HOLY ASHTRAY AND HOLY MUCK

We had been to one of our trips to the Holy City of Jerusalem, when the guide guided us to one of the many souvenir shops whose shop-keeper obviously was in cahoots with this guide. He even offered a mighty six percent discount on the loot. No wonder we seemed to be the only customers. There were small bottles of 'Holy Water', presumably from the Jordan, Olive oil that was being passed off as 'Anointing Oil','The Via Dolorosa' (with its fourteen stations) wall hangings in all shapes and sizes, an array full of crosses, key chains of crosses, magnets of crosses, pendants of crosses, basically lots and lots of crosses. I just ambled around in the shop, picking up over priced curious curios and souvenirs to while away time with no intention of purchasing, when I chanced upon a ashtray in the typical blue and white ceramic style of the Turks and the Israelis. It just wasn't any ashtray that you could pick off the streets, there was something uniquely holy about it. A nice mosaic of the Dome of the Rock, the Western wall lay there in its centre. I looked at other versions with the Coenaculum, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and many other religious edifices dominating the others. It came as quite a surprise to me that there was also small sachets of mud that proclaimed- “Mud from the Holy Land” placed neatly nearby. Call it Jewish ingenuity to make money but to be frank it seemed more like holy muck and it left me with a great doubt, would the smoke from the cigarette placed in the tray be dutifully christened as 'Holy Smoke'?

THE BAPTISM OF SACHIN SHARMA

We, implying the duo of Sachin and me, who had been wandering around the countryside in search for damsels in distress in dire need of Knights, their shining armours, steeds and fat bags of gold, came back to our lodgings after yet another futile hunt. This time around we had been hunting in the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan river, which it so happens is very holy for the followers of Jesus Christ (Superstar). The rationale being that this was the very same river where Jesus was baptised by the Baptist- St John, when he was quite young. Now, back in those days, when Myrrh and Frankincense stocks ruled the markets and were worth their weight in gold, they didn't know how to manufacture Sodium Lauryl Sulphate; Dove and Lux weren't even anywhere near their infancy, the Jordan was considered the Holiest of rivers by the Christian world (for the rest, it was Ganga). A dip would cleanse many a sin and crime, (for a detailed report, please contact the nearest Christian theologist or call up the toll free number of your local TV Evangelist) and so the Jordan has been polluted over the millenia and reduced to a trickle mainly due to the very efficient usage of its water by the Israelis and the general lack of rainfall in the middle-east. Not withstanding, the baptism ritual continues to this day with special, flimsy white robes reminding one of long lost cult, marketed as 'Baptism Robes' and bottled water of the Jordan available in the counters for a few dollars (or more).

We didn't bother with the robes and did our best to baptise ourselves by just wetting our heads. I wasn't satisfied with this ritual and went a step ahead to fill up an empty water bottle with the catfish and rodent (who incidentally traced their ancestry to the fish and rats that witnessed the Baptism of Jesus and who proudly narrated this divine sight to their spawn) infested waters of the Jordan. The “holy bottle” was left very conveniently in Sachin's bag to be retrieved at the Hotel when the tour ended; with adequate warnings and advice that it was not to be consumed. The bottle or its existence came to my mind maybe a whole day after the tour, and so I went to inquire about its health. My fears came true when Sachin recounted that he had been quite thirsty the night before and had promptly drank this liquid (much like Alice in her wonderland). Fortunately, for him, his digestive track (and mine too) had seen the likes of many a UFO and toxic substances that faintly resembled food and had grown immune to them, so nothing happened and no casualty was reported. Poor Lewis Carrol, his ghost and its great expectations.

SOMETHING ABOUT A FORK AND KNIFE

I was formally introduced to the concept of a fork and knife a very long time ago by two people – my brother and my uncle and was forced to eat dosas and idlis with them by a hard- headed sorry bald headed headmaster who used to wear a blazer in the blazing heat of South India. That, he was previously at the St. Joseph's, Coonoor probably explained a lot. The sudden transition from unruly boys breaking open lunch boxes, especially that of others to pseudo gentlemen trying to wield a fork was quite hard. This experience came quite handy some years later when I had to hunt a pomegranate and dissect a mango using blunt knives. But that is a different story. Staying here, I've realised that the knife could also be held in the left hand and some veggies could still be cut, with enough experience and time at the dinner table. Better still, that rice need not be had in the wrong side of the fork in true Brit style with more than 40 percent accounting for casualties but could also be wielded with as much ease in the right.

SERVED CHILLED

It had been quite a chill night by Tel Aviv standards. My idle brain was over working itself at the breakfast table and decided to go for a swim along with the body that was housing it temporarily, after the sun god had finished his cup of tea with two lumps of sugar, some cakes and biscuits to go with it. I dived in the water and inspected the tiles of the pool quite closely. They were a good shade of blue. Light, like the skies. It was then that I decided to go for some air. I didn't realise how cold the night had been till I or more specifically my head, that particular part of the body that fortunately my brain seemed to inhabit came out for air. To say that I was chilled to the bone was quite an understatement. In fact it took me to the days when we had to swim in the cold cold pool of Lonavla ( I was quite lucky to have done that only once or twice....and that too for the sake of fun) when one could be served chilled after the first gasp of air. I managed to get my air and hit for the end of the pool as fast as I could. When I reached the end of the pool there were two lifeguards by the poolside who where angry at something, pissed off to be very accurate. Sachin who was already in the pool and was frosted came by my side to inform me that my dive had them soaked to the bone too. Whatever happened to their sense of humour......guess that too must have got soaked.

PEDESTRIANS, SIDEWALKS AND FITNESS FREAKS

We had the habit of running in the beach or near about it in the evenings and when we had time at hand after dinner (when not busy in some movie or TV) we ambled around the city to enjoy the sights and sounds. By the end of a month we had become expert pedestrians, following rules of the road, looking right and left before we crossed. We were standing in the sidewalk, waiting for the traffic to ebb so that we could walk across. We had scarcely waited for not more than a couple of minutes, when the car that was about to pass us stopped. It was a beat-up Citroen with good brakes. The vehicles behind also stopped automatically. The driver of the Citroen signaled us to pass. I, for one was at a loss of words at this royal treatment. This initial shock soon wore off as the same happened at every crossroad. The pedestrians were the Lords of the roads!!!. There were a lot of other pedestrians apart from us. Many of them were very fit, some of them not as good. The many pedestrians who were fit were dressed in singlets and shorts in peak Mediterranean winter, braving cold winds at ten or eleven in the night to go about their jog or run their marathon. It was a strange sight seeing them run at this unearthly hour when most of the people I know back home are either in front of the TV or the PC or having dinner peacefully. It really must require a lot of effort and dedication to sweat it out in the roads just before midnight. Pheidipides would have been very proud, indeed.