The Bicycle Thieves: Part II

One of my friends and compatriots bought a relatively new bicycle, paying through his nose, soon after he reached Ferrara. He would ride up to the bus stop, leave the bike there and board the 9 O’ clock bus to work. Three days into the new routine he came back in the evening and his bike was nowhere to be seen. The next morning, it reappeared in the same parking lot, secure in a brand new lock.

As luck had it, that day he picked up a conversation with the bus driver in faltering Italian and English. “Are you sure it is your bike?” he asked, “wait for me in the evening, we will find a way.” So as the evening grew dark, the duo returned to the spot where the bicycle was. "Perhaps he will help me explain the problem to the police”, thought my friend. Even before the thought was over the bus driver, with the skill of a seasoned thief, had broken the lock and the bicycle was returned to its rightful owner.

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.

A swig of Rome: Part 1

The timing could not have been worse. I have a thesis to finish in three weeks. Exams are around the corner. The stone tools that I make in the lithic tools lab are enough to earn me an instant expulsion from any pre-historic community. Yet here I am on my way to Rome, still breathless after the ten minutes run to Ferrara station reaching just in time to catch the cheapest and ipso facto the slowest train to Roma Termini. There are some visa procedures that I cannot avoid.

I am perched on the edge of my seat caught between panic and thrill. I have left Bologna and Firenze behind. The landscape has turned slightly flatter and a bright shade of green. A happy spring sun shines bright over the low reaching hills.

Padova II: 'rEsistere'

Rains are frequent in Ferrara. After brief intervals of sunlight and warmth, they invariably claim the town back, gentle, yet persistent. On Monday, I walked to my early morning class accompanied by a rain- drenched wind. It was good bye to a weekend, which commenced rather early and stretched on lazily over four sunny days.

Padova was a spontaneous decision. the city lies an hour by train from Ferrara, en-route Venice. Along that one hour, the flat country transforms as solitary hillocks rise here and there as sudden surprises upon the landscape.

We spent the morning wandering among the ruins of the Roman arena, and the many side streets that branches out from the Piazza Cavour, lined on either sides by an assortment of medieval and modern structures. In front of the famed Cafe Pedrocchi, a small group wearing large crosses across their chests stood holding hand written placards. An old man with long white beard, painstakingly explained to Dani why it was imperative to stop sinning!,if possible then and there.

Padova I

They protect me from unfortunate results by locking it away page by page.
--Life of Galileo; Bertold Brecht

We walked through the narrow winding roads of Padova (Paduva), stopping here at the ornate arches of a medieval house and there to read the charcoal graffiti scored over the flaking paint of an old wall. On our way we passed a raised sarcophagus in stone and realised too late that it was a memorial to Dante.

The poet is believed to have spent a few years of his career in the city. Passing by the medieval Zabarello palace and further along the via San Francisco we turned into a small stone paved side street. There a few hundred feet down the lane, we saw what we were looking for.

Repose

One evening, twenty- seven years ago, my father took my brother to watch a movie by the name Hercules. As a baby, Mathew hated cinema halls and invariably one of my parents had to stand outside the hall holding him, as he threatened to bring down its walls. So this was a fresh attempt to make his peace with the silver screen. Appa told him the story of Hercules in all detail and by the time they reached the cinema, Mathew seemed for the first time positively inclined to the general idea of cinema. Then the movie started. There were bangs and explosions and robots and aliens filled the screen. Before five minutes, the father and the son were out in the street, pondering on the mysterious transformations that mythology acquires.

Berlusconia

A few months ago a Portuguese friend of mine insisted that Europe is neither Islamophobic nor racist. And if a foreigner feels he/ she is an object of prejudice, it only reflects the growing frustration of the populace in the face of their crumbling economies. He was responding to my narration of an incident of mistreatment at the Lisbon airport. Only a few days ago in Macao I heard and old lady rant on and on as to why she thought Indians were a dirty uncivilised lot who ate with their hands and never took bath.

But I have so far had a better deal than many others. I hear of a school mate, who dreads each assignment in Europe that his multinational software company puts him on, for his last name is Mohammed. As a rule he is harassed at each airport . Every time , my brother Mathew flies to Europe, he is stopped and questioned at the airport and a couple of days ago was accused of carrying a fake visa. Incidentally Mathew has a beard. But, says my friend, Europe is neither Islamophobic nor racist!

My stay in Italy has till been smooth. There are no overt signs of prejudice. But like the rest of Europe, perhaps at a greater pace, Italy is changing. That was why I was waiting with Cecilia and Archie, a student from Indonesia at the immigration section of the police station on the morning of the second day of my arrival.While the Schengen agreement is said to have opened the borders of Europe further, with my Portuguese permit of residence, I am still required to register before 9 days into my arrival in Italy with the police. And the maximum period of stay is to be three months, with its reasons validated by documents.

The First Impression

I love the first day in a new city.You get out of your place of stay and you can turn and walk to any direction. Every single street is a 'road not taken.'And if you have come to live in the city, what catches your eye are different from what you would see as a tourist. You notice the supermarket, sees the post office, looks at the bus numbers and memorize their routes. And from the centre of Ferrara I noticed at least three buses that could take me to the railway station, which in any case is a one half hour walk from my first floor studio apartment in via Ragno; and I relaxed. I am a born claustrophobic. Lifts scare me. so does closed windows.I realized that all through these months in Mação there was a knot in my chest that has now come undone. And, it had to do with the fact that it is not easy to get out of the place.

Soggiorno Italiano

Alvega-Ortiga

Journeys invariably unsettle me, especially the ones undertaken alone. I am thrilled at the prospect of travel, excited with the anticipation of seeing new places and meeting fresh faces.And if I am forced to stay at one place for a few days at a stretch like it was in Mação, I grow morose and dull. But invariably, the night before the trip panic sets in. And I wish I could stay on where I am and not budge.

Sure enough, after the first half an hour into the trip things are back to normal. But here I am at the beginning of the half an hour pulling my bag across the rails on to the platform of Alvega- Ortiga station on my way to Italy. The mood is enhanced by the wind and the cold. The platform is deserted, there is an eerie silence except for the distant barks of a dog. The moon is so large today that it looks artificial and the platform is bathed in moonlight.