And I was reflecting on the other Diwalis that we can treat ourselves to year round, but often don’t.
Illustration/Uday Mohite
The first time I went to Europe and stayed with a friend was around 1994. I stayed in Paris with the lovely French music composer Louis Dandrel, whom I met at a highly inauspicious moment, when I thought he was repairing his shoe, as he was standing very still by a wall at CSMT station in Mumbai. It turned out he was a composer recording the “unwritten symphonies” of Mumbai, the daily rhythms of life that we overlook. Uff, yes, my life is full of exciting adventures. It’s Diwali, the festival of lights, again. And I was reflecting on the other Diwalis that we can treat ourselves to year round, but often don’t.
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So I discovered early on, thanks to my travels, that a European’s relationship with light is very different from an Indian’s. They treasure and cherish light; we just roundly ignore light, not even bothering with an umbrella at high noon in summer. So I went to Europe around 1994 on a Goethe Institut scholarship to study German, in Mannheim, and after the programme, soon found myself in Paris, the City of Light. This was the pre-internet era, so Louis and I communicated via postcards, and I asked if it would be okay for me to stay over for a few days. He said I was most welcome, and he would be working long hours at his recording studio, but I could take the key from xyz and stay over at his place at the Jardin du Luxembourg.
As he was a newish friend, I sat up till 1 am, waiting for him to return, so I could properly re-introduce myself. Despite his exhaustion, he welcomed me warmly with twinkling eyes. I’d already had dinner, but Louis quickly rustled up a one-dish meal for himself. He prepared the large kitchen table grandly: he laid out a beautiful white damask tablecloth with lacy edges. He placed an elegant silver candelabra in the centre and lit two lipstick-red candles. He boiled some pasta—tagliatelle, in a nest-like shape—then cooked it with some onion, tomato, herbs and sauce. He placed silver cutlery around a formal dinner plate. After popping a bottle of red wine, Louis finally sat down to savour the tagliatelle pasta—essentially a hi-fi name for apna Maggi noodles in my view, nearly 30 years ago. He was just eating a version of boiled Maggi, that Indian hostel students live on for decades, and that Indians thrive on, wherever in the world they go. Although he ate alone, it was in supreme style, even at 1.30am, by a romantic, flickering candle light, and I believe the grandiose ceremony was what was deeply relaxing for him, before he retired for the night.
Another time, I had stayed a few nights in Berlin with Dorothee Wenner, my beloved friend and former mentor at the Berlin Film Festival. After a treat of an evening of nightingales’ songs in the gardens, as spring turned to summer, I was leaving early the next morning. She organized a luxurious treat for me the evening before: warm water in the bathtub with scented floral bubble bath, scented candles that cast a gentle flickering glow, hot Moroccan mint tea, a crystal bowl of dry fruits and nuts, with some wonderful Western classical music on the radio (yes, radio). You might not think it extravagant per se, but the kindness and affectionate care with which I was treated, made it an extravagant experience for me. I felt like a queen. True, bathtubs are not common in India, but the flickering scented candles, mint tea, classical music and more, are a treat I will treasure for a long time. I wonder why I don’t treat myself to more of it all year round.
Meenakshi Shedde is India and South Asia Delegate to the Berlin International Film Festival, National Award-winning critic, curator to festivals worldwide and journalist.
Reach her at meenakshi.shedde@mid-day.com
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