There Will Be Boredom

A £10 ticket at Curzon Soho got me into a screening of the much talked-about There Will Be Blood. I came out thinking what a waste of money it was.

Don't get me wrong, this is a mildly interesting movie; I would rather have waited for the DVD though...in fact, I would have waited for the DVD to become available on Amazon for $3.99

The plot about oil and greed in the West is an interesting one, and in some ways contemporary (though the movie is set at the turn of the last century). However, I suspect that the book makes for a far more interesting reading than the film makes for a viewing. That said, I haven't read the book, so take that comment with a grain of salt and don't blame me if you buy the book and it turns out to be as bland.

Here's the problem: As a thriller, it lacks pace. It lacks suprises and twists in the tale. Essentially, it lacks the thrills. As a drama, it lacks drama. And there was absolutely no need for it to be this long (almost 2 hrs 40 mts).

By half-time one starts to wish for the film to get over so one can get out of the hall and do something meaningful. And let me assure you, having watched numerous Bollywood capers, I've sat through really long films.

The high point for me is Eli's payback, when Daniel has to join his church. It's interesting how getting into the fold of religion could feel like a sell-out.

The British press is slating Daniel Day-Lewis as the frontrunner for Best Actor Oscar. I don't know if that's true or if the press is going crazy just because he is a Brit.

Maybe I am too thick in the skull to appreciate fine cinema, but I found his performance more wooden than understated. If rolling about in grime and slick is all there's to acting, then maybe he's the best actor of the year (though I have a feeling that there must be some video of Lindsay Lohan or Paris Hilton mud-wrestling or oil-wrestling somewhere on the Internet). But I suspect there's more to it, and Day-Lewis falls way short of furnishing the menacing quality that the Plainview character demands. He does have a couple of moments in the last third of the film, but those are just flashes in the pan.

Henry Brands is a long way for Kevin O'Connor from The Mummy's Beni. And yet, in his treachery, the character is strangely similar to Beni.

Paul Dano is mostly efficient as Paul/Eli Sunday, though occasionally he does show a jagged edge. As an aside, one can't help but notice a bit of Ed Norton's character from Primal Fear in Eli.

The sound effects are good. But that's what we've come to expect ever since Dolby and DTS were introduced. And there was absolutely no turning back after Saving Private Ryan.

The mining accidents quickly get repetitive and banal.

The background score is jarring on more than one occasion. And not intentionally either.

Maybe this film will end up sweeping the Oscars this year, and maybe it will even go on to become a modern classic, but I came out unimpressed. Wait for the $3.99 DVD on Amazon.

Happy Birthday India

Happy Birthday, the Constitution of India, anyway!

Enjoy the Vande Mataram video here.

The Soviet Square

The difference between life expectancies of males and females in Russia is almost 15 years. Staggering, isn't it? One of the commonly cited reasons is rampant alcohol abuse - those "just one more glass"'s of vodka or samagon quickly add up, it would seem.

And though mostly no justification is needed for downing another Jurij Dolgoruki, trust the Russians to find more reasons to drink (or as us marketers would put it, "more consumption occasions"). Apparently one day of new year celebrations wasn't enough to get them adequately drunk. Or perhaps, after 3% of the new year is over, the hangover of the booze consumed on new year's eve becomes unbearable. Eitherway, on 13 January, they celebrate the new year again. And since the Russian people had very little experience with alcohol before Christianity was introduced, they pay a tribute to Christianity by celebrating Christmas twice too.

All jokes aside, the lively Russians do celebrate Christmas and New Year twice. After the October Revolution, in 1918 Russia gave up the Julian calendar in favor of the Gregorian calendar by Lenin's decree, moving all dates forward by 13 days. So while Russia celebrates Christmas on 25 December with the rest of the world, the Russian Orthodox Church's official Christmas falls on 7 January and is widely celebrated.

Just as well, since we could all use a little more celebration. Some puritans might argue that it would be absurd to celebrate Christmas (contraction of Christ's Mass) on any day other than on the birthday of Jesus Christ. But the fact is that nobody really knows that date.

The Biblical narrative certainly does not provide any reference to it, just like it doesn't to the number or names of the wise men that followed the Star of Bethlehem. And while historians have pinned down the year of birth to between between 8 BC and 4 BC, they don't seem to be able to make up their minds about the actual date.

Sextus Julius Africanus' Chronographiai circa AD 221 is often credited with popularizing the idea that Christ was born on December 25. In keeping with the Jewish belief that prophets live for an integral number of years, he assumed the traditional date of crucifixion (March 25) to also be the date of the Incarnation and contended that nine months thereafter should be the date of birth or nativity. Some scholars assert that Constantine may have chosen the date of December 25th to celebrate Christmas so as to coincide with the celebration the birth of Mithras, the Persian god of light.

Eitherway, 25 December is hardly the only celebration of "chirst's birthday". For instance, early Eastern European Christians celebrated the birth of Christ as part of Epiphany (January 6), which focused on the baptism of Jesus. Considering that Jesus was baptised in adulthood, this date probably makes more theological sense as it symbolizes spiritual birth. Besides, since technically the date of birth is shrouded in uncertainty, it might appear more rational that this date would be more widely accepted for the celebration.

That said, baptism of an adult does not evoke an emotion nearly in the same vicinity as that evoked by the birth of a child, however devout one might be. I would also speculate that the leadership of the early Christian Churches needed to give their new adopters a winter festival, if not to let them keep their winter festivals.

Winters are a hard time - days are short, there is not too much work that can be done, and yet there is a lot of leisure time at hand though the prolonged darkness makes it unnatural to socialize. Hence, many cultures have a festival of lights in winter, providing the followers a means, an occasion to defy nature's edict for gloom, and to socialize and make merry.

Winter solstice has special consequence in this context. The day after the solstice is the first day in the natural cycle that is longer than the previous day. No surprise then that many cultures celebrate this day for the same reason that the new moon is such a vital motif in Islamic tradition.(1) And a new religion would probably not be very appealing to prospective adopters if it were to take away their one day of joy in the long, cold, dark days of winter.

Conspiracy theorists suggest that perhaps Christmas was created to mirror the Roman Saturnalia, a week long period of lawlessness between December 17-25. According to Greek writer Lucian, Saturnalia was marked by a human sacrifice, widespread intoxication, going from house to house while singing naked, rape and other sexual license, and consuming human-shaped biscuits.

According to these hypotheses, Christianity imported Saturnalia in about 4th century CE to convert pagans by allowing them to continue to celebrate the Saturnalia as Christians. To remedy that there was nothing Christian about Saturnalia, they named Saturnalia’s concluding day, December 25th, to be Jesus’ birthday. However, they didn't focus on changing how the festival was celebrated. According to University of Massachusetts Amherst history professor, Stephen Nissenbaum, “In return for ensuring massive observance of the anniversary of the Savior’s birth by assigning it to this resonant date, the Church for its part tacitly agreed to allow the holiday to be celebrated more or less the way it had always been.” The earliest Christmas holidays were celebrated by drinking, sexual indulgence, singing naked in the streets (a precursor of modern caroling), etc.

While speculating, perhaps it was the adoption of these pagan traditions because of which Origen, one of the most distinguished of the early fathers of the Christian Church, denounced the idea of celebrating Christ's birthday and contended that only sinners, not saints, celebrated their birthdays. In fact, allegedly due to its pagan origins, observance of Christmas was illegal in Massachusetts till as recently as 1681.

But I digress. Back to the Russian Christmas.

I guess the Russian Christmas might well be the reason that some of the Christmas decorations in London streets aren't taken down even after Gregorian Christmastide or the Twelve Days of Christmas despite the superstition that keeping Christmas lights up after the twelve days bodes back luck.

And yes, the Russians do also celebrate the new year again on 13 January. They call it the Old New Year. Oxymoron, you say? Yes, that did come to my notice, but that's not what this post is about.

Come to think of it, though, were the Russians to think of pre-1700 (pre-Gregorian) times, would they also start celebrating the Old Old New Year on 1 September? Psst, my Russian friends....I am giving you an idea, and I haven't even copyrighted it. Just don't forget to invite me to the party!

Anyway, fortunately this year the 13th January was a Sunday. Naturally I was in Trafalgar Square to participate in the London Russian Winter Festival, which has quickly become a tradition withing four years of its existence.

By the time I got to the square, the festivities had already started, and a group of colorfully, majestically clad ladies was performing a folk song-dance sequence. The square was beginning to fill up quickly so I wasted little time, and sneaked my way through the crowd towards the stage, till I reached an acceptable distance (translated: as close to the stage as I could get before the way was completely blocked by revelers).

Slavyanye obviously love what they do. These folk-singers were full of energy and exuded unbridled enthusiasm and good humor on stage. They sang one lilting, uplifting tune after another, and even made several valiant attempts to get the crowd to sing along or dance or wave or do something. Unfortunately, it was noon and the crowd, with notable exceptions of course, hadn't had a sufficient number of vodkas by then to accede to the request. Whatever anyone may think of these girls, I thoroughly enjoyed their gig.

Quick on their heels was Baikal - the Buryat National Ensemble. They showcased Buryat traditional costumes, customs, song and dance, which were exotic and charming. At the back of my mind, I couldn't help but think that their folk music and dance resembled those of some cultures in north-east India to quite some extent.

They were followed by a couple of young celebrity acts by wannabe stars. The first was an irreverent latex-clad concert by a "group" that calls itself the Aqua Aerobics Project. Essentially, it's a lead singer covered from head to toe in pink latex, and some random people doing random things around. All said and done, though, its sound is not bad.

Next on stage was Mark Tishman, the winner of a TV talent contest. He has a decent voice, and seemed to be crowd-pleasing performer. In fact, he got off-stage and into the crowd during the act, and performed his last song from there.

The first top of the class performance of the day came from Kostroma, the Russian National Dance Show. They performed several songs, and in every single one of them they were enchanting, charming, elegant, and, most importantly, inspiring. They were zestful, masterful, and full of good humor. I would have no hesitation in paying to see them perform.

I was also thoroughly impressed by the electric atmosphere and the enthusiasm of the crowd, although I have a sneaking suspicion that the intake of the free booze available at the stalls might have contributed to that in some small way.

It was during Kostroma's performance that little Russian flags were distributed among the audience. These were dutifully waved to soulful renditions of some songs, and the crowd even pitched in with their vocal cords.

Then there was the customary "this event is important" talk by London Mayor Ken Livingstone, Russian Ambassador Yury Fedotov and Russkiy Mir General Director Vyaceslav Nikonov.The highlight, I guess, was that Vasily Vanovoi was present, and chimed in with Pushkin's words: “(Eat, drink and be merry) Delight in the time we have left”.

After the dignitaries got off-stage, stand-up comic Sasha Revva joined the compere, who initially tried to translate his words, but gave up pretty soon. Sasha joked about how many Russians coming to London know only "four" English words - Hello, Bye, Thank you, and Orange juice. While I did not understand most of his jokes (because most of the jokes were in Русский), I could see that this guy was born to be a comedian. No, he is not a physical comic, but his mannerisms betray his profession. He coaxed us to sing "moroz moroz" in what he described as a bid to create the world record for the world's biggest karaoke. Fun stuff!

Next, Sankt Peterburg occupied the stage. Their performance was relatively lackluster - a little off, even though it wasn't bad at all. In any case, I am almost certain that this was not the Sankt Peterburg band that I have heard of. It just was not that band, despite what the organizers would have everyone believe.

The yesteryears' super-group, thereafter-pretty-much-spent-force and recently-reassembled-with-fanfare Zemlanye showed why they ruled the rock scene in their time.

The two girl band KuBa was peppy and I can see why they would be popular among teens.

The Fabrika trio was pretty casual and laid back. Their music sounds chic, and might become pretty popular with a little bit of refinement.

I had to leave shortly before the draw of the day, Dima Bilan, was to take stage. What a bummer!

All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable event. Why can't 52 countries just decide that they'd celebrate new year in different weeks, and then have their festivals in Trafalgar Square during the respective weekends? Hmmm...

Dasvidaniya!

Click here to check out my pictures from Russian Winter Festival in Trafalgar Square of 13 Jan 2008.
P.S. - There are two pages in this album! If you're not running the slideshow, don't forget to check out the second page :-)

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1. My hypothesis: Islam spread quickly through Arabic countries and Egypt and became relatively dominant there before most of the rest of the world. A substantial portion of these geographies is covered with desert, and hence outdoor activities, especially travel, are extremely limited during the day. During the night, the moon is a chief source of light and a navigational aid. Thus moon is a vital part of life. And after a dark night, new-moon night is when the light starts growing. Hence the significance of the new moon crescent symbol.

And Life Goes On. Or Does It?

While the website said that they were showing 4 luni, 3 săptămâni şi 2 zile at Curzon Soho from today, it turns out that they aren't after all. So I take the short tube ride on the Picadilly line to the Renoir in Russell Square.

The Renoir, I discover, is a decrepit old place and not in an artsy or charming sort of way. I am just over an hour early so I get the bitter £1.50 freetrade coffee and hang around in the empty "lounge" finishing off some "stuff". When they open the screen 1 hall, there is another surprise - a pillar right in the middle of the hall, meaning the back few rows are practically useless, especially the middle aisle seats.

Patru Luni, my first movie of 2008, more than makes up for all that. It is the story of an extraordinary day in the life of Otilia, a polytechnic student living in a dorm in România of 1987. I have not seen Cristian Mungiu's previous four movies, and judging by this one, I have missed out on some good cinema.

On one hand the movie is fascinating in that it provides a slight glimpse into what it might have been like to live in Ceauşescu's România. While I am normally wary of learning about "other cultures" from movies, the "signs of the times" are a relatively safer pick. For instance, having to carry around an ID card everywhere for everything is an explicit sign. More subtly, the lingering undercurrent of fear and treachery is palpable throughout.

The film is even more captivating in the manner in which Mungiu crafts the movie and eases the audience into the story. The opening sequence, for instance, is just another day in a dorm room with a girl talking to her roommate. But even then, there is this sense of uneasiness in the air, like something is very very wrong.

And that sense persists even as Otilia goes through the ordinary tasks of everyday life like getting bani from cutie de nesc, buying săpun or taking public transport without a ticket.

And then Mungiu chooses his moments to hit you in the face with what's going down. For instance, the deal proposed by Bebe, the man who assists Otilia's roommate Gabita have an illegal abortion, comes as a shock relatively quick on the heels of the revelation that the abortion is the big highlight of the day. But while you are still reeling from that, it is his nonchalant (dare I say "professional") manner after the fact that is really unsettling.

Of course, this is not a movie about abortion. It is about the "life and times"; it is about despair and coping. And it surely packs loads of grit and realism.

The table-talk at Adi's home sounds so very real too - it's the things that regular people would talk about. For instance discussion about the "posting" of educated people in the country, or jokes about being turned in for going to church. By the priest.

There is also the quintessential generational quabble: "It's proper that a girl should not drink", "A girl like you, smoking in front of her boyfriend's parents (shrug & head shake)"

The light table-talk aside, Patru Luni is dark and gritty, and almost as emotionally draining as Oldboy.

What sets Patru Luni apart is how Mungiu uses lighting and sounds and pauses and banality to connect his audience to Otilia. Sitting there, one can actually feel her helplessness, disgust, confusion, angst, and dread. Sometimes separately, and sometimes all together. It's there in the uneasy silence in the hotel room. It's there in the dark alleys and railway bridges at night. And it's there in the relationship talk in Adi's room. In fact, it is pervasive.

In some strange way, perhaps in how it makes you uncomfortable on occasion, Patru Luni reminds one of Ôdishon. But more importantly, due to the "life goes on" theme, it is reminiscent of Volver. That said, the gloomily-textured Patru Luni is far superior to the brightly-colored Volver, despite whatever contrasts Pedro Almodóvar may have intended to invoke.

Anamaria Marinca is truly a director's actress; she is excellent as Otilia. She has tremendous potential and is destined for big things. It's a shame that she's wasted in a minor role in Youth Without Youth. Laura Vasiliu and Vlad Ivanov provide her efficient support as Gabriela/Gabita "Dragut" and Viarel Bebe respectively.

Now for the trivia: It was interesting that Otilia says "No not an even number" to buying 48 flowers for her boyfriend Adi's mother because someone just recently told me that even numbers are considered bad luck in România. One also gets an inkling of how români speak of Bucureşti and România as mutually exclusive entities, as I discovered during my visit.

Speaking of the strange things one notices, there is prominent mention of Unilever brands like Lux and Rexona that are megabrands in India, but are hardly even seen on supermarket shelves in western Europe or America (except Rexona deo, perhaps).

As you might have guessed, my final verdict is that this is a must-see movie. Of course, steer clear of it when you want to be cheered up.

Neelkanth - the azure throated

I need no well nor star, for
I've met my draught's rain
Life is not so short that
I won't get to see her again

Her thoughts make me smile
When I talk to her, I soar
World's not as it used to be
Things've changed for sure

And where they are worse
they belong on my score
She's just the way she was
But I'm not myself anymore

Like Icarus I soared high
The warnings I did not heed
And now I wish what I wish
would be the same as she'd

Just like you, O Neelkanth,
I've drunk from life's moat
the most potent of venoms
and I hold it in my throat

Another one bites the dust

Ghayal (Wounded) released in 1990 is undoubtedly one of the best action movies to have ever come out of Bollywood. Raj Kumar Santoshi's directorial debut was also arguably his biggest commercial success and delivered a national award for actor Sunny Deol.

Santoshi and Deol have always been very candid about the fact that the film drew some inspiration from Stallone's First Blood. If fact, they have been reported to admit that when Santoshi took the script to Sunny Deol, he said he'd focus on how to make it different from the said Stallone movie. That said, I have to admit that the end product is very different from the inspiration.

What has been less widely reported is blatant plagiarism in the music department. The happy-go-lucky family song Sochna Kya Jo Bhi Hoga Dekha Jayega (Don't worry about tomorrow, We'll meet it when it comes) is clearly a lift-off from the French group Kaoma's 1989 megahit Lambada, which spawned the Lambada dancing craze of the 90s.

Things like this can shake up your entire belief system. You see, in my earlier, "ignorance is bliss" days, I would have classified "Sochna Kya" as a typical "Indian sound". Oh, well! You live, you learn.

If you, like me, have been living under a rock for all these years, you can listen to Lambada right here:

3 mts 22 secs


Click on the image above, and then click on play button once it becomes available.

Night and Day

When the evening sun sinks
into a river of liquid gold
When sky dons a dark robe
with starry jewellery bold

When Venus looks down at me
and gives me a knowing smile
From that moment till dawn
when sun's reborn on the isle

I think of you, long for you
till sleep exacts its regime
Then I sleep knowing I will
see you again in my dream

I dream that I am the sunshine
that caresses your face fair
I dream I'm the wind that runs
its fingers through your hair

Sometimes I am your mirror
that gets to see you everyday
I am also the sweet fragrance
on your body that you spray

And I dream I am the watch
that forever holds your hand
The joke that makes you laugh
And your sojourn unplanned

I'm the rose you kiss, I am
everything you call your own
And whispering into your ear
why yes, I am your telephone

From the moment the sun rises
and birds of dawn start to crow
Till moon takes over the sky
and a defeated sun takes a bow

All the strands of my thoughts
begin with you, they end in you
You're in meads, you're in snow
And you're in the pearls of dew

You're in mountains, in forests
In rain and in clear blue skies
I find you are wherever I go
After all, you are in my eyes

You're the air I breathe to live,
And the blood flowing in my veins
I'm free to fly like pegasus but
are there any stronger chains?

Distances wouldn't keep us apart
were I the moon or wind, if only!
And my heart asks how is it that
you live in it, yet it's lonely

The mere thought of you smiling
purifies this world of guile
Yes, all my smiles are yours
Yes, I need your lips to smile

A Wonderful World

Tomorrow the sun will rise again
And again the rooster will crow
The birds will sing from trees
Much to admire, love n' explore

Flowers will smile brightly
with faces red, yellow, blue
Mountains will stand proudly
Clear rivers going through

A farmer will wake up early
He has a large field to plough
This harvest will pay his loan,
and as a free man he'll glow

And if it turns out that
Zeus strikes lightning arrows
He knows, after every rain
there will soon be a rainbow

Little Jenny bought ski boots
She's hoping that it'll snow
so that she won't have school
and ski down to the chateau

Workers will rush to their jobs
There'll be traffic on the road
Children will laugh, play, learn
Little Polly will kiss a toad

A scientist will start over as
luck yet again shows caprice
Earth itself will hold still as
an artist finishes a masterpiece

One man will fall in love
Higher than eagles he'll soar
Another will be heartbroken
and in grave pain to the core

One man will give up drinking
Another'll pick it with a sigh
A president will declare a war
And two lovers will bid goodbye

And when sky wears a necklace
of stars and people get home
Cows will return to the barns
Grass'll lie down on the loam

A poet will dip his pen into
his heart and bare his soul
A gypsy will sing of life-death
Others around him on the knoll

Families will gather round too
Together they'll eat and laugh
Ma will grin with satisfaction
Children will be a little chaff

Little Mary will refuse to eat
She'll say she hates broccoli
But as her father picks her up
On his lap, she'll eat slowly

Witches, dwarves and princes
will lull children to sleep
Their mothers will stop by
to watch their faces sweet

Couples'll argue 'bout things
too silly to really comprehend
Then in bed they'll make up,
say sorry, promise to make amends

It will be a wonderful world
tomorrow right outside my door
Just the same as it is today
Only I won't be in it anymore

My Conversations With God

As per my usual practice of walking by the Thames in the wee hours, today I was out there around 3 am. Upon reaching the Cadogan Pier by the Albert Bridge I stopped. This is the point from where I usually turn back to go home.

There had been a few things on my mind while walking down here, and I decided to seek inspiration from the Supreme Being. I said, within my mind, "God!" and looked up.

And, there it was: the sign. I kid you not, there was a large white cloud, clear against the night sky, in the shape of a hand giving the finger. Not the peculiar British two finger thing, but the American and almost universally communicable middle finger sign.

Now that, my friends, is a surefire conversation killer. Especially if one is trying to talk to one's creator.

Life Lessons from Television

When I got back from my late night/ early morning walk by the Thames, I inadvertently switched on the TV. And a running TV has to be watched. While surfing the channels, I stumbled onto BBC Three's "Can Fat Teens Hunt?", one of the numerous reality TV/ armchair-enthusiast's-self-improvement programs.

The fundamental concept of the program is that a bunch of morbidly obese teenagers are packed off to Borneo, where they live in the jungle with an Iban tribe for a month. This is purported to teach them healthy habits.

In this particular episode, the teens have been in the jungle for 10 or so days, and their food runs out. Naturally they need to go hunting/ gathering. For this they have the leadership and guidance of an Iban gentleman.

A few of the teens stay back to guard the camp while the remaining pack of 5-6 follows their Iban guide on a treck uphill into the forest.

Two of the brat pack fall short relatively quickly, one falling down from hypoglycemia, and the other from dehydration. The other three also give up at different stages of the quest, long before reaching the food source, and return to the base camp.

Only one kid Jimmy perseveres with his Iban guide, and returns home with food for the gang.

And then comes the kicker. Instead of receiving a hero's welcome that all those Hollywood movies tell us he should receive, Jimmy returns to a very hostile bunch of fellow teens. He is accused variously of being selfish, arrogant and "not a team player".

This pretty much grabbed me by my throad and shook me. I still struggle to make sense of what happened there. To tell the truth, it even brough back memories of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. I guess that such events are either a reminder that one should stop trying to make sense of the world around oneself, or use a bigger hammer.

Quotation of the Day

"Life is killing me."
- yours truly The Maverick

Confoederatio Helvetica

It's off to Switzerland for the weekend. The flight's at 1740, and hoping to find a train cheaper than the Stansted Express, I ride the underground all the way to Tottenham Hale, instead of getting out at Liverpool Street. At Tottenham Hale it emerges that there are no cheap train tickets to Stansted. Oh, well! Stansted Express it is then.

I had checked in online, so it's straight to the security check, which is a breeze. My boarding group is A so hopefully I'll be able to choose a decent seat in the plane which, incidentally, is 15 minutes late.

As I go through the gate showing my passport and boarding card, the attendant stops me as she wants my documents checked. She phones some mysterious colleague to come down and have a look.

"I have a passenger here, who has a Pakistani passport..."

"Indian," I roar.

"I'm sorry, an Indian passport, and has a Schengen visa. Could you come down to check the visa."

"I'm going to Switzerland, and I don't need a visa for that because I live here," I correct her again.

"Are you a UK citizen or resident?"

"No, but I have entry clearance here"

"So, do you have a Swiss visa?"

"Grrr...," I think but presently try to reason with her, "Listen, it shouldn't matter to you. If I am going to France or Germany, I have a valid Schengen visa, and if I am going to Switzerland, I don't need a visa since I have a valid UK entry clearance."

Of course, I could as well have been talking to a wall. The boarding queue keeps moving and she intermittently keeps trying to reach her elusive colleague over the phone till everyone has boarded the plane and she has had to ask the ground staff and the cabin crew to wait for me.

Ultimately, no one turns up to check whether my visas are genuine, and after a lengthy phone call she just has to tell me that she's been told that, "It's okay"

"Sorry about that. We have to check the visas etc, you know? Especially when you are not checking in any luggage."

"Right! Well, at least I don't have to worry about finding myself a seat."

The plane lands in Basel a little late, thanks in part to my contribution, I suppose. I'm the first at the Swiss border police window, and the agent takes all of 30 seconds before waving me through. He doesn't even stamp an entry on my passport! Hmmm...

My friend is stuck at work and advises me to get to the Zurich Hauptbahnhof, from where I can get a train to Glattbrugg-Opfikon, where he lives and works. The Swiss side of the Basel-Mulhouse-Freiburg EuroAirport is pretty small, and I don't see any currency exchange services in the arrivals lounge. This is quite alright as there is at least one Die Post ATM and a coin vending machine in the lounge.

The chocolate drink from the vending machine is nothing spectacular, but the mango one is.

The ticket machine outside is pretty user-friendly, and apparently I just need to buy one ticket to get to Zurich - this ticket will be valid for my bus journey to the Basel bahnhof and then the train journey to Zurich. Once in the train, I let my friend know that I am on my way.

"I can come pick you up at Zurich, but it would be a little more than an hour," comes the reply SMS.

"That's fine," I say, "It'll probably take me an hour or so to reach there."

"You'll be there in 5 minutes. Check out the bahnhofstrasse, and I'll SMS you when I get close to the area."

Hmmm...that's a fast train, I think.

Just over an hour later, as the train pulls into the Zurich HB, I notice something odd: the platform is adjacent to the road. Essentially, one could just jump out of a car and into a train. Very nice!

Right outside is a nice castle-like building. I promise myself that I'd take a picture of it during the day as it is pretty dark by now and my camera can't handle such low light. As I start walking towards the bahnhofstrasse, my friend calls me to say that he's pretty close to the bahnhof now.

He picks me up off the road, and we celebrate with a high-five and a "woohoo" - a running, roadside pickup such as this is quite a feat in this country.

"So, for how long did you have to roam about? What all did you see?"

He is surprised to learn that I just got here, barely moments ago. The surprise lasts till it emerges that he was under the impression that I had landed in Zurich, not Basel.

After parking the car at a casino parking, we set out for a stroll through the city. The weather is very pleasant, with a cool breeze flowing through smoothly, and the city is beautiful. The irregular terrain makes for a spectacle of lights rising on both sides of the lake. The landmarks are ornate and majestic. And the cobblestone-paved lanes are charming and inviting. We try to catch-up on the past one year or so, while admiring and absorbing the beauty of the town at the same time - not an easy juggling act, I have to say.

Before heading home, we stop by at a traditional Swiss eatery where he recommends raclette to me. First arrives a table-top electric grill with small square pans. Then comes a tray of cheese slices, tomatoes, pickled onion, sliced & pickled jalapenos, tomatoes, sauteed mushrooms, roasted courgette and roasted pears. And finally, there's a sack of boiled potatoes. The steward explains that I should use the pans to melt the cheese. In the meantime, I should pick up the potatoes and slice them in half, thereafter pouring the cheese onto them. It sounds pretty strange to me and I can't "visualize" the taste. But I do as instructed, and the result blows me away. The food is so good, in fact, that I keep eating long after my hunger is satiated.

And this is just the beginning. As I would discover over the rest of the weekend, I'd be overeating at every single meal, especially the cheese and the chocolates. It's hard not to - the food is just so good.

Back at his place, we decide to learn and play a board game called Abalone that he had bought a while ago, and has been using as furniture. A little while after 5 of my marbles have been pushed off the board, I have an epiphany: To win, you have to push only six, not all, of the opponent's marbles off the board. Hmm...I have a feeling that I should lose, but it is well after 3am by the time we are done with the game.

"At what time will you wake up?", my friend asks.

"7.30-8am perhaps.."

"Okay, wake me up then, so that we can make the best use of the day."

"Cool"

Of course, we end up celebrating Romania's national day by sleeping till noon or so. There's only a few hours worth of sunlight, if it can be called that considering that it's cool and cloudy, left and we need to find a place that can be reached relatively quickly. I am presented with a list of places that roughly an hour away. I notice a little name peeking from a corner behind the list of all these nice places.

I, being me, have to say, "How about that one?"

"2 hours away"

"Is it worth it?"

And so that's where we decide to go. Let's use different routes for getting to and returning from Interlaken, my friend suggests. Splendid idea, I say.

Before that, we should grab a bite, for which we go to a bakery just around the corner. The spinach quiche is huge, and the glass of orange juice is tiny. The warmth is genuine, and the smiles are wide. And the chocolate. Oh, the chocolate. Suffice to say that the house chocolate truffles can only be described as little bits of heaven.

The drive to Interlaken is very pleasant. The scenery is amazingly beautiful in general, but between Luzern and Interlaken it is absolutely, stunningly, breathtaking. Unfortunately, I observe, there aren't any rest areas by the road where we can stop the car and take a few pictures. On second thought, if they were to build such areas, the whole region is so beautiful that they'd have to build them every 200 metres or so.

Eventually we reach Interlaken, thus named because it is in the middle of two lakes. My linguistically talented friend reads the notice in the parking. We're in luck - this weekend the parking is free, and the town is organizing its Christkindlmartk, the Christmas market.

The first thing out of the parking lot is a casino, and the second one is a Hooters restaurant. My friend explains that Interlaken is a very popular tourist spot for the Americans. Freshly graduated American university students visit London, Paris, Amsterdam and Interlaken for their "Eurotrips". Hmmm...interesting.

Interlaken is located between lakes Brienz and Thun and has the Aare river flow through town. The main attraction of the town is mount Jungfrau (German: "virgin"), an astonishingly beautiful mountain with a 4158m high peak. Jungfrau is flanked by Eiger (3,970 m) and Mönch (4,099 m). I have no idea what Eiger means, so I don't how to characterize the naming of the three peaks as the Virgin, the Monk and Eiger, though I suspect there's some interesting mythological tale behind the nomenclature.

A train goes right upto the top of Jungfrau, but we don't have much time today. Thus we decide to check out the town, especially its Christkindlmartk. The town is obviously geared to cater to a large tourist population, but isn't as "touristy" as some places I have seen. The Christmas market is lively and the vendors are cheerful. Cheese, wine, chocolate and trinkets dominate the stalls, though the general feel is jarred by the odd stall selling HD-ready televisions or the flashy plastic merry-go-round.

Cheese, cookies, chocolate, almost everything is available for free sampling, and we take advantage of the offer at a few places. What I do buy is magenbrot, the very filling, cinnamon and chocolate-frosted bread.

It's getting dark and there's not too much to do around town now.

"How about going further down to Lauterbrunnen, which is an absolutely gorgeous small village, and then we can get back here...perhaps the market will look better with the lights," my friend suggests.

"Fantastic idea."

Lauterbrunnen is all that and more. The gorge overlooking the village is gorgeous. The thin stream of a waterfall from the top of the cliff by the parking lot itself takes your breath away, especially as midway down, it goes through a deposit of snow - the only snow one can see on this side of the mountain.

The train from Interlaken to Jungfrau goes through here, and the houses in the basin make for as picturesque a setting as there can be. Unfortunately it too dark by now for pictures, but we keep shooting nonetheless. The train going through the mountains is the favorite subject, closely followed by the electric "star" lit up at the top of the cliff.

When we get back to Interlaken, the Christkindlmartk is busier, more cheerful, and better looking under the Christmas lights. We enjoy roasted chestnuts, crepes, and the festive atmosphere to the hilt and, under force of habit, click some pictures. I am told that Interlaken is a perpetual Bollywood favorite, and hosts hundreds of Indian film shootings every year. Since the late 80s, when terrorism drove movie producers out of Kashmir, Bollywood producers have been shooting in Switzerland, and apparently Interlaken is their favorite location.

While in town, I get a picture taken with Aishwarya Rai. Too bad that her presence is only as a picture on a small Longines poster. What's even more pathetic is that as soon as we saw this multi-brand luxury-goods shop with a Longines sign on it, we went in with the specific purpose of taking this picture, asking at least 4 attendants, from as many ethnicities, where the Longines department was. As my friend clicks my picture with Ms.Rai (now Mrs. Bachchan, but we can ignore that part for now), the Russian shop attendant shakes her head in disbelief. Boys will be boys.

On our way back home, we stop in Berne, the Swiss capital. The city of the bear is not a popular tourist destination, but is charming in its own way. Soon it starts to rain, and as my friend explains, it is good to be in Berne when it rains as the walkways/ arcade in the market are covered a la Picadilly Circus in London or Connaught Circus in New Delhi. In fact, the 6 kilometers of arcades form one of the longest covered shopping promenades in Europe.

There are bears everywhere, which is not surprising considering the fact that the city got its name from a bear that the founder Duke Berthold had killed. And there are characteristic Berne fountains. The Zytglogge clock tower, which has served as guard tower, prison, clock tower and civic memorial, showcases not just its 15th century astronomical clock, but also standard measures of length. The Münster, a 15th century Gothic cathedral, is majestic, as is the square of the Bundeshaus (Parliament House).

We wander around, taking pictures at every possible opportunity till we have to eat for the fear of the eateries closing down. For dinner, we get into one of a long line of Italian places, where I get some nice risotto porcini, served in large portions.

After a little adventure of getting lost and finding our way back again, we head back home.

On Sunday we get up a little earlier, i.e. 9am or so.

As we are getting ready, my friend decides to take a look at my blog, and only then realizes that in September I went to Romania, his home country! I can't believe that we never discussed that since we have communicated after my trip, but obviously we didn't as I can't recall any specific instance when we did. I guess sometimes it is possible to miss the blindingly obvious, like the Washington school forgetting to put Christmas on their calendar. It's even more ironic since for a while the quotation in the footer of my work email has been G.B.Shaw's, "The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place."

That discovery made, we need to pick up a gift for a friend next. Since everything in the town is closed on Sunday, we drive down to the airport to buy the present. The airport is the scene for a few more hilarious communication gaffes, and we are incredulous and in splits by the time we get out of the airport parking.

For lunch we've been invited to a friend's place. My friend tells me that the hostess is a Romanian married to a Swiss gentleman of Vietnamese ethnicity.

It's directly to the dining table at her place as we have evidently kept everyone waiting. I enjoy the salată de vinete (the Romanian Baba Ghanoush) with black olive bread and roma tomatoes till my stomach begs me to stop. And then it's time for a homebaked plum pie and a creamy chocolaty fudge. Additionally, there is the warm, sugary, syrupy, cinnamon and spice drink which seems like the perfect thing to have in a log cabin on a snowy winter evening.

While our hostess has been in Switzerland for over 9 years now, during which she has completed a PhD in organizational cybernetics and worked in different parts of the country, she remembers having watched Bollywood movies in her childhood: specifically, Ek Phool Do Maali (One flower and two gardeners), and Awara (the vagabond). I am told that a few decades ago many people names their sons Rege (Raj) after the Indian actor Raj Kapoor.

We talk about how my friend visited my hometown in India before I could, and then this year how I paid back by visiting Romania while he was slogging in Zurich. My friend explains to the hostess that we're like twins: like brothers, he has to do what I do and vice versa. I've long thought of him as my "brother from another mother, kinda like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover," but it was nice to hear him say it.

Our hostess recalls with a start that it's time for the Euro 2008 draw - declaration of the groups. So the TV is switched from a subtitled music station to the Euro 2008 live telecast. To the charging of my friend and my hostess, Romania has been placed in group C with France, Italy and Netherlands, the toughest possible competition for them.

Looking for the silver lining, we laugh that at least Romania will get more and better coverage now. Firstly, it's better to be crushed by a Rolls Royce than by a Yugo. Moreover, the group puts Romania in stellar company...the news would read something like, "France and Romania kicked out of the world cup"...even in failure, Romania will be accompanied by some of the best in business. Most importantly, we half-joke, strong competition will elevate Romania's game - it plays best against strong team, and manages to lose to the weak ones.

This is the best thing that could have happened to Romania, I philosophise. For one, it's liberating. There's no pressure now. The team can just go out there and play their game. And secondly, if they go through into the next stage, there is a reasonable chance that they'd be pitted against a weak team.

There's more reason to cheer as all of Romania's group matches will be either in Zurich or Berne, enabling my friends here to be there. Amidst loud laughter, there's some talk about turning up for the matches in traditional Romanian costumes to attract the cameras. In fact, the hostess observes, she should dress up her husband in a Romanian costume for the match as "Romanian team's only foreign fan".

Then, inevitably, the Romanians start talking to each other in Romanian. Our host begs them to slow down. He understands Romanian, but they are speaking too fast for him.

"Yes," I agree, "Romanians have a funny Romanian accent when they speak in Romanian."

Our host needs to leave to give his mother a computer lesson. He has been struggling with providing her telephonic support. My friend suggests a remote-terminal program which he says can solve the problem by letting one take control of another computer over the Internet. Unless, of course, the problem is that the Internet is not working.

"If your phone is not working, call us at our toll-free number," says he.

A bright day. Good food. The company of friends. What else does one need?

In the train back to Basel, when I present the return ticket to the inspector, I am advised that it is not valid anymore, that it expired on Friday. When I bought the ticket on Friday, the machine had asked "Travelling today or another date" and I had selected "today", thinking the question referred only to the onward journey, but evidently the answer determined the validity of the return ticket too. So I buy a ticket to Basel and ask my kindly inspector who doesn't speak or understand English if the return ticket I bought on Friday is useless. She takes the ticket and tells me that she'd ask her superintendent. After a while she returns with a giant of a man who hands me my expired ticket with a scribbling on the back. Says he, "I've written on this that you have paid today for the return journey. But the chances that they'll refund any money are very minimal." At the Basel bahnhof, however, the ticket agent is very helpful, and refunds my money right away, no questions asked.

The Basel Airport Hotel and Basel Grand Casino look really cool, bathed as they are in different colored lights. These places were designed for the colored lights though, unlike the ones in Manchester where it is a travesty as they shine all these colored lights on buildings with Gothic or Greek architectures.

At the airport, the security "line" is a breeze as there is no line at all. The departure status board indicates that my flight is due to leave from gate 3. After going through a hunting expedition, I reach the conclusion that the airport doesn't have gates 3 through 19! Hmmm...a friendly security agent advises me as to the general area where EasyJet flights take off from. Turns out that the flight will take off from gate 82.

All in all, what a fun weekend, and what a funny weekend indeed! Fun because I was able to meet a good friend after a long time and visit such a beautiful country. Funny because of the whole background track of "comedy of errors", with the numerous "Whaaaaaaat?" moments.

Like my friend says, weekends like this make working through the weeks seem worth it.

Click here to check out my pictures from Interlaken, Lauterbrunnen and Berne of 1 Dec 2007.