There was a friend whom I grew to like. When I say like, I meant I really, really liked him. In fact, gradually, he turned out to be the most important person in my life. How these things work, I do not know. One particularly hot summer night, as I stood in my balcony trying to cool off and thinking of a new plot to write about on this blog, my thoughts wandered. And I got thinking of him. He was away in US and I was in Delhi wondering what that strange achy feeling within me was -- am I really missing him?
He and I were not close friends. But planning trips and having outings, we were nearly always around each other. We liked to spend time with each other and in his quiet ways, he showed me what a wonderful person he is. In my own garrulous ways, I guess I began to appeal to him as well. Weeks and months went by. There was this ache that developed within us. That could not be addressed by our silence. The weekends we got together were precious. The conversations we had were replayed in my head a million times before I fell asleep... only to wake up to happy thoughts about him.
A September evening. Fate had it this way: We would part ways. He would be off to US for a long time period and I would be here. This is it, I thought, conceding defeat and crying silent tears in the ladies' room. This is it, he thought, as he drove off. A couple of hours later, in delirious bliss, we confessed to each other, our feelings -- over the phone. And so began a long distance relationship. Of not having met each other for months after that. Anticipations, triumphs, tragedies, happy thoughts, sad thoughts, laughter, cheer, tears. Everything was shared over this distance and across time zones.
Months went by. It was my birthday. And never was this day this special. For the first time, we met as lovers. It was a very strange feeling. We had so much to talk about. And yet everything was already spoken. The distance and the time that we had spent that way did not matter anymore. Ten days went by in fluid harmony. Coffee dates and random meetings. And before we knew it, it was time to part again. This time it was even more harder. Thankfully, I flew out to him in four months time. That Christmas, I remember thanking God for what He has given me.
A year sped by. I had been here for months. He stayed put. We met throughout the summer and spring. We saw places all over. We made new friends. We had new problems to deal with and came out even stronger. My conviction of him being the one, grew more and more. I went home in Fall and came back to find him with new decisions. I sure was excited...
We are getting married in July 2010.
That is where we are now. Just wanted to keep you posted.
:)
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Thursday, December 10, 2009
PK and VT in CP
We met after so many months. In fact, we planned this one-day meeting so many months in advance!We both were not in Delhi and yet fixed the venue to be CP.
I stood inside the Metro train, squished against the glass door, by the Trade Fair crowd. Going from station to station at snail's pace, I worried I would make him wait -- as always. It's not like I plan it that ways. But something always comes up. There was this one time when I reached the spot bang on time. But still I kept him waiting -- because he got there BEFORE time.
When we finally met, he was wearing a light colored jacket. Reasonably dressed for a November in Delhi, I thought. Look at me in my crumply old kurta! We hugged and continued an old conversation wherever we had last left it. It did not feel like we were meeting after ages. We walked past Wengers. He was hurrying me towards the new Bercos.
"PK, please can we eat first? I am hungry!"
Sitting in Bercos in familiar ambience, I munched on crispy honey chicken with seasame seeds on top. I gulped down some fruit beer. Oh this was heavenly, I thought. We spoke about things, this and that, and people. We spoke about life in general. Then, chewing on a toothpick, I walked around in the inner circle of CP. He and I browsed over those pirated books. They have become really expensive, I lamented. He told me to not buy these books. He always tells me. I always stop by these books. It is a ritual we always did.
We walked towards Janpath and realised that the Snow White store was missing from the inner circle. I have found out that they have closed down. Not that I ever bought anything from there but I still missed it. I bought some gifts for the new friends I had made. We shopped at the Hidesign store. We walked through the smelly subway tunnels. We passed beggar children and hawkers selling us tiny white hankerchiefs. We walked past the expensive Khadi shop and Regal cinema hall. It was playing 2012. In Hindi.
We walked down one of the radials and went into that Barista located next to People Tree. Mighty expensive everything has become, I commented like an outsider. In there, I tasted heaven in the form of a cup of hot cafe mocha. We exchanged gifts, unwrapped them, admired them, thanked each other, repacked them. We spoke nonstop. About what, I wouldn't remember now.
Towards the end of the day, we walked towards Shivaji Stadium. The familiar bus terminal with all those rickety buses and the shady bus drivers. One by one, the buses came and went. We sat in the bus stop drinking from a bottle of Bisleri. It was getting dark and he told me I should go home soon. His bus was also here. I saw a DTC 910 coming and heard the radio blaring some Himesh number. After a moment of hesitation, I jumped onto its footboard. He was startled for a second and then smiled in approval.
I thanked him for a beautiful CP day, found a seat, adjusted my scarf and looked out of the window. Without a second thought, he took out his cell phone and called out to me, "PK, smile".
I stood inside the Metro train, squished against the glass door, by the Trade Fair crowd. Going from station to station at snail's pace, I worried I would make him wait -- as always. It's not like I plan it that ways. But something always comes up. There was this one time when I reached the spot bang on time. But still I kept him waiting -- because he got there BEFORE time.
When we finally met, he was wearing a light colored jacket. Reasonably dressed for a November in Delhi, I thought. Look at me in my crumply old kurta! We hugged and continued an old conversation wherever we had last left it. It did not feel like we were meeting after ages. We walked past Wengers. He was hurrying me towards the new Bercos.
"PK, please can we eat first? I am hungry!"
Sitting in Bercos in familiar ambience, I munched on crispy honey chicken with seasame seeds on top. I gulped down some fruit beer. Oh this was heavenly, I thought. We spoke about things, this and that, and people. We spoke about life in general. Then, chewing on a toothpick, I walked around in the inner circle of CP. He and I browsed over those pirated books. They have become really expensive, I lamented. He told me to not buy these books. He always tells me. I always stop by these books. It is a ritual we always did.
We walked towards Janpath and realised that the Snow White store was missing from the inner circle. I have found out that they have closed down. Not that I ever bought anything from there but I still missed it. I bought some gifts for the new friends I had made. We shopped at the Hidesign store. We walked through the smelly subway tunnels. We passed beggar children and hawkers selling us tiny white hankerchiefs. We walked past the expensive Khadi shop and Regal cinema hall. It was playing 2012. In Hindi.
We walked down one of the radials and went into that Barista located next to People Tree. Mighty expensive everything has become, I commented like an outsider. In there, I tasted heaven in the form of a cup of hot cafe mocha. We exchanged gifts, unwrapped them, admired them, thanked each other, repacked them. We spoke nonstop. About what, I wouldn't remember now.
Towards the end of the day, we walked towards Shivaji Stadium. The familiar bus terminal with all those rickety buses and the shady bus drivers. One by one, the buses came and went. We sat in the bus stop drinking from a bottle of Bisleri. It was getting dark and he told me I should go home soon. His bus was also here. I saw a DTC 910 coming and heard the radio blaring some Himesh number. After a moment of hesitation, I jumped onto its footboard. He was startled for a second and then smiled in approval.
I thanked him for a beautiful CP day, found a seat, adjusted my scarf and looked out of the window. Without a second thought, he took out his cell phone and called out to me, "PK, smile".
Thank you, VT. It was a special day.
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
A Fairytale
Once upon a time, there lived a girl. She created and lived in a world of her own. It had magic and love and everything good. She grew up and got a job in a big company that had a lot of promises for her. So there she worked for a while and one day, while she sat at her desk typing mundane things, she realized she should go on a quest. To find what other things existed in this world. So off she went on her journey.
The girl travelled through paths she had never known, existed. She crossed oceans and rivers and forests and mountains. She saw sights, met people, found things. On and on she travelled. Until one day, the girl reached the mouth of a cave. She could not see what was inside, or where it led, or if it would ever end. Taking a chance, the girl entered the cave and fumbled with the darkness that engulfed her. She was afraid but she fought hard not to panic. Her myopic eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness. She walked and walked. Eventually, she found a stream. It was beautiful, she thought, as she rested. She drank the water and devoured its sweetness. Suddenly, she realized she was not alone.
An old man who almost looked like an ancient tree, sat beside her, peering into her eyes. The girl was startled, but not afraid. “What is it that you are looking for, girl?” he asked. “I am really not too sure” she replied honestly. “Ok, then I will tell you”, he offered. “You are looking for some answers to questions that your mind has still not asked you. You are chasing elusive dreams that many dreamers have chased before you, in their lifetimes.” “I don’t thinks so”, she said feeling offended. Slowly, it dawned on her that she had many questions, this girl. And the answers all just seemed too vague. She was dejected. He continued, “What is it that you want in this life? What is it that you live for and truly look forward to finally achieving?”
The girl thought hard. Her mind went back to the times that made her truly happy. When, some late nights, she would be woken from her sleep with an unexpected phone call. The times she has caught herself passing time in idle daydreams. She remembered how precious those moments were, when on Saturday afternoons, she would sit by the window listening to old songs. She yearned for meaningless conversations in the balcony. And those times when silent company was precious. There were those unexpected times when someone told her that she was loved and wanted. These are the things, the girl realized, that made her truly happy. But how could she get them and keep them forever? Aren’t these the moments that come by unexpectedly? Can these be planned? If it could be, then what was the fun? The girl was quiet for a long time.
“I don’t need anything”, the girl finally spoke. “I am happy.”
“Good. You have found your own answers”, the old man’s face wrinkled with an ancient smile.
The girl stood up, turned around, and walked back. All the way back to her empty work desk, where a colorful screen saver danced on the computer screen.
The end.
The girl travelled through paths she had never known, existed. She crossed oceans and rivers and forests and mountains. She saw sights, met people, found things. On and on she travelled. Until one day, the girl reached the mouth of a cave. She could not see what was inside, or where it led, or if it would ever end. Taking a chance, the girl entered the cave and fumbled with the darkness that engulfed her. She was afraid but she fought hard not to panic. Her myopic eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness. She walked and walked. Eventually, she found a stream. It was beautiful, she thought, as she rested. She drank the water and devoured its sweetness. Suddenly, she realized she was not alone.
An old man who almost looked like an ancient tree, sat beside her, peering into her eyes. The girl was startled, but not afraid. “What is it that you are looking for, girl?” he asked. “I am really not too sure” she replied honestly. “Ok, then I will tell you”, he offered. “You are looking for some answers to questions that your mind has still not asked you. You are chasing elusive dreams that many dreamers have chased before you, in their lifetimes.” “I don’t thinks so”, she said feeling offended. Slowly, it dawned on her that she had many questions, this girl. And the answers all just seemed too vague. She was dejected. He continued, “What is it that you want in this life? What is it that you live for and truly look forward to finally achieving?”
The girl thought hard. Her mind went back to the times that made her truly happy. When, some late nights, she would be woken from her sleep with an unexpected phone call. The times she has caught herself passing time in idle daydreams. She remembered how precious those moments were, when on Saturday afternoons, she would sit by the window listening to old songs. She yearned for meaningless conversations in the balcony. And those times when silent company was precious. There were those unexpected times when someone told her that she was loved and wanted. These are the things, the girl realized, that made her truly happy. But how could she get them and keep them forever? Aren’t these the moments that come by unexpectedly? Can these be planned? If it could be, then what was the fun? The girl was quiet for a long time.
“I don’t need anything”, the girl finally spoke. “I am happy.”
“Good. You have found your own answers”, the old man’s face wrinkled with an ancient smile.
The girl stood up, turned around, and walked back. All the way back to her empty work desk, where a colorful screen saver danced on the computer screen.
The end.
...
Have you ever had the feeling of being rootless and floating about aimlessly?
Like a dried leaf in a forceful stream?
Is that a good thing?
Sometimes, when I try to lighten myself by shedding off meaningless baggage, I feel I am losing a part of me with it.
Is that normal?
Is anyone listening?
I would never know, I guess.
Like a dried leaf in a forceful stream?
Is that a good thing?
Sometimes, when I try to lighten myself by shedding off meaningless baggage, I feel I am losing a part of me with it.
Is that normal?
Is anyone listening?
I would never know, I guess.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Immortality
I was reading "The Selfish Gene" written by Richard Dawkins, recently. Chapter 11 from the book caught my fancy. He presents an idea about memes. For those unfamiliar with the term, a meme (pronounced to rhyme with ‘dream’) is “a cultural unit (an idea or value or pattern of behavior) that is passed from one person to another by non-genetic means (as by imitation)”. To put it simply, a meme is the cultural counterpart of a gene. An idea, a phrase, a figure of speech. It gets even better. A joke, a song, a poem, a painting.
I just realized that even though a person lives, ages, and eventually dies, our memories about her keeps her alive. (It is true for men as well!) My grandfather passed away in 1986. I was five years old and I can count the total number of times I have met him. While some of my luckier counterparts have spent years with their grandparents, I had the chance to meet my father’s father just 2-3 times. His passing did not evoke any emotion in me. I remember my upset father lying on the bed in deep thought. (Maybe he was sad that he was 3000 kms away from where his father was.) Last evening when I spoke to my father, we cracked an inside joke and laughed. When I hung up the phone, I realized that the joke was a generation older. It was something that my grandfather has passed on to my father, who now passed it on to my siblings and me. To me, my grandfather immortalized himself with that joke.
Immortality has always enticed us. All historical accounts tell us of ambitious alchemists, scientists, and explorers who went in search of the “Elixir of Life” and other items in the similar vein. And all that was required was to sing a new song or cook a new dish. So, go ahead, create a meme and become your own god. Be immortal.
I just realized that even though a person lives, ages, and eventually dies, our memories about her keeps her alive. (It is true for men as well!) My grandfather passed away in 1986. I was five years old and I can count the total number of times I have met him. While some of my luckier counterparts have spent years with their grandparents, I had the chance to meet my father’s father just 2-3 times. His passing did not evoke any emotion in me. I remember my upset father lying on the bed in deep thought. (Maybe he was sad that he was 3000 kms away from where his father was.) Last evening when I spoke to my father, we cracked an inside joke and laughed. When I hung up the phone, I realized that the joke was a generation older. It was something that my grandfather has passed on to my father, who now passed it on to my siblings and me. To me, my grandfather immortalized himself with that joke.
Immortality has always enticed us. All historical accounts tell us of ambitious alchemists, scientists, and explorers who went in search of the “Elixir of Life” and other items in the similar vein. And all that was required was to sing a new song or cook a new dish. So, go ahead, create a meme and become your own god. Be immortal.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Winds of Change
I have always been resistant to change. I find it very challenging to accept change and start things from scratch.
And yet, it happens to me one too many times. Each time I resisted it with as much might as I can. But it was inevitable. Like the first movement from Kuwait to India. I had absolutely no idea of how life was going to be. I think I fared pretty well. Considering the fact that we were Gulf War refugees and had lost almost everything we had. The second movement came when I had to move back from India to a reconstructed, post-war Kuwait. I remember crying into my pillow worrying what awaited me. I even told my parents that I am willing to live separated from them but please will they let me stay back in India. Of course, that was not accepted.
Seven years later, I moved back to Delhi. It was a very different world. This time I had actually left home. Close to ten years were spent in Delhi. But that too with a lot of movement. I led a sheltered life in my first three years with cousins. Two years in the hostel. And finally, four years in my new house. And then one October evening, I flew out once again. I have spent a year in the US and not really realized it. I have already moved twice.
These were all physical movements. But what about the movement of my thoughts, my being? Philosophies have changed. Beliefs have changed. Friends have changed. Is change going to be the only surety as life goes on? Is this the only aspect in life that I will be able to rely on?
What am I in search of? I don’t know. But whatever it is, it is not here.
Maybe it is within me. Maybe I will realize that one day.
And yet, it happens to me one too many times. Each time I resisted it with as much might as I can. But it was inevitable. Like the first movement from Kuwait to India. I had absolutely no idea of how life was going to be. I think I fared pretty well. Considering the fact that we were Gulf War refugees and had lost almost everything we had. The second movement came when I had to move back from India to a reconstructed, post-war Kuwait. I remember crying into my pillow worrying what awaited me. I even told my parents that I am willing to live separated from them but please will they let me stay back in India. Of course, that was not accepted.
Seven years later, I moved back to Delhi. It was a very different world. This time I had actually left home. Close to ten years were spent in Delhi. But that too with a lot of movement. I led a sheltered life in my first three years with cousins. Two years in the hostel. And finally, four years in my new house. And then one October evening, I flew out once again. I have spent a year in the US and not really realized it. I have already moved twice.
These were all physical movements. But what about the movement of my thoughts, my being? Philosophies have changed. Beliefs have changed. Friends have changed. Is change going to be the only surety as life goes on? Is this the only aspect in life that I will be able to rely on?
What am I in search of? I don’t know. But whatever it is, it is not here.
Maybe it is within me. Maybe I will realize that one day.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Disjoint Episodes of a Love Story
The June heat began early morning. With the mercury rising higher and higher, all you wanted to do was sit indoors, in front of the desert cooler with the constantly wet mats, sipping chilled Rooh'afza and lime.
They met that day. Clandestinely.
* * *
Eyes met, hands locked, lips met.
Faint scent of musky perfume.
Neat hands.
That taste of Rooh'afza again.
* * *
Sunset.
They were at their favorite outdoor café. The heat was milder.
Did it rain? Bikers drove past them, college kids strummed guitar songs.
He had his cold coffee while she played with a broken keychain.
It suddenly began to pour. They raced towards the car. Strains of a familiar song floated in from the distance as they sat beside each other, holding hands, watching the rain.
* * *
Late night.
They were at the famous chuskiwalla's stall in front of India gate. Weaving their way through the mob, they got crushed-ice-candies. Khatta-meetha. He recommended. She made a face because she does not like anything tangy. With sticky fingers and stained lips, he stole Khatta-meetha kisses from her.
* * *
Winter afternoon.
It snowed outside while he cooked for her. Whatever he cooked, his first ingredient that appeared was salt. She stood beside him and watched him in action. Steamy rice and vegetables materialised. Some paranthas, some pickle. A complete meal. She made a mental note of the dishes to wash.
* * *
She sits in cafes and watches people pass by. Alienated in a different country; in a different world.
He goes through each day thinking similar thoughts in the distance.
Both waiting for the next episode to unfurl.
They met that day. Clandestinely.
* * *
Eyes met, hands locked, lips met.
Faint scent of musky perfume.
Neat hands.
That taste of Rooh'afza again.
* * *
Sunset.
They were at their favorite outdoor café. The heat was milder.
Did it rain? Bikers drove past them, college kids strummed guitar songs.
He had his cold coffee while she played with a broken keychain.
It suddenly began to pour. They raced towards the car. Strains of a familiar song floated in from the distance as they sat beside each other, holding hands, watching the rain.
* * *
Late night.
They were at the famous chuskiwalla's stall in front of India gate. Weaving their way through the mob, they got crushed-ice-candies. Khatta-meetha. He recommended. She made a face because she does not like anything tangy. With sticky fingers and stained lips, he stole Khatta-meetha kisses from her.
* * *
Winter afternoon.
It snowed outside while he cooked for her. Whatever he cooked, his first ingredient that appeared was salt. She stood beside him and watched him in action. Steamy rice and vegetables materialised. Some paranthas, some pickle. A complete meal. She made a mental note of the dishes to wash.
* * *
She sits in cafes and watches people pass by. Alienated in a different country; in a different world.
He goes through each day thinking similar thoughts in the distance.
Both waiting for the next episode to unfurl.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Firdaus : Heaven
I lay in bed listening to the non-stop whirring of a helicopter and a panicky ambulance outside where I live. It was disturbing to picture what was going on outside, so I put a pillow over my head. To block everything that is now and to give me what was.
It would have been early evening. Much warmer. The buzz of dusty traffic and hawkers' cries. When you step outside your house, there are a few lanes lined with those beautiful trees. Those that bloom late evening with those white flowers and that sickly sweet smell. The scent lingers heavy in the air all through September and October. I love that fragrance. I associate it with everything that is beautiful. Late night, after-dinner walks in the quiet galis. A lonely ice cream man waiting for you to buy his goods. A tired street dog by the street lamp...
Dushhera Melas, lights, fireworks, raamleela, crowds, hot milk and jalebis. Glitter, movie songs, serpentine traffic jams, irreverant baraat on the road, emaciated rickshawalas. Metro trains, crispy honey chicken, cineplex movies, Khan market window shopping. Pandal hopping in CR Park, street food, unexpected bike rides to Old Delhi.
A friend's wedding. A power cut. A song. A story. A lazy Saturday afternoon.
All these made up my ten years in Delhi.
Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast,
Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast.
If there is paradise on face of the earth,
It is this, it is this, it is this
* * *
While I get back to my American chores, you might want to visit this related link:
http://oddthots.blogspot.com/2007/05/places.html
It would have been early evening. Much warmer. The buzz of dusty traffic and hawkers' cries. When you step outside your house, there are a few lanes lined with those beautiful trees. Those that bloom late evening with those white flowers and that sickly sweet smell. The scent lingers heavy in the air all through September and October. I love that fragrance. I associate it with everything that is beautiful. Late night, after-dinner walks in the quiet galis. A lonely ice cream man waiting for you to buy his goods. A tired street dog by the street lamp...
Dushhera Melas, lights, fireworks, raamleela, crowds, hot milk and jalebis. Glitter, movie songs, serpentine traffic jams, irreverant baraat on the road, emaciated rickshawalas. Metro trains, crispy honey chicken, cineplex movies, Khan market window shopping. Pandal hopping in CR Park, street food, unexpected bike rides to Old Delhi.
A friend's wedding. A power cut. A song. A story. A lazy Saturday afternoon.
All these made up my ten years in Delhi.
Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast,
Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast.
If there is paradise on face of the earth,
It is this, it is this, it is this
* * *
While I get back to my American chores, you might want to visit this related link:
http://oddthots.blogspot.com/2007/05/places.html
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Then and Now
But that was a long time ago.
When a job meant covering a “story” of Sharmila Tagore cutting a shiny ribbon in IHC or Arun Shourie delivering a mundane speech at Kala Akademi.
When choir practice would end at 8 in the night and when he would wait for her across the street.
When Janpath and Coffee House were places to hide away.
When she would run barefoot. Over moist grass, just when the rains were over.
When he would travel in precarious rickety buses, standing on footboards.
When walks in the park meant tangy gol gappas and stolen light kisses.
Oversweet chai and frothy coffee.
Naps on her lap while she read and played with his ears.
Saturday winter afternoons in the feeble sun, peeling oranges.
But that was a long time ago.
When the choir practices discontinued.
Running barefoot was “eeky”.
Nachos and airconditioned multiplexes.
Office emails and ongoing projects.
Salsa lessons and BBQs.
African printed cups with steaming green tea.
Then, what is now?
Monday, April 06, 2009
K!m
When we started off three years ago, I was an avid blogger typing away sitting in a quiet little room in my home in Delhi. And Kim was living with her beautiful family in USA. We exchanged a lot of mails and one liners and comments and photos. Over time, we got to know each other well enough to call ourselves good friends.
The children grew up, the summers moved on to winters, and lovers walked away. Thankfully, this friendship remained intact. Last Saturday, we finally met. I was taking pictures of the museum's beautiful architecture, when I saw her walking - well running - towards me with the biggest smile in all of Wisconsin.
We recognized each other instantly. Gosh, she is real, I remember thinking. I hugged her girls and met her husband. Cute family. I felt right at home. We walked around the museum catching up, chatting up, taking pictures. We had a humongous dinner and parted ways. But not before promising to meet soon.
Until we meet again, let's keep blogging.
Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/preethi.paul/DayWithTheHitchcocks#
The children grew up, the summers moved on to winters, and lovers walked away. Thankfully, this friendship remained intact. Last Saturday, we finally met. I was taking pictures of the museum's beautiful architecture, when I saw her walking - well running - towards me with the biggest smile in all of Wisconsin.
We recognized each other instantly. Gosh, she is real, I remember thinking. I hugged her girls and met her husband. Cute family. I felt right at home. We walked around the museum catching up, chatting up, taking pictures. We had a humongous dinner and parted ways. But not before promising to meet soon.
Until we meet again, let's keep blogging.
Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/preethi.paul/DayWithTheHitchcocks#
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Song of Songs
It was Moving Day. She attempted to fill the space in her white new apartment. Strange city, strange country. Even the air felt strange to her nostrils. When the last of the boxes were opened and when she had set up the last of the chinaware on the countertop, she was drained. She sat by the windowsill looking out at the bold blue sky violated by the stark red skyscrapers.
The void pained her. She remembered another lifetime. When, together, they had dreamt of Solomon’s vineyards.
Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages.
He had earnestly appealed to her. One dark night when they laid together on the floor, bodies fused together, fingers intertwined, his breath moist on her bare neck, he whispered these verses to her.
Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my love.
He continued to quote Solomon. She laughed and kissed his cheek. He placed her palm over his heart. His quibbles and her promises. His riddles and her laughter. Their dreams and the life they wanted. But that seemed another lifetime ago. When, together, they dreamt of Solomon’s vineyards.
She continued to dream of the vineyards one lone night when the fog refused to let her see him go. The same lone night when the headlights refused to pierce through the winter air. The same lone night when the fog settled on those vineyards. And on his motorcycle’s path. She sang the songs of Solomon while he skidded past the sharp curves he didn’t see. And when the last heartbeat left his body, she sang unknown:
Return, return, O Solomon; return, return, that I may look upon thee.
The void pained her. She remembered another lifetime. When, together, they had dreamt of Solomon’s vineyards.
Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages.
He had earnestly appealed to her. One dark night when they laid together on the floor, bodies fused together, fingers intertwined, his breath moist on her bare neck, he whispered these verses to her.
Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my love.
He continued to quote Solomon. She laughed and kissed his cheek. He placed her palm over his heart. His quibbles and her promises. His riddles and her laughter. Their dreams and the life they wanted. But that seemed another lifetime ago. When, together, they dreamt of Solomon’s vineyards.
She continued to dream of the vineyards one lone night when the fog refused to let her see him go. The same lone night when the headlights refused to pierce through the winter air. The same lone night when the fog settled on those vineyards. And on his motorcycle’s path. She sang the songs of Solomon while he skidded past the sharp curves he didn’t see. And when the last heartbeat left his body, she sang unknown:
Return, return, O Solomon; return, return, that I may look upon thee.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Sonata
Musky. She thought to herself as she took one more whiff off the tester on the shelf. He is going to love this. She paid for the aftershave and walked out of the store. It was his birthday today and she wanted to do something nice for him. But considering the distance between them and the trouble with clashing schedules, they weren’t meeting this time.
It was windy and while she struggled with her wild messy hair, she yearned for a steaming cup of coffee and uninterrupted internet. Sitting by the window watching the people walk past, she blogged as she always did. All her thoughts focused on him and how she was happy being with him. Four blissful years, she wrote and paused for a sip of Mocha. It couldn’t get better than this… I am so glad he was born. I will not want anyone more than him. She continued in this confident vein.
A new visitor on her blog has commented on her previous entry. She read the name and her heart stopped. A pimply shy face, courteous silent encounters, Piano lessons, church, corridors. It came to her in waves. From a distant lifetime she could barely remember. She was a child back then. So was he.
She heard him play Moonlight Sonata. She remembered her own poorer, plainer, transposed rendition. Then she wept over coffee. She wept for the beauty. She wept for the loss. She wept for the helpless passage of time.
It had begun to grow dark outside. It was raining now.
Walking in the rain, she remembered his timid stuttered voice reading passages from the Count of Monte Christo. Seated alone in the library, they shared books, read the same pages, he struggled with his shyness. She pored over equations and formulae while he seemed lost in his secret little world. They shared the same pew in church. When once she scraped her knees, he helped her up and tended to her wound and comforted her. He looked out for her when the nasty class-bully gave her a hard time. He faded away when she was safe and happy. He played the Moonlight Sonata for her one afternoon. And then he was gone.
And tonight, two decades later, he comes by as a visitor. With her Moonlight Sonata replayed. With rain pouring down on her Mocha. With wet memories dripping of nostalgia and adolescence. Bringing an unknown pain from somewhere long ago.
Drenched, teary and exhausted, she tossed the musky aftershave into the trash can.
It was windy and while she struggled with her wild messy hair, she yearned for a steaming cup of coffee and uninterrupted internet. Sitting by the window watching the people walk past, she blogged as she always did. All her thoughts focused on him and how she was happy being with him. Four blissful years, she wrote and paused for a sip of Mocha. It couldn’t get better than this… I am so glad he was born. I will not want anyone more than him. She continued in this confident vein.
A new visitor on her blog has commented on her previous entry. She read the name and her heart stopped. A pimply shy face, courteous silent encounters, Piano lessons, church, corridors. It came to her in waves. From a distant lifetime she could barely remember. She was a child back then. So was he.
She heard him play Moonlight Sonata. She remembered her own poorer, plainer, transposed rendition. Then she wept over coffee. She wept for the beauty. She wept for the loss. She wept for the helpless passage of time.
It had begun to grow dark outside. It was raining now.
Walking in the rain, she remembered his timid stuttered voice reading passages from the Count of Monte Christo. Seated alone in the library, they shared books, read the same pages, he struggled with his shyness. She pored over equations and formulae while he seemed lost in his secret little world. They shared the same pew in church. When once she scraped her knees, he helped her up and tended to her wound and comforted her. He looked out for her when the nasty class-bully gave her a hard time. He faded away when she was safe and happy. He played the Moonlight Sonata for her one afternoon. And then he was gone.
And tonight, two decades later, he comes by as a visitor. With her Moonlight Sonata replayed. With rain pouring down on her Mocha. With wet memories dripping of nostalgia and adolescence. Bringing an unknown pain from somewhere long ago.
Drenched, teary and exhausted, she tossed the musky aftershave into the trash can.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Cowboys, Soccer Players, and Blue Birds
Vacation months were simply fabulous. Sure we had our holiday homework and chores to do. But even then, there was so much time to while away.
The summer days were terribly hot and it was inhuman to let any child outside to play. So we were to sit indoors and device ways to keep ourselves engaged. At least until sunset. We woke up late. And we spent some time in front of the TV watching the Quran reading and the Kuwaiti Folk Dance programmes. What kept us waiting were the cartoons that were aired right after these two items. Tom and Jerry, some Japanese cartoons, Heidi, Little Princess, and Daddy Long-legs – all these were dubbed in Arabic. We didn’t really understand too much, but they were cartoons and we wouldn’t miss it for the world. The Kuwaiti TV channels began their western programmes much later in the day. Around 4pm. That is when sitcoms like Saved by the Bell, and Charles in Charge, were shown. This time, in English.
We were not allowed outdoors, but we still could play in the corridors of the building. Cricket was not a big thing back then. Not to the Indian kids born and brought up in Kuwait. Instead, we used to read Nancy Drews, Famous Fives, Secret Sevens, and Hardy Boys. And as a spin off, we formulated “secret clubs”. There was a janitor’s closet at end of the corridor and one day, we found the door was unlocked. Seven of us bundled inside the tiny room and decided this is where we will have secret meetings from now on. We had a name – the Blue Birds club. The name came from the school bus we used to take to school. The big yellow school buses made by the "Blue Bird company”.
We used to play cowboy-cowboy. Nothing sophisticated… We were cowboys and we used to imagine we have horses and that we are riding them everywhere we go. So instead of walking or running around like regular kids, we would “gallop” everywhere J It probably came up from the Westerns we used to see in Eastman color. We did not understand a word. But we loved watching them.
Sitting on the half-broken building wall, we fervently discussed about Captain Majid and his incredible soccer team. Captain Majid was this Japanese cartoon about a soccer team. We used to watch it – of course, in Arabic. When we were fired up sufficiently, we scampered off to the open space to play, while some of the “grown ups” made membership badges for the Blue Birds club. I don’t remember the names of most of my playmates from back then, except a girl named Meera. And that was probably because I did not like her all that much. These were the pre-Gulf War days, some 20 years ago. Today, when I see an old episode of Small Wonder or when I hear the theme song of the Mickey Mouse club (M-I-C-K-E-Y…remember??), all these come rushing back to my mind in disjoint snippets. I feel nostalgic and I try to Google and YouTube them out.
Sadly, that is all I can do now to become a Cowboy, a Japanese Soccer Player, and a Blue Bird all at once.
--
Links
CAPTAIN MAJID : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNNuWt7wsZo
BLUEBIRD SCHOOL BUS : http://www.harrydavis.com/long009.jpg
OLD KUWAITI TV SHOW : http://www.youtube.com/watchv=n9H3Iu91csc&feature=related
LITTLE PRINCESS : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q322I2DJfn0
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Family Photos and Yadda Yadda Yadda
The other day, I shared some photos of my family, with the people here at work. And this is what transpired…
===
Absolutely beautiful.....but more importantly.....are any of your brothers single, employed, independently wealthy....looking for a slightly used, overweight, 40-something with 2 boys??
Just have them email me at "the_catch_of_the_day.com"
===
LOL :)
Will pass on the message to the men. And the family :)
Oh K -- some of those brothers are here. In Jersey.
Just thought of letting you know !
===
You won't believe it......K just stormed out of the office, saying nothing more than "I have to fill up the car -- I'm going to New Jersey!" Does your sister do individual counseling?? If so, I am in desperate need....:)
===
Lemme call up their wives. Would be good to let them know that they can expect K over for dinner :)
My sister also takes sessions of group therapy. And for "us", I am sure she will give us a great discount!
Hooboy.. she is going to need some therapy herself, IF she gets to know how things are out here. She STILL doesn't know about your kids!
I was WRITING a letter to mom. I want to share an excerpt with you guys:
Things that make me happy to be HERE in America:
1. M sold his babies and he is still walking around scot-free.
2. R says I can drive a Polaris 4 wheeler all over the place by fibbing that I work for a landscape company.
3. Underwear can be discussed without getting shot at.
4. I am expected to film a Bollywood video out here at my place today. But K has offered to oil me up with her exotic stuff instead :P
5. K and M have mastered Sign Language to communicate with their temporarily mute friend.
6. RABBIT TRANSIT has honored me with Rider of the Month award. Now my bus seats shall be clean :D
===
If you are serious about sending the excerpt, you won't have to worry about the cost of a ticket back to India....you're parents will pay to SAVE YOU!!
===
I am really enjoying my freedom w/o the kids! I just came back from a quick whirlwind trip to Bangladesh where I made a cameo appearance in the latest Bollywood music video titled "Another One Rides the Bus." I played the bus driver that sings and dances when new American riders get on the bus for the first time. I've already been invited back to do another video for Beyonce's upcoming single "Psycho Taxi Driver!!" My new life as an entertainer is so exciting -- but I'll always remember my friends! Watch for me on the Star+India and Colours channels, now available on DishNetwork.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Lunch Talks
So we were out running errands one of these days during lunch time.
Two of them went to grab a quick bite. R and I went to the Pharmacy and then stopped by at the bank. We were supposed to pick M and K from the fast food joint on our way back to work. R suddenly hatched a master plot. She called up the food joint. The guy at the counter picked up, expecting a routine order of a cold sub or a salad. But this is what he got to hear -- "Hi, I am calling to let you know a news about one of your customers named. He is in there right now having lunch. I am his sister. His wife is having a baby! Can you please tell him that she is in labour and that I am coming over to drive him to the hospital?"
A hysteric counterguy did not waste any time in rushing to the floor and declaring loudly "Is there someone out here by the name of M? Well, sir, YOUR WIFE IS HAVING A BABY!!"
Now, M is a seasoned player. He has known R for years now. He knew only too well about this than to react. So he sat there eating his salad. His fellow customers were shocked at how callous he was about this whole incident, and they glared at him. One old lady even went up to him and told him what a prick he was.
"Well, I am not the bastard's father!"
*Collective Gasp*
Mind you - M is a single man with no wife, let alone a baby :)
His face was worth a million bucks, when they got into the car. R and I were in the parking lot waiting for them, we did not dare to go inside the food joint. There were two cops sitting in the joint and having food, and they came out to the parking lot when they saw the commotion -- so we fled the scene.
Do you think it is a federal offence here if you call up a food joint and tell them that one of their customers' imaginary wife is having an imaginary baby?
I guess we would talk about this over lunch tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
About Cabbies and Bunnies and Everything Else that Matters
Let us take a moment here and talk about the modes of transport available in the where I live. Oh yes, we have the huge swanky cars with umpteen cylinders – the gas guzzlers – zipping down the highways. And we have superb motorcycles that make heads turn. You can even spot Amish buggies clunking down the lane. Yes siree, I live in the only American state that has Amish settlements.
But nothing prepared me for the scarcity of public transportation here.
“Buses? Who would wanna take that?!”
“Umm – me? I don’t have a drivers’ license yet.”
I always get the deer-in-the-headlights expression when I say that sentence. They are ALWAYS unprepared for that one.
So, I thumbed through the yellow pages and found a couple of cab numbers that I could rely on. Reliability is not their top priority here – for these cabbies. I live in a suburban area where every household owns a car or two. Who the hell would want to take a ride in a stuffy taxi? Well, I definitely could use a ride!
Here are some hard facts. There are FOUR cabs serving this county. And there are four cab companies and there are four drivers, namely, Grumpy Lady (GL) Driver, Indifferent Guy (IG) Driver, Chatty Dangerous (CD) Driver, Rehab Relapse (RR) Driver. Not much of a list to choose from. And it is difficult to keep track of who works for whom because they quit a company overnight. I used to call up IG the most because, well, he is indifferent. But then, one day I called him to hear this: “I don’t drive no more taxis anymore lady. Call some other bas***d”.
Hmmm.
GL was rough and terrible to even sit next to. I moved into my apartment a day before Halloween (that is Americanized… a day after Diwali is more like it…) I dragged in three boxes past the door and tried to put them into the car’s boot. She didn’t flinch. She sat in the driver’s seat and solved her daily crossword. I hated her instantly. And I swore never to call her up again.
CD is not too bad, if only he would stop turning around while chatting and driving at those dangerous speeds. My eyeballs would go deep into the eye sockets every time he revved up the engine, and would pop right out when he slammed the brakes. I am just newly insured, with no desire to visit the hospital or lie in a pristine coffin in a fancy funeral parlour any time soon.
And that is how Rehab guy and I met. Not very romantic, I admit. But this is how I got to work. I would sit in the backseat while he drove and spewed hate literature about discrimination and monologues about how life isn’t really as pretty as it seems on TV.
Television, I thought, now there is a neutral subject I can bring up with this chap.
“I don’t watch TV. Just too much violence. I have a life equally violent. I don’t need to watch it for entertainment.”
G-U-L-P
Over the course of five days, I got to know that he is a sketch artist with no money thanks to the economy. They all love to blame it on the economy and I have trained myself to nod sympathetically and make the appropriate grunts of disapproval. Gosh, I sound like a husband! Coming back to the Rehab guy. So, he goes for classes to a de-addiction centre and is “graduating” next week. I asked him if he has managed to stay clean and he told me that this was his second session after relapse.
After a week of being driven around I wasn’t too sure about continuing this. Money wasn’t much and frankly, I was beginning to worry that strange people knew where I live and where I work. That is when I turned my attention to the second mode of public transport – the bus.
* * *
Allow me to introduce you to the quaint ways of the Rabbit Transit, in other words, the county’s mode of public transportation.
York County has a series of buses plying its roads crisscross, from the suburbs to downtown and back. You can never get lost if you take one of them, because they all go in loops. The bus stops are marked with a bunny picture and a helpline number that will help you identify what bus goes where.
These huge buses are red in color and have–get this—a BUNNY TAIL PAINTED ON THE REAR END OF THE VEHICLE. It is almost always empty and it almost always makes a stop at all the major shopping complexes and similar such outlets. Most of the drivers are women. Not that there is anything wrong with that. They are a chatty lot and they love to read while at work. A very dangerous trend, I have to note.
So, you think you can get a ride on the Bunny Bus? It is not as easy as it sounds. They are so hard to spot. When you are sitting in a car and going some place and when you are not particularly looking out for a bus… that is when you spot the maximum number of these buses. I chased the evasive bunny for days.
One evening, I was determined to hop on to one of them buses. Hop on… that’s a nice way to say that you are boarding a bus. Not to mention, a Rabbit Transit bus. I walked out of the office building and walked in the direction that one of the Rabbit maps directed me to. I did not see any bus stop for yards and miles. Just when I thought I would die of exhaustion, I got to one stop. While catching my breath I noticed what a desolate little spot it was. Not a single human in sight. Why would someone board a bus from here?
I stood there for an hour, it rained, the Rehab Guy ditched me, and finally, a colleague came and got me. She dropped a sad, cold, wet, and stinky me home. That night, while munching on a midnight snack (yes, one of those American vices that I developed), I decided that I HAVE to get on one of those Rabbit buses. Sunday would be a good day, I decided.
I went through the complete drill of waiting for an hour-and-a-half and got a bus. No, in fact, Rabbit Transit rewarded my wait with TWO buses. Oh, I get a choice of routes. I am delighted. I take in the musty ambience inside the bus. The lady behind the wheels gives me a guided tour of the area, since I am new in town. How did she know? I did not know the bus fare and I fumbled with the quarters and nickels and dimes and dollars.
I got back home after three hours.
No points for guessing how I got to work this morning. Oh and did I tell you about the survey I had to fill out, at work? Funny Lady and Funny Man came up with a strange little survey that I had to take. Sample these questions:
1. Does the bus you are riding have a bunny tail, or not?
2. Are the seats clean?
3. Is the bus hostess friendly and serving you complimentary cocktails?
4. Does the person sitting next to you smell?
5. Do you have a sworn affidavit of your identity while traveling on the bus?
I should stop, for now. My bunny ride is here.
But nothing prepared me for the scarcity of public transportation here.
“Buses? Who would wanna take that?!”
“Umm – me? I don’t have a drivers’ license yet.”
I always get the deer-in-the-headlights expression when I say that sentence. They are ALWAYS unprepared for that one.
So, I thumbed through the yellow pages and found a couple of cab numbers that I could rely on. Reliability is not their top priority here – for these cabbies. I live in a suburban area where every household owns a car or two. Who the hell would want to take a ride in a stuffy taxi? Well, I definitely could use a ride!
Here are some hard facts. There are FOUR cabs serving this county. And there are four cab companies and there are four drivers, namely, Grumpy Lady (GL) Driver, Indifferent Guy (IG) Driver, Chatty Dangerous (CD) Driver, Rehab Relapse (RR) Driver. Not much of a list to choose from. And it is difficult to keep track of who works for whom because they quit a company overnight. I used to call up IG the most because, well, he is indifferent. But then, one day I called him to hear this: “I don’t drive no more taxis anymore lady. Call some other bas***d”.
Hmmm.
GL was rough and terrible to even sit next to. I moved into my apartment a day before Halloween (that is Americanized… a day after Diwali is more like it…) I dragged in three boxes past the door and tried to put them into the car’s boot. She didn’t flinch. She sat in the driver’s seat and solved her daily crossword. I hated her instantly. And I swore never to call her up again.
CD is not too bad, if only he would stop turning around while chatting and driving at those dangerous speeds. My eyeballs would go deep into the eye sockets every time he revved up the engine, and would pop right out when he slammed the brakes. I am just newly insured, with no desire to visit the hospital or lie in a pristine coffin in a fancy funeral parlour any time soon.
And that is how Rehab guy and I met. Not very romantic, I admit. But this is how I got to work. I would sit in the backseat while he drove and spewed hate literature about discrimination and monologues about how life isn’t really as pretty as it seems on TV.
Television, I thought, now there is a neutral subject I can bring up with this chap.
“I don’t watch TV. Just too much violence. I have a life equally violent. I don’t need to watch it for entertainment.”
G-U-L-P
Over the course of five days, I got to know that he is a sketch artist with no money thanks to the economy. They all love to blame it on the economy and I have trained myself to nod sympathetically and make the appropriate grunts of disapproval. Gosh, I sound like a husband! Coming back to the Rehab guy. So, he goes for classes to a de-addiction centre and is “graduating” next week. I asked him if he has managed to stay clean and he told me that this was his second session after relapse.
After a week of being driven around I wasn’t too sure about continuing this. Money wasn’t much and frankly, I was beginning to worry that strange people knew where I live and where I work. That is when I turned my attention to the second mode of public transport – the bus.
* * *
Allow me to introduce you to the quaint ways of the Rabbit Transit, in other words, the county’s mode of public transportation.
York County has a series of buses plying its roads crisscross, from the suburbs to downtown and back. You can never get lost if you take one of them, because they all go in loops. The bus stops are marked with a bunny picture and a helpline number that will help you identify what bus goes where.
These huge buses are red in color and have–get this—a BUNNY TAIL PAINTED ON THE REAR END OF THE VEHICLE. It is almost always empty and it almost always makes a stop at all the major shopping complexes and similar such outlets. Most of the drivers are women. Not that there is anything wrong with that. They are a chatty lot and they love to read while at work. A very dangerous trend, I have to note.
So, you think you can get a ride on the Bunny Bus? It is not as easy as it sounds. They are so hard to spot. When you are sitting in a car and going some place and when you are not particularly looking out for a bus… that is when you spot the maximum number of these buses. I chased the evasive bunny for days.
One evening, I was determined to hop on to one of them buses. Hop on… that’s a nice way to say that you are boarding a bus. Not to mention, a Rabbit Transit bus. I walked out of the office building and walked in the direction that one of the Rabbit maps directed me to. I did not see any bus stop for yards and miles. Just when I thought I would die of exhaustion, I got to one stop. While catching my breath I noticed what a desolate little spot it was. Not a single human in sight. Why would someone board a bus from here?
I stood there for an hour, it rained, the Rehab Guy ditched me, and finally, a colleague came and got me. She dropped a sad, cold, wet, and stinky me home. That night, while munching on a midnight snack (yes, one of those American vices that I developed), I decided that I HAVE to get on one of those Rabbit buses. Sunday would be a good day, I decided.
I went through the complete drill of waiting for an hour-and-a-half and got a bus. No, in fact, Rabbit Transit rewarded my wait with TWO buses. Oh, I get a choice of routes. I am delighted. I take in the musty ambience inside the bus. The lady behind the wheels gives me a guided tour of the area, since I am new in town. How did she know? I did not know the bus fare and I fumbled with the quarters and nickels and dimes and dollars.
I got back home after three hours.
No points for guessing how I got to work this morning. Oh and did I tell you about the survey I had to fill out, at work? Funny Lady and Funny Man came up with a strange little survey that I had to take. Sample these questions:
1. Does the bus you are riding have a bunny tail, or not?
2. Are the seats clean?
3. Is the bus hostess friendly and serving you complimentary cocktails?
4. Does the person sitting next to you smell?
5. Do you have a sworn affidavit of your identity while traveling on the bus?
I should stop, for now. My bunny ride is here.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Small Sticky Notes
I am dealing with a new country and a new continent. I am dealing with air that feels different and trees that look different. I am dealing with non-spicy food and spicy political shows. All in all, I am dealing with change. During comparatively stressful times such as this, humor—specifically at the workplace—helps!
So when I walked into the warm little basement of the office, guided to my workspace in a bare cubicle, I was not expecting to be shown some showgirl costumes stashed away in the locker, or the saucy headgear for those really trying days. I gave an unsure laugh, not sure if that is the reaction they were looking for. I was welcomed to the fold with a couple more crass jokes and free laughter. I am relieved.
I walked around the cubicles and found funny notes all over. I found pictures of happy and hilarious moments. I am in an Americanized Bay26! This is like the mirror world or some parallel universe where everything that’s exactly the same is happening to a different set of people.
I am taken around town during lunch hours, I am given tacky books to read and make book reports of, I am shown secret haunts where things are on sale for throwaway prices. We walked into a store and tried on all the funny hats and made all the necessary noise in there that would be enough to raise some eyebrows and a lot of concern.
Oh and the other day, one of them happily slipped a—ahem—condom into my hand. I wasn’t sure what I should say about her concern about my new life. But before I was required to react she squealed, “Oh look where it is made! INDIA!” I did not know that Latex was such a huge industry back home. Then why such an explosive population?
Hmm.
The apartment hunt is on. And it is a big project out here. They are all looking. And how so! Calls are being made, I am taken around to see places, recommendations for me are being made, I am constantly given tips of how to negotiate with landlords. Furniture places, discount coupons, contacts, carpet places… everything is discussed.
Welcome to the USA.
So, I found an apartment and settling in was, delightful, to say the least. But coming back home to face the four and many walls with the feeling that there isn’t going to be another human being in the house – that upsets me a bit. I have been watching movies back-to-back and have taken up to calling up people near and far. And I sit and wonder what do people here do in the evenings. It gets dark by 5pm. So, that pretty much restricts a “life” out here in the suburbs.
One startling revelation was just how much Americans LOVE their television. Cut off the cable connection for a few hours and you will get to see berserk, panicky people tearing their hair and screaming down the street. Ok, so that was a highly colored picture that I just painted, but truth be told, these guys are glued to their televisions. They discuss shows and more shows during lunch and coffee. They discuss the dimensions of their televisions with such passion. And no one owns just one set. There has to be at least two (one for the living room and one for the bedroom). The extravagant ones have units fit in the kitchen and the basement. And the loony ones have one installed on their fridge door. Fancy having dinner and staring at your refrigerator door throughout the process. Now, that is why I used the word loony. (Also, because I want to use that word. It is a Monday.)
People at work are shocked to know that I do not own a TV yet. I am shocked that they are shocked! Suddenly, the fact that my apartment is echoing because there is no furniture in there, and the fact that I am sleeping on the floor, diminish in importance. “Egad! You don’t have a TV??!” They, being the helpful souls that they are, discussed more television with me than ever before. And then there were deals about which one of them will loan me a TV. I turned down the offer as forcefully as I could. But I had to give up. There will be a 13” and/or a 23” settling in my apartment soon.
Oh well, the apartment won’t echo all that much, I reckon.
* * *
So when I walked into the warm little basement of the office, guided to my workspace in a bare cubicle, I was not expecting to be shown some showgirl costumes stashed away in the locker, or the saucy headgear for those really trying days. I gave an unsure laugh, not sure if that is the reaction they were looking for. I was welcomed to the fold with a couple more crass jokes and free laughter. I am relieved.
I walked around the cubicles and found funny notes all over. I found pictures of happy and hilarious moments. I am in an Americanized Bay26! This is like the mirror world or some parallel universe where everything that’s exactly the same is happening to a different set of people.
I am taken around town during lunch hours, I am given tacky books to read and make book reports of, I am shown secret haunts where things are on sale for throwaway prices. We walked into a store and tried on all the funny hats and made all the necessary noise in there that would be enough to raise some eyebrows and a lot of concern.
Oh and the other day, one of them happily slipped a—ahem—condom into my hand. I wasn’t sure what I should say about her concern about my new life. But before I was required to react she squealed, “Oh look where it is made! INDIA!” I did not know that Latex was such a huge industry back home. Then why such an explosive population?
Hmm.
The apartment hunt is on. And it is a big project out here. They are all looking. And how so! Calls are being made, I am taken around to see places, recommendations for me are being made, I am constantly given tips of how to negotiate with landlords. Furniture places, discount coupons, contacts, carpet places… everything is discussed.
Welcome to the USA.
* * *
So, I found an apartment and settling in was, delightful, to say the least. But coming back home to face the four and many walls with the feeling that there isn’t going to be another human being in the house – that upsets me a bit. I have been watching movies back-to-back and have taken up to calling up people near and far. And I sit and wonder what do people here do in the evenings. It gets dark by 5pm. So, that pretty much restricts a “life” out here in the suburbs.
One startling revelation was just how much Americans LOVE their television. Cut off the cable connection for a few hours and you will get to see berserk, panicky people tearing their hair and screaming down the street. Ok, so that was a highly colored picture that I just painted, but truth be told, these guys are glued to their televisions. They discuss shows and more shows during lunch and coffee. They discuss the dimensions of their televisions with such passion. And no one owns just one set. There has to be at least two (one for the living room and one for the bedroom). The extravagant ones have units fit in the kitchen and the basement. And the loony ones have one installed on their fridge door. Fancy having dinner and staring at your refrigerator door throughout the process. Now, that is why I used the word loony. (Also, because I want to use that word. It is a Monday.)
People at work are shocked to know that I do not own a TV yet. I am shocked that they are shocked! Suddenly, the fact that my apartment is echoing because there is no furniture in there, and the fact that I am sleeping on the floor, diminish in importance. “Egad! You don’t have a TV??!” They, being the helpful souls that they are, discussed more television with me than ever before. And then there were deals about which one of them will loan me a TV. I turned down the offer as forcefully as I could. But I had to give up. There will be a 13” and/or a 23” settling in my apartment soon.
Oh well, the apartment won’t echo all that much, I reckon.
* * *
I am beginning to wonder if I should keep a log of some sorts. To record all the crazy things that transpire at work. If I did keep one, today’s entry would go something like this –
Nov 03, ’08: Lady at work reveals that she has an enormous uterus. Funny guy covers his ears in dismay and starts singing church hymns to chastise himself after THAT piece of news. Friendly lady laughs uncontrollably and almost rams her vehicle into a truck – with a terrified me in it.
Later today, at the Diners, Funny man introduces me as his third wife, his new bride. Funny lady plays along and introduces the remaining two women as his first and second wives. Oh and what a jovial bunch we all are. She said, “He married me for my brains, her for her breasts and the third one for her exotic beauty.”
I think I choked on my soup.
I got a pair of Christmas Green hand towels from these guys. A tacky housewarming gift. I was beginning to worry if they would gift me the ugly office clown. I hate clowns. They are scary. This little clown sits and bobs its head and sings “It’s a small world after all” Eeks.
Did I tell you that they think I would make a good waitress at Hooters because they think that I am—umm—well stacked?
Hooboy.
PS: Folks at work have been so good to me. So, today I got them incense sticks. One of the delightful scents is "Frangipani"… and Funny Guy likes to call it FrankyPanky :)
Nov 03, ’08: Lady at work reveals that she has an enormous uterus. Funny guy covers his ears in dismay and starts singing church hymns to chastise himself after THAT piece of news. Friendly lady laughs uncontrollably and almost rams her vehicle into a truck – with a terrified me in it.
Later today, at the Diners, Funny man introduces me as his third wife, his new bride. Funny lady plays along and introduces the remaining two women as his first and second wives. Oh and what a jovial bunch we all are. She said, “He married me for my brains, her for her breasts and the third one for her exotic beauty.”
I think I choked on my soup.
I got a pair of Christmas Green hand towels from these guys. A tacky housewarming gift. I was beginning to worry if they would gift me the ugly office clown. I hate clowns. They are scary. This little clown sits and bobs its head and sings “It’s a small world after all” Eeks.
Did I tell you that they think I would make a good waitress at Hooters because they think that I am—umm—well stacked?
Hooboy.
PS: Folks at work have been so good to me. So, today I got them incense sticks. One of the delightful scents is "Frangipani"… and Funny Guy likes to call it FrankyPanky :)
Monday, July 14, 2008
By the Bend of the River
They say that life is a journey. So, I sit down by the bend of a river and take a break. I mull over thoughts and people and moments. I think of nights when I sit bolt upright, sleepless with an exciting happy thought. I think of how loving people can transform into an actual physical pain. I ponder over inner demons and personal battles that are solely for me to fight. I resolve to go back and sort things out and then move on; or find an alternate path to settle scores. I think of learning to accept and co-exist with my nightmares.
Whatever suits me fine.
I remember how, when there is no release for pent up emotions, we seek solace in Gods and their kin. That brings me to my non-Abrahamic Gods. The ones I seek to adopt along with the One I am to love and worship. My thought turn to those gods who play terribly powerful roles, in deciding the twists and turns of my fate, whether I like it or not. Those gods who make me believe in a happy rainbow and a fretful rainy afternoon, that all is good. I think of the constant clash between Indian and the Judaic thoughts that invades my heart and mind.
Then, I drift away again --
I float in the foamy silvery waves of Rishikesh; I sit alone in the dark while others drank in the good times. Not too many unhappy thoughts were in my head, a lovely moment being at peace with my solitude. I then clamber the craggy heights of the Valley of Flowers to see tearful pilgrims trudging along dusty paths, along with mules. I drink dew off wild flowers and watch a pair of lean arms clutching a camera and making a few moments timeless. I lie in the meadow, the grass tickling my ears. I close my eyes and take a small nap. I wake up inside a crummy bus to Satpuli. My Own sits there right beside me, snoozing, deserting me to continue in my own thoughtless thoughts. I reach Shiva Café and find her lying cocooned in her own green shawl. I find him sprawled on a low seating, satiated with whatever he was up to. His blue tee shirt merged to my pink. Pinks and Blues and Greens. I wished that we would never grow any older, or move an inch further.
I went to many places at once.
And all this by the bend of the river.
Whatever suits me fine.
I remember how, when there is no release for pent up emotions, we seek solace in Gods and their kin. That brings me to my non-Abrahamic Gods. The ones I seek to adopt along with the One I am to love and worship. My thought turn to those gods who play terribly powerful roles, in deciding the twists and turns of my fate, whether I like it or not. Those gods who make me believe in a happy rainbow and a fretful rainy afternoon, that all is good. I think of the constant clash between Indian and the Judaic thoughts that invades my heart and mind.
Then, I drift away again --
I float in the foamy silvery waves of Rishikesh; I sit alone in the dark while others drank in the good times. Not too many unhappy thoughts were in my head, a lovely moment being at peace with my solitude. I then clamber the craggy heights of the Valley of Flowers to see tearful pilgrims trudging along dusty paths, along with mules. I drink dew off wild flowers and watch a pair of lean arms clutching a camera and making a few moments timeless. I lie in the meadow, the grass tickling my ears. I close my eyes and take a small nap. I wake up inside a crummy bus to Satpuli. My Own sits there right beside me, snoozing, deserting me to continue in my own thoughtless thoughts. I reach Shiva Café and find her lying cocooned in her own green shawl. I find him sprawled on a low seating, satiated with whatever he was up to. His blue tee shirt merged to my pink. Pinks and Blues and Greens. I wished that we would never grow any older, or move an inch further.
I went to many places at once.
And all this by the bend of the river.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
L.I.F.E
A personal journal entry dated: 01 Feb 2006
Some moments are frothy with mirth. That is really the best way I can explain that feeling. Happy songs on the radio, work doesn’t seem all that drab.
There is a whiff of a distinctive deo that reaches your nose from God-knows-where. You have a smile on your lips.
As though you have just been secretly kissed.
You are just plain happy. In a non-irritating way. In a non-interfering way.
I guess I should gauge the way I have lived life, by noting the frequency of such moments occurring.
I should be blessed. For, there are many such moments.
* * *
It is all about ups and downs.Some moments are frothy with mirth. That is really the best way I can explain that feeling. Happy songs on the radio, work doesn’t seem all that drab.
There is a whiff of a distinctive deo that reaches your nose from God-knows-where. You have a smile on your lips.
As though you have just been secretly kissed.
You are just plain happy. In a non-irritating way. In a non-interfering way.
I guess I should gauge the way I have lived life, by noting the frequency of such moments occurring.
I should be blessed. For, there are many such moments.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Notes from the Continent Down Under
Disclaimer and Acknowledgement:
These are a few heavily-edited notes of e-mail exchanges between a good friend of mine, and me, over a series of recent days.
These are a few heavily-edited notes of e-mail exchanges between a good friend of mine, and me, over a series of recent days.
Thank you PAM for not suing me while I unabashedly use your lovely prose on my blog, with the sole purpose of increasing the hits on my weblog. Muhahaha!
* * *
It's chilly and windy here.
I have managed to remain a vegetarian. :)
--
You have a couple of weeks more to go - Let's see how many animals you will eat!
--
I walk home down the hep, organized streets along with the suited-and-booted crowds, all the time pining for the chaos of Delhi. Then I reach the hotel and face the four walls.
--
I totally know the feeling.
I had started writing a lot, during those days. It's a sight to see - the morning office goers. They wait at red lights minding their own business. Then, when you hear the pic-pic-pic sound and when the lights change you resume your walk. All of them crisp and purposeful. I did pine for familiarity too, but I did not miss the lecherous looks or the dust or the Himesh songs. I missed the familiar scents, the trees, and the morning reading-in-the-bus routine.
--
Yesterday was one of the windiest days in Vic in recent history. Wind speeds reached 130 kmph in several parts of the state. The town of Bondorrah had a bad dust storm. A TV station managed to get hold of a farmer Donald, who said he was driving down a country road and couldn't see a thing. A radio station said a guy was on a motorbike when it was blown right off. I am not exaggerating when I say that at one point, I could not walk for the sheer force of the wind. Some trains were cancelled; power was out in some parts of Melbourne. Sounds like Bombay during the monsoon, doesn't it? My clients insisted that I take an umbrella home, and offered me a huge one - that looked like those things they put up outside restaurants.
The people are disarmingly friendly here, at least the ones in the office - touch wood. Having lived for a long time in circumstances where I am left alone in one corner of Bay 6, and approached only when someone needs help, I found this unnerving. Also, given my somewhat introverted nature, I realized that acting extroverted all the time was downright exhausting! Yesterday, when I was having lunch on my own, an employee - a blonde :) - who sits not far from me came over and struck up a friendly conversation. She "Hi Merlee", and said how windy it was, and discussed AFL, and cricket, and what a creep Ricky Ponting is, and how she wanted Harbhajan out, etc. I was waiting for her to ask me for advise on her design document, or a review, or something - but no. It was all so disappointing - she just wanted to talk to me! And today morning, she asked me if I managed to reached home safely through the weather. Well, really! - and I hardly know her! :)
I found someone "motherly" - an Indian originally from Cal - to advise me on food. :)
And yes, they do say "yeeeeh" all the time.
--
"Yeeeeeeh..I Knouiii!!!"
Don't they also say -- "Exactly raaaaight" a lot?
I am glad that you like the way how things are shaping up!
You know, I found the folks out there really friendly too. They smile at you whenever they meet your eyes. They say hi and they make small talk. There was this guy who used to sit right across where I sat. He would chat up with me and was really friendly. Well, almost to the level that K thought he was flirting with me!! He wasn't, really. That's how these folks are :)
Oh, by the way, on the last day of work, I did leave a tiny little gift for him, at his desk :)
And oh yes, I have an umbrella story to tell you too -- So, it was raining crazy out there and the lady in the office insisted that she give us both one umbrella each. They are MASSIVE ones, not like the ones that we use out here. And yes, you cud start a lemonade stall if you own one :) But then again... have you seen the umbrellas the folks in the Himalayas use? They are huge too!
--
Yeeeh, that's true, That's what they sai. Also they also sai "exactly roit" :))
Today, I have to buy a 1 GB memory stick and some yogurt. I lead an interesting life.
I have discovered 3 Indian restaurants. Yeeeh. :)
--
Today when you buy yoghurt, ask for the sim recharge. Take the 29 AUD one. It will last long enough and will give you value for money.
--
When Melbournians talk about traffic jams, they must be referring to Dabri Mode at 6 in the morning. They wouldn't be able to imagine the chaos of Dabri Mode at 9 o' clock.:) Most of the drivers in the cabs in which I have travelled have been Africans - except for one driver, a kindly old Queenslander, who chatted with me pleasantly all the way to the office. The Africans tend to keep quiet like the Indian cabbies. Yesterday however, the cabbie turned around and asked me, "You're from India?" I brightened up and said yes.
"Mumbai or Delhi?" he said. When I answered, he said he had been in Delhi once. For two weeks, back in 1973. I would have probed a little and asked him about the circumstances had I not glanced out of the window and been riveted by the sight of a silent line of office-goers, mostly dressed in black, some holding coffee cups , all walking like zombies towards their destinations. So they could all scamper like frightened rabbits out of the offices and into trains at 5.00 PM - back to their suburbs. I may seem to be making fun of them, but I wish we Indians would be more like them in this respect.
Yesterday evening, there was a big "footie" game at the Telstra Dome in front of the hotel, and a sizable crowd had gathered to watch it. Such crowds usually get boisterous, and this one had started getting boisterous even before the start of play. I had been warned to keep away from such crowds, especially if the home team lost (it did). I went out to buy some potato chips. When I came back to the hotel on level 4, the lift "came along", the doors opened, and a woman got out. She asked me, "Are we on the 8th?" I replied, no, she had just reached Level 4.
She got back in, giggled in a friendly sort of way as we started up, and said to me, "I cant figure these things out sometimes, you know. They move so quickly." I nodded back politely, and smiled. I was amused. Half an hour back, on the way back from the office, I had ridden the lift with an Indian girl, who kept a safe distance from me in one corner of the lift, hands tightly folded, and steadfastly looked away. Made me feel like Jack the Ripper.
Well, it takes all kinds to make to make up this world. I have my own powers-that-be, who - even in the call we had yesterday - have still not asked me how I am getting along in a strange city. And then, there's the Malaysian expatriate who sometimes sits next to me: when I told him I would urgently need to make a call back home when I reached the hotel, immediately pressed a calling card in my hand, and insisted that I could use it to call home from the office.
--
You are right about that -- it takes all kinds to make up this world.
When I went to Sydney, it really wasn't the first time I was travelling abroad. But still, a lot of things hit me quite on the face -- the main thing being FREIDNLINESS. Well, with a better spelling of course. The thing about us Indians is that we are very wary about everyone around us. I don't know if we can blame our race for it or not. I am still trying to find the answer.
Lots of strangers smiled at me when I walked to work. There were courteous car drivers who would let you cross the road while they waited patiently. I made it a point to look back at them, smile and wave a thank-you. They would smile back and drive off. It really made my day(s). Construction workers would nod a good morning and allow the ‘Indian gals’ to walk past. No whistles, no comments, nothing.
You have 'African' cabbies? In Sydney, in three weeks, I saw ONE black guy. And that too, a tourist. It was worrying. So much to the extent that... I was beginning to get worried about what did happen to the blacks out here! We just had Asian folks all over the place (yes, Indians are Asians too! South Asians). The very first cabbie we encountered, the one who took us to the apartment from the airport, played the friendly guide. He showed us around, named the streets, gave a few tips and asked us to have a pleasant stay in his country. He would have been Malaysian. But that is another story, really. Did I tell you of this Malaysian guy at work? He loves gaming, and he loves pirated software. We were fast friends, in no time.
The morning office-going crowd, coffee cups in hand, coated and suited and booted. I almost loved the mechanized routine. If it weren't for the fear of running late to work, we would have stopped at a bistro or two. The non-smoking ones. Aussies smoke a LOT. Or maybe not.
I have managed to remain a vegetarian. :)
--
You have a couple of weeks more to go - Let's see how many animals you will eat!
--
I walk home down the hep, organized streets along with the suited-and-booted crowds, all the time pining for the chaos of Delhi. Then I reach the hotel and face the four walls.
--
I totally know the feeling.
I had started writing a lot, during those days. It's a sight to see - the morning office goers. They wait at red lights minding their own business. Then, when you hear the pic-pic-pic sound and when the lights change you resume your walk. All of them crisp and purposeful. I did pine for familiarity too, but I did not miss the lecherous looks or the dust or the Himesh songs. I missed the familiar scents, the trees, and the morning reading-in-the-bus routine.
--
Yesterday was one of the windiest days in Vic in recent history. Wind speeds reached 130 kmph in several parts of the state. The town of Bondorrah had a bad dust storm. A TV station managed to get hold of a farmer Donald, who said he was driving down a country road and couldn't see a thing. A radio station said a guy was on a motorbike when it was blown right off. I am not exaggerating when I say that at one point, I could not walk for the sheer force of the wind. Some trains were cancelled; power was out in some parts of Melbourne. Sounds like Bombay during the monsoon, doesn't it? My clients insisted that I take an umbrella home, and offered me a huge one - that looked like those things they put up outside restaurants.
The people are disarmingly friendly here, at least the ones in the office - touch wood. Having lived for a long time in circumstances where I am left alone in one corner of Bay 6, and approached only when someone needs help, I found this unnerving. Also, given my somewhat introverted nature, I realized that acting extroverted all the time was downright exhausting! Yesterday, when I was having lunch on my own, an employee - a blonde :) - who sits not far from me came over and struck up a friendly conversation. She "Hi Merlee", and said how windy it was, and discussed AFL, and cricket, and what a creep Ricky Ponting is, and how she wanted Harbhajan out, etc. I was waiting for her to ask me for advise on her design document, or a review, or something - but no. It was all so disappointing - she just wanted to talk to me! And today morning, she asked me if I managed to reached home safely through the weather. Well, really! - and I hardly know her! :)
I found someone "motherly" - an Indian originally from Cal - to advise me on food. :)
And yes, they do say "yeeeeh" all the time.
--
"Yeeeeeeh..I Knouiii!!!"
Don't they also say -- "Exactly raaaaight" a lot?
I am glad that you like the way how things are shaping up!
You know, I found the folks out there really friendly too. They smile at you whenever they meet your eyes. They say hi and they make small talk. There was this guy who used to sit right across where I sat. He would chat up with me and was really friendly. Well, almost to the level that K thought he was flirting with me!! He wasn't, really. That's how these folks are :)
Oh, by the way, on the last day of work, I did leave a tiny little gift for him, at his desk :)
And oh yes, I have an umbrella story to tell you too -- So, it was raining crazy out there and the lady in the office insisted that she give us both one umbrella each. They are MASSIVE ones, not like the ones that we use out here. And yes, you cud start a lemonade stall if you own one :) But then again... have you seen the umbrellas the folks in the Himalayas use? They are huge too!
--
Yeeeh, that's true, That's what they sai. Also they also sai "exactly roit" :))
Today, I have to buy a 1 GB memory stick and some yogurt. I lead an interesting life.
I have discovered 3 Indian restaurants. Yeeeh. :)
--
Today when you buy yoghurt, ask for the sim recharge. Take the 29 AUD one. It will last long enough and will give you value for money.
--
When Melbournians talk about traffic jams, they must be referring to Dabri Mode at 6 in the morning. They wouldn't be able to imagine the chaos of Dabri Mode at 9 o' clock.:) Most of the drivers in the cabs in which I have travelled have been Africans - except for one driver, a kindly old Queenslander, who chatted with me pleasantly all the way to the office. The Africans tend to keep quiet like the Indian cabbies. Yesterday however, the cabbie turned around and asked me, "You're from India?" I brightened up and said yes.
"Mumbai or Delhi?" he said. When I answered, he said he had been in Delhi once. For two weeks, back in 1973. I would have probed a little and asked him about the circumstances had I not glanced out of the window and been riveted by the sight of a silent line of office-goers, mostly dressed in black, some holding coffee cups , all walking like zombies towards their destinations. So they could all scamper like frightened rabbits out of the offices and into trains at 5.00 PM - back to their suburbs. I may seem to be making fun of them, but I wish we Indians would be more like them in this respect.
Yesterday evening, there was a big "footie" game at the Telstra Dome in front of the hotel, and a sizable crowd had gathered to watch it. Such crowds usually get boisterous, and this one had started getting boisterous even before the start of play. I had been warned to keep away from such crowds, especially if the home team lost (it did). I went out to buy some potato chips. When I came back to the hotel on level 4, the lift "came along", the doors opened, and a woman got out. She asked me, "Are we on the 8th?" I replied, no, she had just reached Level 4.
She got back in, giggled in a friendly sort of way as we started up, and said to me, "I cant figure these things out sometimes, you know. They move so quickly." I nodded back politely, and smiled. I was amused. Half an hour back, on the way back from the office, I had ridden the lift with an Indian girl, who kept a safe distance from me in one corner of the lift, hands tightly folded, and steadfastly looked away. Made me feel like Jack the Ripper.
Well, it takes all kinds to make to make up this world. I have my own powers-that-be, who - even in the call we had yesterday - have still not asked me how I am getting along in a strange city. And then, there's the Malaysian expatriate who sometimes sits next to me: when I told him I would urgently need to make a call back home when I reached the hotel, immediately pressed a calling card in my hand, and insisted that I could use it to call home from the office.
--
You are right about that -- it takes all kinds to make up this world.
When I went to Sydney, it really wasn't the first time I was travelling abroad. But still, a lot of things hit me quite on the face -- the main thing being FREIDNLINESS. Well, with a better spelling of course. The thing about us Indians is that we are very wary about everyone around us. I don't know if we can blame our race for it or not. I am still trying to find the answer.
Lots of strangers smiled at me when I walked to work. There were courteous car drivers who would let you cross the road while they waited patiently. I made it a point to look back at them, smile and wave a thank-you. They would smile back and drive off. It really made my day(s). Construction workers would nod a good morning and allow the ‘Indian gals’ to walk past. No whistles, no comments, nothing.
You have 'African' cabbies? In Sydney, in three weeks, I saw ONE black guy. And that too, a tourist. It was worrying. So much to the extent that... I was beginning to get worried about what did happen to the blacks out here! We just had Asian folks all over the place (yes, Indians are Asians too! South Asians). The very first cabbie we encountered, the one who took us to the apartment from the airport, played the friendly guide. He showed us around, named the streets, gave a few tips and asked us to have a pleasant stay in his country. He would have been Malaysian. But that is another story, really. Did I tell you of this Malaysian guy at work? He loves gaming, and he loves pirated software. We were fast friends, in no time.
The morning office-going crowd, coffee cups in hand, coated and suited and booted. I almost loved the mechanized routine. If it weren't for the fear of running late to work, we would have stopped at a bistro or two. The non-smoking ones. Aussies smoke a LOT. Or maybe not.
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