The three fives: the first error was committed by my unwavering gastronomical urge while declaring to the excited voice over the phone. Japanese food, off course. I had said this without any doubt, hurriedly reacting, more like a reflex than any apparent reasoning, my foodie avatar, as always, at its outstanding sampling best. And at that time, I had no dilutions over the fact that I would not be able to savour a regional fare I wasnt familiar with. After all, my taste buds had always relished different tastes, in the life lived, thus far, hard and well, and the extent of which spanned- hop by hop- from various locales in-house to a few across the borders. No taste, however alien or unimaginative to fathom rationally, when explained by the gourmand, or however putrid in its visual appeal, had failed to satiate my insatiably resounding appetite. So, armed with experience, I didnt forget to chuckle while declaring my choice of food, as the longing for the experience multiplied the layers of saliva that drenched my mouth. Thankfully, she hung up before I choked.

The day of the journey abroad the Japan airlines, crammed up in the economy section, I waited exuding civilized patience, smiling absurdly at people, who, for some non-understandable reason wore a solemn look and reflected at my affection somberly. It was my first visit to the country, and since I wasnt prepared to divorce my excitement for a few non-smiling faces, so I continued to smile, waiting patiently for the food to arrive.

The wait soon got over; with the plane jutting several thousand feet above into the inky sky as I found an airhostess handing me a plate. Now is the time, I told myself, balancing the whiskey soda I had accepted earlier along the periphery of the small table I folded open in front of me, the grin on my face at its largest best. And for the first time, I realized its being infectious on yet another race: the hostess smiled in return, setting aside the plasticine gesticulation of being servile. Now that is indeed a revelation, I told myself- uncovering the cling on film from over the tray- which was diagrammatically opposite to the commonly held belief here in India- at least with the few I knew- that the Japs are impassionate and never respond to overt display of emotion by anybody other than their own clan. As the hostess left me to deal with the charming affection of her fragrant smile, I found myself crusading against the commonly held belief. The food looked great, the three fives (flavors, colors and methods of preparations) as described in the travel reference book, exemplified at its best. Its appeal, variety and presentation was indeed breathtaking and as I found juices springing inside my mouth like hot water gushes at the sight of it, I dug deep into the culinary finery displayed in front of my eyes. My senses roared as I dug my teeth into the first sample. But, alas, this was where my excitement stream ran dry. My taste buds revolted to the alien flavor. It was only later, while staying in Japan, did I come to know that the quintessential Japanese flavor that tickled my taste buds the wrong way, actually comes from seaweed. The effect of the smile also began to thin down. Hungry, tired and caught between a silent generation, I ducked inside the warmth of the blanket dreamlessly, shying my advent to visit to a country that is home to an unpalatable delicatessen- the strips of seaweed doing juggernaut on my retina and the famous five mocking at their feet.

Books and silence

Next day of my arrival, and armed with scant acclimatization of the world of no horns and almost criminal quietude, walking on the streets of Tokyo, I tried to climb my conscious wall- as I am sure all of us will do in such clean and suave environment of men and machines when compared to our litter and noisy friends- staring at people with brazen amazement. Moments later, looking at my own reflection in the glass showcase of a store, I realized that I had forgotten the only important weapon I had found most potent just the previous night- smile. I forced myself, but couldnt. Finally I pulled the sides of my cheeks to give way to the otherwise easy gesture and was relieved to see the vibrancy return. I would have to do that several times over, in the next few days, I didnt know then. Wading through silence, and now wearing my version of plasticine forced smile, I began with window-shopping. The first visit was to a bookshop, the size of which, when I entered, made me gasp for air. Not only was it huge, it had a maze of shelved corridors that stocked an inconceivably large range of books and magazines. I pulled out a few and found all to be in Japanese. Only later, when I referred my travel guide book, did I realize that the Japanese publishers publish an exhaustive variety of books, almost close to about a lakh new titles each year, and are in league with other publishing giants like the UK, China, Germany and the US. I blinked and sought help to find an English book; the language that was so prolific in my country was mysteriously absent here. He bowed, I smiled and followed him to another level where my initial doubts of not able to find an English book, dissipated. This was another huge area, and in one corner was the English section. Rest, once again, were all in Japanese. It was a strange comparison for me to make, but one that I could not resist: the English books find such little space in Japanese book shops as perhaps Hindi does in Indian bookshops back home, particularly in the bookstores located in swank malls in the metropolis (less for alien language?). It hurt. To see an Indian author (though US based), however, in the top seller list, at the sixth spot to be precise, was a sigh of relief, though later.

Tea ceremony

The tea ceremony was order, conduct and old labored civic finesse exhibited at its best. The dolled up hostess, sporting a kimono effortlessly though I didnt see any on the street during my month long stint in the land of rising sun- along with her assistants, floated through the commentary of the guide, making me wonder at the stark similarity of them, in not showing their feet, while they glided without much movement (baby steps, for Bollywood), with Japanese ghosts, who are known to be without feet and are as much a part of the local folklore as the ceremony itself is worldwide. I quickly brushed the thoughts aside; it was bereft of the gratitude that required to be oozed out for the free demonstration. Awakened, I too, like others, sipped the green foamy paste, holding the cup with both hands and appreciating in-between sips, the flower arrangement of the hostess, as the guide had earlier tutored us. The discourse was longer than what my posterior could take, as it turned out to be in end, resting on my awkwardly folded legs bent backwards from the knee, the innocent looking tatami piercing through my shoe-softened feet with unusual firmness. And therefore when the ceremony got over, I was the first one to jump on my feet. Standing tall never felt so titanic.

Aishwaryas smile