Just because I’ve made two trips in quick succession doesn’t mean I’m going places. Or indeed that I’ve arrived. In fact, I’m going to tell you about several departures from my earlier conceptions of Moscow.

I could have announced several more if I’d had more time on the street and less in the huge warehouse-like Manege exhibition hall. International conferences transport you to exotic locales, and then sadistically confine you to a soulless auditorium.

Surprise No 1: All Russian women are not named Olga; they are called Tatanya. And unlike the busty babushkas, they are usually hip.

SN 2: The“onion” domes of St Basil’s cathedral look more like a marzipan confection. The Russian orthodox churches are icon-ed, ornate and everywhere, thumbing their nose at the Marxian dictum of religion being the opiate of the masses. The ones razed by Stalin have been resurrected by the new Kremlions.

SN 3: I knew that the grey Soviet persona had been toppled like a statue, but I wasn’t prepared for the style with which the Red Tsar glitters over Moscow.

And how aggressively the old way is denounced: from the tour guide’s snide barbs, to Stalin’s dacha barred in its wooded prison, to the liberals demand for a Russian truth and reconciliation commission... Yet, talk to people, and you’ll discover that they may revel in globalisation, but would like to fly there on the cheap fares of communism.

Our conference too held surprises. At the grand opening ceremony, President Putin was punched verbally and unceremoniously by Gavin O’Reilly, president of the World Association of Newspapers for the new oligarchy’s attempts to control the media.

Guest manners apart, who could have imagined such unsanitised criticism in the very sanctum sanctorum of the State Kremlin Palace? But the pale Putin did not look WAN.

He remained as unfazed when a fist of Bolsheviks, who had impressively slipped past the security, raised flags and slogans before being jostled out.

Alas, no one was shot at sight. But I wouldn’t mess with those granite-faced guards. The one outside our board meeting room was so intimidating that I didn’t dare step out to use the loo.

But, no surprise about the music. While waiting for Putin’s much delayed entry, we got extra virtuoso performances by the National Philharmonic Orchestra of Russia, the pianist Denis Matsuev, and six-year-old violin prodigies.

Many of them were aided by the Foundation of Vladimir Spivakov, now exuding reined passion from the conductor’s podium. WAN’s CEO , Timothy Balding quipped, “We knew that when a Russian President dies, they play Swan Lake.

Now, we know that when a Russian President is late, they play Sleeping Beauty.” Non-surprise No 2 was the suavity of our man in Moscow, Kanwal Sibal. The former foreign secretary’s diplomatic astuteness is matched by his exclusive taste in wines.

We shared a fragrant Muscat over a bowl of Lake Baikal pine-nuts, so small and round that yours untutored truly mistook them for fried moong.

Then we strolled through the landscaped gardens to the spot from where Napoleon reputedly watched Moscow burn; like Rajput jauhar, it was a self-immolation so as not to fall into his rapacious hands.

Alec Smart said: “What is the giant Ronaldo’s cry? ‘FIFA-foe-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!”’

<B>From India

Source: .... Bachi KARKARIA

© Times of India</B>