Sheena WinnyOn an A380 of double-decked pomp and splendour flew to destination UK. Heathrow was in sight, yet made to take rounds in the firmament – a chance to savour the beauty of London on a summer evening at eight. Landing safely into the warmth of an alien land (not so alien thanks to the theories of colonialism and post colonialism), ventured out into the highway vast under maintenance beckoning summer Olympics. Diversions displayed on boards guided safely through the asphalt lanes cruising to the comfort of home, enjoying the hurdles on the lanes reminding one of athletic tracks; loopholes none, system in place.
Passing by Westminster (the towers were simply gorgeous) Thames flowing soft and cool, its course was fixed – the London Eye overlooking and the Aquarium standing tall. The Globe caught my eye; Hamlet and Othello and Romeo and Juliet – all inviting me to the World Shakespeare Festival (the Bard has been dead for four hundred years). I resolved to pay a visit the week next.
Riding fast bridges, came into sight the Millennium, Tower, London and Blackfriars (not at all black). An age-old nursery rhyme tickled my soul to sadly note that the bridge in the image was not the London, but the Tower in reality; information overload. Little did I know that a rendezvous with black Victoria too was in the offing. Turning to the left got a quick view of the glorious royal tradition instilling in me a desire to take a walking tour to see the famed ‘balcony’of the palace royal and the guards in iconic uniform.
Night fell by nine – dozed off to sleep an hour later only to wake up at five back on track to explore the land. Choices bountiful; decided to hop on the London Bus – destination: the Underground Station, Hornchurch. Hugely expensive it was; yet proudly collected tickets three. Visited Poets’ Corner – a dream come true Chaucer to the recent, gifted writers under one roof. Traversing the bridge, walking along the river recollected text book knowledge and felt lucky to witness them all.
At South Kensington on the following day I grabbed two copies (for free) of the Underground Poems – (still treasured pieces in my collection, enriched also by the Faber Pocket Guide to Shakespeare’s Plays purchased from The Globe Theatre Shop). Travelling on the coach (at Victoria Coach station I learned that buses are not buses, but coaches) to reach Winchester – beautiful and chilly on that weekend – surreal sights passed by.The Cotswolds was mesmerising; the path lined by rapeseed fields, yellow to the core, wafted me to Bollywood movies Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge heading the list.
Surprises continued – the elderly guide at the Cathedral queried about my origins only to later let me know that she has kith and kin in my hometown. Ah! the world just expanded into a canvas of hope standing (unknowingly) on the grave of Jane Austen who happens to be the one reason why I travelled this far from the city. Bereft of pride and prejudice the installation lured me to every nook and corner, to the Norman vault too an architectural marvel unlike the luxury of Victoria and Albert Museum.
Loitering at Southampton harbour on the day next Jack and Rose seemed alive in the timid waves of the ocean flourishing in love – conflicting peril at loggerheads; the Celine Dion song on my lips. Notting Hill…unforgettable – the movie as well as the place; returning to London, noticed the name and Hyde Park too. Shaw floated by. Crossing roads seemed to be a cake-walk – the dread of getting almost hit by a car after night safari in another country was still afresh – the buttons on the poles worked and the legs also kept pace.
From Tottenham Court to British Museum, the afternoon stroll foreboded fulfilment galore. Afternoon tea in all its glory (brewing me to elaborate on it in my lectures on Curnow’s “House and Land”) and out there another amazement – the staircases spurred me to hum a popular Bollywood number. Ha! the coin of life has two sides – kabhi khushi kabhi gum.
The boat ride, long walk and steep climb were worth; the vista from the observation tower at longitude zero alluded to the temptation scenes featuring in great literature. Greenwich was nothing less than a revelation, not due to the Prime Meridian of the World, but when I realised I had been mispronouncing the word all this while (lesson learned: the letter ‘w’ in the middle is silent). Warwickshire taught me the same lesson and one more – how to articulate ‘shire’. Till then phonetics was a mystery, an unreal classroom exercise; it took me a visit to this land to learn and unlock the nuances of the language to return fortified (after a month) with the conviction that stress-timed rhythm of English is a reality.
