PRAGUE - A PILGRIMAGE... OF SORTS

Sipra Pati

I am in Prague. Hubby takes a picture of me alighting from the tour bus – he understands my emotions; the near-pilgrimage I am on. Pilgrimage yes, but with no points to touch but the city itself. You see... this is the city where my Dad spent two years of his abbreviated life - a life I barely got the chance to get acquainted with. Needless to say, the sole reason the city held a special place in my heart.

Walking on these cobbled streets of the historic part of Prague makes me feel that I am in all probability walking where my father did... approximately sixty years back. I would be naive to think the city stood still just for me to experience precisely what my Dad had. But then this is the part of Prague built centuries back  – the Royal Castle, St. Vitus Cathedral, the cobblestone alleys, and the Charles Bridge. These monuments have been around since medieval times and underscore the very essence of the city of Prague or Praha, as the Czech call it.

I look around – immaculate blue skies with tufts of white clouds, the hushed chitter-chatter of scores of tourists and the shuffling of their shoes, the shadows of the medieval buildings, the palace guards in crisp grey uniforms and designer aviator shades, people dressed in medieval costumes and posing as statues, World War 2-era roofless cars carrying tourists. I am in the thick of tourist land. I take a deep breath – inhaling the summer air and letting the ‘I am in Prague’ envelop my being. I wonder if my Dad, some six decades back, stood in the square in front of the Royal Castle (as I am) and looked out over the stone parapet absorbing the breathtaking view of the city and its rather grey river. Perhaps he walked down the cobblestone stairway (as I am) into the alleys below and thought back to the alleys in his hometown. Maybe he leaned on one side of the Charles Bridge (as I am), peered into the softly heaving ripples of the Vlatava river (Moldou, in German) and thought of the Kathajodi in his hometown. Perhaps he had then turned and look at the aged-by-time, yet timeless, spires of the St.Vitus cathedral and had wondered about the temples in his home state. Maybe, as he raised his camera and peered at the church through the lens, he promised himself to someday capture the facades and magnificence of the temples dotting Bhubaneswar. Perhaps, when he lowered his camera, he saw a young couple crossing the bridge hand-in-hand, and his heart wrenched a little as his mind went to the young woman he had married and left behind at home in Cuttack. Perhaps he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, walked to the other side of this medieval bridge and contemplated over his reason to be in Prague. His walk back to his rental apartment must have been selectively punctuated – by some camera work. Had he longed for his favorite pan-fried ilisi as he looked at the Czech beef goulash being served in the sidewalk cafes of the historic district? Had the delectable Trdlo reminded him of khaja and other sweets from his home state? Had the golden swaying grass in the countryside outside Prague sent his mind back to the swaying paddy fields, lush green against the backdrop of ominous grey monsoon clouds, in his home state? I wish I knew. I wish I had answers to these questions. What I do know is that he wrote regularly to my mother, as he did others; he bought Bohemian crystal-ware, Czech porcelain dinner and coffee sets, and tiny dolls dressed in intricately embroidered dresses – filling their first home with the very flavor and essence of the land he had called home for two years. It is time to break the sanctity, I tell myself – and read those letters.

Time is beginning to run out – hubby and I have to head back to the tour bus before its scheduled departure for Vienna, our base for this trip through Europe. I feel restless; incomplete. I yearn for something – not quite a souvenir (which, thanks to my Dad, our home had more than its fair share of Czech handicrafts); a something I cannot quite put my finger on; a something that would perhaps make me (a rather foolish thought, I admit) feel this city was reaching out to me acknowledging my Dad’s presence all those years back; a something that would make me feel this was more than a whirlwind tour of Prague. Ten minutes in hand before we needed to start our walk to our tour group – and I see this enclosure of beige-colored bricks – each painted in different hues, art, flags, and more. They are just stacked – no cement or concrete holding them in place. The makeshift kiosk next to it solicits passers-by to paint a brick and donate six euros to an organization working with Czech children afflicted with mental health issues. In the past they had used these bricks to build the driveway in one of the organization’s children’s homes and a side of the building, the young girl manning the kiosk tells me. They were not sure what the bricks would be used for this time. To me this was the city throwing me the “here’s your something” ball. All I had to do was cup the ball in my outstretched hands. Five minutes, hubby gently reminds me. I start painting a brick as hubby handles the payment. Paint brushes and I have never had a very compatible relationship; yet I manage to write my Dad’s name on it; add the Indian tri-color to it, and three stars – one each for my Mom, my sister and me. I place it on the un-cemented yellow brick wall in the center of this beautiful city where my Dad had lived for two years. I look at the paint on my fingers and nails, and then at my watch. No time to wash it off, I surmise looking at the lengthening queue at the little street-side water fountain. Time to go, says hubby after taking that last photo. I look at the brick wall one last time, do a little 360 degree turn as I inhale deeply - a whimsical attempt to fill my lungs with the essence of Praha, my Dad’s Praha, intertwine my fingers with hubby’s outstretched ones and will my feet away.