Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts

Friday, 30 October 2020

Good news comes in twos

Dear Friends and Readers,

I hope you've been well and healthy. 

The year 2020 seems to have played a trick on us. Every time I write a blog post, it feels like I'm near April somewhere. How could I be looking at the beginning of November already? I'm not complaining. As a matter of fact, I'm here to share two tasty pieces of treat i.e. good news with you. But before I do, a little preamble to how the news came about.

As you may recall, this year's A to Z Blogging Challenge took me down memory lane where I met my grandparents: Beji and Papaji. Some of the posts I wrote introduced you to them and their love of land and food and their devotion to us, their grandchildren. I chose to call myself a princess in one post and Artemis in another. What they call pride/hubris in the real world is known as imagination in the land of stories, right? Those posts were received with so much love and appreciation that when a call for stories for an anthology of feel good stories rang out in these parts, I rewrote a post into a short story and sent it.

Guess what? It got picked! And the book was launched on the 28th of October 2020! Miracles do happen. I'm sharing all the links. I'm not getting paid or anything but half the money raised from the sale of the book will be used to support an animal charity called 'Prani, The Pet Sanctuary' in Bangalore. I think it's a win win. My dream of seeing my work in print is helping to support a charity. What more could I ask for? I'm happy:) 

You can read 'Kingdom of Kitchen' and 27 other stories in the collection.

Presenting: Tea With a Drop of Honey by the Hive


Please leave helpful reviews if you can.

Covidkaal (the Covid Times) brought out another passion of mine to the fore. It happened by chance. And once again, it's thanks to the A to Z Challenge of 2020 where I met a kind soul and my namesake, Arti of my space who introduced me to online open mic sessions. One thing led to another and I found myself reading out my stories on zoom calls and Insta live sessions in June and July. By the time August rolled in, I had even started 'performing' poetry! It felt like I was back in school, on stage, debating and reciting. The thrills and chills felt exactly like they'd done more than 3 decades ago.

Then, last week, someone I'd met online on one such session asked me to send him some of my work and informed me that he hosts Mirchi Scribbled, a poetry/spoken word/storytelling platform affiliated to a well known radio channel in India called Radio Mirchi. He liked the pieces I'd sent him.

Artemis was back -- she even did a little victory dance to celebrate:)

When a piece was picked and okayed, I took it with me on my morning walks, sat with it under our neem tree and let the words that were written on a laptop screen become one with me.

Then last Friday, the husband and I teamed up to shoot a video of my poetry recital. I wore a grey Coimbatore cotton saree with a gorgeous black and mustard border, my favourite Kali locket, a pair of jhumkas and a big red bindi. I was ready.

We should be done in an hour, tops. I figured. We'll eat lunch after.

Two and a half hours of forgetting a line, knocking the phone off its stand, forgetting to push the record button, loo breaks, umpteen emptying of full glasses of water in single gulps followed by more loo breaks later, we agreed to stop and send the best recording we'd managed thus far. Lunch couldn't wait any longer.

Thanks to Parth Vasani of Mirchi Scribbled who did a stellar editing job, our amateur attempts at recording look pretty neat.

Presenting, my debut performance:
So, that's all folks.

I know Covid Times have been tough but all this sequestering has been like a hatching for me. I'm the egg that's had enough time and warmth over the last six months to crack open tiny parts of my creative spirit from the safety of my nest and peek out a little.

Wishing you a wonderful Halloween if you celebrate and a magical weekend if you don't.

It's a very special full moon tonight. Do go out (if it's possible and if the skies are clear) and let the Moon bathe you in her moonlight.

I owe all the above to the world of blogging and to the A to Z Challenge this year. And to you my dear friends and readers.

Thank you.

Love and prayers,

Arti

Thursday, 20 August 2020

Rejection: does it make you or break you?


Have you ever felt the insides of your gut churn so violently that you are sure the intestinal walls have convoluted into a vortex—a sinking, gutted, dark vortex that will only stop once it has buried you deep in the Earth’s core?

Saturday, 16th August 2020
It started last night.

24 hours later, and the whirlpool inside me rages and whirls and tornadoes round and round.

I want it to stop.

But then my heart which has been beating faster than it has ever beaten--even faster than that time my lips had touched his for the first time!

Okay, that happened a long time ago, but still--the dhak, dhak, dhak of my heartbeat drumming against my ear drums had erupted with the ferociousness of first love--after we’d kissed, however, the heart had found its usual rhythm again.


But this time it hasn’t stopped its somersaults since Friday night.

What’s happening to me?

All I did was: sent my story for a story-telling competition; got picked for a regional round; learnt my story by heart and performed it in front of a panel--zooming into my own eyes on my laptop screen. The little camera light on top kept blinking throughout -- reminding me that I was being watched and judged.

Now, I’m waiting for the results---anxiously, neurotically, obsessively. Not at all like my calm, cool as a cucumber veneer that the world sees. Not at all.

Inside, I'm this mixer-grinder: crushing hot, red chillies on and on; the sharp blades slicing through my invisible expectations: will I? won't I?

Outside, I am visiting a friend who’s had a knee surgery recently: even cracking a naughty joke to cheer him up.

Every opportunity I get, I check my Instagram feed--on the sly--hiding my newly developed obsession from my own judging eyes.

I search for the organiser's insta--refresh their page. No news.

Stop it Arti! I admonish myself. Show yourself the face you show the world--be the badass bindaas optimist you’ve always claimed to be.

Why? What’s the matter? It's not so easy when it hits home, is it? Why is this bothering me so much? I ask my sanity.

Is it the long, long lockdown? Has it turned me into a self-obsessed, inward looking narcissist? 

No matter how soundly my own logic supports common sense, my ears refuse to listen. I can’t help it.

Night falls. No results.

“It’s a tough call”, a WhatsApp message on the participants' group chat says. "You were all so good!" it says.

It doesn’t make a jot of a difference to my pummelling gut.

Others on the group are pouring their hearts out; making connections, sharing stories they wrote.

I’m feeling quietly confident about my story--despite the drumming in my ears--so, I play the mother (a role I love to play) and send out some congratulatory direct messages. It calms me down.

Secretly, I’m very, very hopeful about my own chances. Those fairy lights I so artistically put in my rattan pot should’ve done the trick. They did say make the background interesting.

My story spoke about how my life had unravelled when I was 19. A mother’s suicide, a father’s betrayal and step-motherly treatment were the plot points of my story.

I’ve only recently reconciled with my father. What if he objects to my story when I make it to the finals? Will we become estranged again? I weave webs of future possibilities entangled with past injustices.

Night falls. We’re told the results will be announced the next morning. I put my phone in the other room to help break this silly new habit of checking it every half an hour.

Sunday, 17th August 2020
It's 2:30 am. I can sense my phone is missing me. I get up and bring it back to my bedside table.
I toss and turn and try to get some sleep. I drift off for a bit.

I'm up before sunrise.

My gut is a pit--it’s churning.

My heart is a mess--it’s burning.

My mail inbox blinks with the address line. It’s from them. I open it.

The first line reads:‘Hope you’re well.’


The bile rises like Doha temperature in summer.


My saliva tastes like sour grapes.


My ricocheting heart frees itself from my rib cage and slides down the chair’s legs-- the chair I'm sitting on. It feels like fresh cement drying, heavily.

I wish I was Hailey of Modern Families who would say: "Don’t keep me in suspense! Tell me! Did I make it?" whenever one of her family read the first line of her college application reply: “We regret to inform you….”

Every molecule and every fibre of my being was expecting to read : "Congratulations!" not “Hope you’re well.” 

How can I be well after reading this??

Pray, do tell.

I type out: “Congratulations--All the best.” on the WhatsApp group chat.

One or two winners respond with: "We are all winners."

I smirk. Only a winner would write that.

More ‘congratulations’ float in--mostly typed out in pain (I think) by others like me whose stories and performances didn’t cut the mustard in the regional rounds.

A fog of self-doubt is threatening to settle around. I get up and fix myself a super strong cup of coffee--even through the fog I remember to add coconut oil--skin to fog mein bhi dihktee hai na—dhyaan to rakhna padega.

But instead of dissipating the fog, the coffee acts like an electric charge. Now all of me is reverberating like a phone on silent mode: buzzing aimlessly in all directions.

Yoga. I think. 

Yes, a good stretch and a few deep breaths will shake me out of this 'self-imposed-pity-party-monologue'.

I share the rejection with Giselle, my yoga teacher.

She smiles and I feel her love.

I’m in locust pose when my phone starts buzzing--silently. My bag dances on the floor. My phone never rings during yoga class.

I check. It’s Vidya. I’ll call her back, I think and resume the locust.

“I thought they were calling to say they’ve made a mistake.” Giselle whispers.

“You and I belong to the same galaxy--forever the optimists.” I tell her while transitioning from locust to downward dog.

“Why not?” She says.

I nod looking at my navel.

A head stand should help me change my perspective.

At least you made it to the regional round. 1500 applications. Imagine! How wonderful!

Dhadaaam! My pesky perspective is lying sprawled out on the mat with me.

“What happened Arti?” Giselle sounds worried.

I have never fallen off like that.

It's a Sunday of firsts, I amuse myself with that thought and reply,“I lost my focus.”  

“Get a hold of yourself woman--what’s gotten into you?” I tell myself cocooned in child pose.

Yoga is over. 

I start my car and drive off. I reach the barrier too soon. It refuses to lift. The security guard looks at me. He’s miffed. My usual over exaggerated waving hand to say bye is missing today. He signals me to reverse, a little more, a little more…enough distance later, the barrier relents and lifts to let me go.

Eureka!

Ping!

The light bulb comes on. 

Distance, woman--take a few steps back, back off a bit. Then try again.

The fog flops over and starts to settle down around the accelerator pedal of my car. A cautious driver, usually, I can’t wait to get home to face my rejection head on.

Park car. Lock car. Turn keys. Mask off. Sing Mahamrityunjaya mantra to ensure the hand-washing is taking its stipulated time. Dry hands. Run to the laptop. Start typing.
I can and I will.

Rejection may be plucking my heart strings and serenading songs of mein bechaaree –a duet with my bruised ego, but my spirit--the one that shines through me and blasts out to the world that it’s not over till the fat lady sings is making sure I write this story out--my story  out and send it as a wild card entry.

Perhaps rejection was the spice that was missing from my first entry.

Perhaps it’s time to pickle that rejection and turn it into a projection.

Feminism ka sirf gaana nahin gaana hai. Feminist ban kar dikhana hai.

Shakti and Kali didn’t sit and cry when things didn’t go their way. They picked a different weapon and carried on.

Agar dil tootega nahin to shaayree kaise niklegee? 

What better instrument to write with than a broken heart?

I write. I record. I send my wild card entry at literally the last minute.

Wednesday,19th August 2020
Another "Hope you're well." mail greeted me today.

But, this time it didn't sting as much.


************************

I've come to the conclusion that experiences such as the one I went through this past week are my 'quality checks' sent to me by the universe. Just when I was lulling myself into believing that I'm so cool about working for the joy of it, not needing any pats on backs, doing it all in Krishna's name, for it is the Spirit that guides me and She who does it all and I just get the credit. Why! I had been reading and understanding the Gita all through the lockdown. OMG! I am so sorted now. 

Dhadaam---just when that egoistic self-congratulatory voice makes a hammock out of you and swings on you--plays you like a spinning top--such occurrences blow in like  tornadoes. tip you out of that comfy hammock and say: 

the work is never done--keep going--keep going--keep going.

What are your thoughts about rejection? Is work enough? Or is acceptance part of the game?
Are we more in need of acceptance of others when we are insecure?
Or is it the essence of art?
jungle mein mor naachaa kisne dekha?

Does rejection rock the boat
or does it keep one afloat?

Does a story need a reader/listener to be called a story?
Or can it survive in isolation?
I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Rumi, adrak wali chai and stunning sunsets work in tandem to nudge me closer to my equilibrium. 
I can't thank them enough:)

Stay safe and well dear ones.
I'm so grateful that you take the time to read these posts.
Much love.
Arti 
xx

Saturday, 30 April 2016

Y is for Yoghurt bath #AtoZChallenge

When we were little, my mother used to bathe my sister and me with yoghurt. Ewwww! You say.
Precisely!
Courtesy: Google Images
The whole tamasha (fiasco) used to take place in the open. My grandfather's house, where we lived till I was eight, had a big rectangular cement water tank in the garden. It was tucked in a corner, almost next to the metal gate that we used to swing on and get told off for on a daily basis. Spiky fronds of ginger foliaged to the right of this grey water tank. A stubby pomegranate tree stood behind it. It flowered beautifully but its fruit was pitiful; the seeds never managed to plump up. I jumped off this tank once because a boy dared me to and landed on the balls of my feet so hard that I thought I saw stars (like in comic books) for a few seconds.

So, come Sunday morning, usually once a month, a medium sized steel bowl (katora) full of yoghurt (dahi in Hindi) would appear with a couple of drops of mustard oil in my mother's hand. The two of us would be ordered to march ourselves to the water tank (paani ki tunkee) clad only in our cotton kuchhees (underwear).

Even before my mother sat down on the low wooden stool (chowki) and even before she removed her dupatta (scarf) to settle down to get to her business, the pungent smell of mustard oil would hit my nostrils. I would've done anything to escape the ordeal.

Mummy would scoop out a dollop of curd with her fingers, place it on her palm, rub her palms together and she was ready to go. First stop: the arms, starting at the shoulders, she would rub the yoghurt into our arms, tut-tutting at the dry elbows. Discovering dry patches on our little bodies always renewed my mother's vigour to rub in the yoghurt with added pressure. Legs followed arms, then the toes and the spaces in between the toes that always tickled and the heels, then the back and then the tummy. AND THEN the bit I HATED the most: the face and the hair! Ewww! Ewww!  Her four gold bangles would jingle-jangle as the dreaded mustard oil smell came closer and closer to my nostrils: the cheeks, forehead and chin, the neck, behind the ears and then the hair.

We were washed down with warm water and patted dry. Rajma chawal (Kidney beans and rice) was our Sunday meal. By the time we got dressed, my grandfather would be getting ready to eat his lunch outdoors, under the big mulberry tree and we would hear him call out our names to hurry up and get our ghirais (morsels). You see, back then, humans at home started lunch after a chapati had been set aside for the cow (who'd wander up to the metal gate at precisely lunch time) and another for stray street dogs. That was my grandmother's routine. My grandfather ate his lunch after he had fed the first couple of  morsels to his two granddaughters, my sister and I and then my brother when he was born. He used to say that his food tasted better after we'd taken 'bhog' (offering). Those morsels are what I'm looking forward to when I meet him in my next life.

Once we moved out of my grandfather's house, bathing with yoghurt stopped. Maybe we were getting old or maybe my mother's depression was getting worse. I don't know.

For a long time, I kept yoghurt bathing a secret I was ashamed of. I didn't want anyone to find out that we had yoghurt baths on Sundays when we were kids; beats me why I thought like that. Because, your skin feels like silk after a yoghurt scrub. Try it, if you don't believe me. Word of caution: the hair smells yoghurty afterward, but it feels so velvety.

Many years later, I came across a short story in Hindi (I think it was grade 7 or 8) called Usne Kaha Tha by Chandradhar Sharma Guleri (1883- 1922).

It's considered to be the first short story in Hindi by some. It's certainly an amazingly written one. I read it when I was 12 or 13, but I remember the character, Lehna Singh and his question to the girl, 'Teri kudmayi ho gayee?' (Are you engaged?) as if I read it only last year.

In this story, Lehna Singh (the protagonist) is asked to fetch yoghurt from the bazaar for his uncle who wants to wash his hair. 

That day, I felt normal. 


'There's comfort in numbers', a friend recently wrote on facebook. I certainly felt it that day.

I don't bathe with yoghurt any more, maybe I should start. But, I do mix up a face pack with yoghurt that I apply at least once a week. This recipe is the result of many years of applying home-made face packs. This one works for me.

Mix all the ingredients listed below. Apply on face. When it's dry to touch (20-30 minutes), wash with lukewarm water. Pat dry. Smile.
Warning! DO NOT get the door with the mask on--it looks pretty ewww when it's on the face.

Yoghurt: 1 or 2 teaspoons
Instant coffee granules: 1 teaspoon
Turmeric powder: 1/4 teaspoon (if you have fresh turmeric, then grate it and a few drops of its juice should do)
Honey: 1/2 teaspoon
Lemon Juice: 2 drops.

Play around with the consistency and see what suits you best. 

Have a glowing Saturday :)
*********

If you are fond of reading short stories in Hindi, here's Usne Kaha tha in Hindi.

Saturday, 22 August 2015

Jamun Tree

This is a first for me. A short story that I'd written a few months ago was published on Wednesday! Wohoooo:)

Wednesday had been set aside to sort through my daughter's things: the throw-in-the-bin pile, the taking-with-her-to-University pile, the-stuff-to-leave-behind pile and the-can't-decide-now-will-look-at-later pile. That was the plan.

Messenger buzzed to inform me that my story would be online any minute; would I like to add a Bio and a photograph?
Bio- yes, photograph- not sure.

The two lines of Bio were easy to write, but finding a photo that fit the image in my head of what I look like proved too challenging. A cartoon avatar will have to do.

Here's the story:

http://kindlemag.in/jamun-tree/

Let me know what you think...
please share-
if you enjoyed it
and
let me know if you didn't.


Like a puppy with too many new toys to play with, I was too excited to focus on anything that day. The can't -decide-pile of things in my daughter's room has turned into a mountain! Let's hope I can find my focus to help her whittle through it tomorrow.

For some of you, jamun may be an unknown fruit, so here are a few pictures and facts:

Image result for free pictures of jamun tree with fruit

Image result for free pictures of jamun tree with fruit
These  pictures have been copied from Google Images.

Six months ago, I bought a jamun sapling from a local nursery. That day, while I was easing out the roots of the young tree into a pot, my childhood summer memories kept flashing on and on till I sat myself down and started writing. 

A blogger friend has written a beautifully illustrated post about charpoys-- here's the link.


Have a lovely weekend everyone. 


Sunday, 12 October 2014

Once upon a time in Siena.

We were lucky to be in Siena to witness the magic of the Palio this year.The Palio is a horse race that is held in Siena on the 2nd of July and the 16th of August every year.

How did it all start? Here is a short children's story inspired by what I saw. It's in the style of a legend and completely a figment of my imagination.

I would love for you to read it aloud to your children:)

How the Palio came to Siena?

Once upon a time in the beautiful land of Siena, all the horses gathered in the city centre for an emergency meeting.

 A crisis was upon them.



Just the previous day, the humans had proclaimed
that they were the new lords and masters of the land.
The humans had declared with their drums and their trumpets,
"We shall rule over the land of Siena and all the animals will serve us starting from the sunrise of the
First day of July."

This announcement sent shock waves through Siena. How could the humans do such a thing?
Humans and animals had lived together as equals since time began. Nature had decreed all creatures to be equal and the Earth belonged to all. All the creatures enjoyed the bounty of this blessed land and cared for it with love and a sense of duty.

The horses weren't too happy about this 'take-over'. They took the lead and met by the Tower in Piazza del Campo on the Last day of June to find a solution to this problem. All the other animals of Siena came too. They were the Eagle, the Snail, the Panther, the Tortoise, the little Owl, the Unicorn, the Ram, the Caterpillar, the Dragon, the Giraffe, the Porcupine, the She-wolf and the Goose.

The oldest of the horses was called Palio. He was very wise. He told all the animals gathered by the Tower that if they tried to resist, the humans might punish them with whips or worse.

'True. True.' cried the Eagle who had spotted a human whipping a horse in another land a few moons ago.

A murmur of concern turned into a clamouring of panic as none of the animals gathered by the Tower had ever heard of humans being cruel to any animal before.

'My friends,' breathed the Dragon, 'In my 108 years, I have seen humans in other lands being cruel and mean. They hit and kick and torture animals for food, fun and sport. I decided to settle in Siena and retire here because I thought that the humans here would always treat us as equals.

The animals debated and discussed.

Plans were panned out.

NOTHING.

Nothing seemed foolproof.

All their lives, the Caterpillar and the Snail had observed the humans closely and knew just how clever they were.

Their plan had to be cleverer.

Their plan had to feel as soft as the Goose's down but act as sharp as the Porcupine's quills.



The Sun would be setting soon. The animals still hadn't reached a decision. There wasn't much time left as the humans' decree would come into play with the next sunrise.

'I have an idea', neighed Palio with a serious face, but his wise old years could not hide the smile that had started to spread across his wrinkles.

When the animals heard what Palio's idea was, an instant cheer broke out-
'Hurray! Hurray!' shouted the animals.

The Ram trotted a fox trot and the Giraffe shook his booty. The poor Caterpillar was about to do the caterpillar when-

the little Owl hooted, 'Quuuuuieeeeetooo hoo everyone! Or the humans will get suspicious.'

Loud cackling simmered down to soft giggles.

The idea developed into a plan.

The animals had to work quickly. Their plan had to hit the target like a Ram's horns-
 strong and precise.

They split into teams and started working.

The Panther and the Eagle sped to the Forest and told him about Palio's plan.
The Forest was impressed.

The Tortoise and the Goose called all their friends to pass on the plan to their friend,
 the Wave (daughter of Ocean) to help the animals, too.

The plan had to be executed that very night before sunrise.

The she-wolf watched the moon and kept time, while the Unicorn raced towards the horizon to calculate how much time the animals had before the sun would rise.
The Giraffe kept watch- this was a human-free zone.

There was no time to lose and no scope for second chances.

Will the plan work? Will they turn into humans' slaves with the next sunrise or enjoy the freedom of the blessed land of Siena like Mother Nature had intended?

What do you think?
and
What was their plan?

Well, it was a simple plan.

Palio had suggested that the animals deliver a message to the humans in their dreams.
You see, when humans dream, they can understand the language of the animals- they become one with Nature and her creatures and they listen. But when they wake up and get busy with making money, they forget how to listen to Mother Nature and can no longer understand the animals or their own Universe.
Palio knew this when he thought of his clever plan.

Each animal had chosen a human and it was this animal's job to make sure that his human received Palio's message in their dream so that when they woke up the next morning they would remember the message but not the dream itself.

The Forest sang a beautiful lullaby for all the humans to sleep that night.
Each leaf rustled a magical tune to help the humans slumber into sound sleep.

The next morning, the First morning of July, the Wave used her friend, the Seashell,to send out a siren of wake-up calls full of the magic of the Ocean so that the humans would wake up
fresh and happy-
forgetting the dream, but remembering the message.

But, what was this message?

What do you think happened that night?

No one knows for sure but the animals of Siena live happily with their humans to this day.

The humans act like their protectors instead of their masters.

You don't believe me. Do you?

Come visit Siena and you will see how much the humans of Siena love all these animals.
Yes, even the Unicorn.

They even organise a race to honour the horses and their friends every year and guess what the race is called?

Il Palio or the Palio.

When you visit Siena, you will see that the entire city is decorated with flags showing all the animal friends of the horses- the Eagle, the Snail, the Panther, the Tortoise, the little Owl, the Unicorn, the Ram, the Caterpillar, the Dragon, the Giraffe, the Porcupine, the She-wolf and the Goose. Even the Tower, the Forest, the Wave and the Seashell have their own flags.

These flags represent a 'contrade' or an area of the city. The humans who live in these 'contrades' are extremely passionate about their flags, the colours of their flags and the horse who represents their 'contrade' in the race.
So much so, that the humans of these 'contrades' can think of nothing else but the Palio (the race)  all year round- in fact all their lives.

The horses run the race but do you know that a horse can win a race even without its rider?

Not only that, the horses do as they wish. They sometimes don't even finish the race. They run backwards. They throw their jockeys off. They get up to all sorts of mischief and yet all the humans cheer for them and clap for them and when one race is over, they start preparing for the next race.

One can almost see the horses giggling their hind legs off; having the last 'neigh'!

What do you think that message in the dream was?

While you think, let me share some evidence I collected when I visited Siena in July this year- evidence to prove that the plan worked.

The flags of the Contrades...

the Wave




the Forest



I don't know what this flag represents. I clicked it as it was fluttering:)


the Giraffe






The She-Wolf Scarves





And this is how the Palio came to Siena.

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The Palio is indeed an experience of a lifetime. We hadn't planned to be there as I hadn't heard of the Palio before we landed in Itlay. Our trip was fluid and based on finding the most interesting route around Tuscany. As luck would have it, we ended up in Siena around Palio day.

Piazza del Campo


We happened to be in Piazza del Campo when the police started putting up barricades and the many restaurants serving food outdoors started packing up their tables and chairs. We realised that by staying on we would be able to watch the rehearsal. It was stunning. The race was over in less than 4 seconds as most of the horses finished the race without their jockeys. Scary. I have never witnessed anything quite like it- EVER!


The energy of the people throbs the city. To draw a comparison with my Indian upbringing- it's the kind of energy one feels in a parade ground on Dusshera day or while visiting Pandals during Durga Pooja. You have to be there to feel it. The cobblestone streets of Siena vibrate with the  baritone and bass singing of the supporters.  The colours of the contrades and the passion of the people sweeps you into a frenzy with a gusto even when you are just a visitor.



These men burst into an impromptu singing session because a couple of people (perhaps unsuspecting tourists) passing by were wearing the 'other' contrade colours. This had a knock on effect and other groups soon joined in. It was barely lunch time...a good five hours before the rehearsal!



The next day, I was able to convince my husband (not the kids who stayed back) to visit the Piazza for the last rehearsal before the Palio. So this was the evening of the 1st of July 2014. The Piazza was already heaving and at 5 feet 1 and a 1/2 inches, I could only see the tops of people's heads.


So, I decide to venture away from the action and walk the empty streets of Siena. This is what I found: Contrades dressed up for street parties to be held after the race. It felt like I had won a back stage pass to a West End show:)









 





Just imagine the scene when the party gets going. 

The window in this shop was getting ready with the jockeys ...on your marks....get set....



As usual, my eyes were drawn to windows and doors and the camera followed...






We finished our walk with the best Espresso Macchiato served by the kindest folk in Siena- at Nannini's. I was blown away by how welcoming the staff behind the counters were despite being super busy. To top it all, while we stood holding our macchiatos, they served free snacks to all the people squashed inside watching the race on the screen.
It must've been my lucky day. I saw the city and didn't miss the race. Yipee!



As this post has become unusually long, I'll share some other useful details about Siena in my next post.

Let me end with a few links that will give you the TRUE reasons for why the Palio is held in Siena:-

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palio_di_Siena

Let me know what your children thought of the story.

Hope to see you soon. xx