Adyasha Das's Blog

Festivals, though built around different occasions, truly showcase culture and tradition.Festivals have been defined as cultural forms of and about 'culture' (Bauman 1986); cultural performances allowing to enact and celebrate the multiple symbolic elements
which add sense and meaning to the various oppositions and discontinuities of everyday
life (Singer 1959).Festivals have long been considered the traditional cultural activity of any region. Festivals are the crystallization of culture, spiritual and physical activities which have been chosen, maintained and improved over many generations. Festivals are the living cultural museums of the ways people live their lives.

Festivals and special events are one of the fastest growing types of tourism attractions. Even in small towns of less then one thousand people, it is not uncommon to see two or three major festivals held per year (England, 1994)As such festivals and special events can compete the other types of ambient attractions ,such as climate, scenery, wild life, permanent attractions,etc.

Raja Sankranti is a salutation to Mother earth with its bountiful resources, where individuals live and prosper. Raja Parba is essentially Odia as it is not celebrated elsewhere in India. The basic purpose of Raja celebration is a gratefulness to the earth which is our abode, an ode to the maternal instinct of the Earth for prosperity and productivity.

As popularized by fables, it is believed that the first raindrops moisten the earth and make it fertile. That is why this period indicates the menstrual cycle of mother earth. Raja Sankranti , popularly known as the Swing festival is spread over three days : Pahili Raja(the first day ; the last day of “Jestha” month) , Raja Sankranti(second day; the first day of the month of Asadha) and Basi Raja (third day).After the scorching heat of the summer, it is a symbolic welcoming of the cool monsoon showers, so indispensable for a good crop. It is as though the virgin rain sprinkles the earth with a magic spell of prosperity. Just as women observe several cultural taboos during the monthly cycle, all agricultural activities are strictly forbidden. Cultivation, plantation, cutting of trees etc are avoided as indulging in this would ward off Goddess Laxmi. Raja is an occasion to offer obeisance to the earth, for giving us a reason to live, for being with us in our trials and tribulations.


It is a festival of fun and frolic for unmarried girls, whether in villages or towns. Like mother earth, they are relieved from all household chores. During the entire period, they wear new attire and adorn themselves with bright jewellery: sparkling silver anklets, decorative toe rings, rainbow coloured bangles, and sometimes intricately designed waist-bands and necklaces borrowed from mothers. With “altaa” adding to the grace of delicate feet, “kajala” emphasizing playful eyes and “chandanapaati”, enhancing the glory of faces, they move around in groups, visiting friends and relatives. They are forbidden from walking barefoot lest it hurts the earth. Their infectious laughter fills the air and scatters a feeling of happiness everywhere.


The greatest attraction of Raja is the Rajadoli….the decorated swing on which young girls fly off into the land of dreams. Raja is the time for merriment. The young men in the villages would play energetic games like “Dudu”, “Kabaddi”,”Bohuchori”. But for the maidens it would be a strong swing in the magical shade of a mango grove or bamboo bush.The gyrations of the swing would be accompanied by melodious songs for every mood, reflecting the joyous youthfulness of the girls.


This is also a time to savour mouth-watering specialities. Heading the list is “Poda Pitha”-a delicious combination of powdered rice and spicy condiments, sweetened with jaggery and chopped or shredded coconut. Home-made curries, fresh fruits , especially ripe mangoes are other favourites.

Dr.Adyasha Das

In an essay on the writer Seán O'Faoláin, Conor Cruise O'Brien wrote about ideas of childhood and memory: "There is for all of us a twilight zone of time, stretching back for a generation or two before we were born, which never quite belongs to the rest of history. Our elders have talked their memories into our memories until we come to possess some sense of a continuity exceeding and traversing our own individual being."
Whenever I walk down memory lane, I stop at this quaint gate, and a swarm of butterflies burst out in all their colour to paint my world with innocence, the honeysuckle smell of love dripping all over me. Those were the days of being unafraid of anything, everything because Ma and Bapi, my parents were there. There was no question which they could not answer, no problems they could not handle, nothing at all which they could not set right. Along with my two brothers, I went to a local public school, Mont Forte in Dhenkanal where my father was posted as an engineer working for the state government. I was a chubby little girl with large eyes of wonder, always showered with love and affection. Home was the quarters allotted to my father. There was ample room in it for literature, music, joy, happiness and the bitter-sweet pangs of growing up.
Within the folds of my home, I found the ideal role-model in my mother. My hero for all times- a writer, a creator as well as a teacher apart from an array of roles she had, the most important being a mother. When I look back now at the mosaic patterns of life, I marvel at how she arranged the pieces to fit together like the perfect solution to a jigsaw puzzle. Just like small, white flowers bravely blooming through cracks in concrete, Ma made us see the best that life had to offer.
Having a writer mother meant unending, ever new bedtime stories. This tradition continued with my daughter too who only wanted Granny for knitting the bedtime patchwork quilt of culture, tradition, fables and so much more. I got my first lessons in interior decoration from Ma, who never took a course in it. She liked to keep our home neat and tidy. I would be astounded how she plucked wild flowers and decked up the house. She knew which colour would be best, where exactly to place them. Unawares, I got my initial lessons in house-keeping from Ma.
For me she is an icon of everything beautiful, from her light coloured sarees to the trinkets of jewellery she chose, the fragrance of lavender that trailed her, the love she showered on all of us. My father loved food she cooked and despite a job and writing, Ma was always in the kitchen, churning out delectable dishes for all of us. My Jejema(granny) stayed with us from time to time and most of her last days. My Aai and Aja (maternal grand-parents) along with mausi’s and mamu’s (Ma’s sisters and brothers) frequently visited us. There was always hustle and bustle, laughter and merriment. When all that got over, late in the night, Ma would sit to write.My father loved his job and excelled in his chosen field. Above all, he adored Ma. Despite relatively less interest in literature and music, he opened the doors of our home to welcome all that Ma wanted.
My mother noticed my flair for music when I was just a toddler. I would hum with the songs from the radio, dance to the rhythm. She liked my voice and decided to start my music classes. I was four years old then and could not imagine giving up my afternoon hopscotch and fun for practicing classical alankaar. My plight was worse as my brothers teased me endlessly, peeking through the curtains as I sat listlessly before the harmonium and then dashing away like the wind. My first Guru, Shri Kamal Baran Chail would sit and fidget with his fingers and would coax me,”Ok, lets start.Be a good girl now.Sa re ga ma...” I would sit quietly, the unshed tears tightening my throat, my small world looking grey and dismal. Then Ma would come and I would start in a shaky voice,”Sa re…”, taking toddler steps into the world of music. When I look back today at the long musical journey which I set out on, I see my mother as all the milestones, all the destinations that I came across.

Her perseverance and hard work for her literary career tremendously influenced me. The literary ambience at home enthralled me. Great stalwarts of Indian & Odia literature, writers whom I held in awe, authors of all languages thronged our home. The entry of thoughts in the chariot of words, the marching of myths from different cultures as symbols invigorated me. The breeze of poetry wafted in me and I loved it. When I heard people recite poems, I swayed with the music of words, like the lilting melody of the title track of Dr.Zhivago. The library at home boasted books of all kinds, from all over the world, from science fiction, to fairy tales, world poetry to classics, modern drama to essays. My eyes feasted on all.Ma gifted us books on birthdays and anniversaries. Books for the summer and winter vacations. We were all voracious readers. She organized writing competitions among us. All of us have had a life-long affair with words, thanks to Ma. What I treasure most is when she would read out portions of her short stories or novels. As I grew up and started writing myself, these sessions became more interesting and would lead to endless discussions. The subtleties and nuances of the arts she noticed influenced me a lot.
As a professor of management, when I teach about work life balance and multi-tasking, I continually and proudly cite my Mom’s example, over the years. I have known how her sleep has suffered as she wrote late at night when all else was taken care of. Over the years, I have watched how she followed a discipline to write something every day. An avid reader , she would feast on world literature of different genres. With a sharp and inquisitive mind, she would forever ask questions on whichever aspect interested her.
Multi-tasking and discipline are the most important traits I feels I have learnt from my mother. Though a disciplinarian, Ma always encouraged us to pursue our interests while focusing on our core learning responsibilities. Nothing propelled her more than the all-consuming desire to transfer the best of human values to us. I have known Ma to be forthright, frank and honest. A crusader for fighting social evils, she has faced tough situations(Her single handed fight against the misbehavior of some Puri Pandas with her friend). At times, we have dissuaded her from opposing discrimination or injustice as we were concerned about her safety. Yet, once she had set her mind on something, it was well-nigh impossible to deter her from it.
I had not realized how much adulation Ma enjoyed with her readers till I experienced it first- hand. I have accompanied Ma to many literary gatherings. I remember distinctly a young boy coming up to her once. He was so choked with emotion that he could not speak. He just looked at her, his large eyes brimming with tears , touched her feet and stayed that way till she helped him get up. I had felt very close to tears myself. That was the first of many such experiences where I realized that apart from being my Ma she was an icon.Her fan following transcended geographical and age barriers.
I have seen the genesis of many of her successful novels and how she has struggled to give birth to the complete work. Sheer focus, dedication and unceasing toil has helped her. This, despite countless other roles which she miraculously managed to render with aplomb.When I remember our growing up years, I can’t forget how she ensured all of us studied what we desired, and also got ample opportunity for honing our talents.
I would say that Ma had a great role to play in my choice to take up teaching. She was a dedicated teacher, thorough and systematic. As an administrator she took up several responsibilities, the most important, as a member of the Odisha Public Service Commission. The same spark that the small little girl from Balikuda had when she delivered her first public speech at a gathering during the Sadheikala unrest at Jagatsinghpur.
I have seen her as a leader in community affairs, initiating interest to develop the neighbourhood where she lived, the organizations where she worked and to better the lives of anyone who sought help. My mind is filled with numerous instances where this has been aptly reflected: offering a glass of lemonade to a petty thief who was caught in our home, much to our indignation, untiring efforts for the cyclone-hit homeless people of Jagatsinghpur, creating awareness about health and hygiene among the Bondas, inculcating the love for Odia among Odia diaspora in the US etc.
I have seen Ma stand strong and stoic in the face of crisis, a cover for all her family, an impregnable shield for all of us. Where I have broken down she has sustained me, held me up and always taught me,”This too shall pass”! I remember I had questioned her once,”Why did this have to happen to me?”. Her answer was “No-one is privileged in the eyes of God.”
I have often been asked by journalists how I felt about always being compared to Ma . I feel that it is my rare privilege that I grew up in the shade of the flourishing banyan tree she is, getting nourished with the very best of literary fodder. I have my best friend in Ma, my closest confidante. We have travelled together across the world, presented joint papers, participated together in literary conferences, been a critic for each other and above all have been the best of friends. We have also clasped hands and stood by each other in unexpected thunder-storms, with no shelter in sight but each other.
If I am a writer-singer today, an academician and researcher, a wife and mother, it is only because I followed Ma’s mantra of work-life balance. She made me weave garlands of words. Then she asked me write what I felt is to be written, no force or compulsion but a natural flow. She taught me to appreciate the difference between the right word and the almost right word.

I always remember the words she tells me:
“Don’t walk in front of me, I may not follow.
Don’t walk behind me, I may not lead,
Walk beside me, friend.”
Albert Camus

The rich history of Odisha's maritime activities may have been forgotten, but reminiscences of the sea voyages of Kalinga continue to cling to the folk-lore of the land.Numerous stories speak of the "Sadhavas" (merchants) who went on voyages with their "Boita's" (flotilla) and returned laden with precious treasures. The tradition of boat worship and boat sailing on the full-moon day of Kartika throughout Orissa awakens the memory of the gallant Kalinga merchants sailing to the distant islands. The wives of the Sadhavas, bedecked with colourful sarees, would perform “puja” for the safety and security of their husbands. There would be special rites to ward off evil spirits. As the sound of the conch and “hulahuli”filled the air, the Sadhavas would set sail with dreams in their eyes.

Kartik Purnima was considered the most auspicious day by the traders of Odisha to venture out to far-off lands like Bali, Java, Sumatra, Borneo and Ceylon (Sri Lanka).Even today,on the full-moon day of 'Kartika', Odias turn out in good numbers to take an early morning dip in the river,despite the advent of winter.Men and women float miniature boats made of paper or the barks of plantain trees with lamps burning inside them.This custom is symbolic of the sea-voyage of earlier times and is known as Boita Bandana.’Panchuka’ refers to the auspicious last five days leading to the Kartik Purnima. Most temples of Odisha,from Puri’s Jagannath temple to small,nondescript ones in villages teem with devotees.There are religious sermons,discussions,devotional singing and the pounding of drums and clashing cymbals usher in the sacred morning of Purnima.
Bali Yatra Festival in Odisha marks the culmination of several religious festivities held in the month of Kartik, which is considered the most auspicious month in a calendar year. Held on the full moon day in November - December that is celebrated all over Odisha as Kartik Purnima, Bali Yatra commemorates our ancient maritime legacy. The fair attracts thousands of enthusiasts and is marked with fun and frolic on the banks of the river Mahanadi. As people enjoy shopping in thousands of stalls that come up, eating odia delicacies, the tradition of the Sadhavas in rekindled and continues in the land of Odisha,
Today, the celebrations are a preservation of the rich cultural heritage of Odisha.It reiterates the flourishing trade practices that existed once. Two celebrations unite the Greater Orient and Bharat:Water festival in Khmer (Cambodia) and Bali yatra in Bali.
Baliyatra Festival of Odisha can be a major catalyst to accelerate inbound tourism from ASEAN region because of its international reach showcasing the rich maritime tradition of ancient India. In keeping with the Government of India’s “Look East” policy, both India & Odisha Tourism should reach out to the captive yet affluent market of ASEAN region through an awareness drive and capitalizing on the ancient socio-cultural linkage of Kalinga. Also due to the proximity of these source markets to Eastern India, particularly Odisha, , the destination can also be promoted as short-haul weekend gateway for travellers from South East Asia. The marketing themes could centre around segments like “Buddhism”, “Root Tourism” and “Kalingan Heritage”.(S.Das)

The rise and fall of the Berlin Wall had always intrigued me. I remember the news clippings of November 9th 1989 when East Germany was collapsing before my eyes, there in my living – room in Odisha. Part of the Iron Curtain, an iconic symbol of the Cold War,
the Berlin Wall, was being torn down. Ever since, I had a desire to visit Berlin. My husband is here for a week and we decide to visit his friends in Berlin. Dr. Shreemanta Parida is a senior scientist at the Max Planck Institute for Infection Biology in Berlin, and Dr. Mayuri, his most enterprising wife. They have very patiently explained to me the various ticket options available for international travellers at the Hauptbahnhof, the central station.

Zipping across the German countryside on a pristine, high-speed inter-city express, quaint, story- book villages and church-bell chimes, well-manicured gardens and vast tracts of agricultural land, what more can one ask for? In less than four hours we are moving into the Berlin Hauptbahnhof, bright-eyed and ready to explore. Berlin, a re-modelled capital
city that is both modern and classical, with a re-constituted Reichstag; the re-created beauty of Berlin beckons. We cross the Max Planck Institute, a historical edifice covered with a tapestry of startling green ivy. Our friends stay in the Mitte (central) area, the former East Berlin district now restored with luxury hotels and shopping arcades. Maike Zeidler has briefed us about the 'must see' spots and we do not want to lose a single minute.

Our first breath-taking moment is at the Brandenburg Tor, the gate designed by Carl Gotthard Langhans, modelled after the propylaeum of the Acropolis of Athens, situated in no-man's land between East and West Germany during the cold war and a symbol of the city's division as well as unification. We move north of the gate towards the Reichstag, the building that
was the seat of the Weimar Republic and now houses the German Parliament. We climb up the glass dome to have a magnificent view of Berlin, spread out carelessly on a carpet of history.

On to “Unter den Linden”, the best street for a leisurely stroll, dotted with historic sites. The Humboldt University at the Berlin Staatsoper, with its imposing pillars. The strains of a melodious organ wafts up to us from the St. Hedwigs – Kathedrale. Berlin Alexanderplatz, named after the Russian Czar Alexander I and the massive Fernsehturm (TV tower) . Postdamer Platz, used as a commercial and military transport centre before World War I. Among the large tracts of green belt we see everywhere in Berlin is the Tiergarten (Zoo), laced with mysterious, meandering walkways. The Siegessäule (Victory Column) with a shining gold goddess of victory perched atop it stands in the centre of the park.We reach Check-Point Charlie and are soon engrossed in the fascinating accounts of the operation of the American Check-Point Charlie, the many escape attempts, both the tragic failures ending in death or the triumphant freedom gained by some.During the Cold War, this was one of the gates of the Berlin wall located in the centre of the city. As I stood there I wondered about the fragility of freedom and Abraham Lincoln's words: 'Freedom is the last, best hope on Earth'.

It is raining as we reach Friedrichstraße, one of Berlin's largest and most elegant commercial districts. Soaked garments and umbrellas, deprecating glances, tired mouths. However, business proceeds as usual with indifference to the absolutely drenched mind I have.I am overwhelmed with the glimpses of history I have had today. Despite being in the grip of change in the modern world, history matters. A story about the past, significant and true, whispered to me
by the ancient monuments and relics.

A short walk to the Holocaust Memorial, and my mind flies to a book which had made me cry in its painful depiction of tragedy, 'The Diary of Anne Frank', an account of the atrocities of the Third Reich through the eyes of a young girl. Anne's diary is an oasis of hope in an unfair world. Her life, till her last breath in a concentration camp, is a celebration of optimism.Body and soul create a thousand possibilities and carve out many I's. But there is only one I in which there is a congruence of the creator and created and one which Anne had stumbled upon.'My sun sets to rise again', Robert Browning's immortal words were Anne's thoughts even in her last hours.A long night. The road stretches limitlessly, but Anne had overcome her fears – of the others, of herself, of death.

I have an appointment at the Berlin Literature House and we are hurrying to the Kurfürstendamm. We stop before a sprawling villa, with a garden filled with a riot of colours. Like Frankfurt, the Berlin Literature House is a venue for readings, exhibitions and parties at the nearby restaurant. Mr. Ernest Wichner, the head of the house, is most cordial and shows me the whole
place. It is an old building and appears very cozy. I meet the Akshar writer–in – residence there, Mr. Swapnamoy Chakraborti and his friend Mr. Rainer;there is an avid discussion from Indian attitudes to German villages and I tell them all the truth, that though I am mightily impressed with Berlin, my first love is Frankfurt. Guess who I met on the stairs of the house..Robert Walser and his snow.

Around the next corner, love,
I know you are there, yet not there
Present in the cadence of a stranger's voice,
The sudden laughter on a quiet street,
A phrase, a scent , a song.
everywhere, yet no - where

The Sachsenhausen stretch of the main embankment has around eight museums and is also known as the 'Museumsufer'. I often take a walk along the river and view the palatial buildings that house these museums. On enquiring I learned that these mansions were once built by aristocratic families and now belonged to the city. I am now seated on a wooden bench in front of the Städelsches Kunstinstitut. When Johann F. Städel created a foundation with stable financial support and a huge collection of rare paintings and books that he had collected, a tiny Städel was born. Today it boasts an impressive collection of European masterpieces and sculptures. I had a strong desire to see these rare gems created by Rubens, Beckmann, Picasso etc. But I also felt an eagerness to discover something new. Pictures have a power that is renewed constantly. They converse with their viewers in silence and have a special message for each of them. The muted lighting and the layer of silence shrouding the interiors was a perfect ambience for my meeting with the great masters. Schmidt-Rotluff's 'Im Kiosk' revealed a very different artistic approach. The amber in Lovis Corinth's ' Walchensee in Winter' made me drunk. Painting, like poetry, is a miracle. A literary or painting career may fetch accolades , bring the most elusive fame to one's doorstep, or even bring monetary rewards. But I believe what happens to me when I write is much more important.

Any creative effort, be it Vincent Van Gogh's brilliant musings on canvas, or Mozart's aching symphonies, or Rilke's poetry, is about becoming a human being. Not creating something, but creating ourselves. If you ask me what is so special about Arnold Bocklin's ' House and Ocean' ( Villa am Meer ), I am at a loss. Does the handsome building appeal to me or the realistic medley of colours representing the ocean? I really can't say. I just know, in some inexplicable way, that I am moved beyond words. That at one single moment, I am experiencing undiagnosed aches, unexplained pleasures. As we move out of the Städel, we realize we had lost track of time and are getting late for an appointment with the Indian consul- general at India House. A marathon race past busy streets and the imposing fair tower - and we reach the place on time, out of breath. Ashok Kumar, the consul- general is most courteous and allows us to wash off our tiredness with a cup of very Indian tea. He gives valuable tips on sightseeing in Frankfurt and after an
interesting conversation on different issues, we take our leave.

I am reminded of my meeting with Othmar Hardegger, consul at the Swiss general consulate. Maike Zeidler invited me to a reading at the Literature House and saw too it that I mingled with the guests during the party later. I did smile at most of the faces I didn’t know, and then found a cozy corner for myself. But trust Maike to pull me out of it into the crowd of guests! She introduced me to Othmar Hardegger, who hails from that evergreen, beautiful land, Switzerland. He remembered his visit to India primarily as colours, and the colours were so strong that they still remain woven in his memories.

Frankfurt has been nice to me, nice places, people, weather, the stuff that paintings are made of. What an experience – unexpected encounters, little grass flowers on the banks of the Main, quiet conversations, dreamy landscapes, clouds flirting with the earth, a miracle immortalized in the paintings in the Städel.

As Walt Whitman would say:

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know nothing else but miracles.
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan....
Or talk by day with anyone I love
or sit at table at dinner with the rest.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a
miracle
What stranger miracles are there.!

It has been an unusually warm autumn, they say. For a change, the weather has not been very temperamental and we have had wonderfully warm weather and brilliant blue skies. The Frankfurters are utilizing this rare spell of honey – gold weather in the best way possible-skating, cycling, and sun – bathing on the banks of a cheerful Main. Today is a lazy Sunday and I have a free day to prepare myself for a special evening, the Indische Nacht – The Indian Night. I have been invited to read my poems and perform some songs along with other famous Indian writers : Kiran Nagarkar, Gagan Gill and Shafi Shauq.
Ever since I can remember, I have been passionate about music and have been an ardent fan of the great masters.Music is the manifestation of human spirit, similar to language. Its greatest practitioners have conveyed to mankind things not possible to say in any other language. Like literature, music is a part of everyone's life, whether it is just entertainment, a cultural expression or religious inspiration. It has been found to have a profound effect on our physiological and psychological well – being.
William Congreve wrote:
'Music hath charm to soothe the savage breast,
to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak,
I have read that things inanimate moved,
And as with living souls have been informed,
By magic numbers and persuasive sound.'

Music therapy interventions are now being increasingly designed to manage stress, alleviate pain, promote wellness, express feelings, enhance memory, improve communication and promote physical rehabilitation the world over. Music has the power to explore the realms that cannot be accessed with words. Some of my all – time favourites have co – incidentally been German composers-Johann Sebastian Bach, one of the greatest Baroque composers. Beethoven's mysterious creations and especially his moonlight sonata and Concerto, an ultimate trial for all music lovers. Brahms immortal church music and symphonies.Richard Wagner who considered himself to be 'the most German of men' and celebrated the German way of life in his music. But I have a confession to make.Despite my immense regard for all the maestros, I have been in love for as long as I can remember with only one, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, whose melodies have spanned the distance from the sublime to the stupendous, melancholic to happy. I am also in love with Salzburg, his birthplace and will definitely visit it as a pilgrimage sometime.
Oh! How I have rambled on. Let me get back to the Indian Night. The main organizer of the event is Mr. Peter Ripken who has contacted me earlier and I am very impressed with his planned approach, from rehearsals to translations of the works to be presented. Sonja Vandenrath, a most accomplished lady has also been in touch regarding this program. The dusky evening arrives and we are in the auditorium. When I observe the details of preparation, from the order of seating on the dais to voice testing, I am in awe. The doors open at seven and the hall fills up with an enthusiastic audience. A hall full of Germans to savour a flavour called India. The moderator, Holger Ehling has a most pleasant style and is an intelligent anchor, linking the whole program together with clever repartee.
There is Indian decor, food and people who said they could feel the pulse of my Odia songs. Women and men who encouraged me and proved what I had always known: music communicates across cultures, overcoming barriers of language. Indian art, whether it is painting, poetry, dance or music has a characteristically inward quality, a manifestation of the world – view of this culture. Indian thought, at its deepest, affirms that mind and matter are rather different grades of the same energy, different organizations of one conscious force of existence.
Music, as well as being the most dispensable of arts, is probably the hardest to throw off. Just as memories and landscapes eventually emerge to make emotional claims upon us, music comes uninvited. And stays. It is the lure of place, the call to belong. That evening, music and literature combined to create an unforgettable symphony called 'German days and Indian nights'.

The opening ceremony of the Festival of Literature – 'Literaturm' ( literatower ) is being organised by the City of Frankfurt at the Literature House. The festival’s main theme is the Poetry of Knowledge – Die Poesie des Wissens. The front row is packed with distinguished Who’s Who of Frankfurt. Amidst the flashing of cameras, Petra Roth, the mayor, initiates the program with her address. There are scholars, writers, bureaucrats and I can sense from their body language that the audience is seriously attentive. ‘Poetry is a revelation of words by means of words’, the words of George Steiner. He speaks emphatically and the audience cheers him on. Durs Grünbein reads a poem aloud and then they have an animated discussion. I can’t follow the dialogue exactly, but I gather it is a discussion on literature and science, science and art, and novels pertaining to scientific issues.

I am impressed with the efficient organization and team – work of everyone at the Literature House. The head of the house, Dr. Maria Gazzetti, has left town on some urgent personal work. But I did meet her briefly on my first day here. Of course there is Maike Zeidler, chic and elegant, who has been a good friend. In between her pre occupations, we have snatched some moments to have fleeting discussions on astrology and the teachings of Bhagwan Rajneesh or Osho, master of rhetoric who took the world by storm when he proclaimed that the body precedes the mind in importance when it comes to spiritual enlightenment.

This evening, a visit to the Schauspiel Frankfurt, Frankfurt’s Theatre, to see Heiner Müller’s ‘ Quartett’. So thoughtful of Maike and Martina to have organized this at my request. I have read that German drama either focused on comedy or was tragic, like the one I’m seeing tonight. I am reminded of Goethe’s Faust where the hero’s love is his salvation. The play is an adaptation of the novel ‘ Dangerous Love’ by the 18th century French author Laclos. The war of sexes, the embittered love between Marquise de Merteuil and Vicomte de Valmon, a complicated saga of human passion
beautifully depicted in the short one – hour play by Urs Troller and Adriane Westerbarkey. Eric Berne, in his best – seller, ‘Games People Play’ talks about unpredictable human transactions. Individuals use their three ego – states, (parent, adult and child) to play psychological games with one another. There has been a liberal use of psychology in theatre and literature. The scenes that are enacted are powerful articulations of passion. From the Freudian perspective, human passion is laden with dark intimations. Lorca defined the passionate streaks in poems as ‘ duende ‘, a sheer madness that burns the blood of Vicomte de Valmont and drives the Marquise to the very edge of reality. How can a relationship become so bitter and bring out the worst in a person? The quicksilver smudges of melancholy, loneliness and lunacy, desire and death are effectively portrayed by
the actors. As we return through the deserted by-lanes, I recollect Neruda’s lines that aptly sum up the Quartett:

Well, now,
If little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me
Do not look for me
For I shall already have forgotten you.

I do miss home, and these “miss – you” moments appear suddenly and take me by surprise. The new sights and sounds, behaviour- and eating-patterns, concepts of personal space, norms and values have crowded my mind, instilling excitement and enthusiasm. I find euphoria all around and within me. Some friends have warned that soon the magic will wear off and there is
inevitable confusion and disorientation. They have asked me to remove my rose – tinted sunglasses. But I promise the colour does not lie in my glasses . It is everywhere outside and I can’t help walking into that haze.

Frankfurt is holding my hand and I want to be led everywhere, into hubs of people, brimming streets, coy cafes, proud churches, theatre , opera , banks, towers…..
I want to be led everywhere.

India is the guest of honour at the Frankfurt Book Fair and as the two cultures meet, a series of events have been planned. I am on my way to an Exhibition-"Indien. Im Blick: Karikaturen aus Indien": India at a glance: Cartoons from India, at the Golden Hall of the Hessian Broadcasting Company. More than 70 cartoons offer unusual insights into the multifaceted landscape of India and the development of the world’s largest democracy. I watch a movie on the famous
cartoonist Abu, immortalized for his sensitive depiction of the Vietnam war in his works, Something he says intrigues me: 'Travel exposes a country best'. So true! The greatest lesson is imparted through travelling and I am an eager student. The whole world is one classroom and exploring cultures can result in great learning adventures.I remember a few lines from a poem by Robert Service.....

Grim land, dim land,oh how the vastness calls
Far land, star land, oh how the stillness falls
You never can tell if it’s heaven or hell
And I am taking the trial on trust
But I haven’t a doubt
That my soul will leap out on its wanderlust.

I have thought of going on a walking tour of Frankfurt today, a leisurely stroll through the unknown streets. Because the city is so compact, walking is one of the most enjoyable ways to look around.
Away from the exhibition, down the posh locality of Bertramstrasse. The houses are straight out of Grimm's fairy-tales, with neat, well - tended gardens laden with bright blooms.The lace curtains at the windows are more expensive, with fine designs. At times, there are rare curios or vases adorning the window-sills. In these lanes, petals of sweet-scented flowers fill the air, music blows along in the breeze. A quiet, drowsy neighbourhood leading to the Dornbusch railway station, and I fall in love with it.

I have a date with culture; the culture of Frankfurt over a traditional Frankfurt lunch, and it is not yet time. In the bustling modern life, traditional dishes are all occasional and have been elevated to a ceremonial status. But from the dishes to the dressing and serving, all this reflects the living pattern of a society. We decide to walk around a bit more and get hungry enough to do justice to that special lunch date. I stop every now and then at street corners and squares. But despite the slow pace we reach the Zeil, Germany's most affluent shopping strip, generating the highest turnover. On both sides, popular stores displaying the latest brands, department stores, bars and cafes are squeezed tightly together. Rows of trees make a cozy corner for people to rest in between shopping. I see people from different parts of the world, shopping for what? From Bembel ( a jug of apple wine ) to the best designer wear, fashion accessories and wooden dolls, handclasps, embraces, deprecating glances, unguarded moments, relationships?

Walking around the whole morning has now sufficiently prepared us for the special lunch appointment. We move to the north – east of the city centre, Bornheim. It was once a separate village, later incorporated into Frankfurt. But it retains an idyllic aura, with narrow snake – like streets. Some of the houses are straight out of a story – book and there are tempting offers from apple – wine parlours dripping tradition. It is almost impossible to believe that Frankfurt,
with more than 370 international banks having their headquarters here, over 200 advertising agencies and 1000 foreign corporations, also has this hidden, languorous side to it. Frankfurt is more a city of picturesque villages, having retained its colour and architecture. We choose a restaurant with a nameful of Gold – 'Goldener Adler' with cozy chairs and tables strewn casually, right next to a medieval street, under a canopy of trees. As the leaves of memory rained on us, of Frankfurter's family and food of yester-years, we placed the order.

The German Apfelwein, popularly nicknamed Ebbelwein in Frankfurt dialect, has been recommended. I choose a Süßgespritzter, a heady combination of apple wine and lemonade. Goethe's favourite 'Grüne Sosse', a sauce of atleast seven finely chopped herbs ( parsley, chives, chervil, sorrel, dill, borage, watercress, tarragon, lorage and a lemon-flavoured herb- Zitronenmelisse.) poured over chopped hard – boiled eggs and boiled potatoes. To be very truthful, I had been a bit apprehensive about the taste. I have had earlier experiences to prove that appearances can be deceptive, especially in a foreign land. It was most delectable and pleasing to the eye, though new to my taste – buds. Food is an undisputed icon of culture. I remember the several festivals in India and how the ladies of the house would get up early to prepare ear – marked delicacies for each. The dish, colour, the manner of serving all dipped in a pot – pourri of tradition, values, belief. The food along with the generous helpings of history and culture – rich stories made it a tantalizing treat.

Perhaps the world revolves around the food table.Families meet over food, cultures collide. Food to match the weather, mood, exquisite art-forms of time - tested tradition.Food is the poetry of the mouth,and I have read beautiful poetry today.

Books have been my companion since as far back as I can remember. Channel television had not intruded into my life when I entered the fascinating world of books. My imagination would race with the horizon, daring to out-smart it. I remember my parents collecting books from all over – Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Wordsworth, Byron, famous as well as lesser-known poets and writers, all were invited into my small library at home. Tolstoy, Chekov and later Pablo Neruda, Quasimodo, Marquez -from these great masters I learned to open the windows of my mind. I learned to dream.

Books of all kinds, colours, sizes enticed me to dream of other worlds, nature, to connect with each other and with our better selves. Reading as a way to move further up in the journey to wisdom – from the yearnings of youth to a growing desire to understand life's larger purposes. So I wanted to visit a bookshop here in Frankfurt. The Carolus Buchhandlung, a bookstore with a difference. Neat rows of books arranged in wooden shelves. A great variety of books – some to answer the
biggest questions of life, books on several disciplines, few to colour the innocent world of a child. Most of the books are in German and I am only able to recognize the names of authors. A quaint edition of a masterpiece of the great Columbian story– teller, Gabriel Garcia Marquez , ' One hundred years of Solitude', illustrated chronicles of Frankfurt. Stacks of words, dressed in their best. Long after I return, this month – long stay in Frankfurt will remain throbbing and alive, in similar rows of words contained within velvet covers, in a non-descript bookstore tucked away somewhere.

Afternoon appointment with Nicole, from the online version of the Frankfurt General Newspaper at the restaurant MOLOKO overlooking the Main. There is a breeze coming up from the river and a naughty drizzle sneaking up behind us. I see, again, many old – timers, alone or with their dogs, enjoying a jug of wine. Long – standing low birth rates and increasing life-expectancy has resulted in Germany having the third – largest proportion of elderly people world – wide. In fact,approximately every fourth person is old here. Our conversation steers to India, the culture and folkways, languages and dialects and literary trends in poetry and fiction. The changing social and literary situation and how it influences my writings. We discuss about certain similar patterns in German and Indian writing – exploring the experience of love in all its richness, complexity and variety, the subtleties and nuances of individual sensibility, an obsession with the self, often in philosophical and existential frames and, of course, a simmering concern with historical themes.

Undoubtedly, Indian poetry and fiction increasingly projects a woman – centred approach, to interpret and project experience from the viewpoint of a feminine consciousness and sensibility. As we walk back, Martina, my constant companion, tells me it is safe for women to go around late at night. I have felt very comfortable going for a stroll in the evenings. Even in my 'salwar – kameez', my typical Indian attire, I don't invite unnecessary stares. Tremendous progress has been made in Germany in 'equal rights' for women and they now account for 45 percent of all employed persons.

As I approach Lange Strasse, the streets are quieter though familiar. Everyone is in a hurry, briskly walking towards an unknown destination. I realize why I don't feel alone here. Even as a child, in the densely forested world of books, I had never been afraid to be the lone traveller. I had always liked the adventure of being on my own, figuring out meanings without knowing them. Many times, in my journey into books, I would get lost. There would be mountainous terrain on which I would lose my foothold and hang precariously. The roaring sea would threaten to drown me. But soon the danger would be past; the sea would become an endless ribbon of caresses and I would march ahead with a new confidence. The spire of the ' Imperial Cathedral', the Kaiserdom, is the silent sentry ensuring that all is well. As the lights start twinkling in the skyscrapers, the laser-beams of the FFH radio on the top of the head office of Frankfurt Commerzbank, I realize every bit of Frankfurt lives-for the proper function of life is to live, not to exist.

As I go to sleep, I know I agree with the philosophy of Frankfurt.

I would rather be ashes than dust. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow
than a sleepy and perseverant planet. I would rather have my spark burn our in a brilliant blaze than be stifled by dry rot.
For the proper function of life is to live, not to exist.

The Encyclopaedia Britannica states:

’Latin Moenus, river, an important right (East) bank tributary of the Rhine in Germany; formed near the Kulmbach, by the confluence of the Weisser (White) Main, which rises in the Fichtel Mountains and the Roter (Red) Main’

I have lost a very close friend;we had promised each other we would hold hands and walk-the banks of the Main can be very crowded with the rush of revellers on the weekend. Somehow my clasp loosened and my confidante slipped away. So elusive is my friend, could be anywhere- in the cafes dotting the Main on both its sides, the wooden benches sprawling in the sun or even in the Main itself. Oh Tranquility....where are you?

I told you, my friend can remain incognito anywhere, everywhere.I can feel her now, a lull of mellow September nights in the midst of
concrete,the smell of honeysuckle,
there in the mirror-world of the shimmering Main lies my
friend....Tranquility.

Trying to drown this shy Sunday afternoon in the Main. The Main River looks to be many things. It is magnanimous, a slow waltz of erotic twists and turns, bedecked with dazzling white boats, the star- speckled sky a loyal and bemused spectator. The Frankfurt ‘Messen’, or trade fairs brought travellers and traders from far and wide plying up and down the Main with their merchandise. The legend goes that Emperor Charlemagne and his troops were hounded by their enemies and were desperately trying to flee. They reached a dead-end when they arrived on the banks of the Main, which appeared to be a labyrinth of meandering waterways and islands. Lady Luck smiled at them in the form of a doe that led them to a ford that carved a safe passage across the Main. The river has thus had a significant role to play in Frankfurt’s development.

The illustrious past of Frankfurt is captured in some 40 museums, many of which are clustered about the Main River bank. It has been unusually warm these last few days and I see many bikers skirting the Main, daring the sun for a tan. On the north side of the river is a
cycle path that runs along the river for more than 30 km. Sitting here, I enjoy the beautiful scenery and get an insight into Sunday celebrations by the locals. There’s a young couple, kissing under an unexpected drizzle, ecstatically indifferent to both propriety and puddles, families squeezed into the small cafes. The lush green parks dotting the river
bank offer unending stretches of jogging trails, far from the madding crowd. Several bridges span the length of the Main, iron networks of connectivity. I pose for a photo on the Eiserner Steg, a pedestrian bridge, and my mind flies off to similar bridges, familiar waters I have encountered elsewhere.

My cruise on the Seine which revealed Paris as a city steeped in romance, delicious dishes and wine to wash it down in boulevard brassieres...or London in all its splendour displayed around the Thames – from the Victorian iron work to Big Ben, and of course the strong old bridges on which I spent an eternity. An unforgettable canal cruise and the Amstel river in Holland,Holy Ganges back home....and my mysterious Nile on whose shadowy banks I had a secret tryst with Tutankhamen. Cities have been built on the banks of life-giving rivers, have been washed away in their fury, but rivers have been indispensable.

Standing on the Iron Bridge atop the Main I hear the melodious strains of a young boy playing the accordion, almost painful in its beauty, heart-rending in its melody. I remember Aldous Huxley’s line...’After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.’ I feel sublime.Isn’t life like a river? Musically gurgling across time? Just as it’s impossible to hold a moonbeam in our hands, our time on Earth flows out of childhood pranks, onwards to a euphoric youth and before one knows it the pace slows down, the work is done and it is time to go.Time has been instigating me to yearn for the next day, next year, to gallop ahead. But no, I have forced it to a halt here...All that matters is the present, this moment as the Main turns into gold in the twilight and life in Frankfurt flows in a heady mixture of happiness and courage.

So rests the Main between its banks, silently serenaded by the moon in loyal tenderness. As I look up, the moon showers down a misty sheet of tears...tears that will become dewdrops in the parks tomorrow morning.

German translation:
Eintrag in der Encyclopaedia Britannica:

»Lat. Moenus, Fluss, wichtiger Zufluss des rechten (Ost-) Ufers des Rheins in Deutschland; gebildet in der Nähe des Kulmbachs, durch das Zusammenfließen des Weißen Mains, der im Fichtelgebirge entspringt, und des Roten Mains …«

Ich habe eine mir sehr nahe Freundin verloren ... wir hatten einander versprochen, uns an den Händen zu halten und spazieren zu gehen ... Am Wochenende können die Mainufer von schwelgendem Volk überschwemmt sein. Irgendwie habe ich meinen Griff gelockert, und schon war meine Gefährtin verschwunden. So schnell entzieht sie sich ... und könnte jetzt überall sein ... in einem Café an einem der beiden Ufer des Mains ... auf einer der Holzbänke in der Sonne ... oder auch im Main selber ... O Stille ... wo bist du?

Ich sagte es schon ... meine Freundin kann sich überall verstecken, kann überall unerkannt bleiben ... aber ich spüre ihre Anwesenheit ... eine Windstille milder Septembernächte zwischen all diesem Beton ...
der Geruch des Geißblatts,
da, im Schimmer des Mains gespiegelt liegt meine Freundin ...
Stille.

Ich versuche diesen zaghaften Sonntagnachmittag in den Main sinken zu lassen. Der Main scheint vieles zu sein. Er ist großherzig, ein langsamer Walzer mit erotischen Drehungen und Wendungen ... mit blitzend weißen Booten geschmückt, der sternengetupfte Himmel ein verlässlicher und verwirrter Zuseher. Die Frankfurter Messen brachten Reisende und Händler aus aller Welt hierher, die mit ihrer Ware den Main auf- und abwärtsziehen. Die Sage erzählt, dass Karl der Große und sein Heer von den Feinden verfolgt wurden und verzweifelt versuchten zu fliehen. Sie steckten in einer Sackgasse, als sie an die Ufer des Mains kamen, der ein Labyrinth von Flussarmen und Inseln zu sein schien. Das Glück war ihnen in Form einer Hirschkuh hold, die sie zu einer Furt geleitete, durch die sie den Main sicher überqueren konnten. Der Fluss spielt also in Frankfurts Geschichte und Entwicklung eine wichtige Rolle.

Der spektakulären Vergangenheit Frankfurts wird in ungefähr 40 Museen gedacht, viele davon ballen sich am Ufer des Mains. In den vergangenen Tagen ist es ungewöhnlich warm, ich sehe viele Radfahrer den Main entlang radeln, sie wollen sich von der Sonne noch bräunen lassen. Auf der Nordseite des Flusses gibt es einen Radweg von 30 km Länge. Ich sitze da und genieße den wunderbaren Anblick und lerne kennen, wie die Einheimischen den Sonntag begehen. Da ist ein junges Paar, das sich im gerade einsetzenden Nieselregen küsst, sich überhaupt nicht stören lässt dabei, nicht durch Anstandsregeln noch durch die Pfützen ... Familien, in kleine Cafés gezwängt. Die üppig grünen Parks entlang der Ufer bieten endlose Joggingpfade, weit weg von jeder Menge. Mehrere Brücken wölben sich über dem Main, Monumente, Eisenbauwerke, eiserne Netze der Erschließung, der Zusammenhänge, der Verbindungsnotwendigkeiten? Ich posiere für ein Foto am Eisernen Steg, einer Fußgängerbrücke, und schon erinnere ich mich anderer, ähnlicher Brücken über vertraute Wasser, die mir anderswo untergekommen sind.

Meine Bootsfahrt auf der Seine, die mir Paris als eine tief in Romantik getauchte Stadt zeigte, mit hervorragendem Essen und dem dazugehörenden Wein in den Brasserien an den Boulevards ... oder London, in all seiner Großartigkeit rund um die Themse – von den viktorianischen Kunstschmiedearbeiten bis zu Big Ben, und natürlich den alten Steinbrücken, auf denen ich eine Ewigkeit verbrachte. Eine unvergessliche Fahrt auf den Kanälen und der Amstel in Holland ... Dann ist da natürlich der Ganges, unser heiliger indischer Fluss, in meinem Kopf ... und mein geheimnisvoller, rätselhafter Nil, an dessen schattigen Ufern ich ein geheimes Stelldichein mit Tutenchamun hatte. Städte wurden immer an den Ufern Leben spendender Flüsse gebaut ... von den Flüssen in ihrer Mächtigkeit auch wieder weggeschwemmt ... aber Flüsse waren unverzichtbar.

Ich stehe auf dem Eisernen Steg über dem Main und höre einen Jungen auf einem Akkordeon wehmütige Melodien spielen ... so schön, es schmerzt fast, so zu Herzen gehend. Ich muss an Aldous Huxleys Zeile denken: »Nach der Stille, nach dem Schweigen, ist es die Musik, der es am ehesten gelingt, das Unaussprechliche auszudrücken.« Ich fühle mich erhaben ... Ist das Leben nicht wie ein Fluss? Musikalisch durch die Zeit dahinplätschernd? Es ist unmöglich, wir können Mondlicht nicht in unsern Händen halten, unsere Zeit auf Erden rinnt durch unsere tollpatschigen Kinderhände, auf die euphorische Jugend zu ... und im Nu, bevor’s einem bewusst wird ... verlangsamt sich das Tempo, ist das Werk vollbracht und ist es Zeit zu gehen ... Die Zeit hat mich immer veranlasst, mich nach dem nächsten Tag, dem nächsten Jahr zu sehnen, vorwärts zu streben ... Jetzt ist alles, was zählt, die Gegenwart, dieser Moment, in dem der Main in der Dämmerung sich golden färbt und das Leben in Frankfurt dahin fließt in einer aufregenden Mischung aus Glück und Mut.

Da liegt also der Main, seine Ufer, der Mond singt ihnen in verlässlicher Zärtlichkeit sein Abendlied. Ich schaue auf zu ihm, da schickt er einen feinen Tränennebel herunter ... Tränen, die morgen früh die Tautropfen in den Parks sein werden.


Übersetzung: Ingrid Fichtner