London Diary

"Hiya Mayte", said the man as he strolled up to me, "Had a bloody long night in the pulice station, y'know?" he paused before he made his pitch, "cld'ya spare a cigarette?"

Three other gents used the same (thus far successful) approach with me over the next week, exposing it to be a popular scheme to divest me of my cigarettes. The funny thing was, they invariably singled me out from the crowd of tobacco sippers (suckers?) on the pavement. 'It is because you have a friendly face, Krupakar' said Craig, my kindly British colleague. 'Yes', I responded, 'or perhaps because I must look like the biggest mug in Central London'. However, after that first time, I developed a Scrooge-like stoicism in my refusals.

For bookworms like me, Scrooge was just one of the many loved characters who sprang forth with disconcerting clarity onto to the time-imbued streets of London. The vivid portrayals of the city that formed the background of many of today's classics (yesterday's pulp fiction?) came alive with thrilling tangibility. Take the bustling Paddington station, for instance. As I stepped out of the dapper train I took from the airport, the usual chattering trappings (blinking computer terminals, automatic ticket vending machines, ATMs, Burger King) of a modern journey-stop clamored for my attention. Yet, the building's imposing (Victorian, I read later) arched roofs quickly suffused my senses with thier deafening grandeur. 'Come, Watson,' I could imagine Sherlock Holmes, complete with waistcoat and top hat, crying as he rushed to Paddington on a foggy morning, 'The game's afoot!'. Or, much later, Christie's menacing murderer boarding the 3:30 from Paddington with his unsuspecting victim. (A few days on, I was sorely tempted to rush headlong into the wall between platform 9 and 10 at King's Cross.)

Happily for me, my hotel was in Central London, a five minute walk from the British Museum. The afternoon I arrived, I walked those five minutes and then a good two hours inside. The Museum-its architecture and its arrangements- was a reflection of the city: A proud mantle of tradition unwrapped to reveal a contemporary spirit. For a place that housed so much of the long dead, the atmosphere was convivial, bursting with life and activity- again like the city. Besides, who can be not interested in thier first, genuine, 'shrink-wrapped' Mummy?

The city's history is a powerful attraction to most people, of course- unlike other ancient cities, this one preserves its historic credentials with great deliberation. Even if one does not venture into its excellent musuems, monuments, art centers and theatres, it is hard to find a city square or even a wall without some historic inscription on it. Evident care is taken that the grime of change does not cake the original gilt of the city's golden towers. After all, everyone enjoys a good vintage: ancient, carefully preserved, with many nuances added over time. And if some of the nuances remain tantalizingly elusive, the experience is simply more compelling!

Nilanjan (Neel), an old pal from college, colleague at work, landed at London the next weekend. Neel is an interesting subject for scholars who want to study racial influences on India- he is a composite of:
1) An Australian stoicism in the face of a crisis (professional crises, of which we saw a lot at work)
2) An Italian love for siestas and singing
3) A Gallic taste for good food and wine
4) And an American obsession for Map in hand (we trekked across London the whole weekend- all the usual tourist hotspots)

..in fact, a typical Bengali.

In at least the last, we were not alone- London is one of the busiest tourist locations on the continent. East Europeans, Japanese and Indians were everywhere- the modern Hsuen Tsangs with thier electronic manuscripts, avidly recording thier experiences for posterity. The Japanese seemed particularly persistent in this - we spied one Japanese family video-taping the menu of a restaurant.

I must look part Italian myself- more than once, strangers speaking voluble Italian seemed to think me to be a London Guide.

But what was it about this city that put so many at ease? We debated. For sure, not everyone had our obsession with pop literature and history. Maybe, it was the sheer numbers of settlers there. Like a thriving coral reef, the city seems to gain sustenance and life from the countless variety and vigor of its denizens. Every man is an island- but maybe an archipelago of ten million islands has a communal life too. Even hardened business travelers, used to being rebuffed to thier hotel rooms by local xenophobia, suddenly find themselves sharing thier journey's memories with other travelers passing through this Caravanserai.

Or perhaps it was the great London watering holes- the pubs- which invited one to swill a pint with easy camaraderie irrespective of color, sex, race and political inclinations. The city overflowed with them, each bubbling to the brim with people. A bunch of aliens hanging around in a smoky den, listening to weird music? You know where George Lucas spent a good amount of time before he shot his Han Solo-Ben Kenobe pub scene.

Do not mistake the London Pub for an American Bar, however. An American bar is the equivalent of an airport lounge bar- impersonal, purposeful and tinged with an air of forced jollity. A pub, on the other hand, is a good hang-out- and a rich cultural icon to boot. Books talk of pubs being 'a vital link in history', 'closely bound with British consciousness' and so on. Many of them boast (inevitable of everything in London) of long personal histories. And wasn't it a pub that gave the world the game of darts? The Englishman knows his beer well too..Simon, a colleague, explained to me how the Old Nick was a good pub. The beer was better because of the temperature at which it was maintained- nice and warm, you see. In a pub, you do not have to conform to anything-you can even down a pint or two alone without it judging you. That is the spirit which suited me many a pleasant Sunday afternoon, for sure.

For Indians, it could also be the familiar sights and sounds that set them at ease. Bright red double-decker buses and post boxes, crowded pavements and streets (seasoned Mumbaites, jaywalk with impunity here!), insistent Sardarji-astrologers at street corners ('My friend, You have deep troubles in your heart. I can tell you when they end')- all were pieces of home. The Victoria Terminus of Bombay, with its gargoyles and cherubs, could well have been in London. And then you have the ubiquitous Indian restaurants- most Londoners have a good working knowledge of Indian food. The Indian accent is easily understood, and at least my colleagues at work were courteous and considerate to a fault.

Whatever the reasons are, the city has the talent to make its guests at home. O' Henry on cities- 'A city .. is not merely a pile of bricks and mortar, peopled by a certain number of inhabitants; it is a thing with a soul characteristic and distinct; an individual conglomeration of life, with its own peculiar essence, flavor and feeling.' If so, this city has the engaging air of a good Hostess. She cordially invites you in, hears you with interest, charms you with her unfailing manners and her irreverant confidences - yet, she stays enigmatic; her secret smile mocks at your attempt to capture her essence in a few pages of manuscript. So I will desist from pursuing the impractical- before your interest flags in this monologue. Suffice it to say, I enjoyed myself immensely in London, mate!