On Trains

How people can sit on a Belgian train alone & not be moved to higher thoughts, I do not understand.

I mean, sure, there’s the exception where you’re wedged between two other people and you are barely able to move – I suggest a trip to india to put this in perspective, by the way. But apart from that, people who travel the railroads of our glorious country alone have no excuse not to be soaked in metaphysical slumberings.

You see the houses zooomming past. If you’re aimed in the “forward” direction, this will give you a sense of the future speeding up to you and flashing past. You will see new vistas loom on the horizon, rapidly approach and be history already. A history of which you will not have to think about, when sitting in the “forward” direction, unless you are of an exceptionally gloomy mind. No; when sitting in the “forward direction”, your thoughts will go to future expeditions to the north pole, to the moon, to that girl you fancied in that pub once. You marvel at the colourful shapes present in the skies, as they are in the daring expressions of youth, the graffiti. You witness growing fields, strong trees and the current almost leaping of the electricity poles in delight at your approach. You are in anticipation.

When sitting in the “backward” direction, however, you will be confronted with your past. It will, fittingly, be too painful to turn your head to the future, your eyes will remained locked up the things zooommed past. People and houses getting smaller, churches and pitiful clumps of shrubberies are receding in the distance. Your mind will wander towards those things both ancient and recent past. Thoughts might meander in the realms of the dead, thinking about a loved or hated one, they might take a stroll towards the trip you took yesteryear, with all those funny people that you vowed to see again and haven’t heard from since. You’ll witness the ugly building sites, the cranes looming over them, not as storks carrying the new born, but as vultures patiently waiting to pick the carcass of its last shivering flesh. Already the meat seems pervaded with fungus and crawling bacteria, the tribal art and its producers.

Of course, there is no need to let the mind wander outside the confines of the train space. The train in itself, the moving vehicle, snaking through the country and through the cityside, always moving, always still. We’ve all witnessed the station slowly leaving our train behind. The unmoved mover.

The train is like a log, slowly braving a quick-witted river, playfully nibbling at its haunches. The passengers are the small animals, the vermin, temporarily seeking shelter from the bristling brook, only to realize, after a while, that the nature of the log is defined by the water they seek to evade. They will then cast themselves back into the water whence they came; jettison we are and to jettison shall we return.

This little peninsula of temporary peace is generally inhabited by other members of our lustrous race – I refer, of course, to the more general human race, not to any Caucasian or Negroid subspecies - and are thus somewhat comparable to an early 20th century Zoo. Think : big Iron Fences. Think : observing the Other from a safe distance. Think : being equally observed by this distant other.
The human species is a relatively interesting one in comparison to most of the living world, especially when you are not in possession of a microscope and a vivid imagination – which I, coincidentally, happen to have, but I dare not presume that to be the case for you. It will talk with unrelentless passion, despite not having anything to talk about – yes, pot, kettle, haha –, it will gesture wildly when on the phone, seemingly unaware that the recipient of those movements isn’t, in fact, receiving them. It will gaze ponderously outside, thinking about imminent past and former future.

When observing the myriad examples of our species, these fellow participants of the great marathon called life – in which you gallop towards the finish whether you intend to or not –, how can one not be moved to deeper thoughts, as I am, on the social, the political, the economical, the psychological and everything? One, unless one is blessed by the absence of a conscious mind, can not.

Welcome Back

Back in Belgium.

For realz this time.

Realz².

Arrived in the Ghent station at 17 past 1.

Was met by a friend of Italian/German/Belgian descent. We had agreed to meet there, at that time (though, perhaps, slightly earlier) in order for a transaction. She was to give me the keys to the apartment of my brother and to that of my parents - I wouldn’t have said no to answers to the fundamental questions of the universe, but she, apparently, wasn’t up for that - without which I would have been doomed to roam the earth aimlessly for years to come; or spend the night in Brussels, whichever came first.

After the transaction was conducted, we boarded a tram. “boarded a tram” does not at all convey the last minute rush we experienced when perceiving the tram in the distance, considered the weight of my (rather heavy) bag, and then turning into a pair of scrambling fools; but it will have to do. We boarded the tram. It, however, did not follow the usual route, as I was soon, to my great horror, to discover. It took a left instead of a right (a bit like socialism, but different, I guess). This meant we were not headed towards the apartment of my brother (conveniently close to the station) but instead towards the centre of the city (not particularly conveniently close to anything but big crowds of drunkards). We were stranded on the Island of civilization with nothing but the need to get home quickly and safely. Which isn’t much, considering. We didn’t even have a personal servant named after one of the days of the week.

We harassed a couple of potential carriers. Not the medical kind. Carry a 30 kg bag in exchange for three beers & three cigarettes. They weren’t convinced, however.
After finally dropping the bag at the parents’ place (and take a shower and get changed) we headed out into the city. It didn’t sleep. So neither did we.
We talked to people. We did knock-knock-jokes with random strangers (who, for some reason, found the concept enormously difficult to grasp, so we were forced to enact both knock-knock-roles by ourselves. Needless to say, we did very well).

We
basically
had a lot of fun.

At about 9 AM (Monday morning, Belgium time) we decided to head home and, after, perhaps, a night cap, go to bed. The night cap was oddly enough accompanied by deep discussions on metaphysical questions, on potentiality. Is, or isn’t, there a pregnant man in the box? And is the cat in the box a metaphor for the repressed femininity of the European female? It is possible.

After a few refreshing hours – four to be exact – we headed out again. I was reunited with long-lost friends (Mr. Chilly & Mrs. Hangover) and I also met up with Flore, which I hadn’t seen for a few months. This last day of the Gentse Feesten ended earlier (at a ridiculously early 7AM (Tuesday, Belgium Time), I am shocked to admit). We had breakfast on the street. I had my first chocoladekoek in ages.

It’s not at all easy to imagine a better welcome to Belgium. Rather difficult, in fact. I’ll keep you posted if I come up with something.

Back

On being back in Belgium.
The people speak my language. Small thing, yet rather significant. Especially considering that I’m getting less and less certain to what “my language” is exactly. Not for the first time either.
On the plane from London to Brussels there were some people from Antwerp. Trust me, you can tell. I really felt like going up to them and asking them, in English, to shut the f*ck up. I restrained myself. They really weren’t that annoying. But there could have been more pleasant ways to ease me back into my mother tongue.
In the Brussels airport, I was confronted first with a bunch of irritating f*ckwads who didn’t know how to use the bloody ticket machine. After waiting for ten aggravating minutes (I had to catch that train) it’s my turn. My turn to fail, it turns out. The machine had given out.
Combine this with a fortunate lack of Euro’s, I was f*cked. I had spent my last 5 euro’s in London on two espresso’s (I got change in extremely useful derivatives of pounds... which I kindly gave as a tip).
Luckily for me the trainconductress was the friendly assisting kind. And she spoke my mother tongue too. My luck knows no boundaries, turns out. With the use of my SIS card (national heath card with chip. You gotta love Europe) I got a temporary ticket, to be paid within 14 days.
I arrived in Brussels South (Bruxelles Midi) (Brussel Zuid) to find out I had missed a train by less than five minutes.... lo-ve-ly.
I then bumped into a Canadian I used to hang out with last year in Leuven. He had just gotten back from (the) Gent(se feesten). The world in small indeed. I presented him with a pack of clove cigarettes. He was sufficiently grateful and we proceeded to smoke a cigarette on the platform. He then took a train to leuven and I took off to my own platform where I intended to spend the next three quarters in quiet contemplation of my fate. On the platform I encountered a couple I had spoken too in Brussels Airport (yes. The f*ckwads). They turned out to be a nice couple from Bruges and were taking the same train as I was. They had just come back from Rhodos. I had another cigarette with the lady.
The social-cementing-skills of cigarettes are heavily underrated. Sure, they may kill, but they will provide you with some entertainment on the way there.
There was a huge gathering of people of the black persuasion in the train station. I heard on the platform from some drunk people that they had just shaken the hand of the Senegalese king/president. Me being the clever chap I am, I put two and two together (I arrived at pi for some reason) and concluded that that was what the gathering was about.
The drunk people were from Denderleeuw, I have just found out. I would have never guessed.
1:02 AM, Belgium, 26th of juli

These are my last days in Mumbai.
This is probably my last post in Mumbai (unless I decide to throw in a quicky before leaving towards the airport).

It's like the end of an era. but less so.

My taste buds have finally gotten to the point where they don't flinch in terror when sensing the approach of garlic or peppers. My stomach has grown used to the fact that, no, there won't be any real meat to digest today. My skin has embraced the continuous humidity and dust, though still suffers under the buzzy presence of mosquitoes. When crossing the street I look first left, then right. Instead of nodding I do the curious head-waggle so common to Indians. When mumblingly agreeing to something, I find myself saying ha ha ha.

Oh Well. It'll pass.

The Sky

I will be leaving Mumbai in 10 days.
I will arrive in Belgium on the 25th, at night (after which I will hopefully proceed to Ghent to witness the last night of the Gentse Feesten)

The sky

Warning : spoiler warning

in Comments follow the "Games for Gustav" of the book "Beatrice & Virgil"


Seriously.

if you have any intention, whatsoever, to ever read this book.

don't read the comments.

Books I have Read in India

1. Brave New World, Huxley : umpteenth time I read it. classic. Like it less than before. (mine)

2. The Consolations of Philosophy, de Botton : haven't finished yet. (mine)

3. The Jungle Books, Kipling : classic. surprising variety of animal stories (mine, bought in India)

4. A Thousand Splendid Suns , Hosseini : nice. not my usual cup of tea though

5. Blind Willow, sleeping woman, Murakami : liked it.

6. Infinite Justice, Roy : collection of essays, didn't finish because slightly too repetitive after while.

7. Innocent Erendira and other stories, Marquez : liked it

8. The Fountainhead, Rand : really liked it. Disagree with philosophy though. (mine, bought in india)

9. Beatrice & Virgil, Martel : liked it. in a different way than Rand though. (mine, bought in india)

to read, ao, : Atlas Shrugged, Rand (mine, bought in india)

a little me-time

Every day, after work, between 6 and 8 PM, you can find me in Costa's for as long as it takes to drink 2 double espresso's (and read a bit too). I sometimes splurge on a piece of Chocolate Melange too. It doesn't contain eggs, so I figure I'm safe. (see also : the (v)eg(g)atarian Indian)


When I come in, the waiters wave. When I sit down, I don't have to order. They know.

The Weekend

This weekend I was told, by an Indian girl (aka Rashmi) no less, that I was "skinny". Skinnier than I was when I arrived, that is. I don't know if I should be happy or not by this development (though I assume most people would)(know, that is).

This weekend I "hung out" with Rashmi and Abhijit.

We had an almost-film-like experience on Sunday night. We had decided to have something alcoholic (an occurrence involving heavy planning in a country with strict social expectations).
After dinner, however, we realised (on my part)/remembered (on Abhijit's part) / forgot to mention (on Rashmi's part) that the shops close around 11. (note to reader : "after dinner" means around 10 , 11 PM in India)
We hailed a rikshaw and made him drive around nearly deserted streets on the quest for some bottles. After having finally acquired them. We headed home. There we realised we were not in possession of any munchies, nor were there any available at the appartement. So we embarked once again.
We ended up, almost 2 hours after dinner, with 3 small bottles and a couple of packets of Maggi (the Indian Equivalent of Aiki Noodles).
I then proceeded to fall asleep while watching a movie.

good times.

There are 4 compartments in the train.
1st class, 2nd class, women and handicapped.

Romance in the train station.

Monday I didn't have to go to work. National/regional strike. "Against Inflation".

White Rabbit

I was standing on the roof of our office building, enjoying a mild rain and some Beirut.
I saw a white, dangly eared rabbit on the roof of the building next door.

Somewhere a butterfly is flapping its wings.