It was 9:40. We were waiting at the airport to pick up my uncle who would land soon and I was staring at the screen announcing the flights that arrived and my gaze sifted through a lot of places I don’t remember now and rested on Sarajevo.
Sarajevo..mmm.. anyone know what historic event took place there? Think hard..!
I asked my younger sister and she was clueless. Sarajevo is the capital of Bosnia , and it is where the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and his wife, (I am sifting through the leaves of my memory to what I learned when I was back in high school) were murdered, triggering the First World War.
History is a fascinating subject and I am kind of surprised that I still remember names. I was more of a math girl. Still, I was a voracious reader and reading about the real stories of Alexander the Great, Napolean Bonaparte, the Indus Valley civilzation still takes me back to those days when I lay back and built a picturesque image in my mind. Maybe that’s why I remember.
Talking about History, the Indus Valley people, the Dravidians were remarkable people. From what archaeologists have dug up, we know that their town planning was brilliant. The drainage system was efficient. They made jewellery. They practised agriculture.They sung and danced. They buried useful things with their dead (I don’t know why,just find it interesting). They had a Mother Goddess. More on their religion , I do not know. But the foundation of most of the buildings still stand today, even after 2000 plus years, so that’s astounding. No doubt a testament to their workmanship. They even had sort of a pool house where people went to bathe with steps leading down to the body of water and changing rooms. The water was drawn from a tank which collected rainwater. Too bad they were chased south by the Aryans. History is his story, man’s story and I cannot but stoop to admire this civilization.
It’s enthralling to learn about one’s history and for a moment there, I wondered why I did not become an archaeologist . That would be the dream. Then again, not 10 minutes ago, I had wished that I had been a pilot soaring high above the clouds, travelling miles high and landing in another piece of heaven on earth. That would be the dream. Then again, I was wishing not too long a time ago that I would have been born a mermaid (not that I believe that they exist), surfing, diving deep into the ocean’s calm. But then, I would be called a cannibal among the merfolk because I don’t think I won’t be able to stop eating fish aka my own people. So, though a bit disappointed that merfolk don’t exist, I am glad I wasn’t born that way. Sylvia Plath wrote a poem , ‘The fig tree’, quoting from “The Bell Jar”, it goes like this;
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
There are many roads out there and I am happy to take one, that of a writer.