Men have become the tools of their tools. The man who independently plucked the fruits when he was hungry is become a farmer; and he who stood under a tree for shelter, a housekeeper. We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled down on earth and forgotten heaven. We have adopted Christianity merely as an improved method of agri-culture. We have built for this world a family mansion, and for the next a family tomb. The best works of art are the expression of man’s struggle to free himself from this condition, but the effect of our art is merely to make this low state comfortable and that higher state to be forgotten. There is actually no place in this village for a work of fine art, if any had come down to us, to stand, for our lives, our houses and streets, furnish no proper pedestal for it. There is not a nail to hang a picture on, nor a shelf to receive the bust of a hero or a saint.

Thoreau never ceases to amaze me; and then i get into a grappling match with him !

ONE YEAR BACK ..

” How many stops before we reach Jena ? “  ( we = = me and vineeth varma)

We were making him nervous. He speaks English, we confirmed that. But he strains to comprehend our heavy Indian accents. He  thinks, counts, falters, hesitates and then counts again. Jena is the fourth station. He asks us if we were students at the university.

The little train crept across a thin line of steel amidst meadows and paddocks. In about fifteen  minutes, little hills grew higher and hid the land that lay beyond. A sense of anticipation was building in my head as I wait for the curtains to be drawn. The city that was to be home for a year was about to present herself.

“Jeez, that is a cool tower “  I just saw the Jena Dick. A structure that I would see everyday for the next 11 months.

A tiny station that would have trouble finding itself on a larger rail network. We step off dragging our suitcases. A lean guy walks up to us. Willem Rischau , the beginning of a long list of wonderful people.

“We haven’t eaten anything. I need lunch” – the Big Man says. Another phrase that was going to become quotidian. I drag the bags along. A dainty black suitcase and my blue backpack. My three week long preparation in Madras to start over in Europe. Now I laugh thinking about it. Save my lucky charms and the ultra cool Mickey Mouse plates, there was nothing useful in it.

Stepping out of the station, I fell in love with my little city.

A MONTH BACK

I had already been to Paris. Paris minus all the tourist gimmickry, is much more like Madras than any other European city I have visited . Heck, there is even a street with Tamilians and a Saravana Bhavan in it. But moving to Paris was difficult. I had four bags to carry this time. Trust me, hauling that up the stairs of Ecole Polytechnique was such a pain even with Doro and Fabrice lending a helping hand.  Leaving Jena was difficult. Over the next one year, you are going to hear me say ridiculously bad things about Paris and the French . Forgive my resentment. I am being completely biased and unfair. Most of you would certainly find Paris amazing. I do agree. It is an incredible place.  But then Jena has spoilt me. She has been too indulgent and I’ll never be able to live in a large metro again.

Jena – Lichtstadt. This, my friends, is the city of light !! This will be the place I call home.

Blah blah blah ..

Million shades of grey and so bright,

turned inside out  becomes light.

fills up nothing.

Further strangling each breath

struggle that struggles. Quite amusing

Handing Maxwell his hammer.

Verbal constipation.

Grey reflects off grey..

Again.