OLD or second-hand books are a window into the lives of their previous owners. Their pages are not only soiled with time but with the touch of unknown hands. The brittle, yellowing pages speak of adventurous journeys. There could be tidbits scribbled all over – names, odd numbers, dates and addresses – in ink or in pencil. Turning the pages, you may chance upon a scrap of paper, a dry flower, a book mark or even a photo!
Many years ago on a train in India I found a brown packet. Giving in to curiosity I opened it. I found inside a dog-eared copy of Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge and several greeting cards full of mushy verses written in a flowing handwriting by a woman. In one card, a quotation from The Great Gatsby said: “It is Gatsby who endows her [Daisy] with a meaning that she could in no way embody.” The cards seemed addressed to a boy, possibly the owner of the packet.
There were some photographs taken with friends and family. I wondered which one of them had forgotten behind a bit of their life. I wondered about the kind of person the owner would be and the life he led. I imagined meeting him and handing him back his treasure. The thought of writing on the address printed neatly on the envelopes of the cards often crossed my mind later. Sadly, fantasies die a quick death. I never got around to writing the letter. The cards and photos were misplaced over the years but I still have the book.
You may be wondering why am I telling you all this. A few days ago, I came across a website that carries photos “lost, forgotten or thrown away”. There were black and white, sepia and coloured photographs taken as early as the twenties. Without names and connections the life stories of the people in the photos have been lost forever. All one can do is imagine the lives they led. The pictures brought back the memory of the packet I discovered years ago on the train.
Often a well written book, a touching poem or an interesting picture makes us want to know more details connected to them. But what if you come across a photo that has nothing to enable you to know more about the people in it? There are no dots to connect. All you have are your thoughts to weave a tale around the nameless faces.
Showing posts with label published work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label published work. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Water channels
Next time you are in the Tai Tam Country Park, pause to check out the 21-arch Tai Tam Upper Reservoir Masonry Aqueduct. You are looking at a master feat of engineering.
Broadly used to describe any water-carrying channel, an aqueduct is a bridge-like structure supporting a conduit or canal passing over a river or low ground. The practice of using underground or land pipes and tunnels to transport water is as old as the Harappan civilisation. But it was the Romans who used them extensively to transport water over long distances for drinking and for public baths. It was one such relic known as the Pont du Gard, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, which I visited a few kilometres off Nimes (尼姆) in Southern France (法國).
Pont in French means a bridge. Pont du Gard, or bridge on the River Gard, was built in 1AD “to carry a section of the channels and pipes” of the 50-kilometre aqueduct that transported water from the Eure Spring in the city of Uzes (澤斯) to Nimes, a Roman colony then. It also served as a footbridge for travellers to cross the river.
At 49 metres, Pont du Gard with its three rows of arches – six in the bottom row, 11 in the middle and 47 (only 35 remain) in the top row - is the highest and one of the best preserved Roman aqueduct bridges. Atop the third row is the covered water channel. The structure’s maintenance became irregular by the fourth century and completely ceased by the sixth century.
Watching the bridge as the sun blazes in the backdrop sets the imagination loose. It appears like a grand gate standing guard over a city. It is surreal to observe the signatures left behind by craftsmen and artisans of the Compagnons du Tour de France, a group that has since the Middle Ages travelled afar to apprentice with various teachers. The bridge casts dark shadows on the green river water, neatly dividing it into dark and sun-lit columns.
Trekking down so far to just meet an ancient sentry holding its post may not sound appealing to some of you. But think back to the many arched bridges you may have crossed in trains or watched in movies. Think about the Bowen aqueduct that quenches the Central District. There is history behind everyday phenomena. The present is but rooted in the past and it is the achievements and discoveries of the olden times that have brought the modern world so far.
Photo: Wikipedia
Broadly used to describe any water-carrying channel, an aqueduct is a bridge-like structure supporting a conduit or canal passing over a river or low ground. The practice of using underground or land pipes and tunnels to transport water is as old as the Harappan civilisation. But it was the Romans who used them extensively to transport water over long distances for drinking and for public baths. It was one such relic known as the Pont du Gard, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, which I visited a few kilometres off Nimes (尼姆) in Southern France (法國).
Pont in French means a bridge. Pont du Gard, or bridge on the River Gard, was built in 1AD “to carry a section of the channels and pipes” of the 50-kilometre aqueduct that transported water from the Eure Spring in the city of Uzes (澤斯) to Nimes, a Roman colony then. It also served as a footbridge for travellers to cross the river.At 49 metres, Pont du Gard with its three rows of arches – six in the bottom row, 11 in the middle and 47 (only 35 remain) in the top row - is the highest and one of the best preserved Roman aqueduct bridges. Atop the third row is the covered water channel. The structure’s maintenance became irregular by the fourth century and completely ceased by the sixth century.
Watching the bridge as the sun blazes in the backdrop sets the imagination loose. It appears like a grand gate standing guard over a city. It is surreal to observe the signatures left behind by craftsmen and artisans of the Compagnons du Tour de France, a group that has since the Middle Ages travelled afar to apprentice with various teachers. The bridge casts dark shadows on the green river water, neatly dividing it into dark and sun-lit columns.
Trekking down so far to just meet an ancient sentry holding its post may not sound appealing to some of you. But think back to the many arched bridges you may have crossed in trains or watched in movies. Think about the Bowen aqueduct that quenches the Central District. There is history behind everyday phenomena. The present is but rooted in the past and it is the achievements and discoveries of the olden times that have brought the modern world so far.
Photo: Wikipedia
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Freefall
My feet felt like jelly. The heart’s pounding seemed to be coming through a stethoscope. As I tethered on the edge, holding on to life, I felt myself being pushed forward into the endless abyss. Time stood still for a moment. The shock of being pushed out of an aircraft had numbed me. And then I screamed.
It all started a day ago when I arrived in Queenstown. Situated on Lake Wakatipu in the South Island of New Zealand, the town is essentially a haven for lovers of adventure sports. Of all its daredevil sports, Queenstown is best known for skydiving. After meeting almost a dozen people who were heading for a date with the skies, I could not resist the temptation to sign up too. I was to jump from a small aircraft the next day along with two other brave hearts.
Before the jump, we were given some vital instructions, jumpsuits, helmets, goggles and gloves. The drill was to be simple. The instructors who would be accompanying each one of us would help us jump out lest we had second thoughts. After a freefall of 45 seconds, they would open the parachutes and after five minutes we would be back on Earth.
As the aircraft climbed to an altitude of 12,000 foot, I silently watched my co-jumpers sucked out into the white emptiness. Soon it was my turn to take the plunge. My hands had turned cold inside the gloves. I inched towards the door but I was not supposed to charge forward like a bull and get over with it. I had to balance myself on the edge of the aircraft’s door and then jump. The instructor was getting restless at my chosen moment for reverie but I could not move. It was then that he pushed me.
When I had screamed my lungs out for what seemed like an eternity, I stared in awe at the scene below. The lake below was a blazing blue amidst brown hills. The stillness was sense-defying and I felt suspended in a timeless void. If silence could be defined, then that is how it would be. I was at peace. As the freefall was cut short by the opening of the parachute, I came back to reality. It was soon time to be back on Earth. As I sat down to pull myself together, I knew that I would be back someday.
It all started a day ago when I arrived in Queenstown. Situated on Lake Wakatipu in the South Island of New Zealand, the town is essentially a haven for lovers of adventure sports. Of all its daredevil sports, Queenstown is best known for skydiving. After meeting almost a dozen people who were heading for a date with the skies, I could not resist the temptation to sign up too. I was to jump from a small aircraft the next day along with two other brave hearts.
Before the jump, we were given some vital instructions, jumpsuits, helmets, goggles and gloves. The drill was to be simple. The instructors who would be accompanying each one of us would help us jump out lest we had second thoughts. After a freefall of 45 seconds, they would open the parachutes and after five minutes we would be back on Earth.
As the aircraft climbed to an altitude of 12,000 foot, I silently watched my co-jumpers sucked out into the white emptiness. Soon it was my turn to take the plunge. My hands had turned cold inside the gloves. I inched towards the door but I was not supposed to charge forward like a bull and get over with it. I had to balance myself on the edge of the aircraft’s door and then jump. The instructor was getting restless at my chosen moment for reverie but I could not move. It was then that he pushed me.
When I had screamed my lungs out for what seemed like an eternity, I stared in awe at the scene below. The lake below was a blazing blue amidst brown hills. The stillness was sense-defying and I felt suspended in a timeless void. If silence could be defined, then that is how it would be. I was at peace. As the freefall was cut short by the opening of the parachute, I came back to reality. It was soon time to be back on Earth. As I sat down to pull myself together, I knew that I would be back someday.
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