The Wonderland I once called Home

This is not a chapter from a travel journal and I am not a chronicler. I am a teller of tales and this is what fairytales are made of, fairytales of a different kind though. For someone who has spent endless sultry afternoons in chockfull classrooms, inhaling the sour stench of sweat and boredom, and has suffered from torticollis (twisted neck) on several occasions, trying to catch a glimpse of the evening sky through some rare gap between lofty buildings, to spend entire days lazing about on a shingle beach throbbing with life, watching the capricious colours of the ocean while sipping on chilled beer, is definitely stuff for chimerical fiction. In this tale I am the narrator, who has seen it all and done it all and sometimes I wonder if I had only imagined it all.
Two years ago, the serious business of acquiring a degree from a leading British university landed me, of all places, in Brighton, a quirk of fate I would ponder upon some other time. Brighton is a quaint beach resort on the southeastern shores of England, flanked by the picturesque Sussex downs; the Brighton of charming sights and haunting memories, of categorical intemperance and an insatiable thirst for pleasure, of raffish nonchalance and adulterous escapades. Thus, a much appreciated break from the role of the stoic Indian notwithstanding the Spartan resources, typical to a student’s life.
It was autumn when I began my stay in Brighton, the leaves were turning mellow and dusk was closing in, the fabled Brighton beach was quite, almost empty in the evenings as it had started to get colder already. But I liked sitting there on the empty beach, watching the sea, the white seagulls wading in the surf, the silhouette of the crumbling skeleton of the West Pier against the evening sky. I liked listening to the swooshing sound of retreating waves, while my mind took off on flights of fancy; dreamed, fantasized and engaged in the illogical ruminations of my quixotic mind. It was on a similar autumn day that I saw them for the first time. Fantastic murmurations of starlings, hundreds of them clustered into myriad different formations, performing a spectacular aerial recital. Cart wheeling, flipping, rolling over before plummeting down and then swooping up in a majestic twirl. And at moments I held my breath, the hair on my neck erect, fearing an airborne accident, only to heave a sigh of relief as one faction swooped low down and the other soared high above in a breathtaking last minute manoeuvre.
Close to Brighton is the quiet little Victorian village of Lewes, famous for the Bonfire night, an annual celebration held on the 5th of November, Guy Fawkes Day, of which I was a part on the insistence of a local friend. I was expecting, at the most, a mammoth bonfire around which a couple of hundred people would be dancing, drinking and making merry. I was definitely not ready for what I witnessed. The narrow streets of the tiny village were crammed full with thousands and thousands of people, all awaiting, with bated breadth, the Bonfire night parade. Through a film of fiery scarlet smoke, I watched the procession of men, women and children dressed in flamboyant costumes, carrying flaming torches, the marching bands of drummers and bangers, carnival troupes and fire jugglers, pirates and knights, Zulu warriors and scary monsters, my heart pounding with an almost feral excitement. And late that I night as I stood by a giant bonfire, watching thenight sky light up with fabulous firework, I knew this was fairytale stuff.
Quite often especially on sunny spring afternoons, we would head for our favourite walk through the hoary warren of narrow, cobblestone streets and twisting alleyways, The Lanes. It is in fact one of the oldest quarters of Brighton, a vestige of the medieval times, when the area was a small fishing village, Brighthelmstone. Lined with cozy bars and inviting pubs and little restaurants selling delicious local bites, quaint antique shops, and jewellery booths, the lanes are Brighton’s most happening shopping district. It’s the perfect place to spend a lazy afternoon, sauntering down the cobbled pathways, making your way through the throng of enthused tourists and gay locals, past startling human statues and street dancers, postcard stands, blackboards bearing striking bargains in colourful letters and revolving hangers displaying hand bags in all conceivable colours. We would occasionally stop to admire the exotic African anklets or the lovely pearls sitting pretty behind glass walls. We would turn the corner and there would be a band of street musicians with their violins, guitars and saxophone, and their music will remain in my ears long after I would retire to bed. Torn between its beguiling antiquity and delightful present, I craved to return to the Lanes again, just one more time.
We were initially reluctant in visiting The Royal Pavilion, Brighton’s landmark architecture, a product of the fancy of Prince Regent, later English Monarch George IV. The entry charges equaled to an entire day’s expense for most of us. However, we chanced upon the discovery that the Pavilion served as a military hospital for the Indian Troops during the First World War, something very few know or remember and now we went anyway, driven by a sudden surge of, what I believe was a fusion of homesickness and patriotism. With its minarets, domes and latticed awnings, the palace looks like something out of the Arabian nights. Inside is a lavish display of chinoiserie flamboyance with rich silk draperies, ornate chandeliers, gilded dragons and carved palm trees. It was a nice experience but we decided we could have lived without it.
When summer arrived, our close-knit group of five (after the initial trials and errors) had practically shifted to the beach, which now resembled carnival grounds, stretching for miles. The bewildering hullabaloo of dervish vacationers, the sea breeze redolent with the aroma of barbequed meat and roasted corn on the cobs, the flying Frisbees and the hula-hoops, multi-coloured umbrellas and humans of every hue, children running amuck, chortling and gurgling- the beach was unfit for a soggy soul. Then there was the Brighton Pier with its casinos and game parlours, the fun rides and a scary house and the candied apples and Brighton rock, a specialty confection, no matter where you break it, it still reads Brighton Rock. Whether we were right in the middles of all that action or sitting on the promenade above, chomping on fish ‘n’ chips, we were hoarding a  life time’s ration of memories.
I am a teller of tales and this is a tale of days gone by, perhaps never to return again, of friends left behind, of sights and sounds which now seem so faraway…