~ Sliding Door

“Namaste”, said the old man.

But let me start from 5 minutes before. I was on my way back from Uffizi. Last 45 minutes in this city, I looked at the time as I speeded up my walking. Florence has been truly wonderful. That sunset from Piazza de Michelangelo or the aimless stroll along river Arno could suffice a lot, but there is so much more about it. The city has been absolutely kind to me in many ways. Good thing is, I’m not going to make a list of Florence’s amazingness here. Let the guidebooks do their job; I have an old man’s ‘Namaste’ to get back to. I’m trying to get there.

“I couldn’t find my magic here”, I said to myself. I looked for it so hard; probably a bit too hard to see it really. On the 32nd day of my first big solo travel, I now believe that every city has its own way to deliver a magic, and that is what I just couldn’t seem to find in Florence. 

I have about 40 minutes to go to the hotel, take my things and to catch a train. “Beautiful day, beautiful day!” a guy selling his paintings kept saying this to get attention of the potential customers. Beautiful day to buy a painting, really? Well, perhaps so. The weather is indeed milder today, though I’m pretty sure that’s not what he meant. ‘Beautiful’ here means, very hot, humid and too much of blinding sun. For someone who has had enough sun in her life, it’s kind of too beautiful for me to handle really. I’d prefer somewhat cloudy days instead, or the clear blue sky from yesterday. But no, still not the magic that I was searching for. I was trying to relate every possible thing with some kind of unknown parameters. Like, the gelato; I might have sounded really desperate here, but seriously, couldn’t this magic be the gelato at least, if nothing else?

And that is when the old man said “Namaste”. 

Coming from a country that not many people know about, I’m used to with explaining where I’m from. But being neighbour of a giant country doesn’t help much in this case. Which is somewhat understandable I guess, but maybe not very enjoyable (not in a Veronika Decides to Die sort of way, more of a nauseating way). But this is not always the case, many people know our clothes, many know us for our cricket (I felt like hugging the guy who asked me about Shakib Al Hasan). I usually carry a small world map with me, which makes it easier to show where Bangladesh is, the city I live in, Bay of Bengal, and some other neighbouring countries. Therefore, people saying “Namaste”, or singing “Bole churiya” to me is not something I’m not used to with. So when this old man said the word, I took a second to decide how to respond today. 

Dressed in red, with a calm face and curious eyes, this old man with long white beard was sitting on the doorway of a little shop full of paintings. He looked at me and smiled. I started from five minutes before, now that 5 minutes have passed, and it’s a few seconds more. Not much time left in hand, and so I chose not to stop here and run to my hotel instead. I wished to stay for a while though, to stop and to talk to him about where I’m from. But, oh well!

This hotel was an old building with an out of order elevator. As I was dragging my bags through those dark stairs, I was thinking of the highlights of this city, that midnight carousel, little street sign wanting to hug the cloud, that calm face of the old man, and my search for Florence magic. I realised, after all these, it'd be unfair to be disappointed here. Not necessarily all place should give you its magic. It only comes when you least expect it, from the simplest and most insignificant part of the day. Maybe that is the key - we should not take magic for granted. In fact, coming out from the building as I was almost giving up on my ‘must have magic’ concept, right at that moment I realised this could just be an excuse for me to come back here again, spend more time around Tuscany and who knows, maybe I’ll find my magic that time. I wasn't sure whether to call it desperation, optimism or simply incompletion; but I was sure happy about the thought of coming back here someday again.

My mother says, sometimes incompletion is good. And it’s because, for something that you truly want, there can always be a next time, but that’s just an ordinary next time. It is incompletion that holds the differences in between. So if this is something you love, leave a gap in between. This gap holds the memory, and everything else altogether. This holds the key ingredient that makes it special. Perhaps, this is the magic and incompletion is the key. That strange dark stairway tells you never to stop searching for your magic, and when you do, it throws you out to the street so you can come back again. The calm face of the old man tells you never to rush for things, what’s yours will come to you, and when it does, greet it with a smile, a Namaste. Perhaps, magic means being able to believe.

I didn’t know what to expect from my next stop, but I knew it for sure that it’ll go how it’s supposed to go. I might be very much influenced by Five People You Meet in Heaven, but as the train was leaving the station, it made me think about those small decisions that we don’t even remember why or how we took, those very small decisions that hold the potential to make a big impact to us.. You know, those strange little ‘what ifs’ of life!

What if every story has a parallel wing? What if I responded to the old man with a smile? What if I took a risk with my train? What if the universe made the train wait for me for whatever technical reasons it could come up with? Let’s talk about the parallel story now.

.

.

.

Dressed in red, this old man with long white beard was sitting on the doorway of a little shop full of paintings. He looked and me and smiled. I started from five minutes before, now that 5 minutes have passed, and it’s a few seconds more. Not much time left in hand, and so I chose not to stop here and run to my hotel instead. But, oh well!

I smiled. “Namaste. I’m not from India by the way”. With no change in the face, the old man asked, “Then where are you from, my dear?”

“Bangladesh”

“Bangladesh”, he murmured. And then he invited me to his studio and have a look at his paintings. I tried to tell him that I’d love to see his paintings, but I'm in a hurry and I need to catch a train. He giggled. Like a little girl, this old man giggled. “There’s always time, my dear. If it’s your train, it’ll wait for you. Come inside my studio before you leave Florence”.

I kind of liked his train theory, and so followed him to his little shop. One wooden stool, and full of paintings inside; mostly landscapes, and a few portraits too - it’s a small studio that he shares with his friend. Most of those paintings are the places he travelled once. A traveller by heart, painter by profession, it was an after stroke art therapy that brought Vlatko Vojnovic in Florence this summer. He told me about his days in Florence and how he spent his time traveling around. He told me about the war, how he was shot and went through surgical procedures without any anaesthesia, he told me about sufferings, traveling, dreams, trust and hope. This storyteller, who believes that your train will wait for you, paused here, took a sit on that only wooden stool he had there. We talked about art, people we met.. He told me how he was imprisoned in a concentration camp for being a Christian, and how he started over again.. Making arts, creating business for women, how he moved to USA and raised his children.. And then he stopped and looked at me.

“What are you thinking, my dear?”

“Nothing”, “I just wish I could paint too, and tell stories like you with my paintings”.

“Everyone can paint!”

“Not everyone” I laughed.

“Do you want to know the secret? I can teach you”

“You don’t know me.. I absolutely have no talent and no one can teach me”

“I don't know you, but I know myself. And I know how I teach. Six days. Give me 6 days, and I’ll teach you 6 rules. And then you’ll paint like me”.

I just smiled. Didn’t want to offend his confidence.

“Tell me!”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me what is bothering you?”

“Nothing, it’s just I don’t have 6 days here.”

He looked into my eyes, “what is it bothering you my dear?” I smiled, awkwardly this time, not knowing what to say.

It was nice till now, to hear about his stories, his paintings, to look at things through the eyes of an old man. But, I don’t know how to talk about myself. I’m not a good storyteller, I don’t have so much stories to talk about. And I can’t say things how I want to say it too.

“You brought light to my studio today”, he continued. “I was just sitting there before I found you, and now I’m talking to you about my whole life! You made my day the moment you came to my studio. And now it's my turn to do something for you. Tell me what can I do for you? Give me your hand. Can I have your hand?”

“You can send me postcards, I like postcards”, I said to him as I gave my hands. “What, do you do palm reading too?”

“I don’t know if I can read palm, but I can read something about people. I am old my dear, and its only experience I believe”.

He looked at my hand, then looked at me and smiled. “Don’t rush for things. Everything will come to you in right time. Right job, right person. Don’t look for anything, it makes people desperate, and they just settle into anything that come across. And this is a mistake. Life is not supposed to be that difficult you see. It’ll all come to you. You just have to believe in it. There's no need to be so hard on yourself. You have everything in life, and you’ll get everything else you need in life too. Just don’t look for it too much. Believe. Don’t look for a job with good money, don’t run after name, and don’t look for a partner with good look. Don’t rush. You’ll know when the thing and time is right, and when you know it, just believe in it”.

“But how do you recognise the right?” I asked.

“Believing, you need to allow yourself to believe that you’re able to know when it’s the time to go for a thing, and when it’s the time to let go, fly and grow” he paused to take a breath, “and for person, it’s only through his eyes. You’ll know the right person only by looking at his eyes, eyes will always tell you the truth”.

For me, it touched some raw emotions I didn’t know can strike me again in a little studio in Via Dell Oriuolo. I didn’t know if he was waiting for me to say something, or knew that I wasn’t going to say anything. He was silent, and I was just there, standing in front of him, shamelessly giving up on any try to stop my tears. He stood up and came close to me, “Is it something I said? Won’t you tell me anything?” I covered my face with my hands, still not trying to stop myself. “Is it someone you lost? Did someone close to you died recently? Is anyone sick in your family with any disease?” I didn’t know after how many days I was crying like this, or crying at all. But this warm teardrops were so comforting I felt like it is only cleaning myself from some old piled up emotion I thought I was done with.

Then I stopped. And he said very slowly, “My dear, I’ll pray for you as long as I live. But I am old, and my health is not very good too, I will probably die soon. But I’ll pray for you even after I die. Do you know what a guardian angel is? I’ll be your guardian angel forever and will always pray for your protection and well-being. You, my dear, will always be on my prayers, even if I don’t see you again.”

“But you’ll see me again”

“Alright, I’ll see you again.”

“And promise me those 6 painting lessons. Tell me that you won’t die before that” He smiled and said, “I promise!!”

He wanted to get me a coffee, but I was sure this coffee will wait till next time, and won’t get cold. Meeting with him will always be my most favourite highlight of the city, or one of my most favourite travel memory ever. He giggled again, “you know something my dear, if I were young, you could never leave Florence, I would never let you go for any train leaving for anywhere.. But now if you must go, you cannot leave my studio with water in your eyes. You came with a bright smile, you’ll only leave this place with that smile”

His words were kind, too kind to fall into magic category perhaps. Too kind to fall into any category but ‘God Sent’. I wiped my tears, smiled, kissed him on his cheeks and left him at the doorway, exactly where I found him.

He promised me postcards and I promised that I’ll write to him. He gave me a card, which I kept inside my pocket. I used to read lots of fairy tales when I was little, always wondered how ‘but when she looked back, the angel disappeared and she never saw him again’ works. I went to that phase again, only this time I knew how it works. I knew if I look back, I won’t see him again or will never find his card inside my pocket. It didn’t bother me much though. The kindness I received here, I wasn’t ready for it; the way I felt God’s love for me here … (let’s not finish the sentence, let’s just finish the story by thanking this sliding door for giving me a guardian angel in life.)

Ps. It was my train, it waited for me.

(this photo was sent by him later on; Vlatko painting at the courtyard of Villa de Medici, Florence)