Like the ravishing full-bodied wines of Australia, memories from the country will survive in the bloodstream long after your return
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Winter vines at the Dominique Portet winery in the Yarra Valley town of Coldstream, east of Melbourne in Australia. Pic/AFP
Sydney felt unknowable for the first two days. By my last evening, though, I felt like an old hand as I wandered through the streets intuitively, cocksure of which path to take without having to consult Google. It was glorious, in fact. I had met with Ari, an ex-flatmate from my days at the Khirki Gharana, who, in less than three weeks, will be a first-time father. He was waiting for me at Wynyard. We had planned to walk to Barangaroo, to see the sculptural installations by the sea. Then, after a Flat White — a peculiarly Australian manner of coffee with a shot of espresso dolloped with a velvety layer of milk — we made our way to the Customs House to procure a set of headphones and iPods so we could do the Cardiff and Miller video walk, ‘City of Forking Paths’, which guided us through discreet alleys and vantage points along The Rocks, interspersed with stream-of- consciousness musings on history and memory. Cardiff and Miller had walked these streets before, with their camera and sound recorder, and had grafted together clips from a range of twilit evenings, except, sometimes with a musician around a vacant corner, playing the cello, or the saxophone. You were meant to trace their steps, both virtually and in real time.
An hour later, having rewarded ourselves with a finely crafted beer at a pub, we returned the gadgets and strolled towards Chinatown. Mid-way, Ari ushered me into a corner and led me down a set of stairs until we found ourselves in a speakeasy a la The Great Gatsby. We settled into our whisky and gin cocktails and soaked in the vibe.
I bit adieu to Sydney that night as I returned to Mosman. The next afternoon I set out for Melbourne, where I am now, on the last leg of my trip. Soon I will return to New Delhi and I know I will be overwhelmed once again, by the blaring of horns, by the absence of silence, by the stunning comfort of familiar tongues, where my accent won’t seem so alien. My hair will have grown, my nails are already longer (I had forgotten to pack a nailcutter). My body will have been marked by all this time, and the vicissitudes of the wintry weather.
I’m not yet prepared for homecoming. I’m still seeking strange shelter in the warm glow of all the moments that have unfolded like a narrative, shaping my journey, conflating all sense of home and belonging. Today, I was whisked off to a winery managed by the husband of the publishing director of Hardie Grant Books, who have published my book here. As he guided my tastebuds through the nuances of cold-climate wines, shaping my appetite for a more acidic cab-sauv, he spoke of the existence of a ‘Cellar Memory’, an evolved system of knowledge instrumental in the picking and fermentation process. The winemaker must attune himself to annual weather patterns to learn when best to harvest. Even a day can alter the texture of the wine. I marveled at the complexity of such an art. But I also wondered if that term could encompass everything had marked me in these three weeks.
I do not have photos that can illustrate all I was privy to. There were intimacies that had emerged that I had not anticipated. When, upon returning back to the city, I waited at the crossing, I gazed at the intricate overhead network of wires that held the city’s tram system in place, I mused about how the image perfectly symbolised the history of my trip; a web of gauzy memories that are already vanishing, but that will survive as a part of my bloodstream, just like all the ravishingly full-bodied wine I have consumed.
The Yarra Valley will remain freshest among them. The sight of not bare but quietly blossoming vines and apple and pear trees glinting in the cascading light of the sun; then suddenly a downpour, and again sun gleaming through the falling run, casting rainbows that bridge together two diverse ends of the horizon like a wide-toothed upside-down grin. By this time next week, I will be back home, not changed, but altered — my imagination as fertile as those naked trees soaking up all the moisture; ready to bloom, eager to ripen.
Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputed art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx. Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com
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