Pasaka: Sīmens, Samsungs un Aifons

Mātei bija trīs dēli – Sīmens, Samsungs un Aifons. Vecākajam dēlam Sīmenam bija desmit gadu.  Tā kā puisis jau gāja skolā, māte tam daudz laika neveltīja. Piešķīra vien savu noslēgtu istabiņu un teica. „Mācies tikai!”. Taču dēlam pēc skolas gribējās paspēlēties. Kā kādreiz. Kā Māte to bija darījusi pirms piedzima Samsungs un Aifons.

„Mammu, kāpēc tu ar mani vairs nespēlējies?,” dēls Mātei reiz jautāja, kad viņa pārnāca mājās ar Aifonu uz rokām un Samsungu, stingri pieķērušos pie rokassomiņas.

„Tu jau esi liels! Kādas tev vēl spēlītes prātā? Sēdi un mācies. Paskat, tu esi visvecākais, bet glupākais no maniem dēliem. Aifons trīs gados jau iemācījies lasīt un rakstīt, kamēr tu knapi burto, ” Māte skarbi aizrādīja.

Sīmens saskuma un asarām acīs teica.
„Nu tad kāpēc tu mani neatdod citiem vecākiem, kas ar mani spēlēsies un mani mīlēs?” viņš jautāja.

„Nerunā muļķības, Sīmen, sēdi istabā un pildi mājasdarbus. Negribu vairs dzirdēt atrunas,” Māte strikti norādīja, un saruna ar to beidzās.

Sīmens kā pirmais dēls bija pa Mātes un radu rokām noņurcīts, turklāt noēdies un uzaudzējis resnu vēderu, mājās vien sēdēdams un nekā nedarīdams. Ar skolu nepietika. Cik tad var mācīties? Nekādu ārpusskolas pulciņu, nekādu spēlīšu. Vakari bija tukši kā izēsta konfekšu kārba. Tā arī Sīmens jutās – iztukšots un atstāts novārtā savā aukstajā istabā ka vai sāka mesties putekļu zosāda.

Vecāko dēlu nepavisam nevarēja salīdzināt ar brāļiem. Samsungam un Aifonam bija skaistas, glancētas, prieka pilnas sejiņas, tieviņi viduklīši, ka vai prasījās tik to vien kā pa rokām auklēt. Viņi vēl nebija radu rokām apbružāti, turklāt, spītējot saviem jaunajam gadiem, bija gudri, daudz gudrāki par vecāko brāli.

Nenoliedzami Māte visvairāk bija pieķērusies tieši jaunākajam, skaistākajam un gudrākajam dēlam - Aifonam. Brīnumbērns! Viņa slavēja trīsgadīgo dēlu visām savām draudzenēm. Puika jau mācēja lasīt, rakstīt, bija apguvis visas pasaules valodas, vienmēr zināja, kāds nākamajā dienā būs laiks, palīdzēja pat Mātei darbā (viņa strādāja par juristi), dziedāja, dancoja, spēlēja, izklaidēja Māti, stāstot viņai anekdotes un zīmējot bildes kā īstus mākslas darbus. Ko tik viņš visu nedarīja! Tieši tāpēc Māte Aifonu stiepa visur līdzi un lutināja ar visiem iespējamiem labumiem. Viņi kopā gāja uz darbu, teātri, operu, kafejnīcām, pasākumiem, ballītēm. Visur! Māte jaunāko dēlēnu tik ļoti mīlēja, ka vienmēr to glāstīja, spaidīja, taustīja, vienmēr sadzirdēja un uzklausīja, turklāt pirms gulētiešanas tā vietā lai lasītu pasakas dēlam, Māte klausījās dēla stāstos, dziesmās, dzejoļos, padevās brīnumbērna bagātās iztēles uzburtajiem videoklipiem. Un tā arī viņi viens otra skavās aizmiga teju vai katru nakti.

Sīmens, to vērojot no savas vientuļās istabas, raudāja. Viņš atcerējās, kā Māte bija lasījusi pasakas viņam. Kā Māte kādreiz viņu bija mīlējusi tāpat kā abus jaunākos dēlus, bet tagad to visu dabūja Aifons. Un pat vēl vairāk – izskatījās, ka pastarītis Mātei dod to, ko nespēja Sīmens un pat ne Samsungs.

Tiesa, arī Samsungu Māte ne vienmēr visur ņēma līdzi. Arī viņš lielākoties bija nosēdināts istabā, lai pildītu mājasdarbus un mācītos. Taču pret Samsungu viņa nebija tik skarba kā pret Sīmenu. Viņam klājās drusku labāk. Māte par vidējo dēlu atcerējās, kad brauca uz ārzemēm darba komandējumos, kuri notika gandrīz katru nedēļu. Varēja redzēt, ka viņa lepojas ar jaunākajiem dēliem. Abi bija tik gudri, ka varēja Mātei svešās zemēs gan parādīt virzienus, gan palīdzēt ar valodām, gan kārtot darba jautājumus. Tikmēr muļķītis Sīmens vienmēr palika mājās, aizmirsts pavisam. Mātei bija kauns iet kur sabiedrībā ar vecāko dēlu. Sīmens to juta.

Kādu dienu neviena negaidīta, neviena nevēlēta atnāca nelaime. Māte pārradās no darba... bez Aifona. Saraudātu seju, viņa ieskrēja vidējā dēla Samsunga istabā un nesakarīgi kliedza: „Aifons, nolaupīja Aifonu, kāds nolaupīja Aifonu..mans Aifons...mans dārgais, mīļais Aifons...”

Lai arī Māte bija sūdzējusies policijā par jaunākā dēla pazušanu, viņa neloloja lielas cerības to atrast. Tāpēc pavisam dabiski jaunākā dēla vietā stājās vidējais dēls un kļuva par viņas ikdienas biedru. Tomēr aizstāt Aifonu viņš nevarēja. Māte skuma pēc sava jaunākā dēlēna. Ļoti skuma. Naktīs nevarēja aizmigt, domājot, kur tagad ir viņas dēlēns, kādās rokās nonācis, vai vispār vēl dzīvs. Nevarēja aizmigt, zinot, ka Aifona nav blakus un zinot, ka ... diez vai viņš atgriezīsies.

Draudzenes Māti mierināja, teikdamas: Pagaidi pāris mēnešus, un pieteiksies jauns dēls, taču Māte zināja, ka grib tikai Aifonu – Aifonu, kuram viņa bija tik ļoti pieķērusies. Šis zaudējums bija pārāk liels, lai domātu par jaunu dēlu.

Māte bija palikusi ar diviem dēliem, un, likās, dzīve iestāsies tādās pašās sliedēs, kāda tā bija, pirms piedzima Aifons. Taču kas to būtu domājis, ka nelaimes Māti apciemos viena pēc otras. Saslima Samsungs. Izmirka lietū, saķēra iesnas, klepu un drudzi. Neviens ārsts nespēja pateikt vainu, un dēls tik ļoti savārga, ka bija jāliek uz gultas režīma.

Māte nezināja, ko darīt. Aifons, tagad Samsungs... Viņa krita depresijā. Bija pazaudējusi divus dēlus. Turklāt tos, kurus pēdējā laikā bija visvairāk mīlējusi. Viņa jutās tik vientuļa, tik pamesta, taču tad atcerējās par to, kurš, iespējams, jutās tāpat. Jau sen.

Māte klusām pieklauvēja pie Sīmena istabas durvīm un iegāja iekšā. Tur viņš sēdēja. Viņas apetelīgais, bet mīlīgais dēlēns. Strupiem pirkstiņiem, sagrauztiem nadziņiem. Pats pirmais. Dēls aši pagriezās Mātes virzienā, bet tad ātri novērsās un iegrima burtnīcās un grāmatās. Vēl joprojām viņš bijās Mātes, kas viņu rāja par slinkumu un salīdzināja ar jaunākajiem brāļiem. Tagad tā pati Māte uzlika roku uz vecākā dēla pleciem un saprata, cik netaisni pret viņu izturējusies. Saprata, cik ļoti tomēr viņa savu dēlu mīlējusi tādu, kāds viņš bija. Jau no pirmās dienas, kad piedzima. Šo viņa lempīgo augumu, sasprēgājušās rociņas, tomēr dzīvo, vēl joprojām dzīvo dvēselīti un spraigi pukstošo sirsniņu.

„Piedod, Sīmen,” viņa noteica un nokaunējusies paņēma rokās savu vecāko dēlu.

Masala India

 Masala dosa, you hear on trains; Garam Masala, you will find in curry; Bryani masala, you order in restaurants. In fact, “masala” should be the first word you learn before going to India unless you want to yield to the world of spices and savor Indian food with closed eyes. Yes, that’s what “masala” means – mixture of spices. That one word made me say “no” to lots of Indian food (though I got used to some spices after all) and having my personal whimsical reasons on top of that (no onions, no pork, no mashed potatoes, no unknown mixtures, no overcooked food, no sauces, no unhygienic and dirty plates), I sometimes ended up eating plain rice and bananas which I am very happy about. 

Had your lunch?

“Had your breakfast?”, “Had your lunch?”, “Had your dinner?” You will hear these questions every day asked by your fellow Indian colleagues, friends and even strangers on a street. Beware if your answer is “no”. A genuinely concerned and puzzled Indian face will stare at you urging to get the necessary meal as soon as possible. You might get tired of being asked the same questions every day, but for Indians it shows their sincere concern about your primary need or perhaps it’s also a nice way to start a small talk? 

Food becomes the central topic of everyday life. Carrying a food box to school (for the snack break or lunch break) becomes as crucial as carrying your pencil box or even wallet. Thus mothers check the menus of the school lunch to make sure their kids get sufficient food; employees often bring home-cooked food to their work place and share it with others; however, the realm of food is waiting for you in the frequent and famous Indian weddings when wedding organizers try their best to show the guests enormous varieties of food they can afford. The bigger the wedding and the richer the organizers, the larger and more abundant tables will satiate your taste buds with roti, chapatti, paneer, different types of rice, pani puri, bryani, dal, masala dosa, Chinese Indian food and much more.. 

Have you tried bryani?

I didn’t become a fan of Indian food, but I did enjoy particular dishes and discovered new tastes (which happen rarely taking into account my usual whims). For example, I can’t eat such things as masala dosa or pani puri and many other crazy, unknown, weird mixtures that look like something between soup and sauce and when judging in my terms – not alluring to my eyes to make me eat it. I liked all the rice stuff though (egg fried-rice, chicken rice) except for the rice dishes when rice didn’t look rice anymore, but white, round, flattened pieces of… rice that is called idli. No, no, no. Even though it’s made of rice, I couldn’t stand that look and immediately added to my NO list. Idli is breakfast food and looks strange like most of Indian breakfast dishes, something I couldn’t really befriend with save in chapattis and rotis that I called “bread/pancake stuff”. But I was happy with lunch and dinner. What I definitely want to compliment here is bryani. And if so, Hyderabad was the right place for me to live. Hyderabadi-ans are very proud of their bryani, typical food of Hyderabad. Therefore, if you are a newcomer or meet someone for the first time, add another question to “Had your lunch?” questionnaire. “Have you already tried bryani?” That is something you can’t actually escape when in Hyderabad, so most probably your answer will be “yes” unless you have just arrived. 

Food itself can be very cheap and sometimes it seems it’s even cheaper to buy it cooked outside than cook home. The prices of street food (for example, fried rice) might start from 30 rupees (0,40 euro cents).  

Chocolate is the King

As much as Indians like spices and hot food, they love sugar. One only needs to take a bite of jalebi (yellow, oily, sugary, warm sweet) to feel that the sweet sickening sugar in your throat will make you sing the sweetest symphony ever. Indians seem to love it. Their national plate of sweets alluringly boasts with wondrous colors, sophisticated appearances, and multitude ingredients reflecting the creativity of forms and shapes, and tastes. The sweetest of the sweet; different sweet; Indian sweet. 

And that’s not all. Despite the plenitude of traditional sweets, Indians would always equally seek for Western goodies. Ice-cream is something that makes them crawl. No decent wedding would end without ice-cream that gathers queues usually longer than the ones opting for Indian sweets. Butterscotch, vanilla, strawberry, chocolate…yes, chocolaty chocolate with chocolate chunks and chocolate slivers deserves another story here. Chocolate indeed seems to be the most to-die-for sweet.  “You will have to bring me chocolates if I do you this or that.” They say it to each other for doing favours  It feels as if chocolate is treated like a king ruling the kingdom of all sweets, even Indian traditional ones. At least that’s how supermarkets treat it with rather high price or better to say – no price democracy offering various chocolate options. What surprised me was that not only Indian kids, but even adults are overwhelmed with chocolate. “For this, you will bring me chocolates tomorrow,” an Indian teacher might say to her poor student. Just like love, chocolate doesn’t mind the age. The fact that even those chewy, sticky caramel candies with a thin, stingy dose of chocolate inside are called CHOCOLATES shows a clear chocolate deficiency and despair in Indian society. If someone has a birthday at school, they would bring these candies (as they are the cheapest “chocolates”), and that would count as: “oh great, you have brought chocolates”. What also confuses me is that they call it in plural – chocolates – instead of chocolate? 

Fruit paradise

Enough of sweets! Enough of masala! Unless you want to turn into one big Indian mama that successfully veils her best friend belly in sari as she graciously walks along the street, go for fruits. Next to the large variety of Indian food and sweets, the same should be said about fruits. Like in a paradise garden, you just stretch your hand, close your eyes, and a street vendor would hand you bananas, papayas, oranges, jackfruit, litchi, watermelons, chickoos, custard apples and, of course, mangoes, Indian national fruit.

I shall start with bananas as they deserve my attention first. They are cheap. Very cheap. Extremely cheap. I couldn’t resist buying them every day as they cost only 15-30 Rs per kilo (about 0,25-0,40 euro cents). They drag me to the supermarket every day and compel me to check other fruits in the fruit stand. That is how I discover papaya. As I am still at the fruit stand, I also have a look at oranges. I still don’t know if my students were right about saying that there are worms in oranges, that’s why some oranges are really small in size. I think these youngsters must have lied to me. The same youngsters discovered my obsession for bananas. Well, that’s another story of a great laughter. 

Snacks will find you

It’s very rare in India to find oneself in a place where no food or snacks or drinks would be sold (unless it’s really deep, deep countryside with no people there). In India, wherever a human being steps, food follows. In short, those are street vendors that need to make money and find their audience by figuring out spots where they could sell their product. Bus stations, train stations (no need to look for them, they will come on bus or train and serve you as a queen), on the street next to your apartment, next to touristic objects. A friend of mine started to call it a “newspaper food”. Why? Well, usually those salted peanuts or other snacks will be wrapped in an old newspaper as vendors can’t afford better merchandise. What I liked most of all the snacks and what is very Indian, is bhujiya, small, yellow pieces of rather spicy snack sold next to chips and cookies, the regular items that a street vendor has in his shack. 

Even if there is a place with no street vendors, like when we were visiting Allora caves and trading in the territory was prohibited, there will be a sign put up inviting you to eat before entering the venue in the food village they have set up.  For God’s sake – nobody in India ever wants you to be hungry and skip your lunch, dinner or breakfast or snack time. 

I can’t embrace cinnamon

I have to compliment that milky coffee Indians make. I love it! Sometimes it’s too milky especially in a very small and dusty street café where coffee might be served in a small, dirty cup. By the time it’s on your table (which could also reveal some random ants as you are waiting) the coffee might get covered with film. Yuck! I think the best coffee I tasted in India was in Bangalore. It was served in much bigger cups, cheap and tasted good with perfect proportions of milk and coffee. 

With respect to the subtle tradition of Indian tea making that involves lots of spices and milk and already mentioned sickening sugar, I would still say No to it mostly because of the taste of cinnamon that I can’t embrace at all. Tea is just not tea with that small, however influential ingredient. The situation was better in North India. I didn’t feel that much cinnamon (or perhaps, it wasn’t there at all) and could join in for some cups of tea. 

Coffee always works

Are you hungry by now? I am. In fact, even though I sometimes went on a plain rice and rotti/chapatti diet at school, there was never famine in my neighbourhood  I survived. Moreover, I enjoyed. And even if suddenly nothing tastes good, there are always wedding invitations to fix it. There are always Indian fruits, or my beloved and truly missed coffee machine at my school’s staff room that saved me even in that one day in eight months of work when I couldn’t eat a bite at school lunch (as it was a day of unknown Indian mixtures). Bon masala appétit! 

Seven Days, Eight Flights: China-Barcelona-China

A trip to Girona (with all contestants).

There is one week of my life which still seems unbelievable as I look back at it. Seven days, eight flights, one night train, one night bus. That’s exactly what happened after I found out that I am one of the finalists of IEMed short story contest "A Sea of Words" and have been invited to the awards ceremony in Barcelona. Great! I am in China now. I said to myself. But in my mind, I knew, I would be there. And I was (except for the fact that I missed the ceremony itself). Now being back to boring Lianshui County (village) where nothing much happens, I am still living in those days and those planes: hectic, happy, rewarding.

Beijing – Kiev

It’s an early, sleepy morning. 5 am. I am waiting for the boarding at the gate of my flight in Beijing airport. Since I haven’t slept the night (lounging on a hard seat somewhere in the airport), I naturally feel dozy and exhausted. I put on my earplugs to let the music make me alert as I don’t... No, I don’t want to miss my plane! I must not miss my plane! Because that would result missing all the other seven planes, right? Some dum-dum pop music yells in my ears, and that feels good. I don’t take my earplugs out till the very boarding.

Only when I board the plane and settle at the window seat, I notice it’s raining outside. Moreover, I notice it’s STILL raining outside. I remember, it started already yesterday afternoon, and my wet feet can only confirm that it had been one of the most torturous nights at the airport having light autumn clothes on with two-years-ago-bought worn out boots that let the rainwater through. I don’t want to remember how I envied everyone who seemed smart enough to wear winter clothes. At least my eyes got warmth from them. But it didn't please my poor feet.

As I am on the plane and gazing at the rain for a while (until the plane gets ready to take off) I suddenly remember the French band Housse de Racket and their song “Apocalypso” which has the lyrics "It’s raining, imagine”, and I always want to sing “It’s raining in Beijing”. (Actually that song mentions “Pekin” in the French part of lyrics) That fits in this situation so well, and off in the clouds we are escaping all that depressing rain. The first heaven has been reached as I see shiny clouds and greet them with a brisk „Good morning!” We are heading towards happiness.

Kiev – Riga

Whenever I am flying back to Riga, the flight actually starts already in the boarding area as I am waiting for my plane. Seeing Latvian faces, hearing the native language – those are the first heralds that welcome you back home, that make you realize you have missed your home after all. And subliminally, you pay extra attention to the talks, people, and their mood about going back home. No, they don’t seem just random passengers; it feels like they are your mates, your folks from back home. Only once the home is reached and you split into different directions, they become your strangers.

There is a mother and a son who have just returned from India. Their badges on their hand luggage reveal that. There is a family of parents and two children, and an uncle (I suppose?) who mention Kazakhstan, India and Thailand in their talks, so I can’t figure out where they are actually coming from. Whatever the case, we all are heading to Riga in a very small air-plane that rather feels like a flying bus. 

Riga – Frankfurt

My flight to Frankfurt is at around noon the next day after I have returned from China. Before this flight I have submitted my documents for a new Chinese visa (as the one I had was a single-entry visa), left my passport at the embassy and with an identity card on a close look, I am ready for the next flight. I am in an aisle seat with two Latvian ladies in their thirties sitting next to me. They keep on discussing their plans in Frankfurt; it seems like a long anticipated vacation as they mention their jobs in Riga. I smile at a gentleman sitting in the other line behind me as he sleeps with an open mouth. 

Frankfurt – Barcelona

I need to spend around three hours until my connecting flight to Barcelona. What I like about Frankfurt airport is free coffee, tea, hot chocolate. It somehow compensates the fact that due to my visa issues I arrive in Barcelona much later than other finalists. In fact, I arrive when the whole ceremony is over (yes, it might sound ironic that I have travelled from China to actually miss it), but I am supposed to be on time for dinner. 

As we reach Barcelona, I hastily run towards the exit. This is the first time when someone welcomes me with a name tag in his hands. Yes, it’s my taxi driver hanging my name on a piece of paper. I notice him quickly. As we get in the car, I anxiously start asking him about the ceremony: did you like it? How was it? Has everyone arrived? Where is the dinner place? But only then I realize he has nothing to do with that. He is just a taxi driver. That makes me sit quietly and watch outside the window admiring the nightly Barcelona. Yesterday night I was in Latvia; the night before yesterday I was in China. I say to myself, and I can’t believe it. How manageable this world is! 

Barcelona – Frankfurt

We will miss the flight. OMG, it’s 3.45. We arranged to meet downstairs at 3.40 when the taxi was supposed to drive us to the airport. I hastily put on my coat, take my stuff and get down to the reception where me and Andreas, a guy from Cyprus (we are the two unlucky ones whose flights are at around 6 am in the morning) should meet. Andreas is not there! I knew he would oversleep. I start troubling the poor receptionist. “Taxi, taxi, where is the taxi? I want to check out. Fast, fast, call to Andreas, Room 103,” I say everything at once and only after that I realize that nothing of my message has been understood as the receptionist doesn't even speak English. But still. Didn't we arrange that the residence books a cab for 3.40? I am in panic, but he is calm, peaceful, even confused, mumbling something in Spanish. Why? Doesn't he understand we are going to miss our flights??? Only then I notice a big watch hanging on the wall. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to kill myself. It’s 00.40. Feeling embarrassed, I apologize to the receptionist and go back to my room. I can sleep three more hours!!! Alarm clock rang only in my dreams, it seems.

I didn't miss the flight. Neither did Andreas. Moreover, have you been on a plane with two pilots – one in front, the other one sitting back? Well, the second one was sitting next to me as a passenger. He felt the necessity to boast about it to the flight attendant who didn't seem to care. It’s 6 am after all. 

Frankfurt – Riga

Again I am happy to stop at Frankfurt airport for many cups of hot chocolate. It’s not too long to wait till my next flight. I take a seat, pick up a book and hear one of the most beautiful melodies in the world – two Finnish guys are leisurely chatting and ohhh, this is still one of my favourite and definitely, the cutest language I have ever heard. I wish I could keep this cassette on longer, but the guys leave soon and so does my flight with me thrust in an aisle seat. I don’t like at all what the captain says, as we are approaching Riga. It’s rainy, cloudy, unpleasant weather. Can you change the course, then? I want to ask. But he steadily moves across Poland, Lithuania and finally lands in Riga.

Riga – Kiev

I have one full day in Latvia to go and pick my visa, have dinner at home, and pack my suitcase for… China. Two more flights and I will have completed my eight-sky journey. The flight from Riga to Kiev was actually very terrifying. Not because of the turbulence… or I should say – it was my own turbulence as I suddenly had a feeling I had forgotten all my extra Chinese money home. Don’t laugh! I kept those banknotes in a stocking (not to have everything in my wallet which was already stuffed with lats, euros, dollars). Of course, I would normally take that stocking in my hand luggage. I couldn't believe I had carelessly tossed it in my suitcase. That however becomes my hope as to where the money could have gone. Another option is that I have left it at home which means I would probably find it once I am back home again. But what would I do with Chinese RMB in Latvia? There is another option (which is the one I least expect): I have somehow somewhere lost it (no wonder, after all that packing-unpacking-repacking from-to China-Barcelona-China). So, with a hope for the very first option (that I have packed it in my suitcase) I leave for Kiev and then I need to keep that hope for another 13 hours till I would find out which option my dear stocking decided to go for. Luckily, for my mental situation, Kiev airport appears to be a complete mess as there is this bewilderment around terminals. I arrive in the terminal B, but I need to get to the terminal D where the flight to Beijing will be boarded. Well, even the airport employees seem to be unaware of how to help me and other passengers with connecting flights. They are sending us like lost luggage from one gate to other. Finally, a driver arrives and takes us to the terminal D by micro-bus  That at least helped dispel the stress about my missing stocking. 

Kiev – Beijing

Next to my worries about possible lost Chinese RMBs, I get another burden. Aisle seat. Especially when I am flying long distances, I insist on having a window seat as it’s more comfortable for sleeping unless I get an interesting neighbour to talk to. Thankfully, the latter happens with me this time. The middle-aged lady who sits next to me is indeed a nice person. She is so cute with her slippers and fear to travel on a plane. That makes me feel more experienced sitting next to her; next to the professor of Environment as I eventually learn. We start chatting and guess what – I am trying to speak my very, very poor and broken Russian (I have no other choice as she doesn't speak English). I am so bad that I laugh about my tempo, word choice and sentences that are mixed with Latvian, English and in the end I sound like a kid who has just started to speak. Or even worse. But I am determined to get my message across, and it somehow works. The lady invites me for a conference in Ukraine. I also get to know she is going to stay in China for one month to lecture at a university. 

After the nine hours journey and constant chatting with her, I am so dead tired and low in energy as if I had been running a marathon. This is the time to say “hello” to China again and find a well deserved surprise in my suitcase – my money stocking. I embrace it affectionately as if feeling sorry for having abandoned it in my suitcase. 

It’s time to find the bus station to my rural, remote village where I live (actually it’s a county, but sorry – I can’t call it like that with the village-like ambience it has). That becomes another adventure with fatigue and tears, but eh… that’s another story.

Cinderella’s Wedding Dress

On this special Sunday evening of Anurag and Ajala’s wedding Chowmahalla Palace looked magnificent as always. Adorned in its white, glistening marble surrounded by refreshing fountains and vivacious palm trees and bushes, like oasis it saved the city of Hyderabad from busy markets, aggressive vendors and shabby buildings. There, white wedding chairs were leisurely dwelling on the lush, green lawn as if longing to welcome the guests - ladies in beauteous sarees, gentlemen in imperial kurtas – who would majestically arrive at the place, then gracefully sit and contemplate the splendid view and later pamper themselves with the refined feast.

Sabina didn’t notice any of it. She didn’t see the palace or its beauty, she didn’t care about the solemn occasion, she didn’t know who was getting married. Along with three other blonde, fair looking Western girls she had hurriedly entered the venue and had now started her work where she served picky and spoiled guests in their expensive outfits; that’s what she saw. Moreover, she was angry at her manager Karthik who as always had been wrong about the timing and had brought the girls to the venue late from their previous work – shooting at the swimming pool in Ramoji Film City. Still in wet bikinis the four girls had hastily put on black, elegant dresses to turn into pretty, charming ladies. Supposedly… 

“No time, no time. We have to be there at 6,” Karthik commanded as the girls had just finished the last scene at the swimming pool and now wanted to change.

“But you said, it was 7 o’clock,” Sabina remembered. She was already seemingly nervous. This didn’t happen for the first time.

“No, now it’s 6, the car is there,” he said as if there was nothing wrong with the change and immediately started walking towards the car pushing the girls to follow. The relatively short man in his forties moved as quickly as a shuttle with his comfortable, round shape tummy happily enfolded in Pepe Jeans T-shirt and cheerfully jumping up and down as Karthik walked faster and faster.

“Karthik, what is this? We need to change at least!” Sabina requested.

“Car is there, you will change in the car,” Karthik was firm. 

Also the other girls started complaining, but having realized they can’t do anything, they obediently followed to the car. Exhausted, tired, frustrated and hungry.

Karthik wasn’t a responsible man. Always picking up the girls late, getting them back home late, last minute notices, changes. Yes that was Karthik; a complete opposite to Sabina’s German punctuality. 

“Eat now. At the wedding no time, work is there immediately,” he carelessly threw four packs of Chicken bryani to the backseat of the car where the four foreigners had hardly managed to squeeze in. My last time, this is really my last time I am doing this, Sabina muttered to herself as she was putting on the black, subtle dress.

Soon after Sabina was standing by the salad stall with four columns of plates on it ready to be given to people. Her work had begun: having put on a mask with a happy, shiny face she was pleasing the merry wedding guests. 

Her blue eyes saw nothing but the vigorous, hungry hands excited to take the circular dishes. Sometimes if the guests were nice she forced herself to look into those joyful faces and murmur the usual, out-warn phrases “Here you are, welcome, sir,” but as the next hands approached her, she blenched. 

Her blue eyes saw nothing but the contented tummies which sometimes came prior to the face of a person and seemed as if it was the fat belly requesting for a plate.

“Give me one plate, a?”

“Here you have, sir.”

“Spoon, spoon, give me a spoon,” the belly demanded.

“No more spoons,” Sabina said it for the forty seventh time, with no interest, no concern about the problem.

“No spoons? Eh?? How are we going to eat?”

“You have to wait for some time,” she said.

“Wait? How long do I need to wait? Call your manager!”

“I called already. Spoons are coming.”

“Coming when?” the insistent Indian man seemed to be really hungry.

“I don’t know. Coming any time,” Sabina said faintly for the forty seventh time as she was already taking the other plate, unwrapping it from the transparent polyethylene and passing to the next guest, seemingly less worried about eating with hands. 

The wedding went as usual: boring procedures, long and burdensome standing, Chammak Challo yelling in Sabina’s ears. She tried not to think about those food mountains the guests surmounted as small hills. Jumping from bryani to fried rice, paneer, dal, chapatti, Chinese and finally topping it up with luscious, butterscotch ice-cream. Though Sabina knew she could have some food from the leftovers once the wedding was over, she was already dead tired at that moment willing to get home as soon as possible. After all, the next day she had her day job – she worked as an assistant at a private company. The salary wasn’t enough to enjoy her days in India – go out, travel, not worry about money. That’s why she went for these foreigner jobs. She thought to earn some extra money, but wedding by wedding she realized she got tired and couldn’t be productive for either of her jobs. She didn’t go out, didn’t spend time with friends, and didn’t travel. 

But because of those three seconds when her manager reluctantly took out from his pocket the well deserved, lucent and desired banknotes of Indian rupees, she was still serving at the weddings. Because of these three seconds longing to arrive sooner she was biting her teeth to be patient and pulling her body to look statuesque and brisk. And because of those three seconds she easily broke her promise of doing this job for the last time as the next offer fell into her hands. 

Sabina would never imagine that this wedding could lead her to change. The last crowd, she thought to herself as many new guests were gathering around her. They demanded the same as everyone – a clean plate. Obediently fulfilling her task, she suddenly started feeling loose in her black dress. As she was giving the plates, she didn’t have time to pay attention to it, but when she noticed more and more Indian eyes staring at her and silently giggling, she finally looked at herself. Her black dress had been untied and ripped from the back and now exposed her pink color bikini to the eyes of everyone. 

“AAAA,” Sabina could say nothing but scream causing even more attention. She left everything and started a panic race. She tried to save her dress, but half of it was tore and her pink bikini was no longer hidden. 

“Karthik, Karthik,” she yelled. “Where are you?” Her mind was stuck as in a jam. She didn’t know what to do: find a bush and hide? Call Karthik? Call the other girls? Where are they? Where is everyone suddenly? Where are my clothes? She just kept running but couldn’t do anything to her pink bikini that did the job. It had uncovered her pale white skin and perfectly slim body with long legs moving her rump forward and hands trying to maintain one small piece of the black clothing on her bosom. 

The tight, pink Ceylon bikini had brightened the ceremony better than those enchanting sarees worn by ladies; it had tasted better than the butterscotch ice cream to the hungry eyes of Indian men. Now they could not only lick their lips but also their eyes fully satisfied with the pleasant scenery - better than the magnificent Chowmahalla Palace, better than those food mountains and luxuriously decorated venue. Hey lovely! Where are you running, sweetie? Come to me! She tried to ignore those taunts left behind her.

Everyone had enjoyed the show except for Sabina. Defeated, humiliated, despaired she was when her manager found her. All in tears, trembling, utterly destroyed.

“I am sorry Sabina, we will try to find that bustard who ripped your dress. We will not leave it like that.”

“Who cares now?” the girl sobbed with no energy left. Not even enough to blame her manager, this job, everyone in the wedding, to scream, shout or explode. Nothing mattered any more. Not even those banknotes that used to be her three-second joy despite of everything and that manager now gave her as casually as always. They will never make her happy again. 

She put on her clothes that Karthik had brought her and let the taxi driver bring her home. This WAS my last time! Sabina said to herself decidedly. 

Selected for the Gabriela Garcia Marquez Fellowship

I am among 20 journalists from all over the world that are selected for the Gabriel García Márquez fellowship in cultural journalism 2013. All journalists will be invited to Columbia in January 7 - 21, 2013  to work in the modules of Music and Literature. I am selected for the Music Module and will report from the  

Cartagena International Music Festival for the Concertnews.be (Belgian music website I represent). 

Altogether 465 applications from 70 countries in Latin America, the Caribbean, Central America, North America, Asia, Africa and Europe were received this year reaching the  highest number of applications in the 17 years FNPI history.

The fellowship is provided and organized by The Ministry of Culture of Colombia and the Gabriel García Márquez New Journalism Foundation - FNPI. 

The list of 20 winners can be found here: http://www.fnpi.org/noticias/noticia/articulo/selected-for-the-gabriel-garcia-marquez-fellowship-in-cultural-journalism/

Among Finalists in the Literary Contest "A Sea of Words"

My short story "Zilo acu stāsts" ("Blue Eyes' Story") was selected as one of the 14 finalists in the short story contest “A Sea of Words”, and I was invited to participate in the awards ceremony on 5th of November 2012 in Barcelona. 

In the ceremony, three winners were announced, as well as the contestants took part in the workshop “Literary Language, An Instrument of Dialogue”, organised with the General Directorate for Youth. We also went for a cultural visit to Girona. 

This was the fifth year of the contest organised by the European Institute of the Mediterranean (IEMed) and the Anna Lindh Foundation. It received 283 short stories by youths from European and Mediterranean countries.

All fourteen short stories will be published in a book. The list of finalists can be found here: 

http://www.iemed.org/dossiers-en/dossiers-iemed/cultures-mediterranies/sea-of-words-2012/winners

Muļķības par arābu valstīm labāk nerakstīt

Medijs: European Journalism Observatory EJO
Links: http://lv.ejo-online.eu/1654/etika-un-kvalitate/mulkibas-par-arabu-valstim-labak-nerakstit

Ne jau arābu valstīm vajag Latviju, mums vajag arābu valstis, tāpēc kļūdainu rakstu parādīšanās medijos varētu novest pie sadarbības pārtraukšanas, ja tos iztulkotu. To nākas  secināt pēc diskusijas „Reportēšana no arābu valstīm: Ēģiptes piemērs”, ko 23.augustā Rīkoja nevalstiskā žurnālistu organizācija FEJS Latvija.

Katarai Latviju nevajag
Savulaik presē „viena gudra eksperte rakstīja lietas par arābu pasauli un tradīcijām, kas var it kā traucēt Latvijas sadarbībai ar Kataru. Tik muļķīgi aprakstīts!” atceras Arābu kultūras centra Latvijā vadītājs Hosams Abu Meri. „Tā nedrīkst. Ja es tulkotu šādu rakstu un sūtītu to uz Kataru, rīt biznesa vairs nebūtu, jo Katarai Latviju nevajag. Latvijai vajag Kataru,” viņš uzsver ekonomisko sakaru un investīcīju svarīgo lomu, ar ko nedrīkst nerēķināties. Arābu kultūras centra vadītājs piebilst, ka ir vairāki gadījumi, kad Latvijas medijos nonākusi neprecīza informācija par arābu valstīm. Viņš uzsver, ka žurnālistam, kurš nav kompetents par šo reģionu, par to labāk nerakstīt.

Pietrūkst klātbūtnes efekta
Laikraksta Latvijas Avīze (LA) žurnālists Jānis Krēķis nenoliedz, ka, ņemot vērā ģeogrāfisko attālumu un Latvijas ārpolitiskās intereses, arābu valstis Latvijas mediju dienaskārtībā nav prioritāte. H.Abu Meri gan norāda, ka tas nav pareizi, „jo ekonomiski un politiski tas [notikumi un konflikti šajā reģionā] ietekmē visu pasauli”, tāpēc arī medijiem atbildīgi jāizvērtē ekonomiskās sadarbības nepieciešamība ar šo reģionu un sava loma šīs sadarbības veicināšanā vai graušanā.

Vienlaikus J.Krēķis nenoliedz, ka Latvijas medijiem ir diezgan lokāls raksturs, un globālais skatījums uz lietām nav tik dziļš, kā varētu vēlēties. Lielā mērā to nosaka ierastās ārzemju ziņu veidošanas rutīnas. Proti, pamatā informācija ārzemju ziņu veidošanai tiek ņemta no ziņu aģentūrām (REUTERS, AP), kā arī ārzemju medijiem (BBC). Tas neizbēgami noved pie klātbūtnes efekta trūkuma. Tai pat laikā J.Krēķis šaubās, vai žurnālistu sūtīšana uz šo valsti situāciju padarītu skaidrāku: „Ja žurnālists aizbrauks uz Kairu bez jebkādām iestrādēm, vai pievienotā vērtība būs pietiekami liela, lai bagātinātu stāstu par Kairu vai Sīriju? Es šaubos!”

Bez tam speciālkorespondenta sūtīšanai uz kādu karsto punktu ir arī  savas finansiālās konsekvences, tāpēc vietējie mediji meklē citas alternatīvas. Piemēram, LA neaprobežojoties tikai ar aģentūras ziņām. Tiek intervēti eksperti no Arābu Kultūras centra, Āzijas studiju nodaļas (piemēram, Leons Taivāns), kā arī izmantoti Ēģiptē dzīvojošo latviešu un ēģiptiešu pieredzes stāsti (intervējot pa telefonu), tāpat arī izmantotas Latvijas vēstniecības Ēģiptē konsultācijas. „Es pieļauju, ka arī Latvijā ir pietiekami daudz ekspertu par arābu jautājumiem, un Latvijas Avīze ir mēģinājusi skaidrot šo situāciju, atklājot ko vairāk par skaitļiem – cik nomira, cik uzsprāga,” uzsver J.Krēķis. H.Abu Meri par ekspertiem Latvijas medijos gan izsakās piesardzīgāk. „Ļoti švaki ar tiem ekspertiem Latvijā. Kādreiz liekas, nerunājiet par lietām, ko jūs nezināt! Tad jau labāk šādos gadījumos tiešām no Reuters rakstīt,” uzskata H.Abu Meri.

Jāmācās valoda un jāiedziļinās tajā, ko dara
Kā vienu no risinājumiem, lai ziņas par notikumiem arābu valstīs un jebkurā citā valstī vai reģionā kļūtu kvalitatīvākas, H.Abu Meri redz arābiski runājošu cilvēku piesaisti, kuri var sekot līdzi informācijai, izmantojot primāro valodu. Tas, pēc Arābu Kultūras centra vadītāja domām, dotu informācijas pieeju vietējiem avotiem un lielāku precizitāti.

Bez tam svarīgi arī, lai ārzemju korespondenti nemitīgi interesētos par ārvalstīs notiekošo, arī pirms došanās uz šīm valstīm būtu vēlams sagatavoties, lai, jau esot tur, labāk varētu izprast un skaidrot situāciju. Tam piekrīt arī J.Krēķis: „Ja cilvēks raksta par ārzemēm, viņam uz turieni ir jābraukā, jāinteresējas un jālasa informācija grāmatās, portālos un citos avotos. Turklāt, ja kādam jau ir iestrādes un kontakti, kāds tur ir bijis, tad to vajag izmantot un ar saviem stāstiem dalīties medijos.”

Nerakstītā vienošanās

Noskanēja zvans, un viņā uzmodās ierastās tirpas. Franču valodas skolotājas Leldes Bērzas sirds sāka sisties straujāk. Kājas pašas nesās pa garajiem, tumšajiem gaiteņiem. Tās zināja virzienu: 10. B klase trešajā stāvā pašā gaiteņa galā. Vēl ātri uz tualeti. Viņa sev teica. Pēdējo reizi nopētīt sevi no galvas līdz kājām un pārliecināties, ka izskatās labi. Astē saņemtie gaišie mati, ar viegli rozā lūpu krāsu pārklātās lūpas, melnais pieguļošais tops, kas rūpīgi sabāzts zaļajos kuplajos svārkos, kuri nemaz nestiepās viņai līdz celim, melnie legingi un puszābaciņi. Meitenīgi. Tā viņa izskatījās no malas, tāpēc ne velti pārējās skolotājas tīkmsinājās, ka jauno kolēģi varētu pat sajaukt ar vidusskolnieci. Un Leldei tā patika. Viņa nemaz necentās būt pieaugusi. Jo sevišķi dienās, kad bija paredzēta stunda ar 10.B. 

Jau pirms zvana viņa divreiz bija pie sevis atkārtojusi vielu, ko stundā paredzēts mācīt: par dažādu valstu svētkiem. Gaiteņi nemaz nelikās pagarinām attālumu. Viena minūte, un viņa stāvēja pie klases durvīm vēl pat pirms otrā – tā saucamā skolotāju zvana. Mitrā plauksta spieda rokturi uz leju un piesardzīgi vēra durvis vaļā.

„Bonjour,” viņa nedaudz bailīgā balsī sveicinājās ar klasi, censdamās izklausīties pieaugusi un pārliecināta. Nobriedusi. Varbūt pat neinteresanta skolēniem. Kā jebkura cita skolotāja. It kā tā būtu parasta klase. Kārtējā klase. Kārtējie mežoņi un mīlulīši, kas te krīt uz nerviem, te liek viņai smaidīt un strādāt virsstundas un priecāties par viņu sasniegumiem, naktīm labot darbus un veidot ieskaišu lapas, darba lapas. Nē! Tā nebija parasta klase. Divpadsmit skolēni, kas kā savu otro svešvalodu bija izvēlējušies franču, iespējams, nemaz neapzinājās, ka viņu skolotājai šie nebija kārtējie virsstundu produkti. Tieši otrādi – viņa sēdēja naktīm, lai padarītu viņu stundas īpašas, lai parādītu sevi gudru un inteliģentu. Un, ja būtu jaunās dāmas varā – viņa palielinātu stundu skaitu no četrām uz vismaz sešām franču valodas nodarbībām nedēļā, lai tikai tiktu pie iespējas doties uz 10. B biežāk.

Diez vai viņš bija tādās pašās domās. Vai varbūt bija? Tieši viņa dēļ Lelde bija gatava strādāt papildu slodzi. Bruno, kas Francijā bija nodzīvojis dzīves pirmos divpadsmit gadus, patiesībā zināja svešvalodu labāk nekā viņa skolotāja – jaunā 24 gadus vecā dāma. Tikko no franču filologiem iznākusi, viņa nevarēja sacensties ar savu apdāvināto skolēnu. Vienmēr, kad viņa meklēja īsto vārdu, viņš pasteidzās pirmais, saprata viņas domu un pateica priekšā. Kad viņa nezināja kādu no vārdiņiem, ko skolēni prasīja, viņš drīzāk pataisīja klasesbiedrus par idiotiem, aizstāvot skolotāju ar „he, kas tad to nezina”. Bruno bija tas, kas lika visiem pārējiem apklust, kad skolotāja ienāca klasē. Savukārt, ja kāds uzdrošinājās stundas laikā skolotāju traucēt, lieki bļaustīties vai spēlēties ar papīra lidmašīnām, viņš bija gatavs savu klasesbiedru izdzīt ārā. Šķiet, viņš vienīgais bija pamanījis, ka skolotāja ir maiga un draudzīga. Viņa nespēja būt strikta, valdonīga un diktatoriska. Bruno to lieliski saprata. Tāpēc kā tāda nerakstīta un vārdos nepārrunāta vienošanās bija viņu sadarbība, no kuras lēnām, iespējams, izauga kas vairāk. 

„Skolotāja Lelde, vai vēlaties šokolādi?” Lelde bija iegājusi klasē un gaidīja, kad skolēni nosēdīsies savās vietās. Jau atkal Bruno viņu pārsteidza nesagatavotu. Viņš piedāvā šokolādi. Man? Turklāt viņš nosauca mani vārdā. Parasti skolēniem nerūpēja – matemātikas vai latviešu valodas učene, viņi to vienmēr sauca bezpersoniski par „skolotāju”, bet nē, viņš vēlējās būt personisks pret katru pasniedzēju. Leldi tas apbūra. Jauns 15 gadīgs čalis. Čalis? Bērns, bērns! Viņa aši strīpoja savus vārdus, likdama prātam valdīt pār jūtām. Jūtām? Ko tu runā? Kādas tev var būt jūtas? Viņa jau atkal neļāva nepareizajām domām lauzties viņas smadzenēs.

„Nē, nē, nē... paldies,” Lelde pieklājīgi atbildēja.

Taču jau atkal viņš parādīja, ka ir kas vairāk kā skolēns. Gara auguma staltais puisis ar tumšbrūnajiem matiem un dzirksteļojošajām zaļganajām acīm, kas spīdēja no melno rāmīšu brillēm, lieliski zināja, ka meitenēm garšo šokolāde, tāpēc aiz Leldes „nē” viņš saklausīja pavisam skaidru „jā”. Pārliecināts, ka netiks sodīts, staigājam pa klasi bez iemesla, viņš piecēlās no sola un gāja uz skolotājas pusi. Izņēmis no paciņas gabalu brūnā kvādrātainā kāruma, viņš to nolika uz skolotājas galdiņa.

„Lūdzu, skolotāja Lelde,” viņa tonis kā vienmēr bija pieklājīgs.

„Ak... paldies,” jaunā dāma samulsusi atbildēja. 

Ņemt šokolādi no bērna – diez vai tā bija laba prakse. Bērna, bērna, bērna! Viņa sev teica. Skaldīja. Lika iegaumēt kā reizrēķinu, kaut gan patiesībā sajutās kā lutināta sieviete, nevis cienīta skolotāja.

Lelde apbrīnoja Bruno manieres un veiklību. Cik viegli viņš bija pienācis viņai klāt un pacienājis ar šokolādi. Pat būdama pieaugusi sieviete, viņa to nespēja. Kā toreiz ar tām konfektēm, ko viņai bija atvedusi draudzene no Francijas. Viņa bija cerējusi nejauši pacienāt visu klasi, tai skaitā Bruno. Varbūt pat tikai Bruno, tāpēc noskrandušā papīrītī konfektes glabājās skolotājas penālī cerībā satikt viņu gaitenī un tā teikt palielīties, ka arī viņai Francijā ir sakari. Turklāt viņš noteikti gribētu nogaršot kaut ko, kas saistījās ar dzimto pusi – Bruno tēvs bija francūzis, māte - latviete. Taču Lelde nespēja rast sevī drosmi tā vienkārši pieet savam mīļākajam skolēnam klāt bez iemesla. Bez akadēmiska rakstura iemesla. Viņa to varēja izdarīt ar jebkuru citu skolēnu. Tikai ne Bruno. Kautrīgs smīns, atbilde uz viņa sveicienu, viegls piesarkums un straujais riksis pa gaiteni – tāda parasti bija Leldes reakcija, kad viņa skolēnu nejauši satika gaitenī. Un pat tādas reizes neatgadījās bieži. Bruno bija reti apdāvināts zēns, tāpēc viņš kļuva par ļoti aizņemtu skolēnu. Bruno, Bruno. Kur ir Bruno? Viņa vārds izskanēja vai no katras pretimnākošās skolotājas. Visas viņu meklēja. Visas viņu gribēja ievilkt projektos, konkursos, konferencēs, papildu aktivitātēs. Visas bija pamanījušas viņa intelektuālo briedumu un nevarēja pretoties viņa džentlmeniskajai laipnībai. Visas gribēja kaut kā būt saistītas as skolas labāko skolēnu.  Kā bites drūzmējās viņam apkārt, un kā bišu tēviņš viņš uz visām atstāja iespaidu ar savām zināšanām, vienmēr izpildītu mājasdarbu, labajām manierēm, piesardzīgo, pieklājīgo, samtaino un džentlmenisko toni. Taču ne visas bija tik jaunas un tikko augstskolu pabeigušas kā Lelde...

Tāpēc konfektes no Francijas – krāsainus šokolādes glazūras oļus ar mandeli iekšā - Lelde apēda pati. Vienu pēc otra viņa notiesāja 12 krāsainos oļus, izjūtot kraukšķīgo glazūru, tad šokolādi un visbeidzot kā vāvere sagrauza brūno mandeli. Viņa aplaizīja lūpas un iedomājās, kā to būtu darījis Bruno. Kaut tās būtu bijušas viņa mitrās lūpas, kas izjutušas krāsainās šokolādes un kraukšķīgo mandeļu garšu. Viņa mitrās lūpas, kuras viņš bija tik izsmalcināti aprakstījis stāstiņā par savu pirmo saksofona koncertu. Apbrīnas vērtas bija ne tikai Bruno lingvistiskās dotības, bet viņa rakstītprasme: cik personiski viņš atklāja savas bailes, jūtas, sviedrus un emocijas stāstiņos, ko franču valodas skolotāja lika mājās rakstīt. Cik brīvi un drosmīgi viņš ar tiem dalījās, spīdot ar savu burvīgo un melodisko franču valodu, sinonīniem, īpašības vārdiem, apstākļa vārdiem, kurus viņš pārvaldīja tik virtuozi kā saksofona spēli. Viņa darbi runāja par viņu kā emocionālu puisi ar juteklisku dvēseli un cieņu pret valodu. Ar tiem viņš aizien pārsteidza savu skolotāju. Lutināja un šokēja Leldi, kura parasti viņa darbus lasīja ar vārdnīcu rokās, pārbaudīdama skolotājai nezināmo vārdu nozīmes. Jā, tādu viņa darbos bija diezgan, un Lelde izmantoja izdevību no sava skolēna mācīties. 

Bruno bija īsts izaicinājums jaunajai dāmai, ko viņa uzņēma ar lielu apņēmību izglītot un pilnveidot sevi pašu, nepārstāt mācīties. Bruno dēļ viņa rada entuziasmu sēdēt naktīm un trenēt savu franču valodu, lai par spīti skolēna franciskajai izcelsmei viņa spētu jaunietim dot ko jaunu un mācīt, lai būtu viņa līmenī un lai aizvien retāk būtu situācijas, kad viņai jāsaka „es nezinu, noskaidrošu to līdz rītdienai”.

Tomēr Bruno klātbūtnē viegli nebija. Īpaši, kad skolotāja komentēja skolēnu darbus un skaidroja katra personisko sniegumu. Aši viņas svelmainie pirksti šķīra Bruno burtnīcas lapas, jaunietim stāvot blakus skolotājai un uzmanīgi klausoties. Viņš nepavisam nebija iedomīgs. Arī perfekts ne. Tieši otrādi – vērīgi uzņēma skolotājas komentārus un, iespējams, pamanīja viņas parasti bālos vaigus, kas kā pirmās vasaras zemenes bija piesūkušies ar vieglu sārtumu. 

„Te tu varētu būt bijis radošāks, taču šī daļa bija ļoti laba... ļoti laba,” viņa komentēja franciski. Vai tad tiešām nevari izdomāt sinonīmu vārdam „laba”?  Skolotāja sevi rāja, taču pēkšņi viņas franču valoda bija kā sasalis ūdens, kamēr Bruno vārdu krājumā mājoja „lielisks”, „graciozs”, „valdzinošs”, „majestātisks”, „juteklisks” un vēl un vēl, un vēl... 

***

Noskanēja zvans, un skolotāja aši uzrakstīja uz tāfeles mājasdarbu. Četrdesmit minūšu nodarbība ar 10. B beigusies. 

„Paldies par stundu,” Bruno teica, Leldei ejot ārā no klases. Kā vienmēr. Vienmēr viņš rūpējās, lai skolotāja aiziet gandarīta, laimīga un apmierināta. Tāpat kā vienmēr viņš pienesa viņai krēslu, ja tas bija aizstumts uz klases dibenu, sveicināja kaut vai desmit reižu dienā, kad satika. Saudzīgs un dvēselisks. Kā gribējās viņa dvēselei vienkārši ļauties. Pieglausties. Taču aizliegts, aizliegts, aizliegts! Lelde sev teica. Atkārtoja vairākkārt, bet domas neredzēja sarkano gaismu. Tās kā no ķēdes norāvies suns triecās pretī braucošajām mašīnām. Pretī neiespējamajam un nezināmajam. Neparastajai mīlestībai, kas vilināja, bet reizē brīdināja. 3, 5... 10 gadi... viņa galvā rēķināja. Cik ilgi jāgaida, lai tas būtu iespējams? Vai viņam tad būs draudzene? Vai es izskatīšos resna un apaļa ar miesu kā uzrūgušu mīklu? Vai viņš maz atcerēsies mani? Vai atcerēsies franču valodas skolotāju, kura franciski runāja sliktāk par viņu, bet kuru viņš skolas laikā saudzēja un cienīja? Varbūt arī viņš juta ko vairāk nekā tikai akadēmiskas attiecības? Varbūt arī viņš tai visā saskatīja brīnumu? Nerakstītu nākotnes vienošanos?

Prāta Vētra gives another exceptional experience

Review: Prāta Vētra (Brainstorm) gig in Riga, Skonto Stadium

17.08.2012

It’s a band that doesn’t need any further explanations in their home country Latvia; a band that started in 1989 when five childhood friends formed it in their hometown Jelgava; a band that became internationally popular with the catchy and melodic My Star after performed in Eurovision Song Contest in 2000; a band that easily fills their concert venues breaking records in Latvian music scene; a band that is still active in 2012 and played their final gig of concert tour Vēl viena klusā daba (named after their latest album in Latvian) on 17th of August at Skonto football stadium in Riga. Ladies and gentlemen, Prāta Vētra or internationally known as Brainstorm once again showed that their songs – old or new – are remarkable experience when performed live and accompanied with much more than what we understand by music – visual and sound effects, flying in space, different guests to adorn the stage, surprises one after another. Yes, this is Prāta Vētra.

Vēl viena klusā daba (Another Still Life) is the band’s 12th album released in Latvian after four years gap. As always a tour is a very organic follow-up in their home country Latvia to perform the songs live. Jelgava, Ventspils, Saldus, Valmiera, Preiļi and finally Riga – those were the six venues where Prāta Vētra played this summer starting on 26th of July in their native Jelgava. Concerts for Latvian audience are very special, something that is meant for Latvians and performed in Latvian, Renārs Kaupers has said in one of the interviews. However, those are not only Latvians who have caught this feeling. It’s not the first time when Prāta Vētra gigs in their home country welcome their numerous faithful fans from Lithuania, Estonia, Norway, Finland, Poland, Germany, Russia, Czech Republic and other countries, as well as this year - international competition winners from America and Russia.

Though Prāta Vētra came on the stage at 21.30, the gates were open already from 17.30 and the visitors could enjoy the supporting acts or the ‘special guests’ as the guys from Prāta Vētra usually call them. DJ Toms Grēviņš brought us to the indie world while the local band The Sound Poets played lyrical and melodic pop-songs from their repertoire mostly in Latvian. After their emotional performance it’s half an hour left till we see the evening’s main heroes: they come on a stage as the 5 minute countdown has been passed and start with Mēles, a song from their newest album which is accompanied by fume flames suddenly appearing on the stage as if magic current conjured with the lead singer Renārs Kaupers’ hands. Already with the first assertive rhythms Prāta Vētra and Renārs Kaupers very naturally establishes the connection with the audience. The lead singer thanks for the warm welcome and wishes it to be a fantastic evening for each and every.

The following concert is divided into three parts where the first one focused on the songs from the latest album. The fresh compositions are also mixed with the songs from the previous albums thus we get to hear the energetic Kaķēns, kurš atteicās no jūras skolas (The Kitten who didn’t want to give up), as well as Bronza (They Know How to Do It Well) which is perceived with the first guests on the stage – Latvian Olympic BMX team and Māris Štrombergs who has just returned with gold from London Olympic Games. Because of the remarkable event, as well as the bronze medal that was also gained in Olympics (in beach volleyball) Renārs even fitted the lyrics of the song that mentions bronze and gold anyway so that it is ‘We have got the gold, and also bronze’ (‘Mums tak ir zelts un arī bronza’). 

In the first part of the concert the band keeps on mixing old and new songs, fast and slower ones, such as Šonakt neguļ tik daudzi (So Low Lullaby), Ja tikai uz mani tu paskatītos (Your Call), Ko tu vēl domā?(Don’t You Get It), Lapsa (When Nightlife Covers the Daylight), as well as two songs in Russian – Skoļskije Uļici and Na Zare. That ends with band members leaving the stage and keeping the audience puzzled while offering them to watch a short movie about Prāta Vētra members flying in the space. Dressed as astronauts they get into a spacecraft and fly up there into the unknown and mysterious. The audience patiently follows their restricted moves (as being in the space) at the time enjoying the funny and amusing movie they have made, and soon the spaceship is back with Prāta Vētra musicians in the same white spacemen costumes coming on a stage as the first single Lantern from the new album is being performed. They come in two teams – from the right and left side of the moving stage – slowly forming another, a smaller stage in the very front side of the initial stage they performed before. And yet again the band succeeds to surprise the audience with their creativity that makes their shows more than just musical experiences.

That is when the second called 'White sensation' part starts when the band welcomes yet another guest on the stage. It’s the popular hip-hop musician Gustavo who has contributed to the band’s previous album Tur kaut kam ir jābūt (Years and Seconds) released in 2008. Together they perform the title song of this album mixed with Gustavo’s own song Dziesma manai pilsētai (Song for my City) from the album Pilsētas portāls (The City Portal) dedicated to the city of Riga. After that this part of the concert flows into a very playful mood blending the well-known hits into one unique composition. It starts with Online, followed by Ziema (Winter) and Plaukstas lieluma pavasaris (A Day Before Tomorrow). As they perform parts of these songs, they also intertwine some well-known housemusic rhythms. The stage turns into one great dance party as there are more spacecraft members in white costumes who have joined on the right and left sides of the stage forming a sort of triangle with Prāta Vētra guys in the very edge of it being DJs for their own songs. They perform one more song – Violet – from the last album and disappear in the backstage again along with their spaceship ‘team’ that consists of around 15 dancers in astronaut costumes. 

One more? Really? Maybe two more? The message appears on the big screens of the stage sent from the backstage as if the band would be chatting with the audience. The answer is pretty clear – the crowd demands for more songs, and Prāta Vētra guys are back again. Back from the space. Back from the backstage. Back with new outfits and a set-list to start the third part of the show – the golden hits that they have reserved for the very end. Thus we hear Lec (Try) and Rudens (Lonely Feeling). Moreover, Renārs reveals that there has been all Latvia voting for the favorite Prāta Vētra song, and according to the votes we get to know that there is a song which is most awaited to be played and can be considered as favourite for Latvians. It is Spogulīt, spogulīt (Hide on the Moon) with the lyrics of Brother Grimm’s fairytale Snow-white. The ballad is traditionally performed by Jānis Jubalts, the guitarist of the band as it’s also his favourite song. Spogulīt, spogulīt is an exception only for the citizens of Valmiera (a city in Latvia) who had a different choice for their favorite song. It’s another ballad type of song and moreover, it’s a song that has been used in the presentation video clip of Latvia. The Latvian version of the song is called Tu izvēlējies palikt while the English one is Welcome to My Country. After the favorite songs have been played, the concert goes on with Četri krasti (Four Shores) followed by a very nostalgic atmosphere with Īssavienojums or in English My Star, probably the best known song abroad. 

The concert doesn’t seem to want the ending. Some more songs follow as supposedly the last ones, but neither – the band or the audience – seem to actually say goodbye. Renārs introduces the band members and thanks to all the guests who took part in the show. The beloved Latvian musicians traditionally bow to their audience. ‘Shall we fly?’ We suddenly hear a proposal from Renārs, and Lidmašīnas (Airplanes), the hit from the old Prāta Vētra, is on the air setting yet again cheerful and playful mood. The band receives a few paper airplanes on the stage thrown from the audience, and after one of their greatest hits has been performed, they leave the stage. It has been a splendid show of 2,5 hours, an exceptional one, well carried out, prepared and performed. The band has said ‘bye’ to their local friends and fans, but not yet to their international audience. Prāta Vētra is on the way to Russia and foreign crowds elsewhere in the world as the international release of their latest album is going to follow soon.

Bike Rides: Love at First Sight

Hyderabad

‘Never ever do it again! Never, get on somebody’s bike just like you did now! This was an exception. I got you safely back home since it was dark, but that’s because I am a good person, I work in England, so I know how foreigners feel when they need help. But keep in mind that other Indians might not be like that.” I am being seriously warned by a mysterious motorbike rider as I reach my home on his bike at around 8pm in the evening. Dark as night are his clothes and the massive helmet making him look like a black knight. When he talks to me, it’s rather his worrying but friendly eyes than his voice pent in his helmet and sounding raspy and rough. Indeed, my saviour wanted to be strict and serious about the matter contrary to the young, frivolous and excited girl pretending to be listening carefully while actually … she had just fell in love with the bike rides. 

He himself thought he can be justified. He found me roaming in the streets without any clue about directions somewhere in Lakdikapool area. It was slowly getting dark and I was still a newcomer in the town; perfect match to get lost and be found again. 

The Black Knight:  Excuse me, where are you going? 

Me (finally there’s someone to help me): To SPAR supermarket.

The Black Knight: SPAR supermarket? This is the wrong way.  

Me (I knew I would never find it myself): Oh really? No wonder, this is my first time to try to find it alone. 

The Black Knight: Do you specifically need SPAR supermarket or any supermarket would do? 

Me: Any supermarket. (Yes, yes, please take me there! All I need now is a supermarket before it gets darker.)

The Black Knight (pondering): Well, then come on my bike, I will take you to one supermarket nearby.

Me (pretending to be careful and thinking): OK. (I knew this would happen in the best scenario.)

Perhaps, many people would have refused getting on a stranger’s bike, but somehow I had a feeling that my so called knight is a good person. Besides, motorbikes (or as Indians call ‘bikes’) are one of the most common and convenient means of transportation in Hyderabad, and needless to say, it was lust urging me to try it for the very first time.  Well, nobody told me that the first time would come in the seemingly most unexpected moment as I was wearing skirt, hurrying to do my shopping and letting it become darker as my sense for directions became vaguer. However, maybe this was exactly what was needed to make this bike ride so magical and romantic. Therefore, I didn't hesitate a second: immediately got on, arranged my skirt so that it covers my knees (though who cares about it anyway), cramped my hands in the handles on the back of the bike and here I was. Ready to go! Going! Floating in the breeze and feeling my hair dancing on my back and forehead, my skirt happily fluttering in the air and my soul singing. It was love at first sight undoubtedly as I even forgot what I needed from the supermarket. However, as promised my knight got me there and I randomly bought some food items already thinking about the way back home. Yes, yes, again on his bike! 

After having dropped me home, he said that one sentence which I never wanted to hear as I was irretrievably in love with… with bike rides. ‘Don’t ever get on a stranger’s bike? Don’t ever ride anybody’s bike! It’s dangerous and you might fall down!” I reluctantly promised I would follow that, but secretly knew he is not going to succeed intimidating me. I liked that ride! And I am going to try it again once I get a chance. 

I got it already the next day when I and my Mexican friend appeared to be lost at night in the centre of Hyderabad. There were some random guys offering us a lift back home and here we go – getting on a bike again!

Actually, it’s pretty common for women and even for children to use bike as a means of transportation. Moreover, the bikes can serve for different purposes, for example, there are family bikes with 3 or 4 places. Of course, everything has its downsides, and the green activists would never support the motorbike dominance in the city. Well, Indians don’t seem to bother about it.

Auto – rickshaw

Auto driver in Hyderabad

If you don’t have your own bike, you would often commute from place to place by rickshaw or auto (as the locals call it). It’s like a taxi: you tell where you need to go and the driver will get you there. Sounds easy? It is… and it’s not!!! You may face problems here as well. First, you need to agree on the price and most probably the auto driver would want to charge you more (as from a foreigner) or refuse using the meter. Secondly, you have to be ready that the driver would not always know the address precisely, so he might know only the area and then spend time (waste your precious time) looking around and asking to others while you are getting annoyed. However, sometimes the drivers are just amiable chaps who even try talking to you and ask some questions about India and/or your country. Not always they would speak perfect English as these kinds of jobs are done by lower class people, but mostly you can find a way to communicate. This was the transportation I used most often when I had to go somewhere in the city and to be honest – I already miss it.

Cycle 

A street in Panaji (Goa).

What I experienced in Delhi (not that much in Hyderabad) was a kind of vehicle we use in Riga for entertaining tourists. Yes, so called cycles might also be used to get around. That way the driver is economic as he doesn’t use petrol, and “green” to the city. Well, he needs to put more efforts though.

Public bus

In a bus in Bangalore

Public buses are pretty organized. At least they have numbers, and if I am right, they run according to a certain timetable. This was not the case in Egypt for example, where you need to stop the bus by showing signs with your hand(s) and there are definitely no timetables (to most of the buses), and people are sometimes running in crowds and struggling to get in. Compared to that, congrats for India, it was pretty much ok! What I found funny in the bus was the way it was divided into male and female seats. Well, if you look deeper in Indian culture, this is just a normal thing as this is the way everything seems to work. They do have women rights, but for sure, it’s something different to what we (Europeans) understand by it. It’s more like segmentation into two genders. Well, I guess that’s a story for another post. In fact, I didn’t need to take public bus that often as I mostly used auto or my school bus. 

(Jump off a) Train 

Train Bangalore - Hyderabad

“Are they really standing out of the train while it’s still running?” I was asked after coming back from India. This seems to be a scene many have seen on TV and wondered how it’s possible. Yes, it is possible! Trains might move slowly especially when approaching the next station, and there are even people who jump out of the train when their stop comes as the train doesn’t stop completely but only reduces its speed. Yes, it happens. Otherwise, trains are very common and CHEAP to use if you want to commute between the cities. It takes time, but if you have secured a sleeping place in a sleeper class, it’s usually a convenient way to spend a night. You wake up and you have reached a new city. However, the trains might not always be that clean and hygienic (especially the toilets). Moreover, don’t be surprised to share your bed with cockroaches or see some random rats passing by. Also, be aware of pickpockets! Especially during night it’s better to keep your precious stuff with you so that you can have a control over it. In general, trains are very lively means of transportation and if you go for a train, you go for Indian culture and adventure. It's always interesting to observe the train vendors selling snacks, water bottles, chai (tea), coffee, Masala dosa (Indian spice delicacy) and pronouncing it with their special Indian accent. That is something to discover on your own skin until you get annoyed by that: always loud voices never giving you time for a peaceful nap but always making sure you have something to eat and drink. 

A train vendor.

A train vendor.