A Postcard from Munich

‘Oktoberfest is nothing but a lot of beer,’ a friend had said to me before we left on our recent Bavarian sojourn. It was a dampening statement for someone all pumped up about gallivanting on the streets of Munich during the fest, witnessing folk dances, music and having dollops of fun. But then again, you don’t draw conclusions from hearsay, do you? The taste of the pudding is in the eating, or in this instance, sipping.

Our (as in husband and me) philosophy about travel is not to have definite itineraries. We always went with no clear notion of what we were going to see. We land at a random destination blindly and slowly discover its secret delights during our stay. No, we don’t believe in ticking the boxes. We believe in life revealing itself each day, taking in each sight and sound at our pace. That which we get to see is our gain. That which we don’t, never a loss.

So on a bright Monday morn, we took a train from the remote town we were nestling in, all set and stoked to the hilt. Oktoberfest it is going to be, nothing less!

We sauntered into the huge fairground lined with massive beer tents invaded by hundreds of lederhosen and dirndl clad men and women, mirth splashed all over their manner. Ginger bread souvenirs and pretzels greeted us from either side as we walked the centre aisle undecidedly.  And then on an impulse, we entered a sprawling tent to see hundreds of people around tables, crying ‘prost’ and raising a toast every now and then. A live band on the centre stage belted out a fusion of folk and jazz music. It was a perfect setting for letting go of all the saddles on your back.

We had been previously informed that finding a seat inside one of the tents is nearly impossible unless you have a ticket. There were so many who had settled for one outside. But didn’t I say we love waiting for surprises and living it up? We got accommodated in the huge jamboree after all and soon got talking with our German table partners. They, in bits and pieces of English, and we, with Google translator. Trust me, the most memorable moments of a trip are the ones when you connect with strangers.

We had a lot to converse. Life in Dubai. Life in Munich. And life in general. And somewhere along the way, Tomy, the young man who could speak more English than the rest, said, ‘In the end, we are all the same. White, brown, black.’

What he had just said melted my innards. It echoed in my ears in spite of the cacophony around. Who said sozzled men don’t speak sense? It was a profound moment that I added to my vault of indelible memories.

As we took our parting selfies, Tomy said, ‘I will visit to Dubai someday. I want to see the Burj Khalifa. And when I am there, I will ask people for Asha. I am sure they will be able to tell me.’

No, Oktoberfest for us wasn’t about beer alone. It was about going to a place where boundaries disappeared and life became a plain driftwood.

After The Rain – Teaser

MEERA

There are only two stages in love – To be smitten by the beloved. And when the obsession matures, to become the beloved. Between the two is an interim that can last forever.

As the world lost itself in the festive mirth of her beloved’s birthday, she wallowed in that chasm, that in-between space where love wanders without identity, lost and aimless. Her heart wasn’t inclined to any ostensible way to celebrate him. There was only one thing that she was inspired to do today – imagine that she was idling by the banks of a river in full spate unbridled in its love for the rain.

A few meters away from her, a man was playing the flute, and it reminded her about her beloved. The temple bells at a distance were singing his praise. Or was it an ancient version of the modern day birthday jingle? She couldn’t say. The resonance of the river, the cadence of the rain, the echo of the night, the babble of the mynah, the boom of thunder, the screech of city life – to her they all denoted the same. His music.

She let herself loose in the man’s bamboo refrain with only the shadows of the waning crescent for witness. She was waiting and wandering at the same time. She was miserable and fulfilled at once. Her mood was sedate on the surface and stirring in the deep. She ranted his name for a while and plunged into silent deliberation soon after. The ripples her silence created touched the dark, pregnant clouds.

A raindrop presently fell on her face and she gasped. A lock of hair gently tickled her forehead as she tucked it behind her ears and waited. She sensed something propitious in the air. The droplet was heralding the arrival of a miracle. And then it started drizzling. She inhaled the scent of the earth, and held her breath. In that moment of stillness, she realized that her beloved was about to land in her terrain.

Slowly, releasing herself from the clutches of time, she went through the throes of his birth. Each breath of hers became the cradle into which he descended. She witnessed the birth of her beloved from the sidelines. The rain drenched her and goaded her to dance. But she stayed unmoved. Her celebrations were muted. Even the flute had fallen silent in her ears. There was only her breathing, and his birthing. Both in sync.

How long the two stayed like that, no one knows. For he had said to her once in the moments of their deepest intimacy, ‘In your breath, I am born, and in it I shall live till such time you become me.’