Web migration

Hello everyone,

Just like the migratory bird that I am, Writing Organism has migrated to a new website.

Let us meet there to exchange adventures, tales, and, more.

Warmly,
Sham
aka Writing Organism

Blogging in luxury

Keep up to date with the writing organism's Luxembourg adventures via the Angloinfo Luxembourg blog.

With a warning of disturbing image - Elephant hunt

The Spanish economy is in shambles. I do not need to get into numbers, plus I will get off my high horse of working in Germany and humble myself. The European economy in general is in shambles. And Spain on the cusp of tanking. Living in Germany, not a day passes by without an argument of sorts on who should bail who, what should be done, who is responsible, the conversation possibilities are endless and every politician in sight trumpets his or her own views.

This post is about trumpeting. Of a different kind. It has to do with Spain as well. The King of Spain to be specific who apparently makes it a sport to go elephant hunting. This is a picture of him looking rather jubilant I suppose after his hunt.

Photo credit: Facebook wall D'Ibiza

And apparently his hunt cost a whopping €44,000 euros. This from the King of a nation where unemployment is at its all time low and who's cost of borrowing just rose another six percent. What kind of a man hunts elephants and prides himself upon it and how can such a trade even exist. It is not too long ago that the ivory trade was made illegal. To shoot an elephant for the pure sake of a hunting orgasm? What is he compensating for?

He has apparently fallen and hurt his hip, which I am sure his millions has paid for him to repair in a jiffy. I do not regularly make it a habit to wish ill people more ill. But, I think in this case, karma seems to have spoken for itself.

I attach here another image of an elephant with his mahout. I have seen elephants in all sorts of settings, and if I could make an elephantine wish, stop the horrendous act of elephant hunting.

Photo credit: Facebook page of Practising through mind and meditation

Guest post to New Indian Writing site

Check out my take on whether my heritage influences my writing on the New Indian Writing Blog.

Writing as an Indian or not?

Shamala S. Palaniappan grapples with how her heritage rears its head in her writing and reading.

"Are you Indian?"

Living in Germany, it must have be one of the most common questions I have been affronted with.  My answer has always depended on the situation, the person asking, and my mood for the day.

That is usually followed very quickly by, " I looooove Bollywood." At which point, I put an end to the conversation. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the industry, nor the movies, I am simply not a fan, and just simply because I am brown and have a name with 13 syllables, does not make me an instant expert!

I never see myself, which probably always been one of my virtues and problems in the same breadth. I have no sense of my height, colour, girth. I can stand amidst six-foot tall blondes and not know that I am the odd one out.

Because I really believe our outer shells can never do us any justice. As a writer, it is my inner self,  what I hear, see, feel, taste, suffer that appear on paper as words, in the hope that the reader will join my journey for the short while that they remain on the page.

But a question that presents itself every now and then and I know that I have to address is my Indian heritage as a writer. I stand in the wake of giants. Names such as Tagore, Rushdie, Roy, Narayanan, Andal, Adiga, Divakaruni, Mistry, Desai, the list is endless. Google search Indian authors and the list reels for miles.

When I read anything by any Indian author, I feel as if I have come home. It is really peculiar, as I have never lived in India. But perhaps, I carry the essence of a 5000-odd year soul in me.  I hear the characters speaking directly to me, relating tales that I understand, and showing me emotions that I immediately comprehend.

Perhaps, there will always be an umbilical cord that connects me to the mother nation, and as an individual I do not need to address my ties since there will always be a connection at a very subliminal level.

I applaud the written words that India has birthed. I have learnt, lived, and loved every bit of the country I know only as a tourist through the books. I have read and reread stories to visualize what life must have been like during different political eras, through the labyrinth of history.

The voices of Indian authors that have given life to characters who have traversed the sub continent from north to south, east to west, coast to coast. I could wax lyrical on each individual writer, but will save that for another post.

I want to whisper into the air, the story that wants to be told, the story of an Indian soul from a migrant family, who cannot stop – migrating. Where does the soul root itself? Where does the soul find its home?

It is the story that I am writing. It is the story of searching for answers.

Because for now, my answer is: I am not sure.

You are everywhere

A short story, incited by hearing Edith Piaf's Tu Es Partout.

She had not intended to commit murder. Perhaps even cold-blooded murder? But she did not really know what that meant.

*

He sat in his large, leather chair and she was lounging on the chaise. The TV was blaring loudly. Well, their surround sound system was. They were watching 'Saving Private Ryan.' She had already teared up a number of times, but stopped because he laughed at her. She tensed up, but continued to watch the movie.

Their little miniature Doberman pinscher slept between them, happy and at peace to be at home with her 'parents'. She slept most of the time these days, given her age. Lina had found her by the road one day as inched forward in Kuala Lumpur's daily grid lock of traffic. The dog was sitting by the road looking lost and the side of Jalan Tun Razak was the last place any dog should be. Lina saw the dog up ahead and as she inched forward in her car towards her, she knew she had to stop and take her in. She opened the passenger door once she got close enough and whistled. The dog jumped in, Lina shut the door, she drove away, the dog stayed. Lina had tried to look for the dog's owners, but after three months, knew that little Jolie had been abandoned. 

Jolie stirred in her sleep. She looked like she was enjoying a good doggy dream, perhaps chasing rabbits, or digging holes, or whatever it is dogs dreamt of. Lina looked down at Jolie curled up on the floor and thought for a moment how at peace the dog looked. She wanted to trade places with Jolie, if not to simply enjoy peace and dream happy dreams. Lina's dreams had all been so dark.

She turned to their 42-inch TV screen mounted on the wall. The soldiers in the movie were all in a quaint French town. Edith Piaf's Tu es partout was ringing loud and clear from the tower. Lina had always loved the song. 'You are everywhere'. Lina started humming and whispering the words.

"Can you stop that?"

His sharp voice woke her out of her reverie. She became silent and followed the translation the soldier was reciting to the troop. She was warmed by the words of the song. Nous pourrons si bien nous aimer, tu verras la vie sera belle. "We can love each other again and you’ll see life would be beautiful." In many ways, that is how Lina felt.

"Oh yeah, we need to talk," he said. He had a nervous smirk on his face and he ended his sentence with his usual nervous giggle. It annoyed her, irrevocably. She shut her eyes for a moment and envisioned what it would be like to reach out and slap him. Hard with the back of her hand. Just to kill the laughter.

"But not now. I will tell you when the time is right."

She choked back her disappointment. She had approached him more than three months ago to tell him she wanted him to leave. He had not taken her seriously, as usual writing off her sentiments to her temperamental nature, not to be taken seriously. She was getting tired. In the three months, he had behaved as if she had never broached their dissolving of their marriage. As if she had never raised the subject, as if their marriage was a sham, and as if all was well with the world.

All was not well with her world. She needed him to be out, out of her house, out of her life, for ever. The toxicity of his presence was reaching levels that would set a Geiger counter off the charts.

"I think we should talk now," she ventured.

"We are watching a movie."

"There is such a thing as a pause button, you know?"

"There is a time and place to have these conversations, you know?"

"I am getting impatient, we have been needing to talk about this for months now, and I am not sure you are actually thinking things through," she said, almost to the point of begging.

He stopped paying attention to her and reverted his attention to the TV screen. The scene was getting intense with soldiers dying and Edith Piaf's voice was drowned in the midst of the gunfire.

He stopped paying attention to her and reverted his attention to the TV screen. The scene was getting intense with soldiers dying and Edith Piaf's voice was drowned in the midst of the gunfire.

Just as Lina's voice was constantly drowned in the proverbial gunfire of life. She knew her time had to come, but she wondered how long she could hold on. She did not want to pack up and leave. That would have been easy, but she knew there was a side to her that wanted him to make the move. Make a move. Make any move for that matter.

*

In the end, she did make the move for him. They were driving to Penang, up in the north of Malaysia. It was a four hour drive and she was the driver for the day, because he told her he needed to rest. She had always been submissive and caved in. She hated herself. Jolie was in the backseat curled up and fast asleep. They had set out late. By the time they reached their half way point, it was already one in the morning. She told him she had to stop at the next highway stop.

He got down as well to use the restroom. She got back to their car first. She saw him approaching the car in the rear view mirror. She engaged the gear into reverse and stepped on the gas pedal. Jolie woke up when she heard the thud. She whined a little and then immediately curled up and went back to sleep. Lina's back and forward driving did little to disturb Jolie's sleep.

"Tu es null part," she whispered as she finally got out of the car. You are nowhere.

The elegance of a dead hedgehog

This story ends with a dead hedgehog, and it was elegant. 

The weather was miserable last Saturday morning but it did not deter three very enthusiastic hikers from heading out to Solingen Schloss Burg. I am actually not sure how enthusiastic we were at the onset, but the prospect of finishing 14kms of hiking to be followed by waffles sounded like a productive way to spend most of Saturday.

We headed off towards Solingen to be treated with a gorgeous view of the castle surrounded by hills. Cute pavilions dotted the landscape giving it a very magical air.

Picture taken off their website as it was too awful-weathered for us to take any pictures

One of the pavilions 

Katja, Svenja and I set out into the woods armed with a route guide book. Katja had done the trail a number of times and we felt safe in her presence. We trudged along, up and down hill, meeting the random hiker, random dog well on our way.

Conversations ranged free from dating blonde men, to job security, to staying fit, to wine, and we were to watch out for a viaduct.

The viaduct was to elude us. We walked back and forth a little, all the time going 'Where the f**#! is the viaduct?!" Actually we were about to name the hike 'Where the f**#! is the viaduct?' until the hedgehog appeared later.

The hike was supposed to be 14 km, and I was a little concerned with the wandering aimlessly if we would ever make it out, but lady luck shined upon us and confident with Katja as part of the troop, we found the ff**#ing viaduct, if anything, by chance.

But we actually wandered on to the Klingelnfahrt, which is a historical route defined by the Nazis to create trade in the area. There was a sense of walking through the path that had been thronged by many...

A quick pause to catch our breath and inhale some nourishment.

We rewarded ourselves with a quick break, managed to stop a deranged Nordic walker to take our picture as we perched precariously on logs eating our brötchen, soya milk, and hmmm..more German bread!

The hike went on beautifully, by streams, some sharp uphill hikes (my every muscle is still hurting) and we made it out to the cable cars. Oh, yes, there was the highlight - yet to come. The Solingen Seilbahn.

Picture from the site

Essentially, it is an open air cable car, well, more like a swing on air that takes you up and down the hill for a mere €2.60. I felt like a child all over again!

YES, it really is that primitive

With a random goat or two thrown in!

We made it up gleefully to treat ourselves to Solingen's traditional Kaffetaffel and waffles.

Over the Wupper on the seilbahn!

Malaysian ringgit note under the glass at our table- huh??

We made it up to a traditional waffle place and sat our sore and tired selves down to consume some calories. The table we were at was interesting with a glass top that had currencies from different parts of the world under it - and voila, within my reach - the Malaysian ringgit. What can I say, but Malaysia boleh!

But, I told you this story would end with a dead elegant hedgehog. We made it back to the car, and as we got out of our gear, Svenja noticed the hedgehog. Katja approached it to determine status. I stayed away as I was afraid of contracting whatever the headgehog had contracted - yes, I can be a crazy biologist that way.

The hedgehog was dead. We left it as it was, in its elegant state, and I am sure the other two were plagued of hedgehog dreams as I was!

Guest post on Conversations Across Borders

My experience of writing for the Conversations Across Borders Project as a guest post on the CAB blog.

You imagine a cathedral and feel like you ended up with a shack on paper. That is how Zadie Smith feels about every bit of writing she has done. Generally that is what I feel like to. But, here I want to tell you about an experience where I imagined a bubbling brook and ended up with the Pacific Ocean. I exaggerate a little – but will claim artistic license here;)

When I decided to take on the conversations across borders project, I was excited, yet a little apprehensive as I was not sure how working with another author would pan out to be. Also, I have issues with self esteem as a writer (as most do and the ones who don't - I actually don't like you), and I was convinced my partner would balk at my efforts. But I sailed forward with the 'water' prompt, I dove in, I was ready to cause a splash - all right, will stop with the puns and get on with the story.

I was paired with Kaitlin, a very decorated writer from New England who was working a lot in China. We both spoke a fair bit on how to approach the project. Let me take a step back and explain the project- well there isn't very much to explain. You are paired and then you decide what to write, how to write and well, a free handle on the whole thing.

Kaitlin and I entered the project at crucial times in both our lives - we were both in the midst of receiving proofs and having to deal with manuscripts and the whole rigmarole, than any writer can understand. It was hell and heaven in the same breath. I don't know how our loved ones put up with us in times like this.

We were a little slow on the uptake, but once we dove into it, magic happened. Kaitlin started with a short tale and when I read it, I took a step back, to realize I was working with a genius. I had a five-minute battle within myself on how to approach it all, but I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, poised my hands over the keyboard and wrote - yes, with eyes closed. The character came, the character was born, told his tale, and left.

The page was of course fraught with typos, but it was a new experience for me - letting myself go and asking the character to speak and I was not to be distracted by anything else not even the words on the page but simply be a medium.

Kaitlin and I sent the file back and forth between us and found that we were echoing each others experiences - characters were developing. People were showing up on our pages. I don't want to give away too much of the story at this point, you can wait to read it once it is up on the CAB website.

I am very excited about being paired with Kaitlin again for the next prompt - 'Air'. Who knows who will come to the page and have his or her story told? Wish us luck! And thank you CAB for organizing this!

My writing nook

Writing and travel broaden your arse, if not your mind, that is why I write standing up, Hemingway.

Well, I actually write mostly laying down! Not sure what that is supposed to do!

Introducing my writing nook! Yes, I sit a lot on the floor - well on the carpet and somehow that gives me a sense of grounding, well it literally does.

The whole effect is very Indian, which is my heritage and I will never escape nor attempt to escape;)

The Verve Cliquot bottle is not filled with champagne anymore, but I use to as my water canister, and it makes me feel as if I am chugging champagne down from the bottle. Yes, I can be classy that way.

The Ittala mug is my favourite mug, it is festive, it is magical and I drink copious amounts of black tea from it.

I love sitting by the windows, or in my case, floor to ceiling length windows. I love looking out into the green, well, that is my excuse for when I need a distraction!

Soon, I will be creating my new writing nook. All of this will, of course, be reenacted somewhat, but I just received my Farrow and Ball catalogue for paint in the mail yesterday, and guess what the colour of my new writing nook wall is going to be, well, yes - Elephant's Breath it is!

Okay, this blogpost has actually been a way of distracting myself from the gazillion other writing projects - so off I go, to stare into the sun and green for a bit!

Barcelona babbles

It was a weekend to behold, as weekends go. We converged into the city, en masse, to celebrate Carl's graduation. It had been an intense 18 months of him getting his MBA done (well, almost there) and we his loved ones had been a part of it. I actually feel I completed an MBA too!

Thursday evening in Barcelona was a little chilly, but was greeted with the warmth of Carl with his surprise airport pick up and soon his parents. In true Hinrichsen style, we stopped at a quaint pub for beers and just a quite catch up.

We chilled out in the beautiful apartment with ceiling high doors and windows, with copious amounts of wine.

All chilled out...

But not to be held back from the work-week worth of fatigue we dragged ourselves out to a bar that the beloved iPhone recommended as a cocktail bar - Grand Foc (interesting name, I say). We managed to grab a table and do a round of mojitos but, for some reason, they were playing songs from like waaaay back. The second time I heard Sony and Cher's I Got You Babe, I knew it was time for shots.

Friday morning we rose and shone, sans headaches and got dressed for the actual event. Our adopted baby for the weekend, Marvin, arrived like he was part of a movie scene - in a suit with no tie, a bottle of champagne and gin.  That adoption process went very quickly. Carl, the star for the weekend took his time getting dressed and the rest of us all dolled up decided to wait with a beer. Well, it was already 10.30 in the morning and we had quite a day ahead.

The ceremony was hosted at the chamber of commerce in Barcelona, a beautiful building with a roof embellished with tiles and a courtyard where you could imagine gala parties going on. We made it through the ceremony as we cheered Carl and his buddies along, listened to some good speeches and then one mind-numbing one. I considered it a success that I kept everyone around me  awake with my incessant chatting.

We adjourned to the courtyard to feast like kings and queens. And feast we did. The food was delectable, the wine crisp and the beers free flowing. Lots of catching up, making new friends amidst the bubblies carried on for a bit and my downside of it all was falling for a marshmallow thinking it was ice cream.

By that time, Bine (Carl's mom) declared that she may need some form of heating and we needed to head into the sun. The task of procuring a bottle of cava and five glasses was given to the most responsible adult in the troop - me. Okay, I am the shortest member of the troop and potentially least conspicuous. But, was a speedy gonzalez about the 'theft' and we headed out to a lovely monument which we then proceeded to desecrate with our imbibing of the bottle of cava in the sun.

Sunshine, cava, and love...what more does one need.

Well, Marvin was stretching out like he owned the place so we had to interrupt.

All bubbly, we had strangers take our pictures, and headed off so Marvin could collect his keys and have a bed to sleep on. We were still missing another member of the graduation party, Vani who was due to arrive later.

We got back to nap a little, pretty ourselves, and head out. Vani made it, looking really divine and the troop headed out to the hotel by the beach where we mingled with bubbles, sat down to dinner, talked our heads off and the evening whizzed by all too quickly.

Opium next. Before your over imaginative mind runs away with you, Opium is the name of a club. We were given free passes in. Was frightening walk for me as I had stilettos on managed to get myself wedged into the gangplanks that made the walkway often enough. Ah the perils of my tales with my shoes. Well, dating someone who is ten foot tall does not avail me to flat pumps any longer. Wait, I lie. I never walked around in flat pumps anyway. But Carl is a big man and managed to lift me out of my sticky situation.

We partied away in Opium, broke out for a spat of laughter yoga as small group - which was rather surreal, and sent our coats home with the parents, except for Vani. But we will come back to that later.

Overtly happy people?

A night at the club by the beach has to have an episode of sitting by the beach, and that we did. I even managed to get my feet wet - that was probably when I lost all sensation in my toes. There was at least a five minute panic attack when we thought we had lost Marvin's phone but Vani found it in the sand. His reputation preceded him with him and his phones. So much so, we failed to get flustered about Vani losing her jacket and shawl. Seriously, the dimwit who stole it, I hope you develop an itch in your groin while giving a presentation in front of a hundred people.

The evening was not to end. Well, by that time, it was the morning. It was not to end. We continued back to our apartment, with more talking. I hear there is a compromising video. But given Marvin's propensity with losing phones, I am not too concerned.  We threw our guests out at six.

Saturday brought lots of sunshine and a day of excitement. We were to head out on a bus to a remote area and enjoy the calcotada. Essentially an experience of eating leek-type onions grilled. The bus ride was a lot of fun, with games and the highlight of someone having to kiss someone else's arse. Am not naming people here. But still very intrigued as to why Carl would want the pope on the bus?

Slurping it all up

Was a brilliant event, and something that can only be experienced in this region this time of the year. We survived the bus ride back with lots of singing - not sure how the others on the bus survived it. I tried to calm down and snooze a little but kept coming back to the group.
And of course the post bus trip, pre-evening out aperitifs.

Winding down before peaking again

There was still more to come - a personalised cabaret performance, all for Carl at Galeria aDa. We got there with Horst (my new peacock hair ornament) all ready for a night of being entertained. And a night of entertainment it sure was!

There was an impromptu speech by yours truly, which I have a vague recollection of but I think I invited 30 people to Luxembourg to party on, and you know what? I meant it! It was nice to see a constellation of Carl's buddies come out to celebrate his success and the evening.

Impromptu speech with a platter of nachos - not sure why?

The performance by the cabaret troop was exceptional, to put it mildly. No words of mine will do it justice, so I urge you to join one of the performance nights at the gallery.

Arne performing with his new-found admirer

A very interactive evening, we saw Arne (Carl's dad) being dragged out to perform, Marvin, Guy, Rosa, Arturo, and of course Carl! He performed like he was a natural!

The mini strip tease

Belting it out with the ladies

The night progressed with a short stint for Carl and I at a club, it was great to hang out longer with our Barcelona friends. Sunday saw a slowwww start into the day. Vani disappeared. We brunched at Marmalade after a short stop over at my favourite empanada shop in the world - the one that features in my book. A lot of resting in the sun and then saying bye to Marvin.

The four of us got back to quiet evening of cooking Indian food together ( I had traveled with my masala container) and the mother of all Magnum Cavas – a lovely gift from our friend and Worldreader, Tina.

And Monday we were gone, saying bye to Barcelona – thank you for the memories, thank you for taking care of Carl, thank you for the joy of getting to know the Worldreader crew, thank you for the public readings courtesy of TriLengua and thank you for the hosts of friends we have made. May our friendships cross borders.

These pictures don't do enough justice to the grand time we had. But it was grand as weekends go. Congratulations, Carl, you did good! 

Introducing: Writing organism

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad, so said Lord Byron. 

And he was a little eccentric if not altogether mad. I feel comforted aspiring to be amidst  esteemed voices, such as his. Because, I truly believe, it is a writers voice that speaks to me when I read the words on a page. I am done quoting others now and will get down to the business of telling you what the hell I want to tell you.

I just reorganized my site, and it now has a new name - Writing organism: From macrocosms to microcosms. This all culminated with a lot of passionate discussions, heart- wrenching soul searching (not really, but I imbibed a fair amount of champagne and let my mind run loose), and a very talented MBA graduate.

Why all the drama? I am on the cusp of making writing my full time profession. Yes, folks, have resigned from job. Wait, I dislike this term, resigning from my job. Places an imagery of a lifeless me flailing around on the floor in a deathly parlor. The reality is I am grabbing this bull by its horns (pardon the phrase - spent last weekend in Spain). 


I am not turning my back on the years spent in the laboratory, nor communicating complicated scientific data. But, rather, I am now continuing on the journey where the stories that want to be told, will be told, and I will be the humble medium. I open my heart and creative mind to every tale that wants to be told, and walk bravely into the next phase of my life.


As some of you already know, we are moving to Luxembourg in June. By we, I do not just mean me and all the other voices in my head (It was E.L. Dotorow who said writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia!), I mean Carl and I, and of course all the voices in my head.

My reading patterns have changed too. I seem to be reading more books on writers and writing and am currently pouring myself all over an illustrated version of 'The elements of style'. I just finished Anne Lamott's Bird by bird. So the process to better my writing continues.  


Lots of interesting writing projects lined up, watch this space, if you wish, and as always, thank you for supporting writers and the written word! All the other voices in my head have gone to sleep now.

 

A world of readers

As of January this year, my world turned a big page. I started working with Worldreader – on a voluntary basis. I owe Carl a big thank you as he discovered this excellent organization and with a tag line of 'Books For All', I fell for them, hook, line, and sinker and am madly, if if not obsessively in love with them.

With a simple mission of bringing digital books to children in schools, the dynamic team is transforming the way the world reads. The team itself is fantabulous. I met some of them at my book reading and knew that we would be friends for life.

The team

When I accompanied Carl to their offices, I got to meet the co-founder, Colin and all the others who work tirelessly, flying in and out of Ghana, Uganda, Kenya, and their scope continues to expand.

I have worked with them to edit stories so far, and come up with some Q&As for teachers and students to use for book discussions. Also, recently, have been entrusted with coming up with our book of the week. Yes, I now consider myself one of the Worldreader teamies.

 Watch the video to see how it works

Carl has already spent a week in Ghana attempting to resolve connectivity issues for some ereaders (times like this I brim with pride at all he is capable of).

I could go on and on, but I will not do Worldreader any justice, because the proof is in the pudding. And the pudding here is concocted out of an amazing recipe of many talents, inspired founders, tireless team mates, willing politicians, and aid agencies, and of course, enthusiastic children. Check out the website. Donate, read, enjoy, and follow me as both Carl and I continue our journey with them.

Taxiing through Panama City

An older piece that Carl and I worked on, after a glorious time in Panama.


"Taxi" A word that translates into almost any language. When caught in the aftermath of a tropical storm and hailing a cab, you would anticipate just being able to get into the warm, cosy interior of a taxi when you hail one down.However, we were in for a different ride.

"Too bad all the people who know how to run the country are busy driving taxis," said George Burns and we have all had our fair share of tales of taxi drivers, some more insidious than others. But, we were in luck as we waited on a puddle-ridden bustling street in Panama City, we managed to hail a tour guide extraordinaire, who turned out to be a bit of a historian and a jolly good chap to throw in for good measure.

Our ride began with a twenty minute conversation by the side of a crowded main street on how we should not be headed to the Panama Canal late in the evening but instead, our taxi driver would drive us around a little and share snippets of information. We were in luck!

As he chattered away in a smattering of English and suave Spanish, our eyes were treated to a kaleidoscope of tropical colors surging through what was a dreary evening. He pulled in by the Amador Causeway where we stood out by the waterway, dazzled by the Bridge of the Americas and the stunning Panama City’s skyscrapper skyline. It was from this very area that cannon shots were fired to drive a Colombian warship away to ascertain independence.

From revolutionary to religious , we were then whisked away to Casco Viejo, a 337-year old neighborhood where we first entered the Iglesia de San Jose. The church is famous for its Golden Altar which a priest had painted black to disguise from the pillages and plunders that occured during the course of history. Our taxi driver shocked us by lifting a vault cover that was well hidden and explained how gold had been hidden in there.

In awe, we sauntered on to be amazed by the Arco Chato (The Flat Arch), a monumental marvel that was the deciding factor to whether the building of the Panama Canal could go on. Built in 1678 and spanning 50 feet, the arch was to be the proof that earthquakes and storms would not affect the building of the canal. Our taxi driver espoused the beauty of the arch and how it had withstood the test of time and earth movements with no support other than its terminal arches. To add humor to the situation, our driver chuckled on how Panama’s Centennial celebrations with fireworks display brought down a lot of the then 300-year old arch!

Around 300 steps away, we found ourselves in the southern Tip of Casco Viejo, in Plaza Francia and were affronted by a large obelisk topped by a rooster. Our taxi driver, well-informed as he was, told us that the obelisk was in honor of the Frenchmen who had stated the task of building a canal in 1880 but perished.

The obelisk was surrounded by 12 slabs of marble that outline the history of the Panama Canal. What we did not know was that we were in store for a little bit of magic, or well, a trick. We were asked to push against the monument and lo and behold, a trap door opened up. Apparently, all valuables were thrown down the vault when pirates approached. And, the trapdoor lead to the trapdoor at the Iglesia de San Jose where we had viewed an earlier trapdoor!



Gleeful, we checked out the Paseo Las Bovedas, the Promenade of Vaults and the nine restored dungeons in the area. One of them is now a restaurant and our taxi driver did not hold back as he vented out his displeasure on the treatment of slaves and showed us a rather awful trapdoor which was an entry way to where slaves were held.

It was another time and our time with our taxi driver was drawing to an end. As a last bit of a treat before we were taxied away, he urged us on to the Lover’s Walk, which was a beautiful canopied walk and by the moonlight, with the sea lapping at the Old Spanish seawall, Panama City held a lot of hope for times ahead.

The heat of love

Work in progress:

The air was chilly. She walked briskly from the May Day celebration at Heroes Square, heading determinedly to a hot meal. Hitting Andrasy ut, flamboyant with its cafes and bars spilling into the streets, she sauntered into the one with the most comfortable looking chairs. With bright plush purple cushions that whooshed as she sank her tired aching body.

She was being stared at. Somehow there must be a beam of particles accelerating from the eyes of the starer generating heat and causing warmth to the staree. Shona looked up from the oversized menu she was grappling with.

The heat generator was a sandy-haired, blue eyed Hungarian. Hungarian she knew because she was in Budapest after all and she had heard the chatter with the beautiful people he was with.

Laugh and the world laughs with you. Fart and you stand alone

Laugh and the world laughs with you. Fart and you stand alone. One of my favourite cousins wore a T-shirt with this on it - almost all the time until the shirt died its natural death from over use (contradicting myself, but artistic license prevails).

I spent the weekend laughing. Yes, just pure laughter for about eight hours a day. Why? Because I love laughter? Yes, but also, I wanted to purse another path of yoga - hasya yoga. A form of yoga that uses breathing (pranayama) exclusively and well, laughter.

A child laughs about 450 times a day, and as we age, we tend to whither down to about 16 times a day. What happened in all that time? Life happened. We were told that laughing was the opposite of being serious and seriousness is good.

I am taking a bold step forward. I choose to laugh. 

 "We are happy because we laugh" and not the other way around, says Dr. Madan Kataria, the founder of laughter yoga, or the modern day laughter yoga as we know it which came to life March 13, 1995. Which makes this post sort of a birthday celebration of sorts. It is also Magno's birthday today!

I trained with Magno Shavdia at the Osho Center in Köln. Magno is gorgeous, and pure health and joy emanates from his every pore. An Osho sanyasi, he hails from Georgia (not the US, but former Soviet Union).  He played rugby for Soviet Union's National Rugby Team and went from his studies of Art and Mathematics to Indian philosophy and yoga. And today, he eats, breathes, sleeps laughter. It is hard not to laugh with him.

The training to become a laughter yoga leader is exhausting to say the least - I went on the other extreme where I became so hyped up, I could not sleep. In a class of 12, we laughed till we cried, slept on each other bellies and laughed like little children, and walked through the streets of Köln laughing as a group. Imagine a big haired, very tanned Russian leading a mad bunch of laughing Germans, two other Georgians plus one Malaysian-Indian walking through the city for an hour and half LAUGHING out loud. Köln has seen crazier days but this was one where the city laughed along.

I am looking forward to laughing more with everyone now. I come from a family of laughter. Really, I do - my amama, and mom have very contagious laughter. My sister can set even a bunch of Germans in winter laughing their heads off - she laughs a lot, and we cannot help ourselves but laugh with her. Actually, that was Magno's line - if you can laugh in winter in Germany, you can laugh anytime.

This weekend, I am set for a trans-continent laughing exercise with my most loved family members - all on skype.  Going to be fun. 

Will keep you posted on further laughter adventures and pictures soon. For now, have a laugh!

 

Day 9: Forest of the reeds

This is a foodie post. 

One of my major gripes in Köln is the lack of South Indian food. Just good, hot, spicy, mouth watering Madrasi fare. And Carl hit the spot with his clue for the day - forest of the reeds. Apparently that is what Saravana Bhavan means. My German partner has taken to teaching me Tamil these days - what can I say - that is what good South Indian food does for you perhaps - gets your tongue going;)

I have eaten in Saravana Bhavans all over the place - India, Singapore, and Malaysia. Am happy to report that the Manhattan branch is just as yumski!!!

Joy

Bliss

I advised Carl to go full force for the South Indian thali while I opted for a paper thosai. Of course, the sheer size of the paper thin (hence the name) drew a lot of stares but I championed on.

Gluttony

We feasted like South Indian kings and headed home to a surprise bottle of Cremant! But more on why Cremant soon....

Day 8: A surprise, attending massage school and dinner in Moosewood

This is a long blogpost. Just warning you in advance. Encompasses arriving into Ithaca, spending a day in massage school, champagne by Beebe Lake, dinner at Moosewood Restaurant, the breakfast the next day and the drive back. So be prepared.

Old friends, Nicole, Edmund and young Oliver have made Ithaca their home for some time now. Ithaca is about 400 kms from New York City and Carl and I decided it was time for a road trip to visit them.

We picked up our car and drove with the sun at our back. The landscape was amazingly rugged as we headed further up north. I kept Carl awake by talking non stop, of course and also simply yelling out all the signs - just sounded funny. We were eager to get to Nicole and Ed's also because we knew there was a Vietnamese dinner waiting for us. Armed with bottles of wine, we managed to find their lovely home even with our navigation system dying out on us.

Oliver stayed up to say hello to us

It was a late night for everyone, just catching up but we had to call it quits to get some sleep. The next day, I was headed to Nicole's massage school to sit in with her in her massage therapist training. The day bounced by with us sitting on bouncing balls in class. I learnt about the neurotransmitters involved with massage and also how to concoct lotions and potions, thanks to Nicole. We headed home with my stash of purchases from their store.

At home, Carl was waiting with the surprise. Apparently everyone else was in on it. We headed out on a walk to Beebe Lake, which was beautiful with honking geese and just us.

Beebe Lake

Am not too sure we are supposed to be drinking in public!

Hic hic, I love champagne!

But that was not the end of the surprise. Got back home to discover that a babysitter had been arranged and we four were heading out sans Oliver for a double date! Off we went to a super duper vegetarian restaurant - Moosewood.

Moosing around

Some of us never grow up

Not sure what was going on here.

A lovely evening of catching up including a massive breakout of giggles when Nicole told the tale of how I got stuck in a water slide, how we rescued Joey a baby bird, and well tales of the old days.

The next morning I woke up to find Oliver reading and then later while Nicole prepared an indo mee breakfast for me, he played hide and seek - pretty much by himself because I waited by the pot for my Asian noodles for breakfast.

My breakfast - noodles with Indian omelet and baby kailan. Carl's breakfast Indian omelet and baby kai lan on toast - was so weird it had to be photographed.

Soon ,we packed up and drove through the Cornell campus and off, off and away back to NYC!

The architecture building

A building to host every religion

Day 7: stranded and a road trip

Thursday's clue - Stranded. A coupon for The Strand - 18 miles of books.

Picture is from The Strand website.

I love book stores. If I could, I would work in a book store. In a way, my volunteering with Worldreader satiates the love of books to a certain level.

I had been to this particular bookshop when I was last in New York in summer of 2008 and remember the hours I spent in another land - a land of dreams, hopes, fantasies, wars..essentially an escape.

The bookstore has been around since 1927 and is owned solely by the Bass family. A quote I found interesting on their site by George F. Will '"the eight miles worth saving in this city are at the corner of Broadway and 12th Street. They are the crammed shelves of the Strand Book Store."

The store now boasts 18 miles of books and it simply has many many many books. I love the staff recommendations scattered around the store. 

Interesting evolution since my last visit, they now have a section and a marketing campaign called cheaper than e-books. With e-books making books and reading accessible to all, it is heartening to see bookshops stay in business in style.

From The Strand, today is the day Carl and I are off to visit Nicole, a friend of 17 years and her family. It is a road trip to Ithaca to the Cornell campus! More on that soon.

Day 6: Ha ha

My clue for Wednesday – ha ha. Just simply ha ha. And this story will end with a quote 'We have been laughing here for seven years'.

I had signed up to become a laughter yoga leader - my certification will come through next weekend back in Germany. I have always been passionate about yoga, and I laugh a lot so a natural combination? No. I just wanted to learn and be able to share what could be a useful tool.

Carl had scouted around in NYC and found a laughter yoga teacher and centre and got us both invited for a session! And we had a private chit chat with Vishwa Prakash, a laughter yoga trainer of trainers at yogalaff.

We laughed our heads off for a good hour.

Not sure why I was attempting a lion here - but a bad one.

That's Vishwa with the laughter yoga t-shirt on.

 Laughter yoga became all the laugh in 1995 with Dr. Madan and Madhuri Kataria, the founders. Today there are laughter clubs spread across the globe and people gather to laugh. I will elaborate more once I complete my training.

Carl and I hauled our jaws sore from laughing so hard to 'Chi' and IndoChine restaurant to end the evening with gorgeous food and orange-ginger margaritas!

And the line that stayed in my head – when Vishwa said 'We have been laughing here for the last seven years.' Just a bizarre line - one that I will want to repeat soon.