Category: General

Tell me about your experiences and memories of snow!

Today was one of those blessed winter days. Snow outlined the dark branches of bare trees, covered park benches, coated cars, lined slanting roofs and sprinkled prettily on the conifers, making them look like yummy-green, ice-cream cones. Mellow sunlight illuminated the pristine, white winterscape, with not a breath of wind to make things unpleasant, even though it was quite cold at -10 C.

It was a day to celebrate the white stuff – the fifth element – as described by Canadian author, Farley Mowat, in his compelling short text, “Snow.” Air, water, earth and fire do not cut it for Mowat. There is that important fifth element, not only on Earth; it is also “an immortal presence” in the Universe.

To Mowat snow is “the bleak reality of a stalled car and spinning wheels impinging on the neat time schedule of our self importance… the sweet gloss of memory in the failing eyes of the old as they recall the white days of childhood… the resignation of suburban housewives as they skin wet snowsuits from runny-nosed progeny… the invitation that glows ephemeral on a women’s lashes on a winter night… the gentility of utter silence in the muffled heart of a snow-clad forest.”

The text is part of one of his early short story collections called The Snow Walker, which was made into a film. Mowat wrote extensively about the people of the North – the Inuit – and their unique landscape. It can be found online at:

http://books.google.ca/books?id=ZyblI9KNtoUC&printsec=frontcover&dq=the+snow+walker&hl=en&ei=Mgs2TazSBdHpgAfOp8zeCw&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=1&ved=0CCsQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q&f=false

Another story I always think of at the onset of winter is Hans Christian Andersen’s The Snow Queen. The Snow Queen is deadly, rather than ‘sympathetic,’ hence all the more fascinating:

“The flake of snow grew larger and larger; and at last it was like a young lady, dressed in the finest white gauze, made of a million little flakes like stars. She was so beautiful and delicate, but she was of ice, of dazzling, sparkling ice; yet she lived; her eyes gazed fixedly, like two stars; but there was neither quiet nor repose in them.”

And here’s a description of her palace:

“The walls of the palace were of driving snow, and the windows and doors of cutting winds. There were more than a hundred halls there, according as the snow was driven by the winds. The largest was many miles in extent; all were lighted up by the powerful Aurora Borealis, and all were so large, so empty, so icy cold, and so resplendent! Mirth never reigned there; there was never even a little bear-ball, with the storm for music, while the polar bears went on their hind legs and showed off their steps. Never a little tea party of white young lady foxes; vast, cold, and empty were the halls of the Snow Queen. The northern lights shone with such precision that one could tell exactly when they were at their highest or lowest degree of brightness.”

Source: http://www.online-literature.com/hans_christian_andersen/972/

Inspired perhaps by the Snow Queen’s singular realm is an ice-hotel in Quebec. Find it on google. It’s worth a virtual visit at the very least!

Inside, I am sure it’s quite warm, for blocks of ice fitted together provide splendid insulation, as Mowat informs us in Snow.

Then there’s the telling song by Quebec singer Gilles Vigneault, Mon pays c’est hiver (My country is winter)!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CH_R6D7mU7M

Given melting mountain ice and dwindling glaciers in the Arctic and Antarctic, we can only admire, with poignant intensity, the power and majesty of the fifth element, as Mowat fittingly calls it.

Humans have created an array of religious and cultural celebrations to mark the seasons, tantalize our taste buds and enliven our days. October brought Halloween, November Diwali. We are heading pell-mell into Christmas, even as observant Jews light candles to commemorate Hanukkah.

What’s your take on festivals – do you celebrate them with enthusiasm or just ignore them? Do they mean anything to you? Do you feel they have become too loud, too commercial, etc? I am eager to hear from you!

Here are some festivals and rituals I love.

The Magic of the Lanterns takes place every autumn at the Chinese Garden in the Botanical Gardens in Montreal. It marks a Chinese festival dating back to the Han dynasty – 206 B.C.-220 A.D. The lanterns this year were gorgeous tableaus made out of nylon and other modern materials, depicting everyday life in 12th century China. In a post-modern, green twist, the Garden authorities claim that since 2008, a LED (light emitting diode) lighting system is used for this festival, in order to reduce energy use.

My own feelings about festivals underwent a sea change after immigrating to Canada in the 1990s. When I lived in India I took festivals for granted, participating in them mostly at the behest of my enthusiastic mother. After immigrating, I was free, free to continue celebrating, do less or nothing, or incorporate new ones.

Inspired by my wonderful, pagan, environmentalist friends, I started commemorating Solstice and Equinox as milestones on the seasonal calendar. When I lived in Toronto, I participated in communal rituals. Now I go for a “mindful” walk, look at the moon, light a candle or incense, walk through the apartment, perfuming it with sweet grass, a plant that is variously used by native Indians.

I embraced Halloween with great gusto, a time when the partition between the dead and the living thins. Pumpkins are carved and hang out on porches, grinning devilishly, ghosts and goblins come out to play and adults (finally) become more fun as they don masks and costumes to party! It is an opportunity to cross dress, just what a friend did at a Halloween Party I organized once. He was so well disguised as an old woman, complete with mask, wig, dress and falsetto voice, that I failed to recognize him for a few moments! (He happens to be an amateur actor.)

Another invitee came as a “table for two.” He had stuck his head through a square, flat piece of styrofoam, complete with a plastic tablecloth. On the surface he had stuck on plastic plates, saucers and paper napkins! His got the best costume prize.

I have retained Ganesh Puja, very important to my ethnic/ linguistic group, discovering that the pot-bellied, elephant-headed God, with his reputation for dispelling obstacles, is popular everywhere. Come Diwali I worship Laxmi, the Goddess not only of wealth, which is rather mundane, but also of abundance – a word with an exuberant, pagan quality. My mixed fortunes in Canada have made me incline towards her!

We attend certain Buddhist ceremonies, time permitting, and family gatherings at Christmas. My life is rich in ritual. But why do I care? I deeply appreciate the theme of dispelling darkness to bring in light, that many festivals have. Others recognize the role of nature, draw on particular symbols, push me to pause and reflect even as I recreate a practice, feast, socialize and have fun. As a friend would put it: “What’s not to like?”

Throw a stone – hit a festival – that’s Montreal. Jazz, African music, percussion, Arabic and North African music, and music from Francophone countries, all warrant a festival each. Apart from the “normal” International Film Fest, there’s Fantasia (yah, far out fantasy flicks), FIFA, a festival devoted to films on art, and another that showcases Haitian films. (Just how specialised can you get?!) There’s literature fests like Blue Metropolis; dance, theatre and modern circus fests, and a comedy fest – Just for Laughs/ Juste pour rire. There is the Montreal First People’s Festival and Accès Asie (Asian Heritage Month in other Canadian provinces). I saw an ad for a fashion and design festival and the latest I heard about was a Nomad fest! Every time you turn around they’ve added a new one…

When I first got here, a wannabe Montreal culture vulture – I threw myself zealously into festivaling. By year two, festival fatigue set in. Year three and I have picked my two favourites – the Montreal International Jazz Festival and Nuits d’Afrique (African Nights).

These, like the other major music festivals, feature free shows; the jazz fest in particular gives away amazing music for nothing. Both have a great vibe. Yes there’s a crowd, but it’s made up of nice folk, there to enjoy music joyously and respectfully, often with the family members.

At this year’s Jazz fest we were blown away by the nimble finger work of award-winning Cuban pianist Rafael Zaldivar and energized by the “we are having so much fun making good music together” gypsy meets techno sound of the Eastern European Slavic Soul Party. I discovered, and Marc-Antoine learned to appreciate Dan Bigras. A Quebecois rocker and former bar singer with a big voice, he put on a big, brassy, entertaining show. He coupled fun standards like Hit the Road Jack with spunky French numbers, among them a bawdy retelling of Red Riding Hood.

I find French and Quebec music that I have come across really different from the music I know in English or Indian languages. The lyrics are poetry, or pieces of text, set to music. Often a kind of musical storytelling which covers a wide range of themes. Most singers write their own lyrics and music, and are then called auteur-compositeur-interprète. No wonder Montreal is home to the famous, English-language, auteur-compositeur-interprète Leonard Cohen.

The rousing festival finale had a Mardi Gras theme and featured musicians from the New Orleans area, among them, Acadian-French singer Zachary Richard. I was excited as I had been introduced to his music in French class! He was good, though it was the youthful Trombone Shorty‘s (he’s not short!) who stole the show. Man, could that guy blow!

For Nuits d’Afrique we focused on four, emerging divas. Marc-Antoine faithfully went to see Chiwoniso, a Zimbabwean musician he has seen at the great Zanzibar Music fest – Sauti Za Busara (Sounds of Wisdom). I broke ranks to check out Dobet Gnahoré from the Ivory Coast who mixes styles and genres but is very rooted in African traditions. Singing, dancing, looking great (!), exuding a relaxed confidence, she had us eating out of her hand at Cabaret Mile End, a venue worth checking out if you’re visiting Montreal. Both these dynamic artists sing about African issues in several African languages.

The festival “finds” were Hindi Zahra and Nomfusi (and the Lucky Charms). Hindi, a blues singer influenced by her Moroccan background and the music of that sound-rich region, has an original, contemporary style that weaves a spell. Nomfusi brings incredible passion to each number. Her style is influenced, among others, by legendary South African singer and civil rights activist, Miriam Makeba, who comes from the townships of Cape Town, and sings about life there in her native Xhosa. It so happened that Langa and Khayelisha, the places Nomfusi mentioned, were the very ones I visited in the recent past on a teaching stint in Cape Town, South Africa!

It was a pleasure and a privilege to hear all these talented, committed artists, who infused our life with their vibrant music for a few days.

Short and precious – it seems to have already passed. There were two weeks of fairly consistent 30 C, dry weather. Or could it have been three?

Already, on August 27, the day temperature was 14 C. OK. OK. It was not that all day long, but long enough.

People were wearing jackets and light sweaters, as I made my less-than-comfortable way back, with the light clothes I wore to yoga class.

It will be up and down for a while, said Marc-Antoine, who should know.

Well, I sincerely hope so. But I don’t believe it. The sky is blue, the air sweet, the light pretty, but a deep sense of regret clouds my senses as I think: OVER ALREADY.

I threw my little hissy fit about it not being fair, which Marc-Antoine met with amused tolerance. He seems to prefer sitting on the terrace in this cooler weather. Not quite Eskimo blood, but French ancestry trumps Indian. Sigh.

Anyone for seconds?

2008: the year of learning French, intensively, under the Commission Scolaire de Montréal (CSDM). It delivers quality lessons, and an introduction to Québec French and culture, to adult learners, practically for free. The students must make a time commitment and fortunately I had the luxury of doing so.

My class is a portrait in immigration patterns to Montréal. The largest contingent of students is from Mexico. Students from Latin-American countries out-number other immigrants, including allo and anglophones from other parts of Canada. The presence of the Latinos is a blessing, because they are often more comfortable speaking in French, rather than English, strengthening the immersion experience.

The CSDM sensibly stresses speaking and oral comprehension first. There is some reading and writing involved too. We start reading local newspapers fairly soon and write short letters and texts.

By the 6th and final course, we are reading short stories by Monique Proulx and other Québécois authors. We listen to French songs sometimes, see a film and visit a couple of historic sites in Montréal.

The 4-month, French Writing, evening course I am now taking demands much more in terms of grammar, syntax, vocabulary, usage, spelling and a grasp of “the exceptions”, which are nearly the norm in French! It’s challenging and interesting.

All this time we nearly drown in grammar! We practice our strokes – present tense, passé composé, imparfait, futur proche, futur simple, conditionnel. Linguists will scoff at this one, but I believe there is a common word origin for tense and tension. The confusion caused by French conjugation can be considerable!

Take for e.g. the subjunctive, which is no longer used in English. It expresses an action that is dependent upon a subjective idea, opinion or condition. And of course you need to have a whole tense for that kind of thing. It would be used, for e.g. to make a sentence like:

– The father wants his son to become (= infinitive) a doctor. Le père veut que son fils devienne (= subjunctive) médecin. Get it?!

Then there are those other marvels: reflexive verbs. It seems that the French are either really introspective or totally narcissistic. Possibly both. In English you merely remember something, in French you remind yourself of something, in English you just plain go off to sleep, in French you put yourself to sleep, in English you get up, in French you get yourself up, and so on.

You may say big deal, so what? Just learn the reflexive verbs Veena and get on with it. But wait, it gets worse!

Not so long ago Marc-Antoine tells me proudly: “We have a whole tense – passé simple – which we use only for writing – literature mostly.” “Pray why?” I respond. I mean honestly, does that make any sense?

Sense is the first casualty in encounters with language. All languages are illogical, in varying degrees. They are human creations that become their own creatures, and evolve by popular will. (Save French, which is regulated by an Academy; but it plays hooky all the same.) We did create a comparatively logical language – Esperanto – but it never caught on in a big way. Go figure!

“I would have expected them to say this… like this…” says one of my classmates, deeply pondering a sentence. I sigh. It is only my second course, but I have grown wiser. “You don’t get it, because you’re thinking in English,” I offer. (Another “illogical” language, but of course.)

This is a cliché, but I begin to think of French as a beautiful tease, who you must pursue and pamper endlessly, before she will even allow you to hold her hand. (You have got a good grip on the adjectives, the adverbs are easy but you’re stumbling over the partitive article.) A few weeks pass. Now she will permit an occasional light kiss. (You figured out the partitive, sort of, and are immersed in the direct and indirect object pronouns – le, la, les, lui, leur, y, and en. Your progress is slow and steady.) You are beginning to feel pleased with yourself, when suddenly, she stops returning messages. (You have got your relative pronouns all mixed up; the application of ce qui, ce que and ce dont is unclear.)

You contemplate your choices. Suicide does not feel quite right. You could re-immigrate, this time to the U.S. of A., where they barely speak one language, apparently. Spanish is creeping upwards, but you could avoid those states. Obama has a good chance of winning, while Harper’s no Humpty Dumpty.

The phone rings. It’s her! She wants to meet. Nothing that special. Just coffee at the Second Cup. (You are over the hump with the relative pronouns and are coasting through the different types of hypothesis formation: if + present tense gets along with simple future; if + imparfait likes to hang out with conditionnel present.)

The romance continues. Or so you think! She’s vanilla and ice. (You get an A- in a French conversation course, but double-meaning, reflexive verbs double cross you the very next day. Ennuyer means to annoy someone, s’ennuyer means to miss someone or something.)

The year having passed without incident, as you have witnessed, the CSDM deems that I am now ready to tackle Français Écrit.

Alas, red marks dot my first assignments, like Chinese lanterns strung along the streets of Beijing, to celebrate the New Year. I am demoralised, but Marc-Antoine comes to my rescue, telling me that even he had difficulty learning to write in French. Really?!

He is no ordinary mortal. He trumps grammar (grammar in general, not just French grammar) and his abstract conjectures on this topic leave me dizzy. He is on intimate terms with COD and COI – (complement) object direct and (complement) object indirect. Give him a long sentence and he’ll spot these two gentlemen tout de suite.

I picture COD as outgoing and dynamic, COI is somewhat shy and self-effacing. I have to stare at a sentence on paper and pose those questions – Qui/Quoi, Who/What or À qui/À quoi, To whom/To what before I can decide who’s who.

Tell me, how many of you remember grammar rules? You cannot take part in this study if you are:

1. A genius
2. Good at learning languages
3. A parent who has been supervising homework
4. French.

Because if you are French, you have pored over your grammar books, kept them at your bedside like bibles of yore, while the allophones were in the gym, or cafeteria, having, like you know, fun with English.

The phone. Her! Calling off the engagement, but wants to remain friends. Oui, certainement.

You cannot be equally intimate with four women. One mother (English), two ex-wives (Hindi, Marathi). Oh well. You will continue as a good friend of French. And as you go along, you will find your ease, with this beautiful tease (allumeuse, French French; agace-pissette, quaint Québécois).