The Bicycle Thieves: Part 1

It is approaching mid- day. The stream of morning commuters at the Ferrara railway station has thinned into a trickle. Each morning a huge chunk of the population of this medieval town ride in to the station and board the trains that would take them to the nearby cities like Bologna and Padova for work. Secured to the rows of semicircular iron bars, over a hundred bicycles that brought them in from the centre and periphery of the town wait, to take them back home in the evening.

Among the small groups of people idling on the steps of the railway station and waiting at the bus stop are a young man and woman- leaning casually on a lamp post and chatting. As it is always with strangers in a space, eyes meet briefly and shift again never really taking in the faces, never really seeing. Then, at one moment with no gaze upon them, the couple, in one fluid motion, breaks the chain of a brand new bicycle parked near them and ride swiftly away.

The Kaleidoscope

It has been a month and a half since I flew out of Europe. My residence permit expires tomorrow. Perhaps I will never go back again. I thought when I returned that I had a bundle of stories to narrate. But I now realize that my bundle had been tied carelessly. I cannot find half of my stories; my anecdotes are neither with tails nor heads. Cities become stretches of streets and colours that run into each other and cannot be told apart. I wish in vain that I had paid more attention, had watched the fading murals on the church walls more closely; had lingered a bit longer in front of the street musician so that his music would be with me when I walk in a different city with different rhythms. I wish I had swirled the wine in my mouth for a minute more so its taste would have soaked into me and lingered. Yet there are bits and pieces that I have saved.

Napolitanos e Sicilianos

The fight broke out without much build up. Pressed against the sliding door of the metro cabin I could see nothing except the shoulders and necks craning to have a better look. Dani who is a head taller than me gave a running commentary. The loud boisterous group of young men had already shooed us off as we tried to board their side of the overcrowded compartment. There was a some small issue, which Dani thinks, concerning a girl in one of the groups and then people started beating up each other in earnest. In the moving compartment I swayed precariously and kept banging my head against the door as the momentum of the fight built up. The crowd was not impassive, rather they were active participants who were doing everything else than put an end to the fight.

Pompeii*

He sat in a crouched position. With his palms he covered his face, contorted in terror and disbelief. Two thousand years hence, from beyond the iron bars of a dusty locked storage room, we stared at him arrested by the frozen expression.

We, Dani, Cinthia and I got out from the Pompeii Scavi metro station into a burning sun. Cold drink and souvenir shops lined the street outside and vendors urged the tourists pouring out of the station to buy bottles of frozen water for double the usual price. The heat beating down upon us was so intense that we could hardly refuse their bid. Our backpacks heavy with water bottles we left behind the clamour and chaos outside and entered the gates of Pompeii and then the world changed

Wind of Change

I am leaving the chronological order of my narration now. For certain stories need to be told in the present.

Out of the Monastiraki train station Athens looks like any other city. Much more vibrant of course than an average European one.The Monastiraki square is always full. The colours and noises from the nearby Athens flea market spill out into the street.

If you look distinctly foreign, and moreover confused, you are invariably accosted by a trickle of peddlers and help-mongers.Each city has a rhythm of its own- a pattern amidst the chaos, that it slowly reveals to you as you pace its streets. And nothing seemed amiss in Athens.