Far out in a town of a few non-
happy- go- lucky dwellers, lay a store that feasted on some squished brains.
There were some days the store lured them, but this time it lost its vile
potion for intoxicating minds. By the stroke of midnight, its Christmas roar
was guzzled by the rapacious year’s end.
Circling around this mundane town,
the residents scoffed and puffed about a roast that demonized their skinny
jeans. A few of the ambitious ones blazed with dangly legs and non-frost bitten
cropped tops. In those defeated moments, the brainwashed then believed they
transformed into penguins. With bowed down vanquished heads, they waddled into this store- the wily one that
stacked some baits of hope.
New year’s,
you think it would be one with star-spangled welcome banners and those dorky
optimistic posters. But no, here I am in in a town with some programmed feet
orbiting around a huge stack of diet books and foppish-looking mannequins with
well-moulded bosoms that make its way through plunging tees. I was bamboozled by the range of yoga mats, calories counters and somewhere in an odd corner was a
mirage of some optimistic looking diaries. Now for all of us feeling like
bloated penguins, the thought of entangled yoga limbs and string beans seems
far-fetched. Thus I promised myself to surrender to every craving from honey
crackled chocolate tiffin to bacon quiches. This is where I hope reverse
psychology whips me into shape.
On that Note
But one tradition persists, keeping
that diary. It may not be the perfect one with a log, or moreover a mush pit of
dramatically contrived stories. Yet, I’ve led myself to believe
it’s blessed with whims, thus life’s
chronicled. And there were two things that never seemed to change. One, I never
purchased a diary, I always picked the complimentary ones from the bank or
hospital. Solely because it was something that never looked appealing,
eventually never tampered with. Two, my
first page had a daunting list of resolutions. And though I’m
a part of a minority who believes in resolutions, I can only be grateful I play
with probability, I’m likely to be a stickler for two
out of my ten goals.
And this is how the post came into
being.
It started one fine morning after
the laundry bag was emptied, it reminded of my phone gallery, something worse
than a pile of socks. Going back to my first photos, reminded me how we age by
seconds or worse, short-term memory issues, “ When did this happen?”
Somewhere after twenty phone scrolls were a few skittish sketches I made for
this story, exactly four months ago. The first week in London had its charm. I
wandered around many streets and remembered telling my friend, “
Everyone says that London is so grey but what an irony I have seen so much of
color here.” I then wrote to
my friend that I was going to explore as much as colors and make assemblages
like Richard Hamilton, color- themed ones. Well.
I guess I buried the story
somewhere in my forsaken photo gallery. Which led to the first resolution, stay
in line with Inkline.
Unlike the minute- brainwashed
penguins, I decided to settle for an undeterred January- one that’s
more steadfast and sees its resolution as some challenging Moriarty. It’s
a brand new year, I plan on not looking forward but rewinding to my first ten
days in London. It’s the two weeks notice.
15, September 2016
I landed in London as an extra
check-in baggage. Meaning, I reasonably yet irrationally wore two coats, two
pairs of socks and thigh clenching thermals. One because I was told it was
quite cold, two because the economy class does not give leeway to extra weight.
Thus I sat like a stuffed turkey in seat ergonomically structured plane seat
that accommodated my augmented butt. Taking the well-stuffed derriere out of
the seat was an achievement, futile, though. I got royally got roasted when I
reached the terminal of Heathrow airport.
At the immigration counter, I had the most hostile flushed looking face.
Fantastic, that was my first memory
in London.
But it does not surpass my second
one, a tryst with a drug discovery student who made my first two weeks in
London hilariously twisted. Hither, the travel accounts of a GPS-programed son- of -a -gun
and a broken compass wanderer.
Red-dy for London
Episode 1: “Tuh-matoes
or Too-matoes?”
Setting: A town that I knew I had to learn its
postcode for basic survival
Almost knocked on a red door
Sat on the second floor of a double
decker
Spotted the toppling telephone
booths at Old London Road
A cyclist on a red cycle whizzed by
the carousel
First time meet with Hari, he wore a red tee
Dined at Cappadocia, under a red
canopy
We’re at Kingston Town
![]() |
Clockwise: The first autumn Accessorize window display, the carousel by the Fairfield ground and the mysterious door by the Stanley Picker Gallery |
Frankly dear, paint the world red
should have been invented for London, cause that’s the only color they
never seem to give a damn about. I was always told that London was muted by the
governing beiges, bland ivories and the solemn old ladies grey. But
occasionally she loved her opulence with the bold red. Apart from the morose
weather forecast talks I heard in India, I never knew why things were taken so
literally about its color drain. First thing is first, London is multicultural-
more colorful than you think. For goodness gracious, they have foundations that
range from hazelnut to cloudy white. You should check the makeup counters back
home, oh wait, Fair and Lovely has an evil scheme in this.
Apart from my liking towards the
weather, I was always asked, “Where you are from?” The black hair and caramel skin weren't
always prototype conditions to fall into the Indian slot. In my first week, I was shopping in a grocery
store looking at the cherry tomatoes. There was an elderly person who was
stooping down to get some cherry tomatoes. “ Such a lovely cherry
red, “ she said. I retorted, “ Imagine too-matoes ‘cherry-ishing’
that.”
There was an odd silence and she
looked at me. “ Are you American?”
I wondered if it was because I made
small talk or I said tomatoes wrong, or if I made a poor joke. Clearly, I wasn’t
ready to be the spontaneous comedian, moreover, break the ice with
wordplay. But it was a month later, I
realized that this became a pattern. I had an even funnier moment when an
Indian guy at my hall of residence asked, “Wait, you’re
an Indian?” Till now my outlandish and favorite guess is a German –
Sri Lankan.
Blue’s
Less Clues
Episode 2: “Man,
his dopamine is dope.”
Setting: An art museum that drove my friend to some
horrid cider, eventually coerced tipsiness
Wore a blue bandeau top
Swiped my blue oyster card
Passed by a blue café
Made swerves around a bunch of
egoistic sky reflecting skyscrapers
Spotted a man wearing blue
suspenders, blowing bubbles
We’re at Tate
![]() |
Clockwise: A little frolic at the Tate Modern garden, The Three Dancers 1925 by Pablo Picasso (at Tate) and a random store at Elephant and Castle |
Tate Modern has a lot of concocted
stories, including ours. One that a person left his jacket unattended near some
pillar and people huddled around it. Assumptions were instigated that it was a
new installation. While the other is about some person who stuck gum in the
center of the frame and many people gathered around to marvel the minimalistic
art. Now it’s for you to guess, whose is more outlandish. But that’s
what Tate is for, honestly to shoot Mr Subjectivity. And for someone, it was a sole assassination mission to shoot
him. He regretted that he did not have pints and pints of alcohol, especially
while painfully subjecting his eyes to some abstract expressionism. In many ways, I wished he did, though
because, in the midst of muddled chattering, I could hear him thinking out a
few equations aloud. Some of them alarmingly amazing. Basically proving that he
could do this piece of art. (This was while looking at Piet Mondrian’s
work.)
But Tate modern was a dream come
true when I got to see some the greatest artwork of modernism from Picasso to
Rothko. I remember breaking into a Broadway dance and skipping to the
Surrealism aisle. And having a moment of silence when I saw the Metamorphosis of Narcissus. Salvador
Dali’s dexterity with the paintbrush could be easily mistaken
as a photograph. And for once Hari was in awe, “ What do you think was in
his mind when he was painting.”
“Exactly that.”
Green with Bevy
Episode 3: “What
do you mean you want to follow the green wall?”
Setting: A grim residence of ghosts- very unhappy
wives.
Window pane lined with green beer
bottles
Passed by an unknown bar with green
bricks
Almost bought a cactus from the
florist
Spotted some green-necked mallard
ducks
I’m in a garden with
commanding deep green hedges
We’re at Hampton Court
![]() |
Clockwise: Hampton Garden Court, The Ship Bar at Southwark, 'Cage" (1) - (6) by Gerhard Ritcher |
Apart from King Henry VIII’s
polygonal relationship of multiple wives – six specifically - what’s
more puzzling is his garden. (Also the rumors of revengeful Lady Catherine
meandering in the palace -one of his wives of course.) Stretched over the vast garden, the trapezoid
garden maze causes you to wander and get lost for hours. Though green was my
toughest color to spot while wandering around London, Hampton court certainly
stole my attention with its never ending grape vines and the deer herds. I am
not exactly the Sound of Music
break-into- songs person, although that could be Hari, with his nature calls ‘instant’
poetry. While he marveled at the river and the plush greenery, I kept on asking
if he remembered where the green-bricked pub somewhere in our entangled walks
we took. “Why do you want to see it?”
“It’s
the color of jade, rare bricks.” Hari laughed at me
saying that I was a hopeless biologist looking for odd specimens in the most
wrong places. And naturally this followed by a long story of petri dishes,
which led to us being cloaked in the early winter darkness. No his phone did not have a brilliant
flashlight. The green building turned out being the mysterious ghost of Hampton
Court, she was never found. Apparently, Google maps couldn’t understand green wall pub in Hampton Court. I
decided to name the mysterious pub, Shady Lady Catherine.
A week later, after a very faulty
GPS incident, Hari and I landed in front of another green pub, King’s
Arms. I am assuming King Henry’s ghost still wanted all
the attention.
Awe-Range Indeed
Episode 4: “It’s just a bunch of
squares.”
Setting: Some typical street that Sherlock would be
snooping around in
I passed by a façade of yellow
window panes
I spotted someone wearing an ochre
cardigan
Marveled the work of Josef Alber’s
orange squares
Was lured by a huge orange LED
display
We’re stranded at
Strand
![]() |
Clockwise: Some random building at Waterloo, Study for Homage to the Square Beaming by Joseph Albers and the London Design Biennale at Somerset House |
Our exit from Tate Modern spurred
debates, many debates, and coincidentally it all had a hint of orange in it.
Whether it was the take on Henri Matisse’s work, The Snail to Joseph Alber’s
Study for Homage to the Square Beaming, Hari’s optic nerve just kept
on twitching with art that was too simple for any soul. After a long bicker
with him that Joseph Alber’s work was not a primary school
work of stacked colorful squares, art took a seat. My color field theories
winded up as we walked along the Strand. I ended up listening to stories about
mice and molecules.
Strand was bland. Occasionally
there were streaks of colors with some scarves of the passersby, but for me, it
was the London design biennale’s orange posters that
lightened the place up. It followed with a pair of Hari’s
raised eyebrows that easily said, “ Great more pretension.”
I equally had my share of contorted eyebrows when I saw something bright and
orange in his backpack when he reached out to get something. It turned out
being a collection of Van Gogh stationary from Tate. Till now that orange box
pops out well in my bookshelf. For some
reason, I think Tate cajoled his optic nerves, it seemed perfectly functional
to me then.
Life in Technicolor
Episode 5: “Just
because it’s
old-fashioned, she’s
still a gold digger.”
Setting: A stupendous house that’s beautiful across all
seasons, not just the summer
Squeezed into an Ikat crop top
Jazzed- matazzed by a Tom Burch
prints
Dizzied by an illumined exhibition
Viewed a painting that earned her
stripes
We’re at Somerset House
![]() |
Clockwise: Some flamboyant cab at Waterloo, A design installation at The London Design Biennale, Chakra by Sumant Jayakrishnan, Strip by Gerard Ritcher |
The taxis are quite surprising;
they’re not the always black widows. I spotted many with
clearly ecstatic prints, even one with Dalmatian spots. And though, they look
like old-fashioned rides, they’re quite pricey. Do not
fall for Sherlock’s taxi hopping habits, a taxi is certainly a gold digger who’ll
ride your wallet.
And so with a pair of limbs ad the
guidance of orange signage, Hari and I walked to Somerset house. Its
magnanimity at first was unrecognized, especially when we entered through a
more low profile entrance. To me, it just seemed like another typical
neo-classical building. But after a climb through the spiral stairs and into
the vast court, I never enjoyed such majestic architecture. It did not have the
decadence of a palace. It had those rusticated columns and the subtle way of
saying, “ Here’s the Thames if you want
to have a look.” Away from the ornate
embellishments, the Somerset House court reminds you of a blank page you want
to stand alone in.
And there it was, The London Design
Biennale, my first exhibition. While walking through each country’s
display I was looking forward to India’s. Presented by Sumant
Jayakrishnan, Chakra illumined a bold and symbolic room. A mirror reflective
room converted the pavilion into a
transposed feeling of being stuck in a kaleidoscope. Enclosed within the
flamboyant symbols, opulent fabrics hung in the ceiling with a neon blue room.
It reminded me of our ginormous textile factories and the attention seeking
lorry prints. There was a room that had the moody setting of Bombay bars.
Uncomfortable blue neon lights that made everyone look so anonymous, but I
recognized Hari by his silhouette. He looked at me, “
Did you get all the colors you wanted for your project?”
I smiled.
No
of times phone froze: 12
No.
of times of getting lost: 8
No.
of green doors: 5
And over those two weeks, Hari’s
constant effort to make me follow Google maps never worked out. This lead to me
keeping a jar of my ‘getting lost’
stories, in fact I had one just last week. I’ve been here for five
months and I still haven’t seen the Big Ben and Tower
Bridge. Clearly, I’m a tourist with horrible
priorities. Very much still snooping around many roads, taking photos of brick
walls and hunting for the perfect Pantone green.
Until next time
Atheena Wilson
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ReplyDeleteI was reading it and it was being read in your voice in the beginning, but somewhere around Hampton Garden Court I started hearing Russel Brand... Towards the end, London and the colours reminded me of an episode of PPGirls where Rainbow the Clown was hit by a truck with bleach and he turns to Mr. Mime who has the power to erase colours. I loved your article and now have an image of you walking around carrying a large Eyedropper tool.
ReplyDeleteHa ha, thank you.
DeleteI'm guessing I was buttercup when I reached Hampton court.
True, that now i carry an eyedropper tool in my shady conductor sling bag. Thank you Master Henry!
A tribute to linguistic innovativeness. The Vibrancy of colour in London is equally matched with the vibrancy of words and humour which mocks the preconceived notions of dull grey London. As a responder, I was stupefied to find myself journeying with you to London as your compositional style was powerful enough to make me visualise the bland yet colourful streets and popular spots of London in all its glory. The blog commencing with the boredom of mundane life leading into reflective moments while going through photo gallery and then finding its way into the inner machinations of your mind with truthful observations on New year resolutions culminating in your flight journey to London left me breathless as it was action-packed. The strange fusion of visuals that sometimes looked like abstract art complemented the unique style of text within text-type blogging. As I truly enjoy reading your blog I am looking forward to your next entry. Feeling proud!!!
ReplyDeleteNeetha