Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Whirlwinds of Tangents


Winter has officially left The Blessed Isles and I have promised her an elegy. In the meanwhile, The Blessed Isles herself cannot make up her mind which season to invite first. So while some days are unbearably hot with the scorching sun pelting down her rays upon us, some others are pleasant enough to curl into the favourite rug when we turn in. However, since yesterday reigns this mad wind, which is both pleasant and rough at the same time, reasonable and unreasonable together. I have tried looking up, what it possibly means, but have given up in utter exasperation. I have since then walked my dog in the crazy wind outside, and have noted that all rules have been suspended for the day. My dog has suddenly discovered the joys of frolicking out of doors; the children have given up their games, tired of deciphering the direction in which this mad wind is blowing, so as to attune their games accordingly; and the sauciest of my neighbours have suddenly turned extremely amiable.  I blame it on the wind and with my hair flying in restless abandon, I pull my dog indoors. I fervently wish I had a Count Almásy beside me to explain the meaning of the different winds to me,

“Let me tell you about winds. There is a, a whirlwind from southern Morrocco, the aajej, against which the fellahin defend themselves with knives. And there is the... the ghibli, from Tunis... the ghibli, which rolls and rolls and rolls and produces a... a rather strange nervous condition. And then there is the... the harmattan, a red wind, which mariners call the sea of darkness. And red sand from this wind has flown as far as the south coast of England, apparently producing... showers so dense that they were mistaken for blood… it's all true. Herodotus, your friend... He writes about it. And he writes about... a, a wind, the simoon, which a nation thought was so evil they declared war on it and marched out against it. In full battle dress. Their swords raised.” 
                                                                                                   (The English Patient - Michael Ondaatje)


2 comments:

  1. yup...arekta jinish o mone porche...the wild wild wind that made your carefully brushed hair stand on end on the first eve at London...appeared like the bristles of a witch's broomstick :P...wont forget the look of absolute horror on your face as you helplessly watched your effort go down the drain... i think it was the playful 'ghibli' that found your long tresses too attractive to be left alone...

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  2. Ouch.
    Well, technically it should have been the 'harmattan', but I guess it was the 'ghibli'. It produced a strange nervous condition in me which made me long to stay indoors in London and not venture out. :P In fact, my earliest experience and memories of London will forever be intertwined with the perfect hair that didn't stay put and metamorphosed into bad, and the wind that wrecked havoc with it. :(
    You defended against it with a hoody, btw. :D

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