Another winter in Tokyo is slowly sauntering to its end. In a few weeks from now we'll have the first signs of spring and then the flowers and then the hanami (flower-viewing) ceremonies and then the pollens and then the hay fever etc.
Tokyo had its share of snow after 2 snow-less years. I went skiing after 4 ski-less years and found out that I still haven't lost the touch. The touch, for standing motionless on two flat iron sheets for hours together -like some Baba doing sanyas in the Himalayan foothills- contemplating the futility of it all, watching other people zip past me as if in a wild tableau and in between trying to look cool as if I'm just catching my breath after an arduous downhill. I'm afraid I didn't fool anyone, especially my wife, who came near and tried to goad me into action. "You have to go down this hill. Put your weight on your shin. Relax your upper body. You can do it"… etc. It's easy for her. She's from a place where the mean winter temperature (for almost 6 months in a year) is in the range of something, which we come across only in science textbooks in weird units, for e.g., "Superconductivity can be sustained blah-blah-blah only at temperatures of -2000 degrees Kelvin (or Kelvin's brother)". For her, skiing in snow comes natural like walking on ground is natural to me. As far as shin is concerned, it could have been anywhere in my body. It could even be the 22nd letter of the Hebrew alphabet (which it is). In fact, it was anything but that part between my knee and ankle. I tried to explain things away scientifically with excuses like 'my centre of gravity is higher' etc., but it didn't cut much ice.
The real reason is my acute sense of un-balance and a primordial fear of falling down and breaking my nose and glasses. I did manage to slightly overcome that and go up and down a few times before retreating to the warmth of the hot spring.
The next day I went up the ski lift (bringing the whole lift operation to a brief halt in the process) and started coming down the beginners slope. Things looked good initially, but then I started picking up speed and losing control. A scream formed in my throat. You know the soundless scream where the mouth is open like an O and no sound comes forth. Usually seen in movies, in slow motion, with lots of sweat beads and slowly rippling face muscles and bulging eyes when somebody is putting a superhuman effort like lifting a big rock and the sound follows after a slight delay. Anyway, no sound came out of my mouth and I ploughed into a feet of snow, lost my skis and waited for my wife to come and help me out. Repeated the process thrice before reaching level land and retired for the season.
Apart from the sadness at not being able to zoom down snow slopes another major regret I have is of not being able to whistle. When I see guys putting two fingers in their mouth and letting out that shrill sharp whistle - on occasions like seeing a pretty woman, calling a friend or a dog (interchangeable) from a distance, or in general appreciation of a six, a goal or any performance - I feel pangs of envy. For, when I put those very same fingers in and try to whistle, the result is usually a sound similar to a posterior gaseous release by someone (trying to be discreet) whose efforts in suppressing it went haywire. Whoosh…. I'm digressing. Let me get back to the topic.
What made me regret my inability to whistle was, a concert I went to a few weeks ago. This woman came on the stage dancing and singing and in a few seconds she had the whole audience in ecstasy, standing up, cheering and dancing. She wasn't one of those teenage sensations in skimpy clothes like Britney Spears. She wasn't one of those middle-aged ex-sensations in skimpier clothes like Madonna. Her name was Omara Portuondo and she was 73 years old. It didn't matter that she was singing in Spanish, which I couldn't make head or tail of. It didn't matter that from where I was sitting she could have been Jayamalini and I wouldn't have known the difference. What mattered were the music, the Latin rhythm and the way she came across to the audience. It reminded me of a video I saw in the 80s in which an aging but elegant Noor Jehan came to India from Pak after many years, sang 'Aawaz de kahaan hai…' and weaved the same kind of magic. How I wish I had that two-fingered sharp whistle in my repertoire!
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