady got up on the bus. Large cup of soda in hand. She wore a half sweater cum half jacket. Ragged clothes. She carried a huge rucksack on her back that had a million pockets filled with so much stuff that it was bursting in the seams. She sat next to me but decided not to take off the rucksack. Then she started turning on her seat to look back in the bus as if looking for a better seat. Each time she turned - her rucksack would hit me. I wondered if I should  complain. But then I decided not to. What if she was sick. The next thing I know she drank her soda and fell asleep - leaning heavily on me.

I was clearly uncomfortable - Should I just get off the bus and call an Uber?

We arrive at the next stop. Before I could even move from my seat, the old lady woke up as if she had practiced this "one bus stop power nap" to perfection, and got off the bus in the most deliberate and unhurried fashion.

The seat next to me was vacant again. A guy with long beaded hair and big ear rings was about to sit next to me when another passenger beat him to it and took the seat.

A young woman. Bloodshot eyes. Runny nose. She looked pale and lethargic. Big bag in tow.

Suddenly she turned towards me and started crying. I was taken aback. She said something about being turned down on a job opportunity. She had been part of a “Program” and she was now “clean” after a prolonged detox period, but they would not believe her.

Before I could say anything she mumbled: “Would you be interested in helping a homeless person?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I merely cleared my throat.

When she didn’t get any appropriate response from me, she started moving her big bag and asked: “Are you getting off soon?”

She wanted to have a conversation and I was clearly trying to avoid one.

For a moment I tried to hide the fact that I was annoyed and asked sternly: “What do you want?”

“Oh, I was just asking if you were getting off. I didn’t ask for anything. But if you were offering then that’s different” she said beseeching.

I looked away. What a fancy way of begging. Should I pity her?  

We were at the next stop by now. She started getting off. As she picked up her big bag, she smiled weakly and wished me a nice day! Why was she wishing me a nice day when I had done absolutely nothing to help her?!

At that moment I had a change of heart.

I found a twenty in my wallet and handed it to her. She beamed at me - her tired face brightening up quite suddenly.

As the bus finally sailed towards the sleepy and rural part of South Jersey, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I had just experienced a slice of real life on the streets of Camden. I felt light for a moment in my mind. I knew too well that the spiral of poverty and drug addiction is not an easy one to fix.

It is hard to imagine that I had changed anything in that poor woman’s life that day, but this little incident did make me think about the critical role of the silent bystanders in society.

Can we not do more to help as a community...

Well, for starters, if you want to experience some empathy - lose the car for a change and just take the 401.

​“Do you believe in the existence of God…?” asked the elderly Irish man. White Hair. Black cap. Dark sunglasses perched on top of his cap. Weather beaten face but kind looking eyes. Enormously large ears. He wore a dark jacket and loose grey trousers. He was perhaps in his late seventies but stood straight.
I was taken aback by such a direct question. We had just explored the fifteenth century Ross Castle in beautiful Killarney in Ireland, and were standing right in front of the lake Lough Leane.
I noticed that there was a ferry boat waiting behind the man. It took me a while to understand that he was offering to take us by ferry boat to the small island called Innisfallen, the ancient site of a sixth century Abbey. 
Although we were not very keen to visit the island, the kind expression of the man helped us make up our minds. We decided to go with him. Little did we know that this would lead to a memorable experience.
It was a quiet afternoon. But it turned out that the ferry man was a loquacious talker.
First he explained that he had been ferrying passengers to the island for the longest time amongst all ferrymen in Killarney. He had clearly been chosen by God to do this service. We nodded out of respect. And wore the expression of being suitably impressed. Then he went on to explain how the Big Bang theory with its creation “out of nothing” and beginning with light, proved the existence of God. And how we have souls that are created by God and that we should learn to love God…
Meanwhile I started taking some pictures with my iPhone. The beautiful lake Lough Leane shone brightly under the late March sun.
Looking strangely at my phone the man said: “I think those phones shall soon get out of our control.”
“What do you mean by that…” I asked politely.
“Well, normally I don’t tell this story but you folks look like decent people to me. I was once driving my car and I felt some dizziness so I stopped by the side of the lake. When I felt better I took some pictures with my phone. When I went home and looked at those pictures I could not believe my eyes. On the lake was this old Abbey and out of nowhere the picture of a monk appeared, looking out of a window. At first I would not believe it, but then I slowly realized that the sixth century monks still live in that deserted Abbey.”
By this time we were already at the shores of the Innisfallen island, and we looked up at the ancient site of the sixth century Abbey. I looked at its windows with careful apprehension.
The Innisfallen monastery was in complete ruins. Its foundation is accredited to the 7th century St. Finian the Leper who first brought monks to pray here in the peace and seclusion of Lough Leane.
The island was attacked many times by the Vikings. But each time the monks repaired the monastery. At the close of the 12th century, Innisfallen had become a major center of learning.
Near the lake shore is a 12th century Hiberno-Romanesque church which has a round headed doorway carved with chevrons and covered by a hood moulding with grotesque animal heads. Inside the church is a small carved stone cross which was found in the lake.
There were no other people at the island. Perhaps because it was late and it was going to get dark soon. The whole experience was quite overwhelming and we had forgotten that the ferry man wanted us to be back at the shore in 30 minutes.
When we came hurriedly to the lake shore to look for him, we saw his empty boat waiting at the shore - but the man was nowhere in sight. I glanced anxiously at the old Abbey windows as I searched my pockets for my iPhone.
 

24 hours earlier…
The previous day we had visited the Blarney Castle. Time passes slowly here. The Castle was built nearly six hundred years ago. Millions have flocked to Blarney in the last few hundred years, making it a world landmark and one of Ireland’s greatest treasures.
The Blarney Castle sits directly on a steep cliff of rock giving us an imposing view. In the tenth century there was a wooden lodge here. Then it was replaced by a stone structure, which was later demolished for foundations of the castle to be built by Cormac MacCarthy in 1446.
Legend has it that the treasure of the MacCarthys was thrown into the depths of the Lake. One of the ancestors of the current owner almost drained the lake in the search but did not find anything!
The MacCarthys are one of the most ancient clans of Ireland. They kept resisting with clever tactics when they were being asked to surrender to the English throne.
Queen Elizabeth I tried to bring them under her control in vain. Her emissary, Sir George Carew was charged with persuading the MacCarthy chieftain to accept the authority of the English throne. Every time he tried, he was met with long and eloquent protestations of loyalty and honeyed flattery of the Queen - but also with no agreement. In frustration, Elizabeth exclaimed, “This is all Blarney. What he says he never means,” and a new word was born!
For over 200 years millions of pilgrims have climbed the steps to kiss the Blarney stone and gain the gift of eloquence.
A witch who was saved from drowning revealed its power to the MacCarthys:
“There is a stone there, that whoever kisses, Oh he never misses to grow eloquent.”
I did kiss that stone during my visit. They gave me a certificate for that.
The real blarney began here.

“So where are you traveling to, Sir? asked Theda my Uber driver in a cheerful voice filled with enthusiasm. A senior lady. Flaming red hair. Green-blue eyes. Extremely polite and of pleasant demeanor. Neatly dressed. Large horn-rimmed glasses. If I were to guess - she was more than 75 years old. And yet she had offered to help me with my luggage!

As the SUV rolled onto the US 322 highway I looked at the trees changing color. Fall season. It was a Sunday afternoon in late October but not yet very cold. Theda kept chatting with me. I had never seen such an amazing Uber driver like her. She was full of energy. When I shared that I was going to Dublin, she looked at me curiously through the rearview mirror and asked: You mean, Dublin Ireland? I nodded yes. She seemed to be clearly amused by my response.

Theda said she had recently learnt that she was of Irish origin from a DNA test.

Normally it takes less than 25 minutes to get to the Philadelphia airport. But there was a traffic snarl getting on the Commodore John Barry bridge. Trucks and cars were lined up at the toll booths. Each was jostling to get ahead. I looked at the time on my phone.

Did I have enough time to reach the airport and catch my flight?

Theda had fallen silent as she concentrated on getting the car ahead of a truck that was trying to steal a march on us. I watched with bated breath as she nudged ahead. This was becoming a competitive sport. For a few minutes as the din of dozens of idle engines continued unabated I felt that it was perhaps best to let the truck get ahead. I cleared my throat and tried to suggest in the subtlest possible manner that it was ok if the truck driver went ahead.

But Theda was unconvinced.

She believed that the truck had no business getting ahead of us. I looked up at the young truck driver who was bent on crushing us to the ground. The truck driver probably didn’t even realize that he was competing with a senior lady driver who could be more than twice his age.

Finally the truck driver relented. Or rather he was forced to relent. Theda beat him hands down at this risky game and quickly forged ahead in the lane that singled into the toll booth.

The jam continued even past the toll booths. Suddenly Theda swerved into an exit that said US 13. I had never gone to the airport via this exit. Partly because it was supposed to be a rough neighborhood.

“I know this place. This is where I grew up with my sister. People say this place is unsafe but I can stop here and talk to anyone.” I could see that she was made of a different metal. And I desperately hoped that we wouldn’t get stopped on the road.  

“Does your sister still live here?” I asked out of polite curiosity.

And that seemed to touch a raw nerve. Theda started recounting memories of the time when they were growing up as teenagers.

“I found out quite by accident that my sister had a daughter. My sister never told us. She is too conservative to declare that to the world. We grew up in a different age. You know…people were prejudiced about that sort of thing. But I am so excited to find that I have a niece! I have never met her though. She lives in Dublin and works at a famous pub called Lincoln’s Inn.”

We were now approaching the airport terminal. I asked her one quick question: “How did you find out that you had a niece?”

“Well…my niece Nora had taken her DNA test several years ago and she was already trying hard to find her real parents. When someone closely related takes the test, all relatives who have taken the test get to know. And guess what - the day I took my DNA test it was actually Nora’s birthday. Her wish came true!”
 
Part 2

It is around six o’ clock in the morning. The flight landed early in Dublin. Jetlagged and tired, I am trying to make polite conversation with my taxi driver. Partly to get some local insights but mostly just to stay awake.

“Ha-ware-ya?”

“I’m doing great. Thank you. It is always a pleasure to visit Dublin.”

I share with the taxi driver that I first visited Dublin more than 10 years ago but it is a very different city today. A significant amount of economic growth has happened and the city is brimming with a diverse set of young people.
“Annie pare-son has to pay so much more just to stay in the city. Politicians in Oireland today have no clue…” And then he went on to illustrate how the Minister in charge of Transportation had never driven a car himself, but was deciding on policies that impacted the day to day life of drivers in the city.

By the time we reached my hotel, I learnt about how he still insisted on sitting down with the entire joint family every evening for dinner. How he watched football, drank Guinness and spent quality time with his grandkids. How the corporates were getting greedier by the day. How the new generation was going crazy. How a picture of a little horse on your shirt could inflate its price dramatically. And how he slept peacefully at night with his two faithful dogs in the same bed.

Later that day I found my way to the downtown for an early dinner.

“What is the WiFi password please…” I asked the young waitress at Lincoln’s Inn. She was tall and had flaming red hair. Green-blue eyes. It was a busy hour at this downtown pub.

Lincoln’s Inn has a long history. Established in 1822, it was Dublin’s best known literary pub in the early decades of the 20th century. When the Westland Row Railway station opened in 1834 the place became very busy. A few decades later, gigantic Turkish Baths opened across the street. A different kind of environment came up that was not desirable. Then the City Fathers dedicated the street as Lincoln Place, in an attempt to rid the area of moral decadence and to honor the newly elected President of America. Now the place looks very different. The National Gallery of Ireland is across the street. The historic Trinity College and the childhood home of Oscar Wilde are only a short walk from this central place.

“James Joyce…all small caps and no space in between” the waitress gave me the password with a smile that appeared faintly familiar.

“Ah - James Joyce, the famous Irish author of ‘Ulysses’, I chuckled.

“Yes exactly. James Joyce used to wait at the Lincoln’s Inn for his girlfriend Nora, to finish her shift as a chambermaid at the Finn’s hotel a few doors away” she said while carefully placing the pint of Hop House Lager on the table.

“Nora…there is a call from your aunt Theda” someone beckoned the waitress from the counter.

Nora excused herself as she left in a haste to attend the call.

I looked up at the high wooden ceiling. The authentic Victorian color shades of browns and greens were redolent of an earlier age. As I admired the intricate craftsmanship of the cast iron pillar supports, I caught a glimpse of the oval mirrors that reflected the flaming red hair of Nora talking to her aunt Theda.

I woke up startled. Someone had just tapped me between the eyebrows.

I was taking one of those lazy naps that one is entitled to take while reading the Review section of the Journal - after a heavy Sunday breakfast. I looked around confused and angry. It was the angel. I had ordered an angel a few days ago. But what did it want now. I sat up and looked at it suspiciously, my eyebrows hemmed together in a deep frown.

“Tickets for the US Open Gentlemen’s Final are selling below par”, declared the angel.

Its called the Men’s Final here. The Brits call it Gentlemen’s Final at the Wimbledon, I retorted. But that was not the point. How did it know that resale tickets for the Tennis finals were selling at prices lower than what people had bought them for.

I shook my head in disbelief.

“Check with the Master”, the angel said.

You mean Ticketmaster? I asked while I fumbled for my glasses in the drawer. I finally found them and paused to clean the lenses with a soft piece of cloth. When I wore my glasses and looked up, the angel had disappeared.
Oh well. These AI bots have a life of their own.

It was raining heavily on a late Sunday morning. I checked the weather app – more thunderstorms in the afternoon. Weather this fall was quite unpredictable.

US Open Men’s Final. On the bucket list. Hmmm. Djoker and Del Potro. Hmmm. Was I crazy enough to drive 3 hours each way in this weather. What a rhetorical question.

I fired up the Ticketmaster app. Ticket prices had actually gone up since yesterday. The angel must be picking up fake information. Time for a coil change. You need to refresh – I murmured to the angel as if it were listening.

Suddenly I remembered the Ticketmaster app was programmed to trick returning viewers by making them feel prices were going up. I had to use a different IP address or a different computer and start again.

I found my old laptop in the basement and brought it back to life. And to my pleasant surprise – prices were indeed lower than expected. My immediate reaction was to take instant action.

Click. Click. Click.

In a few minutes I was all set. I was now the proud owner of a scannable mobile ticket to go watch the US Open Men’s Finals.

“You need to leave in 20 minutes if you want to avoid getting stuck in traffic” the angel had appeared again from nowhere.

One can get more done in 20 minutes than in 2 hours if one is going for the US Open Finals. I mean I got ready in a jiffy, packed a sandwich and gathered my umbrella. I even folded my raincoat just in case I needed to sit and watch in the rain. Umbrellas can be a nuisance as they can block the view of other spectators.

“You don’t need the raincoat. The Arthur Ashe stadium has a roof”, mocked the angel, winking at me as I glared at it.
It was pouring when I finally gave it a start. The Lexus sailed steadily on the turnpike for more than an hour before I started to see traffic jams. People tend to stay off the roads when it rains this hard.

“Do not take the Holland Tunnel, take the exit 13 for the Verrazano bridge”, warned the angel in a sharp tone. I was grateful that it was around and reminding me just in time. One wrong turn could mean a big delay.

The potholes are getting bigger. The tolls to get into the city keep getting higher. I wonder why all this tax money doesn’t get used to improve the roads. I had to come to a complete stop several times due to the burgeoning traffic. Meanwhile the wipers were doing a fast paced musical sequence on the windscreen.

Slow down. Stop. Release brakes. Drive slowly now. Stop again. Repeat endlessly. It was a painful ride for about an hour before I reached the stadium.

“Gate 2 is backed up completely. Take the Citifield exit and go to Gate 5” said the angel in a nonchalant way. It had the same supercilious tone as me. After all it had been configured to mimic my speech and my habits.

Gate 5 was indeed quite empty as I took the turn and got in line behind the other cars to pay the parking fee. Two attendants were waving the cars into the parking lot. There was a nice lady at the booth collecting the money.

“You have such pretty nails. Thank you so much and have a nice day!” the angel was mimicking my voice and talking to the parking lady.
Omg. I drove quickly into the parking lot without stopping to look at her pleased expression.

The stadium was half empty when I got in but it started filling up quickly. The ladies doubles match was on. Time to eat that sandwich.

After the starting celebrations when Djoker and Del Potro finally arrived - the fans cheered wildly. The stadium was now packed. Outside it was raining cats and dogs. But the giant roof on top of the stadium made the rain irrelevant to the game. The angel was right - raincoats or umbrellas were not required inside the stadium.

As Djoker placed his shots, thousands of his fans stood up and clapped in unison. When Del Potro aced at speeds as high as 136 mph, all his fans went wild and started singing his name.

For the next four hours I felt I was in a different world. I pinched myself. This was a long cherished dream come true.
I was grateful to have an angel. After all it was the angel that pulled me out of my Sunday slumber. It was because of the angel that I got to the stadium on time - despite all my lack of preparation.

It was a long and tiring day. But very fun filled – and very satisfying.

When I reached home I got a message that read: Your angel shall be delivered next Tuesday.             
                                                                                                                                
I was very confused. I thought my angel had already been delivered to me.
It had been with me the entire day. After all it was the angel that woke me up in the morning, reminded me to check the ticket prices, guided me with directions, even mimicked my voice to speak to the parking lady…

I looked around for the angel, but it was nowhere to be found.

I wonder if the tennis legends bring their own personalized “towel carriers” to the tournaments like Wimbledon. I mean how great do you need to be in flunkie-ism (that’s not really a word) to know exactly when your master (or mistress) needs a towel to wipe his or her sweat off their brow. And how swift footed do you need to be in order to catch the towel just in time as they drop it on the side without looking or caring to look where their towel actually dropped. And finally how magical do you need to be to merge into the backdrop like a statue - moments after laying the towel to dry on the side of your player. 

The towel carrier is the essence of “just in time” service in tennis tournaments. Imagine what would happen if the player did not get their towel in time - they would be blinded with sweat. Now imagine what would happen if the towel carrier didn’t catch the used towel in time. You guessed it. There would be dirty linen all over the place and not one would come to the rescue.

Fast forward 20 years. “I was once the towel carrier for Isner...” bragged the lady behind the grocery counter, she was in her forties. “He finally looked at me after he won the second set at the 2018 Wimbledon. I thought he almost wanted to give me a hug. Almost.” She said, her eyes now moist as she reached for a paper “towel”.

The towel and the towel carrier are often similar - perhaps equal in status, one and the same when it comes to their utility in life and on the Tennis Court. You depend on them although you cannot tell the difference between one and the other. You use them and forget about them. You do not look them in the eye but you cannot see clearly without them. You do not think about them, but they could make the difference between your winning or losing a set. 
Now that is something to think about. Wring it on baby!

“Can you please make the Manhattan with Jack Daniels please” I asked the uniformed waiter, trying to make sure they didn’t add a cheap bourbon to the cocktail. He smiled obediently, his attitude extra pleasing, his heavy hair gel instantly making him Bollywood compliant. I was at “Moghul” fine Indian restaurant in Edison New Jersey. And they had just begun their special lunch buffet for July Fourth.

Soft music wafted to my ears. “Nazar ke Samne Jigar ke Pass...Koi Rehta Hai...Vo Ho Tum”. Aashiqui. The music took me back in time to almost three decades ago when Kumar Sanu and Anuradha Paudwal sang some great songs composed by Nadeem and Shravan.

There was the increasing chatter of the diverse group of lunch time guests. The music would suddenly get loud and intimate and then faint away into the background mingling with the ebb and flow of the appetizing scent of the food creating a cocktail for the senses. I inhaled the appetizing scent of the Tarka Daal, the Tandoori Chicken and the Mutton Rogan Josh in the restaurant air even before going to the buffet table. Hmmmmmm. Part of the pleasure of fine dining is to have the right ambience and the right music in the background.

The service was really good for a busy day, the waiter brought the “papri chaat” appetizer to the table. That saved a trip to the buffet. The small plate with its spicy chutneys and colorful ingredients lay in stark contrast with the clean table cloth.

“I’m going for another helping of the Saag Chicken” remarked the young woman seated on the adjacent table. She looked in her twenties, casually dressed, torn skinny jeans, v- neck tee, flip flops. Her companion was much older, he donned an Old Navy cap and seemed preoccupied with a plate full of Tandoori chicken.

Buffet lunch of this quality at $11.95 on a weekday is actually a steal. It is obviously a loss leader for Moghul. Its the dinner menu that brings them their target audience. For any buffet it is hard to get good service. But here it was different. Or perhaps once you prove your credentials by ordering a cocktail you get special attention. I’m not sure.

“The Mutton is cooked really well...I think I will go for another helping...” remarked the young lady at the next table to her elderly Old Navy companion.

At a nearby long table there was a noisy family representing three generations. Looking at the number of plates with food they had on their table, it seemed they had been starving for days. There was this middle aged couple wearing Kurta Jeans and Salwar Kameez, slightly crouching but limping steadily towards the buffet. Then there was this little infant who cried a bit and then fell asleep amidst the hullabaloo. He would most certainly wake up if the noise subsided.

“Does she have to pay for the buffet?!” asked the elderly man in the Old Navy cap. The waiter had brought him the bill and although I could not see the bill - I guess had charged for two adults.

“How old is she...” asked the waiter.

“Well...she is 10...” said the man.
I almost choked. If she were 10 then I must be 20. The buffet was listed $3 cheaper for children upto 10 years old.

The waiter was too polite to question this conservative pronouncement of the guest’s age, he apologized and promised to bring the revised bill.

“Koi rehta hai...wo ho tum...” the background music seemed to come back again from nowhere and filled the moment with memories of a younger age.

Some songs make you feel young. Just like some buffets.

Happy Fourth.
(July 4th, 2018, New Jersey)