Paris in its true spirit

Occasionally when my mind is feeling seized, droning and whirring like a broken beehive, I take a trip down the memory lane to the enigmatic, dark attic in Paris of my friend Chantal. When one thinks of Paris, one would not want to remain confined in a dark, cold, threadbare room on the roof- with its unpolished wooden walls, the worn hardwood floors and its quirky owner.

Chantal, whom I had known since her first trip to India years ago, is a psychic by profession and she cures all with troubled hearts and souls. Her makeshift place is kind of a safe zone where weird people from all over the world can come for a night, indulge in a free-wheeling party with some writers and musicians of France, and look forward to- a sense of cultural superiority on the one hand, on the other hand- some healing exercises for the soul, patient ears and drink for the soul.

The music is often heart wrenching, divine, intimate while costumes are supposed to be based on a theme- phantom, prostitute and so on. The idea is to be completely uninhibited, timeless, and open, bohemian as if nothing else matters. Slowly, people with deep level of anxiety pull themselves from the dark corners and join in the drunken revelry.

The food served is usually generous and palatable- cheese with cookies, soup, meat fondue with champagne and wine. The old cinematic clichés of virtuosos spontaneously collaborating in the thick of history and neon cigarette smoke, artistically advancing the genre, applies to Chantal’s parties.

At around midnight, people get all busy in a kind of orgy and dance and speak out their insecurities aloud. Suddenly one might find whispers of advices, several voices like radio waves in different frequencies. It is then one needs to shut all noise and listen to her own voice within.

The windows are opened in the morning and people slowly move out to walk down the Saint De Port road. All these memories are timeless, beyond the realm of modern world, out in the ether.

ENDS

Meghna Maiti