Roma

Rome smells like the pages of an ancient scripture.

On a hot sunny day, I perambulate the corridors of Colosseum. I wonder, astonished at the vastness of the structure. Heaps after heaps, years after years, thousands of slaves must have stubbornly walked these corridors, carrying tons of stones on their backs. Generations of kings must have marched these aisles, arrogance locked in their heavy strides. Stanch the bloodshed! Their benign hearts must have announced, seldom in their years of monarchy.

After reigns of several kings, after many civilizations, after battles and wars and human tyranny, I stare hopefully at the arches of the Colosseum. The man-slaughter has stopped. The kings have died. Their arrogance escaped through ruins of these arches and dissolved in the air, hanging low on the streets of Rome.

I feel the sporadic slaps of hot air as I spend some time in the city. Voluminous architectural monuments landscape the city of Rome. Roman Catholic churches. Roman towers and hills. Roman temples and fountains. Fountains are big and sculpted. There’s a fountain at every Piazza. There’s a Piazza in every address. Every address has a glimpse of different eras of Rome.

There’s an Old Rome and a New Rome. There’s Rome which welcomes you and there’s Rome which reminds you that you are a tourist with a return ticket. The New Rome makes you sit on the Spanish steps where a local street-group performs jauntily. The Old Rome tires you with the walks around the antiquities.

I tire myself and sit at the steps of a fountain: embellished with bare statues, rarely a robe draped on a shoulder or a lap. The folds of the fabric fall gracefully in the air. As the sunlight gleams on the monolith, reflections of the statues silhouette on the sheets of water. A rivulet falls at the side of the fountain, where tourists gather to drink water in their cupped hands. The fountain is a symbol of pure water.

A couple stands at the circumference of the pool. Theirs backs held straight and facing the fountain. A coin is pressed between a thumb and forefinger. It’s flung from over the head into the pool, after murmuring a silent prayer. Standing thousand miles away from home, with a little furrow in the forehead, they see the coin slowly slide into the shallow depth of water; a silent wish sinks to the base of the pond. The fountain is a symbol of faith.

The sculpted statues are always narrating a story: pointing at some direction, hinting at some history. Is there a Roman riddle? There’s a sudden urge to read the secrets - - not just to know the past but to be able to read it. There’s a sudden urge to fathom the arcane knowledge hidden, in the folds of the fabric, in the shadows of the silhouette. The fountain is a symbol to be solved.

Voluminous architectural monuments landscape the city ofRome.                                                                                   Voluminous architectural monuments lay buried beneath.

I sit at the steps of a fountain, cross-legged, rubbing my palm on the coarse earth. I look at the shadows in the pond. I look at the fading Sun. Soon the shadows will recede unto the statuettes. Soon the Sun will dissolve into another sky.  We need to get home. The finality of thought hits me, and I get up, taking the support of my knee, sucking in a long draft of air. 

Rome smells like the pages of an ancient scripture. The pages are tattered, the text is trenchant, and the sheets are bound firmly to the spine to survive centuries of storytelling.

Praha

Somewhere behind the blanket of pudgy clouds, sun rises and sets in the city of Prague.

Standing on the oldest bridge of the city, I look, not at the artists or their artwork. I look, not at the sauntering tourists tapping their feet to the lilting music of the musicians. I look, not at the flailing yellow trees or their carpets of fresh laden leaves.

Standing at the Charles Bridge, I do not look at the waves of the river underneath. I do not look at the swans at the banks. I do not look at the walls of the far standing forts or the spires of the castles. I do not look. I blind myself from the beauty of the old, old town.

Standing on the Fourteenth Century Bridge, I stare at the vast canvas of glowing sky and look inwardly. I look within. I walk with a lamp into the dark passages of a small vestibule. I find an empty wall. On this wall I etch: the birds, banks, trees, castles, forts and fallen leaves. I paint the bridge. I paint the old town and its astronomical clock. But I pirouette this wall and wonder, how to paint the sky that lights this beautiful, beautiful city. I wonder, leaving the lantern at the foot of the wall.

Somewhere behind the blanket of pudgy clouds, sun rises and sets in the city of Prague. Sometimes, when the daylight filters through layers of thick mist, the sky lights up like soft glow of lamps, like the flames of a yellow bulb that leak through the florescent film of a lantern.

Paris

Paris is like a watercolor painting.

At the boulevard streets, handsome policemen walk up and down the banks of Parisian trees. The cool breeze brushes the edges of their sleeves as they patrol the historic sites. And as they walk, they look at the herds of tourists re-grouping, following, posing, wondering, staring at the edifice, gaping at the skyline, plotting on the map.

The old lady reappears, with her umbrella held high, a flower perched on its tip. She speaks in English, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese. A group follows, their eyes fixed on the solitary flower: red or green or blue or yellow, whatever colour is their flower; and they are bundled back onto the bus.

The bus rambles through cobbled streets. An open café with French windows hosts tourists and Frenchmen. Sitting at the windows, they sip on their coffees and behold the beautiful city.

The city is covered by the vast plateau of artistic mansions. Mansions, ancient yet stylish, and as tall as tamarind trees, converge at a chateau, or a museum, or a church, or a figurine, or a garden, or a palace. Hundreds of monuments dot the city. These clustered dots are joined by Siene, the flat flowing river that snakes through the breadth of Paris. At the steps of the river, there's a row of stalls selling old books and paintings.

I wonder if the city is more beautiful or the art it has produced.

Hongkong : Wordscape

I can't decide. Does Hongkong have more buildings or more people? It's crowded but not chaotic. Fast, Planned, Lively. People live to shop or people LOVE to shop!? (and I learnt to shop!). Chow Tai Fook everywhere. Neon signs that don't let you forget you are in Hongkong. Where you pay even for a pickle. Where time passed a little slowly staring at the largest jelly fish exhibit. Where I met Yin & Yang, the pandas. Where I went only coz I couldn't afford Italy and I am so glad.