Seasons of Providence

Fall; October, 2001; Ranchi:

I was returning from my physics tuition class when my "Lady Bird" got a punctured tyre.

The wind was strong, and the evening, dressed in colours of the earth: ochre, brown, yellow; golds and pastels. A bicycle is good company for a stroll on a lovely autumn evening. The trees are mighty and benevolent - they strip themselves off, to carpet the road below with their withered foliage - which crackled underneath my feet, welcoming, as I walked. Dry leaves caught in a wind eddy, danced in circular jubilation before me.

I tried to look ahead, sheltering my eyes with one hand, to see if I could find someone who could direct me to a cycle repair shop. When you're 16, help comes easy. Through the flurry of dust and leaves, I saw the silhouette of a boy approaching. A beautiful boy with a grand smile and mischievous eyes.

He decided to walk me to the shop. We found things to talk about - school, tuition, common friends. My cycle was repaired. I could ride it back home. But we walked instead. Back in the days no one exchanged numbers in small towns. We knew that we'd run into each other again and we did. Let's say, quite often indeed.

I did not know what love at first sight meant, before that evening of fall. And I will not qualify the last statement with anything cynical about growing up and knowing better.

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Winters; November, 2008; Delhi

My first Delhi winter was about to make its way into my life in all its fury. I intended to make good use of the last few days on which I could still flaunt some skin, and wore the little black dress. I hopped into a car with some strange beautiful ladies among whom I had a friend from my dance class, who had invited me over for a night of letting my hair down.

23 is an odd age - lacking in character, lacking in anything which can be considered a significant milestone during a girl's passage to womanhood. I had been in love, been heartbroken and gotten over it, several times already. A harsh winter in a new city can be a lonely time. I wanted someone to keep me warm.

As I stepped out of the car, I realized what a mistake it had been to underestimate the might of a parky November night in Delhi. Men joined us, and one of them noticing my discomfort, offered me his coat. Several vodka shots and car hops later, we landed at a bachelors apartment for some after party.

I hadn't spoken much to the man in question, since I had my eye set on another pretty boy in the group, who disappeared later. I took to a corner in the lobby to get a couple of hours of sleep before sunrise, when I could make my way home. As the effect of the alcohol in my blood wore away, the tip of my nose froze; my toes curled inside the carpet; I drew a cushion close to my chest for warmth and my breath spawned mist before my eyes.

And there he was again - anticipating my needs - offering me a large sweatshirt, a warm quilt and a hot coffee, along with a delightful conversation which continued till day light.

I spent the next year and a half in his T-shirts and sweatshirts.

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Spring; January, 2004; Chennai

This is cheating, you'd say - January isn't spring! But it is the closest you can get to "feeling" spring in hot, hot Madras.

I had left Hyderabad to attend the grand "IIT Saarang" with a huge backpack containing my prettiest dresses and loveliest shoes. (What can I say, I have a thing for nerds.) I eventually reached there only with my handbag, that had only my wallet and my toothbrush. What transpired in between is a story for another time.

I didn't have much hope for finding romance in the next three days, considering I had to manage in a couple of cheap T-Shirts and pajamas that I had picked up from a street-side shop, with whatever little money I had, before making my way to the IIT campus. Strangely, even after literally having lost so much, my spirit was intact. Must be the spring in my veins.

At one corner there were a hundred talented young men and women painting each other's faces - metamorphosing what was human into a motley of characters out of fantasy; at another, vast expanses of the floor lay covered in kaleidoscopic illustrations of Rangoli; further ahead, in the midst of a congregation, a bunch of vivid performers proclaimed social slogans and implored upon people to participate.

As I walked further ahead a bevy of deers bounced past the road, into a meadow of tall-grass, causing its culms to spray white tufts of tiny flowers into the settled air and then quickly disappeared into a thicket.

Spring is so much more of a state of mind, than a season.

I walked far and long - in my dirty jeans - nonchalant towards my disheveled appearance, content with the anonymity, till I reached an auditorium which announced a "Salsa Workshop".

"Hi, I'd like to register."
"Do you have a partner?"
"Umm, nope. Don't know anyone here."
"Dance with me?"

Well, what can I say, I guess nerds have a thing for me too.

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Summer; June 2011; Delhi

At almost 26, you'd think I know something about romance and love and butterflies in the stomach. But I am clueless, still. Not having dated for a whole year, is, going by past experience, quite odd for a girl like me. The seasons have passed me by, markedly lacking in happenstance.

However, I am a summer girl. I like trotting about in skimpy shorts and tank tops. I like crunching up my short hair before I make eye contact with the cute guy at the bar while sipping on a frozen margarita. When it is bright and shiny, I like to be a darling and a flirt. When it is bright and shiny, I am hopeful of providence once again.

By the way, the other day I ran into a very cute guy at the bar. He got my number. We have a date. You never know. ;)

Notes on Strangers on my Couch.

I offer couch to strangers like you. In exchange, you offer stories. It's a fair deal.

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Magda:

You were the first. Trusting you came easy, I guess it was the same for you. I wonder if it is only the prospect of a free shelter and food that brings two strangers from half way across the globe together. Humanity never ceases to amaze me.

You arrived at midnight; when the June's sweltering Delhi day had been lulled to behave. I was amused that you expected me to be, not what I was: a tiny girl, clad in summer shorts and a vest. "Not very Indian", you probably intended to say, but replaced your words carefully with a more polite euphemism: "Independent".

You stayed 4 days. You ate nothing hot and spicy. You refused to carry a cell phone. You insisted on travelling in atrocious DTC buses to Old Delhi. You befriended a strange man in Jama Masjid and accepted his invitation to visit his family. You got scared out of your wits when there was a power cut in his ghetto like home and thought this was the end of your life as you knew it. You smiled and dismissed your fears when the power came back and his sisters most hospitably served you tea and samosas. You visited the Toilet Museum!! (I did not even know that existed!) You came home to narrate to me with most animated gesticulations, each and every moment of your ordeal, with such perspicacity, that I could feel your excitement percolate through my very heart.

You carried only full sleeved shirts because of your preconceived ideas of the conservative India. We shopped at the Sarojini Nagar Market for some more summer-friendly outfits and for the next one hour I pointed out to you every Indian girl who would walk past in a spaghetti strapped top. We watched a movie together. We talked about men, and it was reassuring to know that the experiences with love are uniform across the globe. You later asked me which one I would choose between a man who is a great father, and husband and a man who is a great lover, both exclusive of each other. To which my most honest response was, "I can take care of the kids myself." And we laughed it off for the next ten minutes.

Before you left, you thanked me for dispelling the stereotypes you harboured about India and for accommodating you. I never thanked you for opening my eyes to the world around me.

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Kang Kang:

Your season was the rains. How I wished I had spent more time with you. As Murphy would have it, you had to endure the worst conditions: the pouring rain not allowing you to explore as much as you'd probably desired to, the plumbing and water condition at home going wrong and my being occupied with work mostly. But I never sensed you regretting your choice of staying with me instead of a hostel/hotel.

You stayed 5 days. We talked over breakfast mostly. You loved the milk shake that I prepared and asked me for its recipe. You took a train to Bangalore, but e-mailed me later to inform me that you got off the train at some quaint old South-Indian town that I forget the name of, to go to an ashram, which you overheard some people talk about on the train.

You are an English teacher in China, and yet you struggled to convince me of the earnestness of your gratitude. "Thank you very much dear, we Chinese people are not very good at expressing ourselves." You did just fine.

It is only much later, after I visited China, that I noticed how different you seemed to be from the rest of your kind; from the majority in China who like structure and avoid risks, who refuse to connect with people who are "different".

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Katie:

When we met, we were both warding off the same demons. You tackled them by embracing a real adventure, and I by embracing escapism. You spent four months travelling all over South East Asia: Laos, Vietnam, Nepal, Thailand and then India.

We talked while we painted our nails a bright shade of blue. We treated ourselves to ice-cream at India Gate at midnight. We rolled our eyes at the inane and bizarre attempts of Indian men at propositioning exotic women. We ate kebabs at Khan Market and you told me about your little vacation romance with a hapless young, rockstar-of-a-lad from Nepal. And I shared with you the curious incident of my life which involved falling in love with a Nepalese man. At the thought of romance, we mused, and at the loss of it, we bonded.

We rub shoulders sometimes on our Facebook walls. We don't interact much, other than "liking" a picture or status of either, once in a while. But when you went back, you left me a message: "My toe is still blue from when we painted our nails together, and so a part of you is still with me here in San Francisco."

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Mirko:

I could have fallen in love with you. I did, a little bit. And I know, you did too, a little bit. You were every bit the arrogant German I'd heard of. Your experience with India had been awful, and I believe you weren't lying when you said that I was the most "fun" part of your Indian trip.

You called me the crazy little Indian girl. You thought it stupendous that I would work for hours at a stretch and could still be dressed up and about to go out at night. We danced all of Saturday night. We got lost driving around in the labyrinths of central Delhi in the wee hours, with no regrets. You tested my Spanish speaking skills and teased me like an old pal.

I convinced you against going to the Taj Mahal with a weird Indian man you met through Couchsurfing. (Somehow all weird men have found their way to Couchsurfing). My bad. But in my defence, he was indeed quite a weirdo. Now I see that I had put up my most judgmental glasses on, while you were around. The strange man showed up at my door at 5 a.m. to pick you up for Agra. You told him you won't go.

Well, as it turned out, you traveled to Agra on your own, in a passenger train, and made it to the main gate just in time for it to be shut down for the day; you were denied the wondrous sight. Karma bites, I know. But hey, bad experiences make for wonderful stories.

An hour before you left, you got us a bottle of red wine. We trespassed my neighbour's terrace, climbed on top of my roof and balanced ourselves on the parapet. We drank wine and giggled incredulously about your little Indian (mis)adventure. We never kissed.

Before you left, you said: "If two people meet once in life, there is a 95% probability that they would meet again." I wondered where you got your statistics from and hoped you got them right. We said goodbye. We catch a fleeting glimpse of each other's life on our virtual walls; our interaction limited to "pokes" that we surreptitiously throw at each other on Facebook.

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You are all a lot more than strangers, a little more than acquaintances, but a little lesser than friends.

Through your experiences, I have vicariously trekked the Annapurna Ranges; been lost in Egyptian desserts; taught English to street kids in a quaint, old Tamilian town; attended the Burning Man.

Through your eyes, I have seen a little more. Through your adventures, I have lived a little more. In your company, I have reveled a little more.

I am the quintessential armchair traveler. Someday, I will take myself out of this armchair, and I hope the 5% chance of not meeting you ever again, does not get the better of me.

How 'bout that ever elusive kudo?

One of the reasons I haven't been writing is that I never intended for this blog to be a "quick-update-about-how-cool-my-life-is" kind of a blog. So this post makes me feel like I'm cheating on my ideologies, since I am going to be giving you snippets of all that transpired while I have been away.

But I promise that I have a point. That is, if you have the patience to stick with me till the end.

I have been singing. And making new friends. A song brings people together like a dance never can. While a dance may say "I'm into you" or "we get along well". I song together says "I like you" or "I feel you". And really, nothing makes me happier than singing out loud. It started with my landing up at TC, for a beer after work on a certain Thursday. They had karaoke going on, and I got hooked. Since then, I have been living my life, one Thursday at a time. So, one Thursday I'm Alicia "Off-keys", the next I'm "Lady Marmalade", yet another time I'm tutoring everyone to "walk like an Egyptian". If you happen to be in TC on a given Thursday, look up the small girl with a loud voice.

I have been working hard and partying harder. Literally. Even though it came at a cost of sleepless nights and I am pretty sure that at one point of time I had more Red Bull running through my veins than blood. I also got a much awaited appraisal. I am a sucker for good beginnings and I have a good feeling about 2011.

The hair's growing out. As someone commented earlier on my post, maybe I'm making peace with my life now.

I'm back on Facebook. *sigh* I know, let's not get started on that. But it was good to know that I was missed.

I haven't yet met anyone special, but then I haven't been trying awfully hard at it either. Not that companionship is not desirable, but it seems to require such a tremendous amount of effort to "pick up" a new relationship, that I have sort of put my hand off and grown out of it. So I haven't been asking for anyone's number, and I haven't been allowing small talk to reach a stage where a man asks for my number. And that is such a relief.

China was great. No; that is an understatement: it was abso-fuckin-lutely awesome! In fact it was like "the small cherry on top of the regular cherry on top of the sundae of awesomeness" (as Barney Stinson would have put it.). Okay, that was lame. But lame can be true. Right? It was good to ultimately take the vagabond out of the armchair. Beijing deserves a post all to itself, so I will save it for another time.

I have almost nailed that elusive feeling of belonging to Delhi. Almost there, I mean. Though the escapist in me is trying hard to convince me against planting flowers in my terrace, I bought new furniture; at least. I can almost call Delhi as home, though not just yet.

Bottomline: I am happy.

This is where I begin to have a problem.

I can't do "happy" anymore without feeling guilty, or fearful, or panicky.
There was a time; I am not sure how long back, but it feels like eternity; when I believed that I deserved to be happy. That life owed me all such.

So since when did I start touching wood every time life gave me a little treat? Since when did I start holding myself back every time my heart began to swell with exhilaration? Since when did the feeling of contentment in life inevitably start giving way to the mean reds? And since when did I start believing that no "ever after" would ever follow my "happily"?

To my mind it doesn't make sense to have too much of something you are so scared of losing: too much love; too much joy. Too much of anything that makes me want to touch wood immediately thereafter.

Have I become wiser or just cynical? Or is it plain paranoia?

Or have I simply lost that loving feeling?

Wouldn't you love to come with me...

to a Sunday Brunch, Darling?

I'd wear the classic white dress and pearls. While you wear that favorite tweed blazer of yours, with a white shirt and cotton trousers and don't bother with a tie.

How about a little brasserie down by the Thames; would you like that? You could carry your flamenco guitar in there and we could get a table by the riviera.

We would walk in, our heads held high, our every movement frozen in art. People engrossed in meal and conversation would take a moment and notice us and then get back to their humdrum. They do not know how to reinstate magic, to a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Do we notice them, you ask, and I say well, not really, not today. Today we reserve ourselves to our bubbles; confine ourselves to the indulgences of a good life. Today we be the Epicures, we live for beauty, for gluttony, for art and for respite from the mundane. For these few hours, we are the dancing characters of a snow globe, oblivious to the world around us; arrested in our moment while the world spins past our eyes, as if on board a merry-go-round.

They must think we're lovers. I find the thought amusing, and I can see, so do you. Hardly do they know, that you are me and I am you and the affair of our friendship is only incidental to who we are. But let us brush aside the matter of our affinity for the time being.

We seat ourselves by the café's portico and let our gaze rest upon the bustling traffic on the Thames. Had it been any other day, I would have asked for some Sashimi, Caviar and Sake, but today, let us gratify our senses with the Mediterranean delights, shall we? A platter of Mezze and a bottle of Sambuca as apértif. Why not wine, you ask. And I say, let us be true to our rebellious souls.

The redolent Tabuleh, seasoned with olive and thyme, after a morsel of Pitta and Hummus make for a perfect beginning. Anybody else would call them appetizers, but we're Indian, Darling. We believe that a satisfied tongue is a good beginning; a sign of a fair tidings. Looks like this is going to be a good meal eh?

We talk; not about the stock market, even though we can. Instead, you explain to me that it is proportions of the coconut milk, the basil and the lemon-grass that make all the difference between a regular and that perfect Thai green curry. I neck down a shot of the Sambuca. We remind each other of our past explorations of anise flavoured drinks. I preferred the Ouzo, I tell you, but gulp down another shot of the Sambuca anyway.

We discuss the subtle differences between the impressionist style of Monet as opposed to that of Van Gogh. Meanwhile, you pull out your guitar and begin to strum. I let my fingers fiddle with the pearls girdling my neck while I look upon the Thames, hardly a moon river in mid day, and sing along.

"Two drifters off to see the world, there's such a lot of world to see...
We're after the same rainbow's end, waiting round the bend, my Huckleberry Friend"

A few people applaud and we acknowledge their kindness with a grateful nod. It is time for the main course already.

I am unable to resist a craving for the Stuffed Pasta Shells, pregnant with sumptuous mozzarella, pureed veggies and minced meat, served with aromatic salad, which I believe is a jealously guarded recipe belonging to the northern Italy. You, on the other hand, are ready to move past Italy from Greece, into France and are in mood for some Spinach and Pancetta Quiche. It is only fair Darling, that we offer our due respects to el España, and order Sangria for accompaniment. I choose white wine as base, while you clearly have a preference for the varieties of red.

You wonder whether you should end with a Tiramisu. You never quite got over the taste of brandy in chocolate now, did you? I sigh and declare, that as always, it is only going to be a baked New York Cheese Cake, from across the seas, for me. Ambrosia, for afters. We toast our Sangria, to the Good Life.

It's going to be a date, Darling, with the finer things in life.

Pixie. Because I'm cool like that.

Don't believe anyone when they say that a girl's femininity lies in the length of her hair. It's a bogus claim. Truth being said, I have never felt this feminine in a long, long time. Add to this femininity, a dash of juvenile exuberance, and that's how I'd describe my close crop experience.

When my Pa saw a photo of my new hairdo for the first time, he instantly hated it. "You look like a wet bird!" he exclaimed. "I feel like a wet birdie, Pa!" I told him. I can now do a little head shimmy when I appear out of the shower, just like a wet bird. And I love the way my hair sticks out, making me look all pixie-like. The only maintenance it requires of me, is to wear an occasional wax and to wildly dandle up my hair with my hand. And honestly, the dirtier it gets, the better it looks!

Oh, and I'd forgotten in all these long haired years, how large my eyes really are. Or maybe they just seem larger now, making me look like those wide-eyed anime characters. I now wear kohl often and leave those glasses behind. My mane stands prouder. My naked clavicle begs to be flaunted in strappy dresses, off-shoulders, tube tops and to be adorned in retro tie-up scarves. I even bought little diamond studs to wear in my ears, which is kind of a big deal, because I never used to wear any jewelry at all. But now my ears demanded attention. When I wear those short bangs on my forehead, hold a cigarette, and make small talk, I feel very 'Audrey Hepburn', and want to refer to random people as "Darlings"!

I feel 16 again, or younger (and if you know me, you know I could get away with that easily). I feel like a girl who could get caught sneaking into the club without an ID, but who takes her chances anyway. The girl who the men at the bar give that "does your mother know?" look. I feel like I can get away with finagling for a drink on the house if only I could let my little-girl-eyes grow wide and pout about my drink getting over so soon. Who knows, I could pull off a floozy even, like Natalie Portman!

It all makes sense now that I should wear my hair short, though I wonder why I never tried it before. Long hair is meant for girls who grow up wanting to be Princesses. I was never that girl. I didn't grow up dreaming about a Cinderella story, looking for a Prince Charming. Me? I wanted to be a fairy; a pixie, like Tinker Bell. I would merrily settle for the role of the green, jealous side kick to the boy who never grew up. I wouldn't, I couldn't settle for being a damsel in distress, no Sir! No moping around in the dark corner of a tower, waiting for Knight in Shining Armour for me. Even as a little girl I thought I was better than that. My life was meant to be an adventure; it was meant for mischief and magic, for rafting down the Mississippi, for tackling Capt'n Hook, for surviving an island filled with cannibals. These are the stories I grew up reading and loving. Not fairy tales, mehh. Rapunzel is such a passé.

Of late I have been feeling that wide eyed little girl take over my personality again. She's mocking my 25 long years, willing me to get silly and naughty.

If you'd like to hear it from Mary Garden of 1920s, as she explained in her Article titled "Why I Bobbed my Hair":

"Bobbed hair is a state of mind and not merely a new manner of dressing my head.… I consider getting rid of our long hair one of the many little shackles that women have cast aside in their passage to freedom."

I do believe that this "freedom" is largely mistaken for imitated masculinity. When a woman cuts her hair, she doesn't necessarily sacrifice her femininity. Quite the opposite actually, it could metaphorically be described as a celebration of the innate femininity of a woman, which has nothing to do with her outer appearance; a femininity which is free spirited.

Coco Chanel once said "A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life". There's got to be some truth in that. You reckon?

Missy is always up and about on the Weekends.

T'was a random, smoking-brunching-working weekend. Sexy Boy (as he likes to be called) and I, Sunday-brunched at The Yum Yum Tree; the sushi was good and I totally loved the conveyor belt system of buffet. My favourite parts of the brunch: the Prawn Tempura, the Chicken Satay with Peanut Dressing, the Green Apple Martini, the Peach Schnapps Martini, and the famous Yum Yum Tree New York Cheesecake, which is the best I've had in Delhi (and Vir Sanghvi agrees to that). I wore a dainty scarf over my collared white shirt tucked in the blue jeans and felt and acted quite up-street, for a change.

Sexy Boy gifted me those Sobranies. Also, he was the one to suggest that I try them as a subject for my new found interest in photography. Did I mention I had bought a new SLR camera? Those below, may not be the best shot, but I'm determined to get there, err, someday. I haven't made it out of the automatic mode yet, but I am hoping to, as soon as I find some quality time alone with my Canon. I discovered that while in fully auto mode the SLR focuses on the closest identifiable object in the frame, and therefore placement of subject becomes really important (yeah okay, so I'm a total novice, and maybe that was obvious and kind of d-uh, but one has to begin somewhere.) The Sobranies are literally so beautiful, I think I will just let them sit in that pack and refrain from smoking any.

The Travel Book photo figures here so as to remind myself and you, dear reader, why I bought the camera in the first place. The roads, my camera and me: The Ultimate Dream.

Oh, and I finally enrolled for weekend Spanish lessons. That was a weekend well spent. Now back to getting some work done, which has taken a back seat through all this.

Anyhoo, check out the Sobranie of London.

(Gasp! Knuckles, not very pretty; also must change nail paint. Sigh)

New ash-tray likes to pose.

Clickety-click with one hand and tapety-tap with the other.


Remind me again, why I need to just go.

P.S: Don't forget to feed my fish. Their names are: Red: Dhishum, Green: Golum, Orange: Tang, Yellow: Scuttle and Blue: Marina