Letter to Sonia

Dear Sonia,

Forgive me for not referring to you as Madame Gandhi, or President of the Indian National Congress, or Chairperson of the ruling United Progressive Alliance, or even as Soniaji.

The thing is dear Sonia, I am writing this from a small castle in the heart of Tuscany, after a meal at the Villa Bordoni overlooking the surrounding vineyards with their famous grapes.

Nomenclatures such as the ones I referred to make a lot of sense in Delhi, especially when they roll off the lips of Sushilkumar Shinde, your leader in the Lok Sabha, or Bhupinder Singh Hooda, your chief minister in Haryana, but frankly, after an appetiser of bruschetta with a fragrant fruity Fontina d'Aosta, sprinkled with tart tiny black grapes, followed by chickpea gnocchi with aromatic herbs of Badia a Passignano, they seem unnecessary.

I could spend hours telling you about the food of this region, how each dish, simple and honest in its provenance, speaks of the bounty of the land; how the local wine - an inexpensive Chianti - is redolent with floral, cherry and light nutty notes, or how the homemade soft ice creams, particularly the bocconcino dai, drizzled with a mature Vin Santo affords a sensation that is sublime and subtle on the tongue.

But instead I want to tell you of the sky. This afternoon, it is a bright blue, with a few lazy white clouds. I took a picture of a cloud. To me it was the most perfect cloud I'd ever seen.

The people here, as you know, Dear Sonia, (even though your birthplace in Lusiana 30 km from Vicenza in Veneto is much further up North) are full of the warmth and simplicity that comes from lives led close to the land and in tune with the weather.

Many a time when we have been lost, a cheerful stranger has guided us back, or a kind owner of a cafe has treated us to a complementary espresso.

The undulating landscapes of the vineyards are quite breathtaking and their vistas recall the compositions of Allegri and Vivaldi; driving through them I have found myself humming snatches from the latter's Four Seasons, a great favourite of my late father.

In fact, everywhere I look, I am reminded of this country's peerless tryst with the Arts: Fellini's films are alive in every al fresco table we've partaken of, Shakespeare's immortal couplets from Romeo and Juliet murmur in the swaying fields and sentences from Alighieri and Calvino are never far from my thoughts.

And I have not even begun to describe the architecture of the abbeys and cathedrals we've seen, the museums and galleries we've visited, the vast and timeless statues of emperors and gods that command the village squares and piazzas, evoking some of mankind's most noble moments of creative expression.

Which is why I am writing to you, Dear Sonia.

Because sitting here amidst this beauty and glory, I wonder why you turned your back on all of this. And recounting the sad state of affairs in my country: the falling rupee, the dismal GDP, the corruption scams, scandals and cover-ups, the shenanigans in Parliament, the violence against women and the rapes, the policy paralysis, the brute face of power, the broken dreams of millions of people and, above all, the hopelessness in the eyes of the child who begged at my car window on my way to the airport to come here, you will understand that it is with the deepest sense of sincerity, that I say: I wish you were here.

Yours etc

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Malavika Sangghvi is a Mumbai-based writer malavikasangghvi@hotmail.com