Culture · Europe · Letters · Paris · Travel

Dear Louvre

Louvre: France
The Louvre—Looking though the glass

Do you remember me?  I guess not. We had met 2 years ago when I decided to do a dream backpacking trip to Europe. After burning the midnight oil, my company graced me with bonus. I consumed in 15 days all my savings and walked through the clouds. I thought Paris is the place to be. Sometimes all the things that you have stereotyped about a city ends up being true. The city of love not only grants love but also gives you a chance for resurrection.

It was day three in Paris and I decided that today I should try searching the alluvial aspects of life. The two museums I narrowed down were you and Centre Georges Pompidou. I asked myself, “How much of Louvre will I see? I would probably not remember most of the things’. I got up early in the morning and had my morning coffee and took a train from Caulaincourt Metro Station. After getting down I took an escalator and looked up. I could see the sky through the triangular glass panes. I heard someone saying, “It is so crowded!”. I looked around and I tried searching the crowd. After travelling in Mumbai local for 8 long years I have come to realize that wherever I go I will never find a crowd because I am always a part of it.  I took a map and an audio guide. I looked at it blankly thinking where I should start. There was an option of looking only at the most essential parts of the museum. Instead I kept going straight not knowing where Ill end up. The universe seemed so vast and I realized that I won’t be able to see the whole of it.

I glanced though the numerous paintings and works of art as if I was floating through some surreal reality. I came across one painting and I looked at it closely. I don’t remember the painter or why he painted the portrait. All I bear in mind is that an old lady wearing a dark green gown and her hand placed on her lap. Pain stung my body and I capitulated to the woman in front of me.  Her hands reminded me of my grandmother who had passed away. They were calm and composed and yet the lines on her hands showed the frenzied nature of her soul. I had not cried at her funeral because I knew she was old and her time had come. But as I looked at the paining I thought, “What if she lived a few more years?” I knew she would be so happy to see my in Louvre. You see she was painter too. Yes maybe not good enough to be part of you but definitely a painter who would have admired you. Tails of yours have spread far and yet someone who is less deserved stood at your door. Teary eyed I continued my journey to the inner lairs of the universe.

Till this day, I do not remember the paining, the sculptures. I remember what it felt like to miss someone. I try hard remembering all the incidents with my grandma. In the end I might not remember her hair, her wrinkled skin or her laugh, but the essence remains. I don’t remember much of you. But I do remember my walk in a world unknown kept safe in the city of lights.

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