Recently, Guardian published a piece by Julian Barnes, where he has changed the ending of Madame Bovary. Taking off from there, a journalist friend of mine has written in her weekly column that she would like to change the ending of Ramayana, where Sita refuses to undergo the trial by fire and leaves Ram instead.

That got me thinking. If we had the chance, the ending of which work of literature would we change? And why? Eric Segal's Love Story, in which Jenny would conquer her illness and the couple would live happily ever after? But would that be as memorable as it is now? Would Romeo and Juliet be as popular had they lived? Maybe, Juliet would find Romeo too impulsive and leave him after a year. Maybe Romeo would fall for Juliet's attractive cousin who has this thing for balcony romances.

What'll happen if Dr Zhivago left his wife to live with Lara? Humdrum exitence of everyday couples don't make for great literature. Unrequited love does. It arouses the sob-aholic in us, the eternal yearning (and sighing) for things beyond our reach.

After Scarlett O Hara lost Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind, Alexandra Ripley tried to repair the injustice (so most of us thought) with Scarlett, the sequel. But while we had fervently prayed that Rhett would forgive Scarlett and return, what a damp squib that prayer turned out to be in writing. Scarlett was wish-fulfillment, but darn it! the book was so disappointing that we almost wished that we didn't wish!

So, friends, what books would you change the endings of? Would you like Robinson Crusoe never to return to civilised society, but build an alternate civilisation on the desert island? Would you prefer Mowgli to realise Shere Khan's plight and actually counsel Baloo and Bagheera on the importance of saving the tiger?

Do write in. This would make one helluva interesting never-ending story!

Some more photos from Berlin.

Here is Riju being a monkey in Berlin zoo. We made this trip on the day of the Finals. Predictably, despite it being a Sunday, the zoo (Tier Park) was largely empty. Spread over a huge area, the zoo tested our walking stamina alright. We missed the food counters and had to lunch on candies and cashew nuts.

At Checkpoint Charlie, the junction of the Russian-occupied and American-occupied Berlin. Riju is the archetypal American soldier, saluting Cap'n Mom. The cap was priced at 10 euros, so we handed it back to the shopkeeper after our shoot.

Riju and Dhiman in front of the Smart car. This 2-seater is an eye-candy all the way. And equally popular across at least 3 countries.

No. I didn't get to see even the shadow of Ballack or the team bus of Zidane while in Germany during the World Cup finals. But I did get to see the fans. And what a revelation that was. Fans in all shapes and sizes and race and gender... Noisy teens, couples in love, university students, husbands and wives, father with sons and daughters perched on their shoulders.

A continuous stream of people passed Riju and I as we lounged in front of the Brandenburg gate. People of all nationalities, their love for soccer overriding national pride. Brazilian supporters rooting for Italy, Germans cheering the French team. It didn't really matter. They were all actually shouting for soccer. It was amazing to watch so many true blue soccer fans congregated in one area.

And so many children among the fans. Boys and girls, even toddlers, with faces painted with country colours, waving flags and team scarves. Babies in prams, sleeping peacefully in the racket, while their parents swig beer by the gallon. It was all a great family outing: something to be enjoyed to the hilt.

It was all very novel for me: in India the soccer crowd comprises of men only. I have been to the Salt Lake stadium for a number of matches and never did I spot any woman in the teeming crowd. For the India-Japan match, there was a large number of women, but they were all Japanese supporters. Indian women clearly disapprove of football. Or, even if they do like it, they prefer the privacy of their drawing rooms to cheer their favourite team on. Very different from cricket, which draws a most glamorous crowd, with girls in tank tops and Indian colours painted on their faces (or on other body parts) vying for the roving television camera's attention.

I felt comfortable in Berlin. I was not the only mother in the fan area. It felt good to see women around you also asking their children to be patient, or taking out packets of sandwiches or biscuits to keep them contented. I think Riju liked it too with so many children around. Maybe the on-field action didn't hold his attention so much as the off-field one, but at least he didn't mind being part of a crowd. And being patient till his mom finished cheering for her team. Given that a soccer match is over in about 2 hours, the day-long enjoyment I witnessed in Berlin on July 9 truly proves that football is the world's favourite sport.

Contrary to all my fears, our (Riju and mine) journey to Berlin passed off without any major hitch. Kolkata to Dubai was hassle-free, of course. Three hours transit in the swanky Dubai airport was not so bad either. Duty-free tempted all the shopaholic genes in me, but thoughts of the next 15 days in foreign land on a shoestring budget kept me in check. Nonetheless, Riju wangled a promise to buy him a toy robot on the way back.

Dubai to Munich was mostly spent snoozing. When we landed in Munich, we were caught completely unawares by the daylight-at-9 pm characterestic of Europe. But we had an emigration to clear and a train (two, in fact, the second to Berlin) to catch and couldn't wonder long at the disconcerting sunlight.

Taking a quick glance at the worn paper with common German phrases written on it, I plunged into Germany. To my pleasant surprise, I saw that I can actually make do with the Queen's language, aided suitably with appropriate gestures.

The journey from the airport to the main station (Hauptbahnhof) was mostly incident-free, except an unexpected change of trains due to some problem on the tracks. A good samaritan helped me get on the right train thereafter. Here, let me add that I found Germans a friendly and helpful people. Definitely politer than the Parisians and Londoners. As I struggled with a heavy suitcase up a staircase (Riju having developed a sudden and temporary fear of the escalator), people actually carried it up for me, without so much as a sweat. They were always willing to help me find my way to some place or the other, always signing off with a smile. And they didn't mind that I could not speak a word of German except "Danke".

Catching the train to Berlin proved to be tougher. The train was scheduled at 11.55 pm. At a platform far from the main station. We squatted on our suitcase and watched as various other trains came and went and platforms around us emptied. At 11.30, I began to panic. For, there was no trace of our train yet. And the few Deutsch Bahn (kinda like Indian Railways) officials around at that hour simply shrugged when I mentioned the train number. The DB office was closed. I frantically raced, with Riju in toe, to the platforms at the other extreme which still had trains waiting.

For the umpteenth time, I showed the printout of my Internet ticket to a train conductor. He pointed to a train waiting in a completely different platform than was mentioned in the ticket. [Dhiman, more experienced in German ways, told me later that platform numbers are changed at the drop of a hat in Germany.] We got on to the train, got our ticket punched (was majorly scared that the Net version will not be accepted), and settled down for the long overnight journey ahead.

Lovely train. Very punctual. Clean loos. Noisy restaurant car next door. That was because of all the French and Italian fans drinking themselves silly on way to the finals.

Ok. Apologies to everyone. I had promised regular update from the Great European Tour, but had stopped after the very first post. Now it's past two months since we have returned. As they say, it's better late than never. And here let me start with a few photos of our Berlin trip.

The day before the Finals. The Fan Mile started from the Brandenburg Gate. The Football Globe in front toured the host nation before being dismantled in Berlin the day after the Finals. The Globe contained an exhibition on soccer and had as an exhibit the magnificent World Cup trophy. That's the closest I came to the much-coveted golden orb.

The Berlin Wall. Or, a section of it that still stands. Looks harmless enough, doesn't it?

The Olympiastadion at Berlin. The venue of the 2006 soccer finals. The hallowed ground that saw Zidane exit the match, shamed.

Berlin Diary 1

Ich bin ein Berliner. And that's about how far my german knowledge goes at the moment. But the German capital doesn't mind. Fussball (yes that's how they say football in this part of the world) transcends language and fans are always welcome in this city. Ronaldinho may have boiled down to a caricature on the streets, but many windows still sport the brazilian flag. It's all about the beautiful game, finally. No ill-feelings about Germany not being there in the finals? Not apparent, at least. As a good samaritan told me on the Munich U-Bahn station, "We are the good hosts... we let other countries win." Fair enough!

Interest in the cup had also not waned with Germany's exit. Over seven hundred thousand turned up on the fan mile in Berlin to watch the France-Italy clash. What an overwhelming experience that was. But, before I come to the finals, let me talk about the third place play-off which we watched as invitees to the media party, courtesy Dhiman of course! Sitting under the trees, swigging the 'official' beer (Anheuser Busch Bud) in the twilight and with plates heaped with sausages and sauerkraut (rather disappointing... pickled cabbage this!), we watched, surrounded by over a thousand media persons, Klinsmann's champs romp home with the third place trophy. The whole place erupted in joy and festivities were still on when we dragged ourselves to the hotel past 12 midnight. No photos though, I had forgotten my camera.

On the morning of the finals, Riju and I had gone visiting the Tierpark, or the zoo. Changing trains, asking for direction by gesticulating wildly, we reached there without any incidents. An exhauting four and a half hours later, we again boarded the U-Bahn to Alexanderplatz on our way to the hotel (near Pankow). We ran into groups of fans in the station... French fans laughing at their Italian counterparts, singing "It's easy to buy a referee in Italy" to a popular English tune (I've forgotten the words). The Italians seemed good-natured enough. They didn't mind the ribbings. Even as the game started, the French fans told the Italians, "Don't be too disappointed with the runner-up trophy. You've done good to come thus far." The Italians, of course, had the last laugh as Zidane's head-butt left the French shocked and in tears. It occurred to me as I watched the match that do they teach head-butting at Real Madrid? Figo did it, and now Zidane. Maybe Beckham would've done it too, if he had the chance!

That's all for now. Next post later. Photos will follows soon.

I'm a bit overwhelmed at the moment. My husband is going to cover the World Cup in Germany. And my son and I will be joining him there just before the finals. Now, I have travelled alone with Riju before, but never on such a long haul, never to a foreign country (I've never been to a foreign country to begin with, darn it!), and never for a sporting tournament. Will I manage to reach Berlin safely where I meet my husband? We are travelling on an Emirates flight to Munich. After a 3-hr stopover at Dubai (strictly inside the airport for us), we'll be reaching Munich at 8.55 pm and then will proceed to Berlin on train. It sounds awfully complicated to me and god alone knows, how Riju will take to it. I don't know a word in German except 'Auf Weidershen' and 'Third Reich' and 'blitzkrieg'... none very useful I guess. Neither do I know a thing about emigration proceedings and stuff... what exactly goes on there? Please someone, assure me that everything's gonna be fine!

Last evening, I saw a film. Hotel Rwanda. It made me speechless.

The film, made in 2004 by Terry George, is set in Rwanda in 1994. It deals with the genocide stemming from the Hutu-Tutsi rivalry. I remember the clashes. I was working in The Telegraph then. I remember Joydeep, our foreign desk chief, getting agitated about the Hutu-Tutsi in-fighting and insisting on taking it on the foreign pages. We used to laugh about this then. Last evening, a line from the film, "They watch it (the carnage) on television, say 'My God', and then continue with their dinners", was like a slap across my conscience.

The film, based on a true story, is about Paul Rusesabagina (portrayed excellently by Don Cheadle), a manager at the Belgian-owned 4-star Hotel Des Milles Collines at Kigali. He is intelligent, suave, and resourceful, knowing exactly how to please his patrons. He is also a family man, with feet planted firmly in the grim reality, a man who's willing to go that extra mile, but only for his own kin. Initially, despite his wife's pleas, he refuses to be drawn into the ethnic friction because of a neighbour. Because he knows he risks his own loved ones then. But as the situation in the country spirals out of control, he finds himself sheltering, by hook or by crook, over a thousand persecuted Tutsis in the hotel. He averts a massacre almost every moment, yet lives with the realisation that he himself, along with his family and all those he sheltered, can be wiped out in one fell sweep.

The film invites comparison with Spielberg's Schindler's List. Here, too, is a man whose thoughts are as far removed from philanthropy as Oskar Schindler's. But here, too, he shows exemplary courage and humanity in rescuing the hunted. However, the holocaust unleashed by the Nazis are much, much better known and represented among the creative arts than the Rwandan genocide. Herein, lies the crucial difference between the two films. The Third World perspective, with the current Western powers refusing to intervene and stop the killing, is much more hard hitting than Poland during the second World War, with help from the Allied forces almost a shout away.

Hotel Rwanda was a harrowing experience. It was also a memorable experience. A film that everyone should see.

And this one's completely angst. I read in someone else's blog today that a recent study has found out that only 13 milliseconds are required to notice somebody attractive. Researchers found that people's reaction time to attractive faces were significantly faster than that of un-attractive faces. No wonder attractive people are likely to be more noticed, dated, hired, and promoted.

I'm doomed. But that's beside the point. Which is, does the research prove that it actually pays to get a tummy tuck, nose job, face lift etc etc? Is all that talk about being beautiful inside all bull, aimed at keeping the un-attractive happy? Are fairness lotions an investment after all, feminist rhetoric notwithstanding?

We have been travelling with our son Riju since he was six months old. In a short span of six years, he has been to Vizag, Puri (twice), Delhi (twice), Corbett National Park, Nainital, Bombay, Kashid, Matheran, Shantiniketan, Assam, Himachal Pradesh, Gadiara, Digha, Dooars, and Sankarpur. Not bad, one would think. Yet I've met parents who believe they wouldn't be able to enjoy travelling with their kids. They feel fussing over their children would rob the pleasures of a vacation. They wouldn't be able to make time for sightseeing and every moment would be taken up by looking after the children.

Nothing can be further from the truth. Children do NOT need any fussing over. They are an amazingly adaptable breed, a trait that Bengali parents often overlook. A friend of mine recounts a horror story of the time she, a sensible mother, was travelling with her husband and kid with another family of three. The other set of parents, true blue Bongs, were perpetually paranoid about their child catching the cold. I forgot to mention that they were holidaying in the hills in winter. The 'thanda lege jaabey' bogey haunted the parents so much that they refused to let the poor child play in the park or remove his monkey caps even inside the hotel room with the heater blazing. The child did eventually run a temperature, but I presume it's more from the claustrophobic attention than from any thing else. The father, who was carrying a drug store around with him, must have felt vindicated.

To say that Riju had never fallen ill while travelling would be lying. He, not even three then, was running a slight temperature in Nainital and vomited all the way back to Delhi on train. Of course, we were worried, but at least had the common sense to realise that this could've happened in Kolkata as well. Riju was fine within the next couple of days and enjoyed the rest of the trip. Moral (reiterated): Children are extremely adaptable.

Besides, children love to travel. Riju falls in love with each place that he visits and insists that he be brought there for every vacation thereafter. He loves the sea, he likes the cool hill stations, and though he's yet to actually enjoy a jungle safari (he's slept through most of them), he doesn't mind a forest jaunt as well. Going anywhere out of the city that involves travelling on a train (his favourite), bus, plane, boat, or a car is fun where he's concerned. Even children need a break sometimes, and it's high time the 'fussy' parents realise that.

I think vacationing is one habit that relaxes you completely, whether or not you intend it to be that way. And vacationing with children (your own, please) simply multiplies the enjoyment. Try it!

This blog is also about travels. So let me talk about our recent trip to Sankarpur. Here was a beach in West Bengal, right next door to Digha almost, which was clean, unpolluted and uncrowded. For the first time in my life, I drove on the beach right next to the waves. Red crabs were scuttling away everywhere, much to the glee of the children. And plenty of shells. My son, Riju, enjoyed the waves tremendously. We did too.

Our accommodation was also neat. It was a cottage run by the West Bengal Fisheries department. Very new (inaugurated in December 2005) and very nice and clean. Quite large as well. We drank endless beers, vodkas and whiskeys on its spacious verandah. And of course, the machh bhaja... simply divine! If a tad expensive.

A friend's daughter (6-year-old) liked the place so much that she insisted she be brought here every time we plan a vacation. Riju did not disagree. But then he is usually the one to make such a demand at each place that we visit. He even wanted to stay on in the dirty and overcrowded Digha.

Recently, we took our son to see Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne on the big screen. He had already seen the movie twice on CD, so it was not exactly a first-time experience for him. But, like us, we wanted him to know the film's sparkling dialogues by heart too. We wanted him to cherish the experience of watching vintage Ray... maybe instil in him a sense of the nearly-lost Bengali heritage, for which, I'm sure, he'll thank us one day. Like I do my parents.

I was not even born when GoogaBaba first released in Calcutta and went on to break box-office records. The first time I saw it was on our huge black-and-white television. I was about four then and the only scene that stuck on in memory from that viewing was the dance of the ghosts. The same dance, which now, ironically enough, seems (at the risk of sounding blasphemous to all true-blue Ray-philes) tad long and tedious. Why, you can actually spot the humans beneath those 'ghostly' make-up, I thought, not for the first time, yesterday. I glanced at my five-year-old, fearing that he, exposed as he is to state-of-the-art cartoons all through the day, might be thinking the same. But he was staring at screen and, as he sensed me looking at him, turned and whispered, 'What are those ghosts called?' On screen, the fat ghosts were dancing then.

I needn't have worried. My son giggled happily at Goopy and Bagha's antics, asked us anxiously if the Halla king was good or bad, and nodded along with the songs. So did most of the children in the auditorium. And all the parents. Yes, the parents were enjoying the movie most. Each dialogue, a legend by now, was greeted by hoots of laughter and I caught quite a few grown-ups humming along. If for the children, the film was enjoyable, for the parents, it was fond nostalgia, a wonderful journey back in time.

Last evening, my six-year-old son expressed a wish to go to Japan. Why, I asked. “I want to meet Tyson,” he replied, Tyson being the main protagonist in a popular television cartoon series. I smiled and told him that Tyson is only a fictional character — he doesn’t exist in real life. “Then where does he stay?” my son asked. Only on the television screens, I replied and patiently added that cartoon characters don’t have a country or a place to their names. Do we really know where Tom and Jerry live? Or, Richie Rich? Even when they do have addresses, these are not real.

As I explained the fiction-reality divide to the six-year-old, I began to feel increasingly guilty. Was I robbing a child of his imagination? After all, it was only a few years before he would know, for sure, that Santa Claus doesn’t exist and that Beyblades (that marketing sensation to emerge from Japan) don’t really morph into dragons and fiery-eyed snow eagles at the turn of the top. Why would I shatter his superhero dreams just because I know they aren’t real? Didn’t I look for fairies and gnomes at his age?

Guilt-wracked, I paused in my discourse. My son, who had been listening patiently, if a tad anxiously, all this while, was staring at the floor. I winced inside; maybe the damage was already done. His childhood was gone forever. Then, he looked up at me. “Ma, where can I find a genie? I’ll ask him to take me to meet Tyson inside the television.”

Solemnly, I informed him that genies are usually found lurking around lamps, candles, or potted plants, only one has to look real hard.

As I left my son looking for genies beside the candle-stand, I promised to leave childhood alone. Always.