When I was really tiny, and I mean tiny not small, I would visit my Didarbari on 86 Ibrahimpur Road with Mom every evening. We rarely took the bus, but on those occasions when we did, we would get down at the Jadavpur bus stop. From here, there were two alternative walking routes to take, one through a narrow alley lined on both sides by shops selling imitation jewellery that strangely lead onto shacks selling grains, and then, into a little shade hosting a Shoni Mondir, if you crossed the road here,  you would meet the 3 grey cement steps leading up to our haven. Or you could take the other route, broader, with the Jadavpur coffee house on the right and a few ramshackle shops on the left, again you would reach a point where the road needed to be crossed, there would be a sweet shop on the right side, followed be Jalajog, our regular haunt for pastries and other sweet things, then a poultry, take the turn and the grey steps leading up to our happiest place came into view. 

 Among these tiny shades and wick mats that passed off as shops, on the left side of the second route, the first one was Dadur Dokan, an old man selling cheap, rustic toys, wooden trucks, buses, brightly coloured rounded swaying dolls with round eyes, probably made of toxic plastic, those inflatable things that can never hold their shapes etc. His collection was dreadful and his shop was a dilapidated hole, but Dadu sold something that me and Momfancied alike, he always displayed, stuck with elastic bands to the bottom of a shallow card-board box, a miniature tea set! A set comprising cups, saucers, snack plates, spoons, forks, a tea pot, milk and sugar pots! The diameter of the snack plate, which was the largest piece in the set would be about the size of a 1 rupee coin! Every other item was smaller! Unlike the Mattel made Barbie tea sets that are so popular now, these were not made of a thick, malleable plastic, instead the plastic was brittle and almost translucent! Like real china should be!  The cups and saucers were too small to accommodate it, but each snack plate had a border of floral designs! The colour was always a sweet girlie pink. Very real-life! Just very small.

Mom would buy this little gift for me once every two to three weeks, as my tiny hands would easily loose some pieces and break the others by that time, Mom herself found this tiny play thing quite fascinating, for its life –like shape, look, colour, even feel! Mom too would handle the pieces lovingly during my play time. Then my Dad bought a lovely apartment in Salt Lake, we moved. Away from Didarbari, Jadavpur, Dadur Dokan and my miniature tea sets. Mom was so considerate that just before we left, she bought me a new one, I knew I had to be careful with this, so I preserved the best that I could. But in sometime, inadvertently I lost a few pieces and broke a few more. I held onto the last 2/3 till the very end, by which I mean till I stopped playing with dolls and their utensils.  Somewhere in the dusty corners of my maternal home, I bet a few faded pink tiny cups and saucers are still skulking to surprise me  one day!

During our occasional visits to Jadavpur I would always look out for Dadur Dokan, but within a little while of our moving, it was replaced by a better appointed shop, selling better quality toys, tiper pata, kacher churi and so on. Dadu was gone and he took along one of the most memorable toys from my tinyhood.

At one point my Mama started studying Engineering at a college in Chinsura, my Dida and Dadu moved house and set up there. They rented the ground floor of this magnificent individual house on some para there, though it was still my tiny days, I remember the house plan accurately till date!  Winter vacations were usually the time when we visited Dida, at this house, for weeks. My general pastime during those phases was to listen to mama play Hindi film songs on a long playing record player, get spoilt rotten by him and the others, be afraid of the graveyard adjoining Dida’s house, spend time on their large red cement veranda, pluck flowers from the hedges that ran along the outside wall, wander around the back of the house, try to peek into the kitchen well there and sleep. I started reading early so I would also read a few of my Bengali fairy tales during these fairytale days.

My Dadu would visit the Chinsura local market to get special grocery during our visits, he would often take me along for a ride in the rickshaw. The market had potters selling stuff, some of them small kolshis and such, Dadu would buy those for me and I would absolutely love them! After all they were the authentic thing, made by the professionals, with the real material; clay... but just too small! Dadu also bought me plastic dolls, always in sets of a boy and a girl, those dolls that look unrealistic, have half formed features, have limbs attached with plastic bands and wear clothes made of printed ribbons! I don’t think even village fairs have that stuff anymore.  But I just loved my dolls and my kolshis.

After my Mama completed his studies the family moved back to 86 Ibrahimpur Road but Dadu began to keep unwell. Within a few years he was almost confined to the house. My Dadu passed away when I was still quite small, my only worthwhile memories of him remain the matir kolshis and plastic dolls that he got for me in Chinsura.

Before I grew up and boring, I acquired another coveted piece, something that shares pride of space with my tea set, matir kolshis and plastic dolls in the mental rack of my best toys ever! When I was in standard IV or V, my Choto Mashi came visiting from Jalpaigudi, she was beautiful! My mother’s favourite so automatically mine too, my Dida’s darling and incidentally, rich! My father was an officer in a Nationalised Bank, so we were comfortable for sure, we had our yearly vacations to exotic Indian cities, sponsored by my Dad’s LTA, I went to a nice enough school, we saw our award winning English movies, visited the Robindrosadan to watch cultural shows and so on. But what we did not have was disposable income to splurge, just splurge...almost everything we bought or did had a practical purpose. Therefore expensive toys, which had no other use besides amusement, were not so encouraged in my household.

My Mashi on the other hand was married to a family that were majority share-holders of a tea estate, this was when tea from North Bengal was still coveted in world markets and Bengali’s still had some control of it. Mashi both had a thick wallet and a big heart. She remembered how I longed for her daughter’s beautiful kitchen set when I visited them in Jalpaigudi a few years back, she remembered how I would keep on playing with the gas burner, the pressure cooker, open and close the refrigerator door and so on. So Mashi gave me money to buy such a set for myself! That joy far superseded the one that I felt when I actually became the mistress of my own kitchen, post marriage. The set had every item made of stainless steel. It was no child’s toy! It was a miniature scale model of a real life kitchen! The gas cylinder, a maximum height of 3 and ½ inches, even had a tiny rubber pipe connecting it to the burner! The tiny pressure cooker was an exact replica of the toy model sold by Hawkins, this I mention so that you may know how real these little pieces were! The deep frying pan, shallow frying pan, the ladles, the kodai were all very very realistic! Though a bit too old, me and my friends were still into make believe games and boy were they impressed with this set!

When I was a relatively big girl and a well settled resident of Salt Lake, I and my neighbourhood Kakima went to our local market one day, she had to buy some wool, she was knitting a sweater. While we were crowding at the shop, I spotted a transparent plastic bag displaying a tall lanky doll, dressed in a dark chocolate mini frock and black high boots! Golden, close cropped hair framing a face like I had never seen before! A grown up face! A delicate nose, rosy lips, blue eyes and perfectly shaped dark eyebrows! Every Kakima has a girl within, she too had noticed this incredible doll and enquired about its price, 17/- it was. I came back home in a huff and immediately asked Mom for that doll, she firmly refused when she heard of the price and told me off. I was reconciled because Mom rarely changed her mind, but I was sad.

The next day when I returned from school, lo and behold! The golden hair girl in all her glory was hanging from by book case! Mom did get it for me after all and she meant it to be a surprise! That doll was my prima donna till I committed to marry her off with a friend’s boy doll, knowing that she had none! She bought a boy doll to take my girl home! I would visit her often, my Prima Donna was older and less fresh, but she still exuded much better charm than the 17/- my mother had paid for her. Kakima who designed an executed her wedding trousseau passed away at a relatively young age. Her interest in this doll-like-no-other is among the many fond memories I have of her.

When we stop playing with toys, life starts playing with us. Think of your favourite toys, their stories will come flooding back. And for a while, you may, just may feel the light heartedness and nimble footedness of your toy days.

Tags: me
Current Mood: contemplative

 

                       

The Last Victory

The Imperial Agent II

Timeri N.Murari

This is the well written and engaging story of Kim, Parvati, the Colonel, unusually named characters like Vancouver Sing, Isaac Newton and a milieu of others. Many plots, many characters and many emotions define this tapestry.

Kim, the protagonist of this book, as I learned from research is inspired by the boisterous character Kimball o’ Hara created by Rudyard Kipling. In the course of the book we see Kim evolve from a bit of a reckless spirit to a matured man who knows fears, knows that disappointments are as much a part of life as victory. It is predominantly his exploits that we follow in the course of the story. It begins with his escape from the clutches of his lover’s husband, with her on tow. She is sick and he has to save her, throughout the narrative Kim’s relationship with Parvati changes and grows into something more sublime than romantic. In fact, I though the love of the flesh could have found a more prominent place in their relationship, after all, Kim is some sort of an outlaw and Parvati who ran away from her marital home and is portrayed as a brave and free spirited woman would have probably been attracted as much to Kim’s good Eurasian looks as to the pure strength of his character. The story concludes with the end of the journey that Kim begins and takes forward on several levels throughout .

Parallely we learn of the Colonel’s loss and pain, we come to know that while he thinks he loves this land and is doing everything to protect it and improve the lot of it’s people, he is actually delusional in his thoughts. We come to know how his idealistic wife discarded him over India’s fate, his daughter ran off after a beautiful boy, a con star whose path crosses the Colonel’s again in the course of the narrative, his son died in action and his biggest asset Kim, the Indian European Imperial agent the Colonel hand-crafted discarded him over that which he though could never be the bone of contention, this nation of India and its fate.

We also follow the slow decline of Parvati’s rich but insecure, powerful but obsequious, lecherous but also a Milquetoast of a husband from a vindictive aristocratic to a slobbering, insane with jealousy, idiot. We come to know and admire the gutsy Alice, the chance patriot and legend convert Anil, his paramour Sushila, Newton, the admirable man in a iniquitous profession and the Bards Bala and Bala. This prompts me to comment on another aspect of this novel in the next paragraph.

The Last Victory has elements of magic woven into a story that on the other hand narrates historical events like the Jallianwallah Bagh massacre and describes real life characters like Rishi Aurobindo , Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru, though not necessary in the image popular history has lent to them. This aspect has been delved in details by many reviewers , personally I have found the authors take on these famous men engaging if unconventional. However I have not been able to reconcile the supernatural elements to this otherwise well-defined story of India’s freedom struggle. Perhaps exposure to the first part of this book would have helped that cause.

On the whole, I will highly recommend The Last Victory to readers of serious fiction, especially those that have an affinity towards historical novels. By the time they turn the last page many of them would be wondering like me, if India’s Independence struggle is what we were taught it is....or is there perhaps more to the story that has been deliberately kept concealed???

                                                                                                         

     

Book - Known Turf

Author- Annie Zaidi

Publisher-Tranquebar

Words-280

Price- Rs 250

Annie Zaidi talks about her known turf in this book, if what she covers in its pages is familiar geography, then the lady is certainly a master of northern India, its issues, its politics, its filth and its hopes. I however felt that Annie was not just referring to the land that she knows when she named her book, but also to her profession, her journalism.

Though Annie picks up burning issues like female foeticide, infant malnutrition, peasant suicide, caste politics and so on, the book would not have been what it is without the flavour of her personality seeping through its pages, as readers, you would not just grasp what is written but also read the mind of she, who wrote it all. Annie stands out as an alert, righteous, ethical and above all concerned woman through her reportage, her gender being the most important influencer of the contents in this book.

Known Turf is an expansion and compilation of various stories the journalist had done on the above mentioned subjects and more, while working for the Frontline magazine, the narrative describes what she learns during investigative journalism and how she goes about doing her job. In one page she may be describing the fly buzzing around the malnourished infant’s half closed eyes and on the next choose to talk about the bananas her neighbours in the train were forcing her to eat. It is this mix of objectivity with emotion that makes this book and its stories unique, this is why they are not magazine articles, neither are they short stories in the garb of journalistic writing.

Among all the issues that Annie touches , I find molestation to be the most moving. Though she puts in a lot of information on the other subjects she chooses, the whole force of her personality comes into play only when she starts speaking of molestation and eve teasing. While talking of the abuse working women face on the roads, public transports and even at their work-places in some cases, Annie transforms from the scribe to the crusader. Like many of us, this pain is close to her heart and this pain is one that she would like to heal.

I found Known Turf extremely educative, I learned not only of how my India is not shining on most matrixes but also of, to what extent my politicians do not really care about that! I also learned of Sufism, its origin and its wonderful saints, I learned the inside story of Dera Sacha Sauda and how the newspapers often do not tell the whole truth, I also learned, how I, as a woman, have a responsibility towards protecting my dignity against violation. I would highly recommend this book to all alert and aware Indian’s, it may help to put many factors into perspective and open our eyes to truths, that are otherwise carefully hidden by the administration.

 

 

Tags: book reviews
Current Location: Gurgaon
Current Mood: contemplative

 

                                                
                    

Work, job, they are not the same, while my Mother does everything I do better, she never had a job. What is a job? It is something that you do and get paid for doing, the commercials are what makes it a job, till that transaction does not happen work does not qualify as a job. There are jobs in which you do nothing, remember the big hype around the “Best Job In The World in Paradise Island of Australia” the chosen one would laze by the sea and get paid for it, so…no he did not have any work, but he did have a job! Thus money is what makes a job a job.

There are some who say, the money does not matter…If that is so, then why are they at a  job??!!! Well…because they need to fill their time we hear, but one can do that and not get paid for it, that sort of work either involves volunteering or practicing a hobby… fills time nice enough but the ‘time – spender’ does not get paid for spending time, therefore does not have a job.

I think , and I often do, both think and think this thought, if I am not so keen on the money, why do I go to do a job everyday, I can simply work. When will I have the attitude to not hold a job, when will I have the strength to get over getting paid, when , if ever will I be a working woman who does not have a job?!!!! 
  
 

Tags: job, pay, work
Current Location: Gurgaon

The Taj

An edifice of love, a memorial like no other, a poem in stone, what is the Taj?

Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan erected the Taj Mahal in the memory of his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal. Shah Jahan (then Prince Khurram) met Mumtaz Mahal (then Arjumand Banu Begum) at the age of fourteen and fell in love at the first sight. She was a Muslim Persian princess and Shah Jahan was the son of the Mughal Emperor, Jehangir. Five years later, in 1612, they got married.

Mumtaz Mahal, an inseparable companion of Shah Jahan, died in 1631, while giving birth to their 14th child. It is believed that during her last moments, Mumtaz Mahal obtained a promise from Shah Jahan that he will build the world's most beautiful monument in her memory. But this has not been proven to be true, till date. However, Shah Jahan did indeed build a magnificent monument as a tribute to his wife, which we today know as the "Taj Mahal". Shah Jahan, himself also, lies entombed in this mausoleum along with his wife.

The construction of Taj Mahal started in the year 1631 and it took approximately 22 years to build it. An epitome of love, it made use of the services of 22,000 laborers and 1,000 elephants. It was built entirely out of white marble, which was brought in from all over India and central Asia. After an expenditure of approximately 32 million rupees (approx US $68000), Taj Mahal was finally completed in the year 1653.

It is said that even today, on a moonlit night, watchmen and even the occasional tourist have seen the besotted emperor walk along the Taj fountains , hand in hand with she who inspired this exquisite structure! You say you don’t believe, I say Love Never Dies….

Where the dead too tell stories.

Delhi lives, not just in the hustle bustle of the office buildings, the colours and riots of the shopping malls, the pride and efficiency of the Metro, it also lives on every hidden nook, every concealed corner, every broken brick, every cracked stone. They all have stories to tell, intriguing stories, mysterious stories and sometimes stories of love. Stories narrated in the moonlight, stories told by shadows, stories that blow in the wind and stories that haunt much after they have been told.

Purana Qila or the Old Fort, is one spot in Delhi that fascinates more with the atmosphere than the architecture, especially at night. Situated on Mathura Road, this monument is a far cry from the steel and glass of Gurgaon. It’s believed to be built on a mound that conceals the remains of Indraprastha, the Divine City, supposedly the seat of a powerful government during the times of Mahabharat, an ancient epic of India. With a history that transcends the written word and passes on to the era of the sages and saints, its no wonder that Purana Qila communicates with what is untold. At night, in the stillness, one feels the whispers, the emotions, pains and angst of those who are long gone. Puarana Qila is one of the haunted spots of Delhi, though nobody has ever seen a spectral presence there.

Some of the other buildings in Delhi where residents have allegedly lived on even after their deaths are the Salimgarh Fort in Chandni Chawk, Zeenat Mahal in Red Fort, The Khooni Darwaza or the Gate of Blood in Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg and the various Christian and Islamic cemeteries that dot the city landscape throughout.

A drive around these monuments, in an air conditioned vehicle, under the blazing afternoon sun will never tell the stories they have held on to for centuries. It’s only at night that the residents who refuse to vacate, the phantoms who have not been exorcised, the unearthly who still call Delhi their home talk, at night when we sleep they tell their stories and hope that we never hear them.     
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
 

                                                          

The Angel’s Game

I do not know how to write a review for this book, I am too enamoured by it, I am completely obsessed by the story so forgive me if I gush. The Angel’s Game is as much Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s as yours or mine. It is a book that leaves much to interpretation, it is a story that you and I will have to discover as we read. There are very few definitives here, most of the events are left for you to ascertain, the Angel’s Game is a knot that the angel ties and neither the protagonist, nor the author , not the reader can untangle completely. I read somewhere that Carlos anticipated that he might have written a ‘monster book’ with The Angel’s Game, well it is one such thing, if such a thing ever existed.

This book can be loosely classified as a literary thriller, a book that starts off and carries through a mystery that is put down in a book again, to that extent it is a book’s story captured inside another book. This is just one of the many loops which go on throughout the narrative. The story is about a young writer David Martin who inhabits a mythical city that is drawn by the author in the image of 1920s Barcelona. This Barcelona, whose lanes and gullies are frequented by ghosts and murderers like the foggy London of Jack the Ripper is a primary character in the novel.

David writes and lives through his books like all writers but the irony is his book, his story soon starts living through him. From a neglected, ignored childhood where his only refuge was Sempere and Son’s the old bookshop and the bookseller himself, David grows up to fame under a pseudo name as the writer of Barcelona’s most depraved crime novels, he also experiences lost love, shadow writing for his benefactor and occupying a mansion decorated with gargoyles and monsters. It is hard to fathom whether it is David who is preordained to live in that house or it is the house that is destined to have only writers of a certain genre as residents. The story not only acts out David’s life as a parallel to Marlasca, the previous owner’s but also throws a slight hint indicating that the owner before Marlasca, a mad priest also suffered a fate quite similar to theirs.

An uneven balance of good and bad influences in David’s life are described as the narrative progresses, Pedro Vidal, Sempere Senior and Junior, Isabella, Don Basilio Moragas, Christina are portrayed as the good and Barrido & Escobillas, Inspector Victor Grandes and Andrew Corelli, the bad ones. However Andrew Corelli as we soon discover is capable of tipping the scale in favour of evil not only in the story but also in this world if David successfully writes the book Andrew hires him to inscribe. Andrew literarily changes David’s life, no sooner does David take up a commission to write a book for this mysterious Parisian published than the ever increasing body count starts building throug the novel.

There is no point in pondering over the mystery or mysteries in this book, they are for you to discover as you read. The bone chilling sequences are not the graphic descriptions of dead bodies and secret chambers but words spoken by the characters, example, in response to David’s question, Andrew Corelli admits that he wanted to be God when he was young, in another sequence a story is described as that of the Son of the Morning, the angel of Light….Lucifer’s story. The statement that Victor makes about how he has always seen David wear the angel badge that David throughout the book keeps associating with Andrew Corelli brings in another creepy twist in the novel.

Read it by all means, but only if you have enjoyed “The Portrait of Dorian Grey” “The Curious Case Benjamin Button’ or “The Calcutta Chromosomes” because the Angel’s Game will surely leave you with more questions than answers and may turn you into an obsessive brooding fan, as it has done to me. It is a monster book so read it with caution.

Tags: book reviews
Current Location: Gurgaon
Current Mood: contemplative

Kurbaan

It’s so cute!!!! Cuteness is a virtue right?

All you guys who enjoyed Cinderella and Snow White while unable to reach the calling bell will love it. It’s a fairy tale, it begins with a statue telling a story…the story of the peasant boy and the captive princess, how the obviously simple hero from a humble background meets the lofty princess of his dreams, except the princess is a tortured soul, maltreated by the step-mother….and auctioned off by the indifferent father in return of a kingdom. But our “high on the hills was a lonely shepherd” may be illiterate but he is no fool. He can use his willy nilly charms to great effect and rescue the damsel in distress each time….every time !! Difficult tasks are set on the way of success, the stupid/smart hero succeeds in all of them, how long could she remain blind to his affection?? Not long…just 3 hours, by the end of which the princess is convinced that here is her prince charming and they unite to “live happily ever after”.

Watch the props, see the city the fictional characters inhabit, the houses are yellow, pink, purple, the roads cobble-lined, pretty much like the illustrations in Hansel & Gretel. Then there is the Jesus Christ, who is dressed exactly like the biblical paintings and what’s more is actually the shepherd!! I mean he has the cute flock of white a woolly lambs following him around, the caption on his car says something to the effect of “the Lord is my shepherd, I will not want” where else but in a fairy tale does God make a personal appearance to set things right?? No rays of light from the hand held in benediction, no sharp shafts from the 3^rd eye…but ‘My Lord’ in person, Jesus Christ in flesh and blood!!

Come on guys, loose the skepticism, this is not a Page 3 or a Omkara, it’s a “Never Ending Story” or better still a “Snow Queen”, see it for what it is, enjoy it for the way it is, laugh with it for what it says…..don’t go looking for sense, don’t use too much of the left brain, don’t fret…just laugh ….Katrina & Ranbir look like princess Jasmine and Aladdin so be the genie and take genuine and pure pleasure from their love and the innocence with which Ajab Prem Ki Gajam Kahani is made.

I do wish though, the movie’s collateral was designed to the fantasy theme rather than the comic book look, that caused a bit of a disconnect for me and is my only compliant about this otherwise delightful flick.

Tags: review
Current Location: Gurgaon
Current Mood: cheerful

                          

         Note the eyes                                                      Still spying                                                  Never alone at Bayan


                                                                       

                                      They are watching                                                                      Stony stare


                                                 

                                                                                   The eyes without iris



They saw through closed eyes. 

They saw it all, the rise of the empires, the reign of the God Kings, the city that materialized from bricks of sand stone, the culture that evolved when subjects worshipped the emperors, the life that was busy and then… they saw it fall. The faces in Bayan look upon you from every corner, glimpse at a stone, gray, ruined, ancient and the faces materialize from history, unexpectedly. They are looking, they know….they have seen it all.

It’s not the famous Temple of Angkor Wat, its smaller, its in bricks but Bayan is haunting. Located at cycling distance from Angkor Wat, Bayan is a sight that’s sudden. The gate, it has the faces, the eight eyes that stare, pass under and approach the temple. Nothing will prepare you for what awaits. Everywhere you look, they are watching, for centuries, before history they have started to see, when you are at Bayan, you are never alone.

In the 13^th Century, the benevolent Jayavarman VII built the Angkor Thom, in the middle of the “Great City” he put its crowning jewel, the Bayan Temple. Originally there were 54 towers, each with the eyes….eyes that have no iris and eyes that saw it all. The sculptors froze life in its stones, mothers cooking, babies playing, monkeys, goats, fish, crocodiles, boatmen and the sea. Hands had curved what the eyes had seen. Bayan remained unfinished, workmanship was mysteriously abandoned…but the faces were erected, the eyes were done….the watch had begun.

After Jayavarman VII the Khmer Kingdom started its decline. The sunset did not ring in the closing of a successful day, the sunrise the dawn of joy. The far ends of the kingdom were breaking out, the waves of humanity, the Khmer’s Thai subjects proved more treacherous than the seas they had navigated. The empire was soon reduced to small fragmented kingdoms. And those eyes, those without iris saw the processions pass away, not of victory or conquest, but of despair and dejection, like floods they passed underneath the gate of eight eyes, the mothers did not cook, the babies did not play, the monkeys, goats and boatmen…they just walked, away. Farther from Angkor Wat, far away from Angkor Thom. 

Those eyes shut out the world, they did not want to look upon the demur of what build them. They turned away in pain, in neglect, the forest knew their grief, the forest understood, it gave them cover, pulled the green blanket over those eyes without iris, they slept, they mourned, they vanished….into that from which they had been conjured. Then there was only the forest…..till now.

Archeologists from all over consider Bayan as the best, the most exciting, delicate intricacy, perfect architecture, great engineering, to me…Angkor is a story…of magic, the rise of a kingdom from the foamy seas, the Apsaras from heaven who made it their home, the Gods who ruled over it….the hands that wove Angkor, the vision of the shut eyes that gave us Bayan…to see forever.

As usual my entry describes only my thoughts on visiting Bayan Temple, in Cambodia. Under no circumstance is my piece historically accurate or tourism wise informative,
 
                 

Tags: vacation