The girl insists that his hair isn’t really like that and commands him to take his hat off. He refuses.

They place a bet for ten pounds and he tells her to give me the money as I appear to be a neutral but interested party. The girl asks if he is Trinidadian. He tells her he is Jamaican. By now I am dying to know if it really his hair or one of those hats.

He suddenly says be is Rastafarian. The girls tell him be can be anything but that isn’t his hair. One girl says “What’s a Raatafarian?”.

Their station suddenly appears and they jump out of the train and call out to him “Take care mate!”. She smiles at me and just like that I am left wondering if his hair is fake or real.

One more London based mystery with no answer.

Snow! And so much of it! Needless to say the tubes are off, the buses are not working. And I am working at home drinking endless cups of chai. London is a cake. And I can eat it!

In the heart of cities and of the cycle of urban decay is graffiti. Absurd word art and graffiti stared at us. And we spotted this.

It was exquisite, beautiful and stood out in the sea of clashing colours and spray paint.

Thanks (a million thanks actually) to Shefaly who suddenly told me on Wednesday that she had an extra ticket for the concert on Thursday. I was jumping up and down even as I heard about it. This is Joan Baez. A woman whose voice has kept me going through many angst filled years.

Shefaly and I may have been some of the youngest members of the audience. The audience was filled with grey, long, flowing hair. It took them a little time to warm up, but clearly this was a generation to whom the music of the 60s would have meant a lot. A man sitting right next to Shefaly, seemed to know every song, every line. He was out of tune. But something was touching about that incredible passion and memory.

What can I say about Joan Baez that hasn’t been said already. She sings beautifully. When she does her numbers without any instrument support, her voice comes out crystal clear. There is nothing to embellish. Nothing to cover up. And her sense of humour and charm just filled the hall. She struggled with her bracelet, and the rest of her band kept trying to take it off, as she rattled off story after another. The best bit was when she was singing Love is Just a Four-Letter Word and in the middle of it, she started singing like Dylan! Like the whole twang, jagged edgy voice. The audience was in splits.

Oh and she sang Amazing Grace. One of my favourite songs, and she got the entire audience to join her. Even the ones who didn’t know the lyrics. As she prepped them up for it. It was fantastic. Beautiful. You never quite realize that the voice on the CD is real, that there is absolutely nothing that needs to be modified to make it sound better. She was petite, tiny almost. And I wondered where the voice came from.

At various points in my life, I’ve wanted to be different things. One of them, (and I did have some talent then, mind you!) was to be able to sing on stage. Well some of that faded away. But on such nights, when I hear such overwhelmingly good music, I wonder what that would have been like. For now, the heart is full. Very full.

Now, whenever I hear those words, my metal GPS springs into action. There’s nothing more embarrassing than not being able to tell someone the general direction of a street or station. It’s a prestige issue for me. I like to think I am a stud at directions. (Sri will tell you otherwise. Don’t listen to him.)

Anyhow, in that split second I knew that this wasn’t going to be a conversation about directions. The thing is, I had ten minutes to kill. I was a little early for an appointment, and I was ambling about anyway. So he asks me, “Why don’t people live with their families here in London”. Somehow the conversation suddenly morphed into one in Hindi.

I was quick to judge him. I thought he was going to tell me that the British don’t care about their parents, and everyone here believes in deserting their parents. I was steeling myself for that bit. Except he said, “There are so many people from all over the world here, I suppose they cannot always bring their entire families with them”. And he just looked so sad.

So I told him well, it makes more sense, given how small houses in cities are, or how people really prefer to be in their own space. He nodded. He said “My brother got married recently, and he wants me to move in with him. My life maybe easier, but I don’t want to disturb them. He doesn’t understand that. But it will be easier, I can’t even make tea.”.

Now that annoyed me. I tell him that making tea is a relatively simple process that can be mastered in about five minutes. He says he works for twelve hours, so he doesn’t have the time. I tell him half the world works for twelve hours, they manage to make their tea and their dinner. He asks me what I should do. He also tells me about the rest of his family. But my ten minutes of free-time were almost up. I tell him, “Talk to your brother. “. He tells me I am right. Says his Salaam, wishes me and my family well, thanks me for talking to him like his sister, and walks away.

Later on the phone with WA, and ask her why random strangers tend to feel so free to come and talk to me. She gives me a very unflattering explanation.

The summer in this city is so fleeting that you don’t even invest in a summer wardrobe. Much as I whined my way through summers in Delhi and other cities, drowning in my own sweat and giddy-headed with dehydration, I miss it all. It’s not that I mind the mildness of the summer here, but sometimes I find myself wishing for a real summer. The kind that makes you reach for a glass of nimbu-pani.

But on some days, London can get really hot. Those rare days, when the whole city wears shades, and thirty minutes in the sun might actually burn your skin. The sky turns a brilliant blue, save for a few puffs of clouds. Yesterday, as the temperature finally touched the late twenties, and inside the tube, people were fanning themselves, I was almost glad. Sharp sun streaming through, reflections, people dozing off, and women’s hair up in buns. There’s that familiar drowziness. And yes, that’s what I really miss. The afternoon lethargy of a real summer. And the elation that follows when you finally walk into your home, calmed by the cold, thick walls.

There’s something interesting about the Bakerloo Line. I’ve always seen some very interesting characters on that particular tube line. Plus the name itself – BakerLoo – makes me laugh everytime.

Anyhow, what do you think she’s reading?