EuroStory 1: Malmö

It's an exciting feeling to wake up and know you're doing something for the first time that day; which in my case was exploring a new city on my own.

There was no ground work I did before I left. I had no agenda for the day. I just googled for a minute, and saw that there was a huge park called Kungsparken, and I made a mental note to visit that place.

 

As I passed silently by the rest of my party deep in sleep, into the Copenhagen railway station, exchanged euros for some Swedish currency and activated my Eurail pass – there was an obvious tingling of excitement. In fact I was so pumped when I sat in my first European train, that I took out my notepad, wrote:

“I’m sitting on my first Eurail, and good lord am I excited! The moment has finally come!”

There was a 20 minute delay, so the moment didn’t come quite then.

The first Eurail!

 From that moment on, every breath, sight and step was a song that did not end till the return journey that evening. In a parallel universe, a dog would’ve smiled at the sight of me leaning against, and staring out the window with such wonder in my eyes. 

The moment I stepped out of the Malmö central station into the city, I was hit by a ferocious wind. You’d never expect a geography to change much within half an hour of train travel, but it was a strong, biting cold wind. And it was clear by the general unfazed nature of people’s walk that this wasn’t exactly new to them.

Kungsparken was the only destination in my mind for starters, and it was at a walkable distance. The term walkable is interesting actually, going by what it means to different people. Back in India, the tendency is to think of those going to Europe as wealthy folk. If they saw the way most of us spend in Europe, they’d take back their words in a heartbeat. Let me explain.

Usually, public transport is quite efficient and convenient throughout Europe. Of course, it was designed for the average European, who happens to have a heavier wallet than the average Indian. So when 2 or 3 euros are to be shelled out for a single point to point journey, we start to think – “Hmm, I could have a slice of margarita and/or a coffee for that much. Is 3 kilometers really that much? If I start paying for every 3 km walk, I’m going to be broke pretty soon.”

This of course is the conversation in my head, and I can’t really speak for other heads. But as far as I’ve observed, our definition of walkable is quite adaptable to the cost of a single journey.

Let this not however tarnish my love for walking at all. There is a definite sense of pleasure, and somewhat of achievement, when I reach my destination on foot. It feels like you’ve earned the sight at the end of a long walk. This is something I’ve realized gradually over the length of the trip.

So with a somewhat empty stomach and a backpack, I stand on the edge of Kungsparken. A few steps in and my jaw dropped. A seemingly never ending canopy of trees lay ahead on each side of a plush brown pathway laid out like a red carpet for its visitors. The trees weren’t as thick as I expected; they were tall, thin and looked to have withstood the torment of the winds for many a year.

The beauty called Kungsparken

 A picture I had in my head was of me walking amidst such a dreamy setting. People often think of loneliness as a bad thing. But in the lap of nature, I have never felt alone. The rustling of the leaves, the chirping of birds, the sound of ripples from the lake – as clichéd as they all might sound, rarely are we ever in an environment where these sounds can be isolated.

I spent hours walking around, taking pictures. There were a couple of lakes I came across, such was the size of the park. For a while I sat by the lake, with ducks swimming as well as sitting by my side – they couldn’t care less about my presence, which was new and comforting. I recall an Indian woman who was passing by at that time on her own, clicking away. Our eyes met for a couple of seconds, in which we both became conscious of the fact that we are both, well…Indian. Before I could consider saying hi, or making any kind of decision, she continued walking ahead, much like the ducks in the lake.

After exiting the park I also remembered that Malmo is the name of a football club, and was respectable because it was playing in the Champions League that year. Again, the distance was walkable. And upon reaching there, words cannot express how thrilled I was feeling to witness a football club stadium for real, even though it was one I’d never seen on TV. The eagerness is visible in the selfies I’ve taken.

So, selfies – this is how they began. After sending my mom the first batch of pictures from Europe on Whatsapp, her reaction was – “But where are you? You are not in these pictures.” Gee, thanks mom. I thought you had seen enough of me for 26 years, so had a crazy thought of sending pictures from Europe for a change. Mothers.

And so started a series of pictures with my giant head loosely sprawled across Europe’s finest sceneries. And with the sheer amount of solo travel I did, you can imagine how evolved my selfie powers must be now.

The stadium was closed, but I got a glimpse inside through the fences, and also saw a couple of training grounds for kids.

Evening was setting in, and it was time to walk back to the train station. It wasn’t a walkable distance, but I had no interest in making the effort to figure out the easier way. And with earphones plugged in, I had a chance to walk on the periphery of another park, littered beautifully with autumn leaves. A moment stands out here, when a track from Lord of the Rings was playing – and it resonated with how happily tired I was feeling, and tears welled up in my eyes. It’s hard to describe that feeling. 

Everything from the morning that day was perfect. I felt as if I’d found a long lost treasure within me, this creature with an incredible power to keep on moving, walking, exploring. Despite my many layers of clothing to protect against that wind, I felt vulnerable and naked. My legs were close to giving in. My body was in submission, to nature.

In the middle of my walk back to the station, there was a green pasture – right in the middle of an intersection. It seemed to be strategically placed for me to rest, like that lone restaurant on highways for buses to stop. The ground was strewn with the golden hue of autumn leaves. The trees here had thick, deep-rooted trunks. An accomplished writer or someone with above-average knowledge of trees would’ve given a more sophisticated description, but I specialize in second-grade level descriptions, it seems.

When you see such a place with the Lord of the Rings soundtrack playing, the Shire comes to mind effortlessly. One of my umpteen favorite shots from the movie is of Frodo’s first in the movie, where he is sitting by a tree with his back to its trunk, reading. I call it the quintessential Frodo Baggins shot. And so I whipped out my camera, set the timer on it, and took out the next best thing to a book – a kindle.

It took ten shots and about half an hour at least I think, but I was able to successfully reproduce it – a 21^st century tall Indian Frodo Baggins.

The funny and unfortunate part here is that I didn’t actually sit and read there. I just posed for the picture, and set sail soon after for the station. I don’t think I actually read a page on my kindle for the first couple of weeks, though I did fall asleep on trains with a kindle in my hands.

The act of reading is not as simple as I thought it is. With the sheer amount of distractions that our species has manufactured, it is little wonder that fewer and fewer people are found with a book in their hands. “I love books”, and “Reading is my passion” are more loosely thrown around than cigarette butts in Delhi.

As the sun set on my magical first solo sojourn, it became clear to me that I needed to do this a lot more in the next three months.

Have you ever seen an autumn leaf fall? The trajectory they follow before they hit the ground is most wondrous. Every leaf falls differently. Some will fall like a baby being rocked from side to side, and others get carried with the wind.

I felt like a golden autumn leaf that day, caressed by a breeze, dancing into the sunset.

All because her name was Dumbhead

The year was 2007, when Orkut used to be a thing. Remember Orkut? People used to have cartoons and actors for profile pictures (predominantly females), apparently because the internet was thought unsafe to upload personal pictures. And today they feel comfortable uploading pictures of their families in swimming pools. Ah, progress.

It wasn't just the picture. Back then, it was thought unnatural to name your profile with your actual name. Nah, it had to be something like:
"K!ShoRe...~~exams~~" or
"black hole is... here ...no chance of escape."
I actually found that second one on email. Seriously.

So there I was, scrapping and snooping into profiles, satiating the ever growing need of wanting to know what's going on in other people's lives - and I came across an interesting profile.

I don't recall the picture - but it was a girl - and the name was Dumbhead.

Dumbhead. The idea of self-deprecating humor may have been alien to me then, but even so, it seemed quite a stretch. Why would anyone name themselves that? Failing to control my curiosity, I scrapped her with this question.

Actually I had done it once a year ago (2006), to which there was no response. So I thought I'd have another go. That's right - I chose curiosity over self-respect. And it worked.

Well I wish I had the actual conversation to share, but alas. Succinctly put, it was a justifiably angry response - saying how I am being nosy and should mind my own business.

My response was a mixture of charm and wit (or so I'd like to believe), but she was mortified. And we did have one mutual friend, which I think may have legitimized my existence, as opposed to the possibility of a serial killer. We started scrapping.

Such was the delight I took in our conversations, that I used to open Orkut in my first color Nokia phone, discussing Wimbledon and books. We shared our passions, fears and complexes. And it was all in a friendly spirit strictly, nothing more. Numbers were exchanged at some point but unused.

While in college, I once got a call from her on my birthday. The feeling is hard to describe, when you've been chatting for so long, and then you hear each other's voice for the first time. There wasn't any squeamish apprehension; we were both eagerly waiting for that moment.

There were a few calls now and then after that, and I couldn't believe this random internet pen friend had lasted throughout my college. When I had suggested meeting in the early years, her responses seemed polite. But the impulse was growing stronger with every year, and we both seemed up for it - however since I no longer stayed in Noida, the opportunities were scarce.

In my three years at Deloitte, the talking obviously reduced, but it didn't exactly cease. Our friendship was like a candle - the flame just persisted, even with the diminishing wax of time.

We came close to meeting a couple of times in Ahmedabad, and once in Noida - but that moment kept eluding us.

A week into my summer internship in Bombay (2015), she told me of her upcoming visit. The city of dreams seemed to have finally granted me my wish.

And so on a particularly hot summer morning outside Bandra station, I jostled through the crowd, looking for my radiant friend. The great wait of eight long years finally ended. I half-expected the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack to start playing.

But life isn't a movie. She was loaded with some shopping bags, and the scorching sun was making her fan herself. Expecting her to run towards me in slow motion, seemed a little too much to ask. In any case, straight-line movement is next to impossible outside a local station.

Bandra Station: Where we finally met

Regardless of how much you know someone online, meeting in person is just not the same. It takes a lot of courage to meet someone for the first time, even for an innocent breakfast. It becomes easier when there're people for company.

Once we took our seats and ordered food, Dumbhead became a lot more relaxed and we yapped like we always have. You know that scene from Lord of the Rings when Gandalf tells King Theoden to wield his sword, so that he remembers his strength?
I think it was the same for us - only that instead of swords, we held spoons and forks. We both love food.

She is a long way away from dumb. She reads a variety of books, has great taste in music, and her passion for food and cooking is a rare delight. She's an exceptionally kind and patient woman, which was evident from the way she spoke to the waiters and the auto-driver. I had always admired her smile in pictures, and finally got to witness it in person. The warmth had little to do with the sun.

A few weeks ago, she told me she'd gotten an internship, and how thrilled she was. Sharing such moments personally with someone makes one feel special, and that moment gave me the final push to share this story.

We remain close friends.

All because her name was Dumbhead.

The Price of Benevolence

People often say that the Mumbai local is the lifeline of the city. But since I don't need to travel long distances on a daily basis, I seem to have developed a similar relationship with the Mumbai Auto.

This isn't to say that every single auto-ride is a memorable one. We have a tendency to pay lesser attention to things we do regularly. But the outlier is always lurking close by, unbeknownst to us. This particular anecdote is one of those outliers.

It was an overcast morning, and I was lost in one of my reveries as the auto honked and swerved towards my destination. In a matter of minutes, it was time to alight. The meter read 21 rupees.

"Bhaiyya yeh lo 20 rs. Ek rupiah kam hai, chalega?"
(Here's 20 bucks. Is it okay? I don't have a rupee's change)

"Haan, haan.. chalega"
(Will do.)

And then he started off saying about money and change - I was too self-involved to pay particular attention. But as I was putting back the wallet in my pocket, I kept politely nodding along.

Suddenly, he whipped out all the money he had and showed it to me - whilst I heard the words "mera beta", and "hospital", and "700 rs injection". I could make out the rest, as you can too.

I looked at him properly. I could sense he was flustered when had stopped midway to quickly repair something in the auto.

Instinctively, I pulled out a hundred rupee note and handed it over without reluctance. He fell at my knees, eyes full of tears, with gratitude. I told him to rush to his son and take care of him. And he left.

For the first few seconds, I felt good. As any normal person should, when he/she has been of value someone in need. Great need.

But then I felt a stab of disappointment at myself, and this feeling has persisted.

There was a 500 rupee note in my wallet as well.

I may differ from general consensus here, but I have never really cared much about money. One might say "Who does, as long as it keeps coming?". True, perhaps. I don't count myself a big spender. Nevertheless, at that particular point of time, 500 rupees was not even a pinprick. So why did I hesitate?

There is the possibility, as one might argue - that he was lying. And taking that possibility into account, 100 rupees was probably the right amount. But this was not the the thought process in my head.

I remember seeing a couple or more notes of 100 rupees, and I thought this would suffice. Not for a second did I believe he was lying. Especially not after seeing him break down like that.

How many times do we ignore beggars and peddlers, on the streets and railway stations? How many hundreds of times have we intentionally walked away or shooed them brusquely?

But this was an autowallah. A man with a seemingly honest profession. It would've taken something of monumental importance for him to abandon his self-respect and ask for money.

Then the worst possible thought occurred to me - what if those few hundred rupees was the difference between his son's life and death? Wouldn't it be blood on my hands? True, I am not responsible for his illness - but I was offered the chance to save his life.

I hope you get my meaning here. I'm not the kind of person who would go to orphanages and dedicate my life to making theirs easier. But that doesn't mean I'm not humanitarian.

I don't think it is possible to draw a line on "doing good". Would anything ever be enough? No matter how much you give, there'll be something more you can do. Something more to offer. But I am neither Midas, nor my wallet is of gold.

This feeling - arising out of the eternal difference between people's needs, and our capacities - this guilt - is what I call the price of benevolence.