La Rambla, Levitating Ganesha, and Lethal Desis – A Barcelona 101

Barcelona, to me, was a sunny Mediterranean city that registered on my consciousness during the 1992 Summer Olympics. Thereafter, as the Spanish economy boomed it became the city to go to, the kind that attracts travel tips from the editors of Conde Nast Traveler.

 All of which was very good until I stumbled upon a book called The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Now, I am a writer, and I love all things writerly – the smell of new books, the sound of old pages, the feel of a good pen as it waltzes over white, the strange new worlds that black ink transposes us to – and The Shadow is a very writerly novel.

At its heart is a book – rare, obscure – that falls into the hands of a boy who must protect it because someone is determinedly burning every copy of every book ever written by its author. It features a Cemetery of Forgotten Books – a capacious sanctuary where books are guarded from oblivion, a wise bookseller father, a boy who reads voraciously, and the city of Barcelona.

But the Barcelona of the book is set in the ‘50s, post the Spanish Civil War – a far cry from the sun-kissed widely-advertised Barca of today. The narrative traverses through the labyrinth of Barri Gotic (the nucleus of Old Barcelona) and down La Rambla, as mist rises from the Marina and engulfs the streets. It is a wonderful sprawling Gothic novel and I would recommend it to anybody looking for a book to lose themselves in. (If it helps, it is the highest selling Spanish novel after Don Quixote, and I reviewed its sequel here.) But best of all, it captures the spirit and skeleton of Barcelona better than any guidebook.

Because, even today, the best way to see the city is by strolling down the wide boulevard of La Rambla and careening off into the side alleys which spit you into the maze of the old quarter. Barcelona is at once ancient, medieval, Gothic and contemporary, and all of it can be discovered within a 2-mile radius!

So much so that tourist companies have come up with ‘The Shadow of The Wind Walking Tours’!

So you can imagine my excitement when we landed in Barcelona during Easter break. Especially considering my prior visa travail which I blogged about here, hubby was skeptical about the city that I had been slobbering over – not to mention that we were visiting from Pa-ree, that moveable feast!

We had deliberately chosen to stay in a hotel off La Rambla to ensure we wasted no time in cabs. La Rambla, a broad pedestrian boulevard flanked by narrow traffic lanes, runs down the length of Barcelona’s tourist hub, marks the southwest flank of the Barri Gotic, and is arguably the most famous Spanish street. It takes its name from a seasonal stream (raml in Arabic) that once ran here.

If you can withstand crowds, it is an excellent way to begin sampling Barcelona – throw yourself in and go with the flow. Start from Placa de Catalunya, named after a drinking fountain, a drink from which is rumoured to return you to Barcelona. Not a bad premise, but considering the swathe of pigeons that flock the fountain, you might just want to make a wish in your heart J Don’t get distracted by the stores all around – El Cortes Ingles, Barcelona’s Selfridges will be towering over you – there’ll be time for that later. This is also the place for celebration by fans when FC Barca wins, and the place to book and board the popular Bus Turistic for an open-top ride through the city.

Hang around, experience the place, then head southwards on La Rambla. If the UN had a bazaar it would be like this: multiple languages at once bouncing off hawker wares, flowers sellers, bird cages, fresh produce and intriguing buskers.

We saw several characters out of Pan’s Labyrinth, and … a levitating Ganesha! See it for yourself. Suffice to say he had a large audience and hubby’s mechanical engineering skills were challenged as he tried vainly to figure how the man was managing to stay afloat. I was happy to assign the mystery to the Goth character of the city.

And as we thus happily strolled down I overheard my mother tongue with all its lavish expletives – an excited Punjabi youth told another how they had beaten the Bengalis the previous night! Gulp! Even outside of India what identifies an Indian is our cantankerous interactions with our own countrymen. Now I have many Bengali friends and publishing is full of Bong editors but I have been aware of the strange Bong-Punj animosity. When I joined IIM Calcutta a Bong friend cheekily informed me of a popular expression: “Pagol na Punjabi”. Meaning, are you mad or simply Punjabi? Then he proceeded to add that ‘Punjabi’ was a euphemism for ‘Sardar’. And for an average Punjabi, a Bengali is at the dismal other end of the martial scale. So it shouldn’t surprise me to overhear that conversation a thousand miles from home. 1.2 billion of us are bound to show up through the cracks around the world and when we do, we are like this only!

Further on, we stumbled upon Miro’s mosaic. If I hadn’t been looking out for it, I’d have – like most other pedestrians – walked blithely over it, unaware that the famous painter had created a large circular tiled mosaic in the middle of La Rambla. Look for the Liceu metro and you’ll find it. One tile is signed by the artist and I was able to locate it!

What did Miro have in mind when he created the pavement mosaic? People trample over it, and every now and then someone notices it and pauses, or reaches it after scouring La Ramblas and gazes in awe … Either way, the mosaic is an integral part of the bustling boulevard.

Miro said, “Poetry and painting are done in the same way you make love; it’s an exchange of blood, a total embrace – without caution, without any thought of protecting yourself.”

Perhaps that explains why Miro put his art at the feet of the public.

I will continue this post in a series – Barca is too much of a good thing to squeeze into one blogpost. So watch out for the next one where I shall take you into the ancient heart of the city, the Barri Gotic. Meanwhile, if you figure the secret of the levitating Ganesha, do write in.

Cheers!

La Rambla, Levitating Ganesha, and Lethal Desis – A Barcelona 101

Barcelona, to me, was a sunny Mediterranean city that registered on my consciousness during the 1992 Summer Olympics. Thereafter, as the Spanish economy boomed it became the city to go to, the kind that attracts travel tips from the editors of Conde Nast Traveler.

 All of which was very good until I stumbled upon a book called The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Now, I am a writer, and I love all things writerly – the smell of new books, the sound of old pages, the feel of a good pen as it waltzes over white, the strange new worlds that black ink transposes us to – and The Shadow is a very writerly novel.

At its heart is a book – rare, obscure – that falls into the hands of a boy who must protect it because someone is determinedly burning every copy of every book ever written by its author. It features a Cemetery of Forgotten Books – a capacious sanctuary where books are guarded from oblivion, a wise bookseller father, a boy who reads voraciously, and the city of Barcelona.

But the Barcelona of the book is set in the ‘50s, post the Spanish Civil War – a far cry from the sun-kissed widely-advertised Barca of today. The narrative traverses through the labyrinth of Barri Gotic (the nucleus of Old Barcelona) and down La Rambla, as mist rises from the Marina and engulfs the streets. It is a wonderful sprawling Gothic novel and I would recommend it to anybody looking for a book to lose themselves in. (If it helps, it is the highest selling Spanish novel after Don Quixote, and I reviewed its sequel here.) But best of all, it captures the spirit and skeleton of Barcelona better than any guidebook.

Because, even today, the best way to see the city is by strolling down the wide boulevard of La Rambla and careening off into the side alleys which spit you into the maze of the old quarter. Barcelona is at once ancient, medieval, Gothic and contemporary, and all of it can be discovered within a 2-mile radius!

So much so that tourist companies have come up with ‘The Shadow of The Wind Walking Tours’!

So you can imagine my excitement when we landed in Barcelona during Easter break. Especially considering my prior visa travail which I blogged about here, hubby was skeptical about the city that I had been slobbering over – not to mention that we were visiting from Pa-ree, that moveable feast!

We had deliberately chosen to stay in a hotel off La Rambla to ensure we wasted no time in cabs. La Rambla, a broad pedestrian boulevard flanked by narrow traffic lanes, runs down the length of Barcelona’s tourist hub, marks the southwest flank of the Barri Gotic, and is arguably the most famous Spanish street. It takes its name from a seasonal stream (raml in Arabic) that once ran here.

If you can withstand crowds, it is an excellent way to begin sampling Barcelona – throw yourself in and go with the flow. Start from Placa de Catalunya, named after a drinking fountain, a drink from which is rumoured to return you to Barcelona. Not a bad premise, but considering the swathe of pigeons that flock the fountain, you might just want to make a wish in your heart J Don’t get distracted by the stores all around – El Cortes Ingles, Barcelona’s Selfridges will be towering over you – there’ll be time for that later. This is also the place for celebration by fans when FC Barca wins, and the place to book and board the popular Bus Turistic for an open-top ride through the city.

Hang around, experience the place, then head southwards on La Rambla. If the UN had a bazaar it would be like this: multiple languages at once bouncing off hawker wares, flowers sellers, bird cages, fresh produce and intriguing buskers.

We saw several characters out of Pan’s Labyrinth, and … a levitating Ganesha! See it for yourself. Suffice to say he had a large audience and hubby’s mechanical engineering skills were challenged as he tried vainly to figure how the man was managing to stay afloat. I was happy to assign the mystery to the Goth character of the city.

And as we thus happily strolled down I overheard my mother tongue with all its lavish expletives – an excited Punjabi youth told another how they had beaten the Bengalis the previous night! Gulp! Even outside of India what identifies an Indian is our cantankerous interactions with our own countrymen. Now I have many Bengali friends and publishing is full of Bong editors but I have been aware of the strange Bong-Punj animosity. When I joined IIM Calcutta a Bong friend cheekily informed me of a popular expression: “Pagol na Punjabi”. Meaning, are you mad or simply Punjabi? Then he proceeded to add that ‘Punjabi’ was a euphemism for ‘Sardar’. And for an average Punjabi, a Bengali is at the dismal other end of the martial scale. So it shouldn’t surprise me to overhear that conversation a thousand miles from home. 1.2 billion of us are bound to show up through the cracks around the world and when we do, we are like this only!

Further on, we stumbled upon Miro’s mosaic. If I hadn’t been looking out for it, I’d have – like most other pedestrians – walked blithely over it, unaware that the famous painter had created a large circular tiled mosaic in the middle of La Rambla. Look for the Liceu metro and you’ll find it. One tile is signed by the artist and I was able to locate it!

What did Miro have in mind when he created the pavement mosaic? People trample over it, and every now and then someone notices it and pauses, or reaches it after scouring La Ramblas and gazes in awe … Either way, the mosaic is an integral part of the bustling boulevard.

Miro said, “Poetry and painting are done in the same way you make love; it’s an exchange of blood, a total embrace – without caution, without any thought of protecting yourself.”

Perhaps that explains why Miro put his art at the feet of the public.

I will continue this post in a series – Barca is too much of a good thing to squeeze into one blogpost. So watch out for the next one where I shall take you into the ancient heart of the city, the Barri Gotic. Meanwhile, if you figure the secret of the levitating Ganesha, do write in.

Cheers!

Quotable: Antoni Gaudi

God has all the time in the world... or the Spanish take on India's Ram bharose!

I have returned from vacation all charged-up and renewed. Nothing like a long break with family to rejuvenate the spirit, and when the vacation spots happen to be Paris and Barcelona, the senses are swimming too :)

Running the gamut from Gaudi to Picasso, the Louvre to Musee D'Orsay, I came across such engaging artists - their work inseparable from their lives - that I have decided to start a new category of blogposts: Quotable. The idea is to provide a sneak peek at the thinking that went behind the work, which will, in turn, prompt a greater appreciation for the masterpiece and its maestro.

Here is the first one: Antoni Gaudi, "God has all the time in the world!"

A visit to Barcelona is incomplete without visiting La Sagrada Familia, a Roman Catholic church that is Gaudi's work-in-progress masterpiece. It's construction began in 1882 and is ongoing since the funds for building come from the public and donations. Which means that when you buy a ticket to visit, your Euros go towards the construction and, on your next trip, you can see how well it's growing up!

La Sagrada Familia is Gaudi's vision of Gothic architecture at its best. Yet, it is imbued with his love of nature and the harmony he always sought with art and its surroundings. The soaring towers reach out to the heavens, and yet delight us with their sinuous curves. Gaudi was much inspired by 'The Great Book of Nature' written by god and he emulated it in his designs: a column is never a straight line, it grows like a plant; a spiral staircase trails like a falling leaf.

The scale of the project was so monumental that it became clear the building of the church would outlast its builder. A frustrated accomplice is said to have asked Antoni Gaudi, "But when will it be complete maestro?"

To which Gaudi replied, "Not to worry, my client is in no hurry.

"God has all the time in the world!"

This brings me to another connection between the two cultures besides Jai Ho, the Oscar-winning song from Slumdog Millionaire, the Hindi lyrics of which were interspersed with Spanish. (According to Rahman, the composer, the song was meant to be a vision of the world celebrating the slumdog's victory.)

Gaudi's reasoning recalls a familiar Indian expression: Ram bharose - leave it to the Gods. The critical difference, however, is that while in India the same attitude generates complacency, with Gaudi's masterpiece it has led to an ongoing labour of love.

One thing though cannot be discounted - it helps to have god as your patron!

Ummm... Is there a way I can leverage that when chasing publishing deadlines?

Quotable: Antoni Gaudi

God has all the time in the world... or the Spanish take on India's Ram bharose!

I have returned from vacation all charged-up and renewed. Nothing like a long break with family to rejuvenate the spirit, and when the vacation spots happen to be Paris and Barcelona, the senses are swimming too :)

Running the gamut from Gaudi to Picasso, the Louvre to Musee D'Orsay, I came across such engaging artists - their work inseparable from their lives - that I have decided to start a new category of blogposts: Quotable. The idea is to provide a sneak peek at the thinking that went behind the work, which will, in turn, prompt a greater appreciation for the masterpiece and its maestro.

Here is the first one: Antoni Gaudi, "God has all the time in the world!"

A visit to Barcelona is incomplete without visiting La Sagrada Familia, a Roman Catholic church that is Gaudi's work-in-progress masterpiece. It's construction began in 1882 and is ongoing since the funds for building come from the public and donations. Which means that when you buy a ticket to visit, your Euros go towards the construction and, on your next trip, you can see how well it's growing up!

La Sagrada Familia is Gaudi's vision of Gothic architecture at its best. Yet, it is imbued with his love of nature and the harmony he always sought with art and its surroundings. The soaring towers reach out to the heavens, and yet delight us with their sinuous curves. Gaudi was much inspired by 'The Great Book of Nature' written by god and he emulated it in his designs: a column is never a straight line, it grows like a plant; a spiral staircase trails like a falling leaf.

The scale of the project was so monumental that it became clear the building of the church would outlast its builder. A frustrated accomplice is said to have asked Antoni Gaudi, "But when will it be complete maestro?"

To which Gaudi replied, "Not to worry, my client is in no hurry.

"God has all the time in the world!"

This brings me to another connection between the two cultures besides Jai Ho, the Oscar-winning song from Slumdog Millionaire, the Hindi lyrics of which were interspersed with Spanish. (According to Rahman, the composer, the song was meant to be a vision of the world celebrating the slumdog's victory.)

Gaudi's reasoning recalls a familiar Indian expression: Ram bharose - leave it to the Gods. The critical difference, however, is that while in India the same attitude generates complacency, with Gaudi's masterpiece it has led to an ongoing labour of love.

One thing though cannot be discounted - it helps to have god as your patron!

Ummm... Is there a way I can leverage that when chasing publishing deadlines?

Kafka in my Barca!

Lately Kafka has been on my mind. The posthumous literary hero of twentieth century has accompanied me as I have traversed the relatively short distance from my home to the Consulado de Espana en Hong Kong. The consulate office is located in what was once Hong Kong’s tallest building (now third), and a convenient overhead-walkway amble of ten minutes from my apartment complex brings me to its glass doors.

The door swings open with practiced ease and I find myself in a narrow, well-lit room, one wall of which has a bank-teller frontispiece. There are no people, and all is quiet except for the hum of airconditioning. I approach the glassed frontispiece and a sign informs me to ring the bell, only once, and wait. I follow the instruction. A woman materializes and I hand her my family’s tourist visa application with its supporting docket of documents. She proceeds to peruse the papers with pursed lips, finally looks up at one point and tap-taps my daughter’s birth certificate. She is not happy with it.

Why, I ask? It is written in English, issued by a recognized legal authority in India, and recognized by other EU countries – France, Italy – to have enabled prior Shengen visas to my daughter. I proceed to show her those. She purses her lips further and proceeds to xerox those earlier visas. She attaches those photocopies to the docket and resumes her perusal. At the end, she tells me that I still need a new birth certificate for my daughter issued by the Consulate General of India in Hong Kong.

Huh? And what should it say, I ask. Mention the names of the parents and the child’s date of birth. Well, that information is already available in my daughter’s passport, see, I point out to her. My daughter’s passport is issued in Hong Kong, by the same Consulate General, and carries the name of her parents, as all Indian passports do. So, I say brightly, the information she needs is already there.

No, the Sphinx parts her pursed lips to say, we still need a new birth certificate.

I attempt to illustrate to her the circularity of her logic: she wants the Indian Consulate to verify the information that they have already previously verified in order to issue a passport to my daughter.

The Sphinx’s lips stay pursed.

All right! So off I go to the Indian Consulate where they listen to me with an air of resignation – they bear the plague of bilious Indians daily – and suggest an affidavit as the solution. Two days later, armed with the affidavit, I am facing the Sphinx again. She, however, is still unhappy. She wants a new birth certificate. But this is what the consulate will provide, I counter. No, she insists slyly, other Indian families have provided such documentation before. So, there I am, being stumped by my own countrymen. Obviously I am not doing enough, the Sphinx’s knowing eyes convey.

Once again at the Indian consulate where the Consular Officer insists that the rules state that in order to procure a new birth certificate I need an order form the Ministry of External Affairs. I gulp. The MEA and I are antipodes, one never having felt the need to approach the other. Now I need to collapse this sea for a Spanish visa? Si.

I have begun to feel like the protagonist in Kafka’s parable ‘Before the Law’. In case you’re unaware, it goes thus: 

A man from the country seeks the law and wishes to gain entry to the law through a doorway. The doorkeeper tells the man that he cannot go through at the present time. The man asks if he can ever go through, and the doorkeeper says that is possible. The man waits by the door for years, bribing the doorkeeper with everything he has. The doorkeeper accepts the bribes, but tells the man that he accepts them "so that you do not think you have failed to do anything." The man waits at the door until he is about to die. Right before his death, he asks the doorkeeper why even though everyone seeks the law, no one else has come in all the years. The doorkeeper answers "No one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was made only for you. I am now going to shut it."

If I am not to end up as a hapless Kafkaesque character, I’ve to call upon my innate Indian sense of Jugaad. For those of you unfamiliar with this Indian concept, a brief backstory. Many years ago, innovative Punjabis mounted a diesel irrigation pump on a steel frame with wheels, creating a vehicle they called jugaad. It was ultra-cheap but did not conform to vehicular regulations. Over time, jugaad has come to mean grassroots innovation to overcome any constraint.

Jugaad is the call of the hour. My hands are tied, the officer says. I am an Indian citizen and you have to help me, Sir, I plead. Let me see what I can do, he says and retreats for a confabulation with his colleagues. He surfaces with a solution: he can provide a document that states that based on the information on my daughter’s passport her DOB is …

Okay. I press upon them the urgency of the matter, procure the document by end of day and I place myself before the Sphinx the next morning. Today I have company: a trio of Indian-origin nuns with Macau IDs who are proceeding to Spain for a Catholic convention. Briefly I toy with the idea of sharing with the Sphinx my partial-Catholic inclinations – I always make the sign of the Cross during prayer – because of my education in a Catholic Convent. I can see my mother glowering at me but Mama, this is Espana, and I need the visa if I am to get to Barca.

I needn’t have bothered. The Sphinx takes one look at the ‘birth’ certificate and shakes an imperious head. Once again she issues the staccato: we need a document that states… But something within me is unraveling. Heck, I am not seeking a Papal one-on-one, I am offering Spain a chance to gain my hard-earned money as I seek to spend some time enjoying Barca as a well-intentioned tourist. I have provided all the supporting documents that proclaim me a widely-travelled person (heck, I’ve the gold standard: a ten-year multiple entry US visa) with the means to support a visit to the country – a measure that would go some way in digging Espana out of the PIGS rut they are stuck in now.

So I take a deep breath, ask Kafka to step aside and take my fate in my hands. I am, after all acquainted with ‘Before the Law’ to know that “since the gate was made for me” I darn well take a hammer to it when patient hanging around is not working. I verbalize what was hitherto my internal rant.

The Sphinx listens. I see the jaw hardening. Take a seat, she intones.

I look around. The two chairs in the corner are besieged with my erstwhile countrywomen, of the same sorority as the robed nuns of my childhood. They smile at me briefly. I know that smile – folks who believe in the Lord leave everything to the Lord. I hang there desultorily, the sisters watching me like goats, Kafka curious now that I’ve broken the norm – no one knows how it’s going to end. Meanwhile, my frontal cortex is making me sorely aware that I let my amygdala do the speaking and perhaps Barca is lost to me. The hell with it, amygdala counters hotly, all roads lead to Rome. Like the great conqueror Hannibal (after whose father the city of Barcelona is named) I shall ditch Barca and make my way to Italy. Hoo-ha!

Meanwhile, the Sphinx has disappeared inside for consultation with a superior. She returns, accepts the application, takes my hard-earned cash, make some dark noises about our medical insurance and how she may call up later for more supporting documents and hands me the receipt.

It is not all over. The call might come any time that’ll send me scrambling down another rabbit hole ferreting another set of papers in another Kafkaesque ordeal. So for the nonce, it’s Kafka in my Barca (plans). IF I do get to experience the seductive city of Spain, I shall be sure to blog about my sojourn in the Catalan, brightly limned by Picasso colours and Gaudi contours.

 Meanwhile, tell me about your Kafkaesque experience. Or, if you’ve a Dickensian tale or a Byronic legend to share, the merrier!

Kafka in my Barca!

Lately Kafka has been on my mind. The posthumous literary hero of twentieth century has accompanied me as I have traversed the relatively short distance from my home to the Consulado de Espana en Hong Kong. The consulate office is located in what was once Hong Kong’s tallest building (now third), and a convenient overhead-walkway amble of ten minutes from my apartment complex brings me to its glass doors.

The door swings open with practiced ease and I find myself in a narrow, well-lit room, one wall of which has a bank-teller frontispiece. There are no people, and all is quiet except for the hum of airconditioning. I approach the glassed frontispiece and a sign informs me to ring the bell, only once, and wait. I follow the instruction. A woman materializes and I hand her my family’s tourist visa application with its supporting docket of documents. She proceeds to peruse the papers with pursed lips, finally looks up at one point and tap-taps my daughter’s birth certificate. She is not happy with it.

Why, I ask? It is written in English, issued by a recognized legal authority in India, and recognized by other EU countries – France, Italy – to have enabled prior Shengen visas to my daughter. I proceed to show her those. She purses her lips further and proceeds to xerox those earlier visas. She attaches those photocopies to the docket and resumes her perusal. At the end, she tells me that I still need a new birth certificate for my daughter issued by the Consulate General of India in Hong Kong.

Huh? And what should it say, I ask. Mention the names of the parents and the child’s date of birth. Well, that information is already available in my daughter’s passport, see, I point out to her. My daughter’s passport is issued in Hong Kong, by the same Consulate General, and carries the name of her parents, as all Indian passports do. So, I say brightly, the information she needs is already there.

No, the Sphinx parts her pursed lips to say, we still need a new birth certificate.

I attempt to illustrate to her the circularity of her logic: she wants the Indian Consulate to verify the information that they have already previously verified in order to issue a passport to my daughter.

The Sphinx’s lips stay pursed.

All right! So off I go to the Indian Consulate where they listen to me with an air of resignation – they bear the plague of bilious Indians daily – and suggest an affidavit as the solution. Two days later, armed with the affidavit, I am facing the Sphinx again. She, however, is still unhappy. She wants a new birth certificate. But this is what the consulate will provide, I counter. No, she insists slyly, other Indian families have provided such documentation before. So, there I am, being stumped by my own countrymen. Obviously I am not doing enough, the Sphinx’s knowing eyes convey.

Once again at the Indian consulate where the Consular Officer insists that the rules state that in order to procure a new birth certificate I need an order form the Ministry of External Affairs. I gulp. The MEA and I are antipodes, one never having felt the need to approach the other. Now I need to collapse this sea for a Spanish visa? Si.

I have begun to feel like the protagonist in Kafka’s parable ‘Before the Law’. In case you’re unaware, it goes thus: 

A man from the country seeks the law and wishes to gain entry to the law through a doorway. The doorkeeper tells the man that he cannot go through at the present time. The man asks if he can ever go through, and the doorkeeper says that is possible. The man waits by the door for years, bribing the doorkeeper with everything he has. The doorkeeper accepts the bribes, but tells the man that he accepts them "so that you do not think you have failed to do anything." The man waits at the door until he is about to die. Right before his death, he asks the doorkeeper why even though everyone seeks the law, no one else has come in all the years. The doorkeeper answers "No one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was made only for you. I am now going to shut it."

If I am not to end up as a hapless Kafkaesque character, I’ve to call upon my innate Indian sense of Jugaad. For those of you unfamiliar with this Indian concept, a brief backstory. Many years ago, innovative Punjabis mounted a diesel irrigation pump on a steel frame with wheels, creating a vehicle they called jugaad. It was ultra-cheap but did not conform to vehicular regulations. Over time, jugaad has come to mean grassroots innovation to overcome any constraint.

Jugaad is the call of the hour. My hands are tied, the officer says. I am an Indian citizen and you have to help me, Sir, I plead. Let me see what I can do, he says and retreats for a confabulation with his colleagues. He surfaces with a solution: he can provide a document that states that based on the information on my daughter’s passport her DOB is …

Okay. I press upon them the urgency of the matter, procure the document by end of day and I place myself before the Sphinx the next morning. Today I have company: a trio of Indian-origin nuns with Macau IDs who are proceeding to Spain for a Catholic convention. Briefly I toy with the idea of sharing with the Sphinx my partial-Catholic inclinations – I always make the sign of the Cross during prayer – because of my education in a Catholic Convent. I can see my mother glowering at me but Mama, this is Espana, and I need the visa if I am to get to Barca.

I needn’t have bothered. The Sphinx takes one look at the ‘birth’ certificate and shakes an imperious head. Once again she issues the staccato: we need a document that states… But something within me is unraveling. Heck, I am not seeking a Papal one-on-one, I am offering Spain a chance to gain my hard-earned money as I seek to spend some time enjoying Barca as a well-intentioned tourist. I have provided all the supporting documents that proclaim me a widely-travelled person (heck, I’ve the gold standard: a ten-year multiple entry US visa) with the means to support a visit to the country – a measure that would go some way in digging Espana out of the PIGS rut they are stuck in now.

So I take a deep breath, ask Kafka to step aside and take my fate in my hands. I am, after all acquainted with ‘Before the Law’ to know that “since the gate was made for me” I darn well take a hammer to it when patient hanging around is not working. I verbalize what was hitherto my internal rant.

The Sphinx listens. I see the jaw hardening. Take a seat, she intones.

I look around. The two chairs in the corner are besieged with my erstwhile countrywomen, of the same sorority as the robed nuns of my childhood. They smile at me briefly. I know that smile – folks who believe in the Lord leave everything to the Lord. I hang there desultorily, the sisters watching me like goats, Kafka curious now that I’ve broken the norm – no one knows how it’s going to end. Meanwhile, my frontal cortex is making me sorely aware that I let my amygdala do the speaking and perhaps Barca is lost to me. The hell with it, amygdala counters hotly, all roads lead to Rome. Like the great conqueror Hannibal (after whose father the city of Barcelona is named) I shall ditch Barca and make my way to Italy. Hoo-ha!

Meanwhile, the Sphinx has disappeared inside for consultation with a superior. She returns, accepts the application, takes my hard-earned cash, make some dark noises about our medical insurance and how she may call up later for more supporting documents and hands me the receipt.

It is not all over. The call might come any time that’ll send me scrambling down another rabbit hole ferreting another set of papers in another Kafkaesque ordeal. So for the nonce, it’s Kafka in my Barca (plans). IF I do get to experience the seductive city of Spain, I shall be sure to blog about my sojourn in the Catalan, brightly limned by Picasso colours and Gaudi contours.

 Meanwhile, tell me about your Kafkaesque experience. Or, if you’ve a Dickensian tale or a Byronic legend to share, the merrier!