Where did my thoughts wander off....

It has been ages no strike that – eons since I last posted – 2 years spent in the UK – in the land of the British – where it is most difficult to understand some of their accents; yet glimpses of pure genius when someone touts a 20 pence coin on the street as ‘serendipity’.. where words like ‘tacit’, ‘moribund’ and ‘asinine’ are dropped every day into standard tea time chit chat…
In the land where I met worse bookworms than yours truly and folks (a la senior citizens) who read J K Rowling in the same breath as Longfellow, where the library is probably frequented more than a place of worship and where next to an umbrella, a book is the staple of every carry bag, I lost my tongue…

From paying my respects in Stratford to walking down Baker Street and to strolling the cobbled paths of Oxford, my English sojourn was relaxing and rewarding. From crumbling castles to winter wonderlands; football matches and musicals, theatre and country trails – each place was uncluttered, unfettered with roving guides who monopolize the experience with their brash baritone. Left to explore in my own sweet time, with no hurry or rush, the cooling climes proved sedative to any focused thinking…

Of course, I am ignoring the obsession with football, fetish for fish and chips and a universal thronging for weekend ‘reality’ shows… I chose to ignore these minor hassles and satiate myself along the footsteps of legends like Wordsworth, Milton and evergreen gems akin to Frances Burnett (A little Princess) and Enid Blyton.

I’ve often wondered how the prose of the British seems to flow mellifluously as compared to their cousins across the pond. The proof as they say is in the pudding or rather in the land. Whether it be the dragon-lore imbibed Cardiff; or the plucky Irish – home of Artemis Fowl; or the bloody feuds of Scotland which inspired R L Stevenson’s Kidnapped; the expanses of Britain are varied and composite. Each region has its own specialties producing the delectable feats of literature I love. The structure and fluidity of the English prose is at odds with the casual complaisance of their American brethren… but the core point remains – you cannot imagine fairies in the concrete jungles of New York while they seem plausible in the flowery meadows of Britain….

The frenetic London city with landmarks in modernity like the Gherkin and the Lloyds building also boasts of ghost walks and jack the Ripper tours at night through unsavoury lanes and baritone guides who ensure your shackles will rise during the course of the tour… The folks in the adjoining pubs enroute also ensure to add to the drama and ‘fear factor’ – an experience truly like none other!

Go on.. find your favorite authors and follow them to their hometowns… savor the sights that flavored their musings… enjoy the blustering weather and blooms in a land where everyone young and old alike are avid readers… and where the dingiest looking book store keeper will be able to chatter hour upon hour of authors you feel are obscure and recommend books based on your reading appetite… living among such stalwarts made my prose seem weak and childish in comparison to their regular speech… But now, looking back, I think I might have learnt something after all..