French Connection. My course mate Kamath and I spent a fortnight in Paris as young Sub Lieutenants during the spring of 1960. We found a small bed and breakfast joint to stay in and wandered around the city, sightseeing and soaking in the atmosphere of the artistic capital of the world. We visited Louvre, other museums, Versailles, Eiffel Tower and Fountain Bleu. We enjoyed the floor shows at the Lido and Moulin Rouge on the left bank and hung around the hot spots and night clubs of Place Pigalle. We did not have a lot of money to spend but managed to have a great time. (I had made posts on our joint (mis?)adventures in Gay Paree.) There was magic in the air. One remembered Cole Porter’s song in the musical ‘Can Can’, “I love Paris in the springtime, I love Paris in the fall, I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles, I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles ….”. Paris can be bewitching. More than forty years later, in my late sixties I spent a late November weekend again in the city, after visiting an auto lighting plant in Angouleme. This time, I was put up at a luxury hotel near Place Vendome. I again visited Louvre, Pompidou center sights and the Left Bank. I had seen much of the world by then. With age, one does become a little more blasé. While Paris was still interesting, the sheer magic which I had experienced as a youngster was absent. But, one incident stays in my mind. Sunday, after visiting the Pompidou center which houses impressionist paintings of the 19th and early 20th century, I was at a loose end. In late evening, I strolled aimlessly around the streets close to my hotel. I entered a McDonalds and ordered a light meal of apple pie, French fries and a milk shake. The cafe was almost deserted. A few young teenage boys and girls were munching snacks and chattering happily, nursing their colas in a nearby table. They were having a gala time. Then a strange and incongruous man walked in. He was very old and his clothes were worn and dirty. There were visible holes in his shoes. The ragged coat he had on would not have been of much protection against the approaching winter. He hobbled to the counter and brought himself a loaf of black bread. That and a glass of water were his evening’s meal. It was sad to see a fellow human being so desperately poor in the middle of plenty. I felt strangely moved. On an impulse, I walked across to his table and handed over my plate of food and drink to him. He was startled. I gently gestured to him requesting him to have the dishes. He initially hesitated and then nodded in agreement. The kids watched the happenings with interest. Suddenly, they walked across and piled up all their dishes on to the old man’s table and asked him to take them. His eyes lit up. He was probably having a full meal after days. I left the cafe without eating anything but felt strangely full and happy. As I was leaving, the teenagers smiled and waved to me. I returned their greetings with a naval salute. We had not exchanged one word between us. Yet, for a brief magical moment, an Indian naval veteran and the French teenagers had connected in a simple act of humanity, bridging barriers of age, nationality and cultures.
Posted on: Sat, 13 Sep 2014 10:30:21 +0000
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