Crossings
HOW CAN you best live your life? By being in the thick of it! That's what I am learning in Hanoi. As I walk along the sinewy lanes and bylanes of the city every day, I find ways to wade through a sea of tiny plastic stools. It may sound paradoxical, but these innocuous four-legged seats are all over - on the sidewalks, in the corners, by the lake, behind your house, and right in front of your eyes. In fact, sometimes I feel an aerial view could lead one to believe that the "minions" have taken over the city map.
Those stools that I am talking about are like footrests, literally. In fact, initially I found them cute, but not very practical. I mean, you don't really sit on them? "Oh yes, you do," said a little one with an elfin grin who knew the ways of the city better than me.
With every passing day, I discover that the tiny ones have a hold of Gulliver on the city. Cafés and pubs apart, a plethora of restaurants spring up at the most inconspicuous of turnings with a surprise emergence of a staggering number of miniature chairs - blue or otherwise. They are almost a surreal extension of the street or the sidewalk.
A closer look reveals that all kinds of people happily plonk themselves on the stools, without inhibition or embarrassment. Men, women, expats, locals and youngsters come together to celebrate life, a free spirit. At any given time of the day, you can see a small floating population sitting and enjoying their tea, coffee or bia hoi (local beer). You find people talking, debating, relaxing, discussing or contemplating; drawing perhaps the deepest of life's pleasures from the simplest things.
Coming from my hometown, Calcutta, I have a thing for roadside eateries and teashops. For me, it is a simulated social platform with infectious energy rubbing on you. As a college student, my friends and I would spend hours sitting at a thek, discussing our futures or a new Bollywood film. When I started working as a journalist, I found many a story idea from the din of oblivious chatter around me.
Hanoi reminds me of that pervasive phenomenon - slice of real life on the streets - which cuts across nations and borders, and people and their disparate circumstances. It triggers a happy memory as I explore the city and discover the magic of street space creating a lively public space. My sceptical mind tries to find a hidden element of hierarchy in these modest cafés or eateries, but the laughter around clears my doubts and envelopes me in rare warmth as I look for a seat.
While I try to make myself comfortable, negotiating my legs awkwardly, I realise I have a new view of the lake and the streets. I feel I am closer to the ground and the earth. It is amazing how a little difference in height changes our perspective. Though I keep walking around the West Lake area - a cosmopolitan hub - almost every day, this is the first time I happen to notice the ripples with such clarity. Or, for instance, faces of the flower vendors cycling by me in Nón Lá (typical Vietnamese hats) - resolute but soft.
As I lose myself in a reverie, a high-decibel honking almost shatters my eardrums. I get visibly startled, drawing stifled giggles from customers instead of sympathy. I become conscious and brace myself against any future calamity. Soon they all forget me and dig into their nems (deep fried crispy rolls with minced pork or prawns) with relish. Off and on, I try to steal glances at others around me. They all look laid back and comfortable, at peace with themselves and the surroundings - neither flustered by the heavy traffic nor deterred by the nippy wind.
As the chopsticks open and close in between nimble fingers to pick up noodles or a piece of fiery red chilli, I gaze at a distance, blurring my vision. Unknowingly, I become part of all that is around me. I no longer notice the honking or the commotion on the streets. Instead, I become part of a spirit that celebrates life in the thick of things.
Tirna Ray
