Seems odd does it not, typing in that address at the top, after so many days of strange and alien hotels ! But finally I am here at home and I shall say it again a million times - THERE REALLY IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME !!

The flight was turbulent all over the entire European region, eased off a bit over parts of Uzbekistan and Russia and then nearer home a most severe weather system greeted us as we flew over Gujarat and then southwards to Mumbai. Lightening strikes every second and for over a period of almost an hour. Not a good site to see out of your window especially when flying at night. Fortunately we circled around it and above, but had to be in a holding position for half an hour, before finally being given the permission to land.

When it was steadier in the cabin I pulled out the Mac and did some writing and posting. Here it is -

33,000 ft, ground speed 601 mph, outside air temperature -48 degrees centigrade, Jet 9W0119 London-Mumbai, entering the Ukraine, the city of Kiev a little to the north east, time to destination approx 6 hrs.

The post before this had been rushed and done with a sense of urgency, rather than one of commitment and heart. And now, a couple of hours into the flight and relative calm after some turbulent weather, I am back with you again .

The lazy walk about in Paris was about the area called St Germain Place. A quiet aesthetic corner that quite unobtrusively breathed eloquence and fine art. Cobbled pathways, coffee restaurants by the side-walk - occupied more externally than within - and that air of hidden literacy. Across the street-within-the-street, an old church, a small patch of green by its side, enclosed by grill iron rods with pinnacled top, a few benches among some elegant shrubbery and an open gate that carried the most strange sign post –

“In the event of a storm, do not use the garden, stay away from it” !

I am not too wrong in my first site assessment of the area. This, I am informed is where the intelligentsia hung out. Horrible expression ‘hung out’. But the modern generation uses it often and so I thought I would remain close to them. In my immediate inference I would imagine, the expression grew out of perhaps the act of ‘hanging out’ the days laundry to dry ! But who knows where it came from !!

So .. ‘hung out’. Its quite a complete description I might add. Just sitting around doing nothing particular, much like the innate laundry that swung about in the gentle breeze and sun, clipped on to a string, a slender rope, a wire, the edge of a balcony, revealing unconsciously, individual clothing and domestic under garment taste !

The ladies and gentlemen of honor, or more correctly Madame e Monsieur of honor, were those that had excelled in the craft of writing – poets, writers, journalists, people connected to the fine arts in whatever capacity. They occupied the cane and wood furnitured dainty sitting areas around the coffee aromaed restaurants, devouring their brew and their tobacco, chatting, discussing, reviewing and assessing the past present and future of literature and art. Perhaps. Or maybe just sat there and watched life go by.

I sauntered across to one of the tables and seated myself, blank in expression, the slightest of smiles giving away my touristy demeanor and ordered a bottle of sparkling water. My departure from the obvious order of coffee or something more salubrious, prompting the otherwise most courteous waiter, to give me that amazed lift of the eyebrow. Or was it that he had, with great dexterity, acknowledged the obvious fact, that my credentials as a film artist from the unknown cinema world of India, were perhaps not suitable to the caliber of the environment !! Ha !!

Pressured perhaps by this thought, my stay at furnitured dainty sitting area was somewhat reduced in time; the Church with the patch of green and the strange sign post, suddenly looking more welcome. Surely, a place of worship, of reverence and divinity would be a better host. One can hardly ever go wrong there. And so without revealing even a trace of my discomfiture, I silently entered the dim portals of the Church of St Germain. Or is it Church at St Germain. Doesn’t matter.

What is it about religion and devotion to it and these intricate and exquisitely constructed temples for the Gods, that almost instantly surround you with awe, emotion and your own inevitable mortal existence. You suddenly become reduced and submissive. A gentle calmness occupies your furrowed brow. The burden of your self-ness, without effort, pushed away from the shoulders leaving you empty; an empty receptacle ready to be filled in and consumed at the feet of the Almighty.

I put some offerings in the collection box and light a candle. Nothing particular crosses my mind. The care and welfare of loved ones. A silent posture. And departure.

Outside on the bright sunlit street at the corner, a bunch of elderly street musicians - they mostly are elderly the world over - strike up on trumpet, clarinet and horn, an old favorite –

“ O, when the saints .. go marchin’ in … O, when the saints go marchin’ in.. !”