Its an endless strife, is it not ? But such an enjoyable one. God has been gracious and kind and loving in keeping me involved and in keeping me in the hearts of the millions of my extended family. I feel so blessed and humbled by both.

Ok..back to work.. work on blog..

I had left off at the 15th and now on to the next days..

16th January 2009

Grand Palais - that artistic and massive monolith of stone and carving and metal, hosts, select Piccaso works and the organizers move diplomatic contacts to get me in. There is a waiting entry list for days and the queue outside the gates is a mile long. Once you enter the queue its a good 4 hour wait before you can enter the museum. And that long in the minus temperatures would kill anyone. So special treatment is offered, which we happily avail.

Piccaso looms large in huge pictures of his portrait in photo along the walls leading up to the gallery. Almost preparing you for the immense largeness of the works one is about to witness.

It is quiet inside. Hundreds of people standing walking observing, but very quiet. It felt almost as though you had entered a mausoleum, where it was morally mandatory to be reverential. And as you softly moved from picture to picture from one masterpiece to another you observed that almost all those that were there, had their mouths open. An amazing collection of works exceedingly well presented along with a short history of the premise.

It talked of his Father, a painter and artist of renown and the indoctrination he gave Pablo at an early age, but on observing his almost rabid interest in the art, tried desperately to dissuade him , but failed.

Piccasso was an obsessed painter and artist. What he created in hours, other stalwarts were taking months to complete. And Pablo did several in one day. The gallery showed his sources of inspiration; of the greats of the time. Of how he would recreate their works in the same theme and content, but gave it his own interpretation. The gallery therefore had designed the lay out in similar fashion. The work of a great, the inspiration. And by its side Piccaso’s interpretation. Just unbelievably marvelous.

Filled with this great artistry and stuffed with his books and his memorabilia from the store below, we moved to the main Palais. A colossal domed enclosure in steel and glass. Steel they said, more than what was consumed in the building of the Eiffel Tower. The area used for exhibitions and concerts and performances. One such exhibition was on show. A cylindrical canvas of screen, with approximately 30,000 live filmed faces of different people from all over the universe talking live about their culture, music, custom, language and issues of importance in the region they came from. Incredible !! How did they project this is a marvel !!

Reluctantly we leave the awe inspiring structure. Paris Match wants to talk on an important event of my life and I rush back to my room. What do I say ? I tell him each day has been important for me. Each moment historic and full of story. He insists on any one. And after feeding his lovely and precocious little daughter of 10 on some delicious chocolates, narrate to him my accident in 1982 on the sets of ‘Coolie’. Bianca his little one that is being initiated at an early age to journalism, finds all of this not worthy of attention and tip toes out into other parts of the suite to discover what the room is all about; her wide eyes darting about taking in all around her.

Its time then for Salon du Cinema and the presentation of an all night session of AB films - Sarkar Raj, Black and Sholay. As I get on to the stage after extricating myself from a hysterical French fan mob outside the entrance, a group of 15 entrants in the hall get up without order and break into ‘Rang Barse…’, dance moves and all and I must say very much in tune and pronunciation. Astounding !!

The reactions once the film started were just like any other single screen theatre in the suburbs of Mumbai. Screams and shouts and whistles and claps at the first entries of the prominent artistes and standing applause at the Interval, if you please. It was just so unbelievable. And this is not the NRI, Asian expat. This is the local French clientele. What a revelation and joy.

Back in the room at night I reminisce. Tomorrow I travel to London by the EuroStar, and through the Chunnel and later the flight to Mumbai and the 18th. When my Father breathed his last.

When he was alive and I travelled out I used to write to him every day. Where I was what I did and when I was to be back. I would fax him this note and insist that he write back. He was losing his faculties and I deliberately did this so he would get an opportunity to exercise his mind. He used to be puzzled how letters would reach me and mine to him in seconds through this machine, but he diligently complied.

Now as I compose my words on blog, I feel I indulge in the same practice. Where I am, what I did and when. In a peculiar way I find it a most endearing practice. And my happiness in being able to do this with all of you in a sense brings my thoughts closer to those, when I communicated with my Father.

May you remain well. May you remain with me, always..

Amitabh Bachchan