Chronicles of the Middle Kingdon [Part IV] (Full and Final)

[In continuation of Chronicles of the Middle Kingdom [Part - III]]

The trailing account of my visit to China are true and accurate, and mostly honest. I've been trying to pull off bit of the ol' Jack Kerouac, and miserably failing at that. I'm frantically chronicling everything, every hour, every event, every frikin' step taken and place lived at, but not every sentiment.
For all the fun and frolick that I had surrounded myself with, I still felt like Forrest Gump, running away from something. References to the past incidents made their way into our merry conversations every few hours, not in a sad, desperate way, but in a pensive, studied manner. They included recalling and retelling the chronicle of events several times, justifications and considered silences, and were dotted with several 'y'knows' and 'I-was-like-s' and 'he-was-like-s', as such conversations usually are. The way in which a tongue keeps returning to tease a blister in the mouth, not allowing it to heal. I wasn't heartbroken anymore, or doubted even for a moment that I was over it for good. But it seemed like a gaping hole had been left open, which indicated that something in life had been missing but I couldn't quite put my fingers on what it was, and mostly I was just trying to fill that damned gaping hole with fun, fun, fun - as if fun was any sort of a replacement for happiness. Though happy I was quite often, sometimes even euphoric, but that deep seated contentment had abandoned me. That mother-of-all-fucked-up feeling that accompanies a love-loss, had been assuaged long back, but its lingering, nauseous aftertaste followed me through a range of enjoyable distractions and indulgences, from Delhi to Beijing to Hangzhou and back to Beijing, like a lurking shadow. Occasionally when the distractions were bright enough, like a midday sun they would make the shadow disappear, and I would silently assure myself - 'really, I'm so much better of on my own!' and 'life's done me good!', and 'oh thank God its over!' and I did not for a moment believe them to be untrue, but the scheming shadow would play peek-a-boo every once in a while and throw at me the 'why me-s' which at one go would collapse my assurances like mere dominoes.
And so back to Beijing I came from Hangzhou, the shadow clinging close by my heels. That night we went to Yugong Yishan for a reggae concert to celebrate Bob Marley's birthday, which was one of those midday-sun-type, happy-happy, joy-joy events and I verily drank like a truant little teenager; and swayed to reggae music; and shared a drag of some good stuff with a Bob Marley doppelganger complete with dreadlocks; and danced with a suave Italian. One mad African singer of a reggae band playing that night, took much of a liking to Naj. He so totally fronted her that some men lifted her up and put her on stage where he almost started to grind against her. She hid her face, pleading all the while "I can't be seen like this, I'm a diplomat! Please don't take photos! What if someone told the Ambassador!", while we guffawed our hearts out. I punched the lurking shadow in the face, and asked it never to return again.


But return, it did, and with vengeance, the next day. For the day that I had reserved for my most-awaited Chinese mission - The Great Wall - was the most lugubrious of all; the sky was inky, the air thick, the sun uninterested. Cold and grey feed a shadow and strengthen it. My lightfootedness eventually transformed into treads heavy with the weight of the thick overcoat and gumboots and the past, and my legs felt tired of running away. All through the way to the Wall on the mini-bus, while the guide (a young Chinese girl who spoke considerably good English) gave us a tour of tombs of various Chinese rulers, the past reeled like a film in my head. It was midday by the time we reached the Wall. No one chose to hike all the way up to the Wall. I presume because no one felt particularly adventurous on such an uninviting day. We all took the ropeway up the the Mutianyu section of the Great Wall, and by the time we reached up, the sun was up again and I was breathing easy and trying to let go, once again.





The Mutianyu Great Wall isn't the most popular of the various sections of the Great Wall, because it isn't the closest to Beijing. But this meant much fewer tourists and much more space to run about. The entire Wall was our playground - we posed, jumped, sat, jumped again, ran about like mad freaks, stretched out hands, stretched our legs, climbed up stairs, jumped down, posed some more, drank some water, ate some snickers, and took many many photos. Of all the historical places I have visited, the Wall is my favourite. I was informed that in spring-time the cherry trees on sides of the Wall come to life, and I almost wished I could be back in spring just for that! The cherry on top of the cake was the giant slide through which one slides down the Great Wall, adding an element of thrill to the expedition. That night the girls got together and watched all sorts of chic-flicks, and Naj and I spoke some Madagascar-speak, which are our insider jokes and are incredibly funny to us even if repeated for the 11869545th time.
With my last day at Beijing fast approaching, Naj had another exceptional culinary experience planned out for me. The Chinese Hot Pot! Restaurants that specialize in Hot Pot have special menus which contain everything raw you may want to cook yourself and eat. The tables have two kinds of broths brewing fresh over a burner underneath the table, one spicier than the other. You may choose the ingredients you want brewing inside each broth. We ordered for mushrooms, steak, sweet potatoes, noodles, varieties of meat and...duck blood. Duck blood came as coagulated red jelly which once inserted and cooked in the broth didn't really taste any different from anything else. Among a selection of sauces, you create your own special sauce - mine included primarily mushroom sauce, peanut sauce and mustard sauce, and bits of other sauces. You pick the cooked ingredients directly from the Hot Pot, mix it with the sauce and eat it. I liked the steak the best.



My final day in Beijing was a day done, perfectly Sex and the City style. Naj, Lysh, Carole and I went for brunch at Colibri: Coffee, Cupcakes and Fine Eats, which took its "fine eats" part quite seriously! The rest of day we spent shopping - I bought a total of 5 shoes, including boots in 4 different colour and several dresses and put Naj's bargaining skills to quite a test. Whatever I saved in the bargain though, I spend twice as much paying for extra baggage later.
The last and the freakiest of my great Chinese cultural experience had been saved for the last. The girls and I went for a Chinese massage. The massage itself was a much-deserved at the end of this whole week of running about all over China. But Then, the masseuse convinced me to try "fire cupping". Frankly, he merely muttered something in Chinese, which was roughly translated by Carole to me as "you have a lot of bad energy inside your body because of spices and hot food and you should balance that with the fire cupping therapy". I had no clue what fire cupping meant, but getting rid of bad energy sounded all zen and spiritual to me, given the state of affairs, so I said "Okay". It was only after he started sticking cups all over my back, practically immobilizing me that I was informed that the hideous flaming red marks take about 2 weeks to fade away. Getting rid of bad energy wasn't exactly as life-changing as I had expected it to be. I have no regrets though. I have grown up on an ardent belief that any new experience is a good experience. And I was only more glad to have some marks to show off, as evidence of my Chinese adventure, like a tan after vacationing at a beach.
Just as my Chinese vacation came to an end, there were more and more fireworks all over the town, presumably because the Chinese New Year week had come to an end, but I took it to be China's ceremonious send-off to me.

Vacations don't satiate my inconsolable wanderlust. If anything, they leave me pining for more, like two droplets of water to a parched throat. But if I were to simply think in terms of the things I value most in life - including fun, friendship, seeing and doing new things and staying in a constant state of motion - my Chinese visit summarized all that I want out of life. And by the end of it all, as I realized there's so much more to see and do and experience if you open yourself up to the world outside, the gaping hole seemed considerably smaller and defeated.

My return flight to Delhi was via Guangzhou. An American boy, around 19 years of age, came up to me asking if I was going to India too. The kid reminded me of my cousin and we stuck around together for most of the journey back. He had been raised in China and was traveling to Rajasthan in India to assist in some humanitarian projects during his gap year. At the Guangzhou airport, he sat learning and practicing Hindi sincerely from his little book of "teach yourself Hindi" and asked me his doubts every now and then. At the Delhi airport, he asked me if I knew any good hostels, and after a moment of consideration, I invited him to stay the night at my place. I offered him chawal, dal and sabzi at night and let him sleep on the couch.
Next day, as I helped him get an auto to the railway station, on my way to work, he remarked "Thanks, I hope all the good karma pays off."
My thoughts went to a day, seven years back, when a sweet girl had allowed a complete stranger like me to stay the night at her place in Hyderabad and had fed me tuna sandwich the next morning. Today, she is one of my dearest friends and we had just had a vacation together after several years. Since that day, seven years back, I have never denied a well-deserving soul a couch for a night and some food.

"Just pay it forward, Johnyboi." I told him and drove off to work.

Chronicles of the Middle Kingdom [Part - I]

"Are you going to Canada too?" asked the girl who stood behind me in the relatively short check-in queue of Southern China Airlines at Terminal 3, Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi. "No. To China." I said. We were both taking the same flight to Shanghai. "Oh, I thought you were on transit to elsewhere." Indians don't usually prefer to vacation in China, and Chinese return the sentiment. I asked her for a pen to fill up the immigration form. I learnt meanwhile that most of my fellow travelers were on their way to Vancouver, via Shanghai. There was only one Chinese man in line. He looked lost.

At the immigration check, my face was briefly scanned. The officer stamped my passport, then smiled and gestured at me to carry on. Others weren't quite so lucky. At the next kiosk, a man was under skeptical scrutiny of another ignorant officer.
"I have never heard of Bangui. Where is it?"
"It is in Central African Republic." said the man, nervously defensive.
"Where is that?"
"Err...in Africa."
"Why are you going there?"
"On work - in the construction industry. Being deputed by the government on a developmental project there."
The officer looked askance at the piece of paper which the man had produced as a work permit; it was sealed and stamped, and had some lines scribbled in French which were unintelligible to him. I wondered if I should intervene and tell him that CAR indeed exists - that it is in Africa and its capital is Bangui. I decided against it and moved on.

T3 attempts to look ambitiously avant garde - the aesthetic effect created by Bharatnatyam padams arranged in a welcome before the Duty Free shops, is however, mitigated by the dismal brown carpets that stretch on either side across the various gates. I wondered what happened to the poor man at the customs. On the flight, I sifted through the pages of "The Finkler Question". Having finished reading about a quarter of the book, I still didn't know what to think of it, so I dozed off instead. I got up to a recorded announcement in English that conveyed that we would land in Shanghai airport in a short while.

At the Shanghai Airport, there was no one to help the Indian(s) who had to take a domestic transit instead of an international one. I toured the massive airport, pointing out to people my printed e-ticket to Beijing and using the most rudimentary english "Flight to Beijing. Go where?". After a few "No speak English" responses, a guard directed me towards the domestic terminal. After another hour of figuring out how-tos and where-froms, skillfully employing animated gesticulations and stunted english, I was on the next flight to Beijing.

I had wanted desperately to go to China for a vacation; but more so, for a friendship. Naju is a friend - a kindred spirit rather - who I have known for 6 years now. Naj and I have been close friends since we were both studying in our respective colleges in Hyderabad. We Skyped and Gtalked often, updating each other about developments in our lives. I stalked her Facebook photos and very publicly envied all the fun she had been having without me. However, the trigger that finally brought both of us together, was that the year 2010 had fucked both of us (like it had done many others) and we decided, that some girl-time fun again, for the sake of good ol' days, had been long overdue. Yet, upon arriving at the Beijing Airport, excitement betrayed me - in a manner that it usually betrays you when you're aware that peregrination has come to an end and the destination has been reached. Besides - my blackberry wouldn't work in China and I had no watch - I had lost the concept of time. It was liberating, but also mildly frustrating, as, in between my slumber, day dreaming and traversing international time lines, I had no clue for how long I had been traveling.

The uncertainity of my China trip - which had continued till the very last moment owing to work commitments, had not allowed the excitement of a vacation to build up. I hadn't been perusing the pages of glistening travel magazines for spectacular photographs of the Land of the Dragon. I hadn't been looking for "10-out-of-ordinary-things-to-do-when-in-Beijing". I hadn't been dreaming about the fun I'll be having. Instead, I had been spending long hours in the office to be able to afford this break. And I had almost cancelled my tickets the week before. The cumulative effect of the process of ultimately reaching Beijing, was that this silly languidness had descended upon me. I made my way to the conveyor belt and waited.

"There you are - my dear Indian Hobbit!" said Naju, tapping on my shoulders and flashing that toothy smile. I should have hugged her. Instead I blinked and stared before I mustered a few words - "How did you get inside the airport beyond customs barriers?" In my defense, that was a valid question. "Did you forget that I am diplomat? My position comes with certain privileges bebe." She winked, while helping me with my luggage. Naj speaks English with a diction which I cannot quite place. It is a confluence of accents she has imbibed from the various places she has lived at - her native islandic Maldivian, mixed with a little bit of Indian or a hint of Sri Lankan, a trace of Singaporean too, maybe, but I'm not quite sure of that; definitely none of Chinese though. When she speaks, her lips curl into an earnest pout at the end of every sentence, which makes the light brown in her eyes sparkle. This endearing manner of articulation, along with her beautiful square face and small islandic features make her inordinately attractive.

Outside the airport, the city lay frozen and densely grey, like Picasso's Guernica. February is cold in China. For me, cold equals gloom. However, I expected to see snow; I have never had the opportunity. "Snow isn't overrated" quipped Naj, while in the cab. "Plus, I told you this is the best time to come to China. It is Chinese New Year time. We get a whole week off! Chinese people don't have religions and so they don't have many other festivals. They wait all year to celebrate the new year. It's so festive, with lanterns and fireworks and what not. It's a big event. The streets of Beijing won't be as crowded as they usually are because most of the working crowd go back to their hometowns. Oh, we have a New Year dinner tonight with friends. Let the fun begin!" Her characteristic enlivening warmth slowly extinguished the hebetude that had engulfed me after the journey.

We resumed talking about the past, the present, the year that had gone by. We talked about the end of her 7 year old relationship. We talked about my forced separation with the Man. We talked like old friends talk - empathizing and hopeful for each other.

By the time we reached her apartment in the Diplomatic Enclave, a thick dusk had engulfed the grayness and the city lights had emerged, blinking and gay. Finally the realization of being in Beijing, and not in Delhi; of being in 2011 and not in 2010, sank in.

Solace for a wanderlusting soul, albeit with an aching heart, lies in the act of motion. For escapists like me, travel physically and palpably manifests the progression of time - an irrefutable evidence of moving on - of leaving something behind, be it the past or the spaces we have occupied or the moments we have lived. So long as we're moving - some call it running away, others call it running towards - we hurt much lesser.

I saw the first firework shooting up the sky from a window of Naju's swanky apartment, rendered warm and cozy by central heating. This eve of the Chinese New Year insinuated a new beginning.

[...to be Contd.]

Chasing the Years of My Life...

"I'm ten years old. My life is half over and I don't even know if I'm black with white stripes or white with black stripes!" - Marty- the Zebra, Madagascar.

So, yet another year has come to pass. I don't grow up anymore; I only grow old. By now, I know a few things with certainty - like eventually you get over almost any crisis in life, no matter how soul-sucking and stupendously indelible it may have seemed at one time. Also, I know which are the things that really matter in life - like fun and friendship.

You were a good year, 26th. I'm almost longing for you to be back. I made amazing new friends, cut my hair, learnt Spanish, learnt how to cook, worked hard, partied harder, danced a little, sang a lot, wrote some, and dreamed many armchair adventures. I went on a vacation to frikkin' China! (Beat that now.) It was a year of reminiscing and forgetting, forgiving even - a year when you pick the pieces of past and reorient your life, little by little. It was the kind of year that gives you hope when you look back upon it.

I think about the past decade often - a succession of revelations. I went through years when I didn't like myself too much. Then through years when I grew comfortable with my imperfections and contradictions. Eventually, I learnt to live with myself. As a corollary, I learnt to live with others.

I learnt that knowing that expectations are traps just doesn't save you from them. And that true freedom lies not in their defiance, but in their righteous fulfillment.

And oh, I thought a great deal about love, of course. I shredded the concept to pieces - analysed it, experimented with it, embraced it, resisted it, condemned it. Once, I surrendered to it and let myself be comforted by it. Once, I simply walked away from it. Once, it was ruthlessly taken away from me. I learnt that it is difficult to move on without achieving closure, but that sometimes you just have to do it. I contemplated the nature of longing and loss and discovered that often one begets the other. And so I learnt to perfect the art of un-possessing, un-belonging; of severing ties and of letting go.

I learnt that you live some moments in life which seem perfect; and that you long to preserve them. I also learnt that these moments seem so perfect only because they are transient and because you cannot frame them inside a snow globe and hold on to them forever. I learnt that memories are one of the surest sources of joy in one's life.

These have been years of reckoning - of growing older and wiser; of growing richer with every experience.

In a few days, I'll have surpassed 26. I never imagined I'd be a 26 year old when I was young, but I had an inkling of what I wanted to feel like when I am a woman.

And today, I feel every bit like the woman I wanted to be.

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. ;)

Strawberry Fields Forever.

"We will soon be landing at the Birsa Munda Airport, Ranchi. You are requested to keep your seat belt fastened and keep your mobile phones switched off till the aircraft has come to a halt."
This aircraft is the smallest commercial shuttle I have ever journeyed in. We are barely 25-30 people on board. Ours is the only aircraft in the miniature aerodrome.
When we land, a little stair case, with all of five steps, falls under the aircraft's exit and we alight and walk straight ahead to the small administrative block, which has only one conveyor belt. Pa is waiting for me outside.

I am a closet small town girl, living in a big city. I will always be. Even though I visit my small town once in two years, for a little more than a weekend.
"This is all so cute. Nothing has changed."
My father disagrees. "So many things are different. You will see on your way." And then, in a moment of comical irony, escorts me to our old, antiquated, Maruti 800. He puts on the same old cassette with Manna Dey's beautiful and primitive, classical renditions.
"You hardly ever see this car in Delhi these days. And oh my God Papa, no one listens to cassettes anymore!"
Mumma comes out of the kitchen in delighted anticipation, after having heard that I have arrived. I enliven her in one sweeping embrace. She smells of her signature soap mixed with the aroma of tempered spices; sweet smelling nostalgia. The lentils in the kitchen taste of fond memories. I can never quite get it right, back in Delhi, even if I scrupulously follow her instructions on the recipe.
I immediately leave for the hospital, a few blocks down our government quarter. This is the reason which has drawn me home, after two long years. While parents visit me every couple of months in Delhi, I never really get to see my grandmother. She had been admitted to the hospital two weeks back. She can't sit or walk anymore.
The hospital itself is a castle of the past. I was born in one of the cabins I walked past. When I broke my leg, I sat on a wheelchair right here before the emergency ward. In its corridors, I have walked innumerable times, to visit friends and family, to celebrate and to mourn. The faces of nurses and the staff are familiar. There are no visiting hours. It is all in the family.
=Dadiji does not recognize me at first for she can't see too well. When I tell her it is I, "What happened to your hair?" she asks with concern. I laugh it off.
At above 90, she is at a place where it is difficult to differentiate dreams from memories: a place in transit.
"Your grandfather took me to Japan."
"You never went to Japan, Dadiji." bemused, I remind her. Her eyes widen in defiance, then she fixes her gaze on the sluggishly spinning fan, and squints. "When he was posted in Motihari, he took me to Japan."
"That was Nepal, Dadi." I remind again. "Yes, yes. Nepal." She concedes, reminiscing.
"We also went to America." I tell her only Dadaji went to America, to study at Cornell University. He went on a government scholarship and had to leave her behind.
"Your grandfather was a very good man." He indeed was.
"You should think of getting married. Jawaani to hasi-khushi beet jaati hai, magar budhape mein ek jeewan-saathi zaroori hai." When you're young, the life is full of fun and frolic, but you need a life partner when you grow old.
Pa comes into the cabin. She signals at me, and tells him "I have convinced her, that it is essential that a girl be married off." Then she looks at me intently, as if about to divulge the greatest secret of life.
"A husband, is a husband. Even if he is stupid or a charlatan. No one will do more for you in life, than your mother or your spouse."
This is for the first time that I find someone giving me marriage advice, so utterly endearing.
Pa strokes her forehead and sparse tuft of silver hair with his hands. "You will leave me and go Ma?"
"My mother also left me and went away." she said, smiling, like a sage. A simple reply. I couldn't continue the conversation without feeling a lump rise up my throat.
"I was born to my parents after a lot of prayers and appeal to the Gods." She said. "After three girls and two boys who did not survive. It seems like God sent me with all their quotas for living. I am ready to go, but the pran (life force) refuses to leave my body." The humour hasn't left her.
I tell her I was going home and would come and see her again, later.
"Home? What is this then?" She asks innocently.
"This is hospital, Dadi."

And she smiles again. For a person in so much pain, she smiles quite a lot.
I head home, with a renewed sense of mortality of all things and how that makes life all the more treasured.
Pa wants me to see the new house they have bought, which is still under construction.
"They have made it totally Gurgaon style!" He exclaims with child-like exuberance. "The society has everything. A swimming pool, a jogging trail, a club, and what else....we can see the distant Jagganathpur Temple from our balcony. I dream of the day I would wake up every morning to this auspicious darshan."
I am heartened at his excitement. On the way Pa points out to me the piles of bricks and rubble, that used to be the erstwhile illegal dwellings of the poor, now bulldozed off at the High Court's order. Some people are still sitting and sorting out their paraphernalia among the debris. Some are cooking in open air. The path that takes us off the main road to the site is a congregation of potholes of various sizes. Pa says a pakka road will be constructed there.

I am reminded of early school days, when while riding home in the shabby, old school bus through a particularly rough road patch, we kids would rise up from our seats to enjoy the joyride. At times the bus would plummet over an unusually high speed breaker and for a moment there, we would all stay suspended in mid air, only to hit the floor with a monstrous thud. That was our daily dose of adventure.
I tried to drive Pa's car. It is indeed a sweet little thing, but difficult to maneuver. It has no power steering. Papa drives, clasping the steering wheel tight and forcefully swinging it with both his hands at every turn. I adoringly observe him, while he crinkles his nose and frowns and tut-tuts his way through the path across a meadow, to the construction site. The society is impressive, by the standards of a small town.
"I keep telling him to buy a new car." says Ma. "But he says, what is the use?" I identify the sharp contrast in their attitude, from what I have seen in Delhi's denizens: where a house of two members, prefers to flaunt four big cars, regardless of how many their parking spaces can actually accommodate. Their cars serve the ego, not the purpose.
It's a simpler life, with simpler ambitions: a small house, a small car, good education for the children and a group of loved ones around to spend the old days with.
I tell Mumma that Pa is right. Somethings are better unchanged.
I am saddened at the thought that tomorrow, I will leave it all behind, one more time. Things will not be the same when I come back again. Dadiji may, or may not be among us. In a couple of months Papa will retire. My parents won't be living in the same colony where I grew up: the very lanes of which vividly bring to life old memories, as I walk through them.
In these two days, I have been brought to close quarters with the past again; looked back at life as it was, and consequently, looked ahead at future with nervous anticipation. When you have lived some, you have lost some. When you have lived a lot, you probably have lost quite a bit too: loved ones, homes, possessions and time.

I am drawn towards an enquiry into the essence of a "life-well-lived", which in turn confronts me with the question of its authenticity: it is brisk and fragile; an assortment of experiences, good and bad. A sum total of all things you are and will be and will do; the spaces you will occupy; the roads you'll walk down; the people you will love; the heartbreaks you will go through; the stories you will live to tell; the dreams you will conjure for the future and the past you will look back upon, sometimes fondly and at other times, with anguish.
My attention is diverted to the song in loop in my head:
"Let me take you down, cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields. Nothing is real...

And nothing to get hung about."

Notes on a Monday Morning

Waking up is never fun.

I turn off the alarm after it has snoozed for the fifth time. In a futile attempt at elevating my spirits, I let The Beatles croon through my iPod.

"Here comes the Sun...and I say...it's alright."

Right.

Still in my birthday suit, I brew some jasmine green tea; freshen up and put on a robe to collect the newspaper from my terrace. So what happened in the world today? A train caught fire, no one died. Anna Hazare is giving the Government a run for its money. The Middle East and Africa is still broiling with protest and conflict.

The egg I left to boil is ready; the bacon in the microwave is crisp; the juice has been poured in the glass; the bread leaps out of the toaster, as if wanting to startle me.

I am not grumpy. I am jaded. I am not necessarily cribbing. I am solemnly condemning the comforts of a conventionally good life.

I get dressed. I lock the house and walk out. I start the ignition of the car and let out a little sigh before setting the gear on the first and wearily pressing the accelerator.

This is the beginning of a series of groundhog days: life on a repeat mode.

There is a minor accident, instigating an altercation. The man with the small car is livid. The man with the big car is belligerent. The men in the rest of cars are nonchalant, waiting in queues to squeeze their way out through the by-lane to avoid being delayed.

The radio reads my mind; and that of a thousand others.

"Today, I don't feel like doing anything...I just wanna lay in my bed."

India Gate is a delirious flux of vehicles of all sizes, a whirlpool of traffic, as on any other working day. As my hands and legs work involuntarily, yet in perfect coordination, gallivanting my little red car through the traffic, my mind contemplates inconsequential existentialist conundrums.

What am I doing here? What is the purpose of living such a life? How can I do this everyday for the rest of my life?

In a few minutes, I'll be sitting in my plush wooden cabin, with no windows, dismal green carpets, a smell of cheap room-freshner, an AC which makes me miss summers in summertime, and preparing a list of "things to do" for the day, executing them and then striking them off the list.

Intermittently, I will lapse into a day dream about a parallel universe, where I am snorkeling in my polka-dot bikini in a beatific blue lagoon of a remote tropical island, as the sun rises up the horizon, on a Monday morning.

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?

November, thou beest the harbinger of fair tidings...

The nip in the evening Delhi air tells me: it's that time of the year again, when the Devil is by my side, egging me to grow a pair of horns and a forked tail.

The Indian Devil Tree and I go back a long way. And the only feeling that wells up in my chest as I take a deep breath to savor the first hints of the little white devils in the air, is pure exhilaration. A similar Alstonia flourished right in front of my hostel room back in the days. Come October end, and my little cozy room, with its yellow bell flowers that graced the edges of its large windows and the sweet, intoxicating fragrance of the little devil flowers, teleported me to what seemed like a personal Garden of Eden.

Next ushered in the days of flimsy sweat shirts; late nights spent trying to group study for end semester exams and instead indulging in silly girlish revelries over cheap rum and boy-talk; inevitably missing the first class next morning; panicking about absolute lack of direction in one's life, or of an impressive internship opportunity for the upcoming vacation.

The scent of the Devil Tree, brings it all back to me.

And I finally feel free! Oh so free. So not in love anymore. So at peace with myself. So ready to take a deep breath, to let go, to let this smell fill up my lungs, my heart and my upcoming Delhi winters with all things lovely and fragrant. I am just about beginning to think it would be nice to find someone who keeps me warm this winter. It's been a while, no?

On Beauty, as Substitute for Love.

"Beauty is my hobby."

As she spoke these words, from behind my closed eyes I could feel her soft, nimble fingers and probing eyes examine my face for effects of malign toxins on my skin. There I was, barely 21, on my first trip to Singapore, lying on a comfortable bed in a dark corner of a nondescript little beauty salon in the West Avenue Market of Bukit Batok. I had gone there placing my trust solely on the recommendation of my aunt, and I could see why she adored the little woman who was in love with beauty.

"You have nice skin." she said. "But you're still young, lah." She added, with that expression so characteristic of Singlish. "How old you?" she asked me and I replied. "How old you think I am?" she asked, and still with eyes shut, I tried to picture her face and estimated. "Maybe 27-28." I could imagine the smug smile on her face as she said "No lah, but I will tell you. And I will give you tips."

Over the next couple of hours, as she proceeded to give me a facial massage, efficiently and painlessly stuck needles over designated points on my face, wrapped my face with therapeutic herbs, covered my eyes with a cool vitamin C pack and my face with sweet smelling face pack; she told me her life story. Her husband had abandoned her 10 years ago, for a young Vietnamese girl. And now she was a single mother of a 11 year old son. I tried to picture her face again. Could I have missed a detail while trying to estimate her age? Maybe I should take another good look at her when I open my eyes, I thought.

Through the entire process of the facial treatment, I listened to her talking about her daily beauty routine. She had given up food which caused toxins to accumulate in the body, including most of meat based products, hot spices, what we in India know as "Tamasik" food. "I love my chicken too much to give it up" I mused to myself. She kept giving me "tips": "wash your face with cold rice water every morning and night", "dilute the shampoo you use with water before applying to head" or "don't let the shampoo lather touch the skin of your back or your arms, always wash hair facing down". Though I listened patiently, and quite curiously, I doubted I would ever be so dedicated to my "beauty routine".

Then she said something that caught me off-guard: "I became beautiful after my husband left me." I was 21 and not nearly half as experienced in the matters of love as I am today. But I understood what a heart-break was. It doesn't take much imagination and experience to understand pain; it only requires you to be human. I sensed that even 10 years after being abandoned, this woman was still vulnerable enough to share something so personal with a complete stranger. However, I found her take on loss of love, interesting, to say the least. To me it seemed that she had substituted the pursuit of love in her life, with the pursuit of beauty. I had never before imagined the two things to be comparable even, they operated on different spheres, from where I saw them then.

At the end of the routine, when I finally opened my eyes, she showed me a photo of hers, as she was 10 years back. Could it be! I thought. This woman had lost almost 15 years. She was nearly 40, and now that I could see her with my eyes wide open, I would have bet she was not more than 25, had I not known any better. Gone were the puffy dark patches under the eyes, the slight crow feet and beginning of wrinkles at the corners of the mouth. This could be straight out of the "before-and-after" ads for age control creams. Except, this was real, and was achieved not with a miracle cream but after consistent effort over 10 years.

A few months back when I was suffering from hopeless post-traumatic stress, one of the days while I was crossing a road I found myself wishing for a truck to come and hit me. At a level of mindfulness this shocked me in fact; for even at my worst, I have never been the suicidal kinds. Desperate to save myself from the clutch of those dementors, I got myself an appointment for a facial and hair spa at my favourite salon. By the end of the day, as lame as it may sound, while I looked at my radiant face in the mirror, I was once again convinced that I had reason to live.

When I dress up, I am a different person. Once someone from office even remarked after seeing a photo of me from a party that I had attended the night before, that it was "such a deceptive photo." I laugh it off; for the 'me' in power specs and corporate attire, with no makeup and bed hair that refuses to settle down, is probably more fake than the 'me' in a little black dress, wearing eye makeup and plum lipstick, flirting with a man over a glass of martini, and devising for myself a fake name, identity and phone number to give away to him by the end of the night, simply for the fun of being able to hide behind a face that no one recognizes by the day. I find the shallowness of beauty to be as compelling as the depth of love. Ask any drag-queen and hear them concur with me.

Over the years, the versatility of beauty, has helped me use it as a substitute, albeit only temporarily, for love, hope, happiness and sometimes even truth. When I feel ugly, I get a facial. When I feel unloved, I paint my nails a fiery red. When I feel unwanted, I get a bikini wax. When I doubt myself, I lose those glasses, pluck my eyebrows, wear cat-eye kohl and look straight into the mirror at myself with a fresh resolve. When I am tired of the disappointments in life, I get a head and body massage. When I feel hopeless, I wear my white dress and pearls and the future suddenly turns bright again. When I feel low on confidence, I wear those 3-inch high heels and my esteem stands taller. When I feel charmless, I wear a dainty silk scarf and large sun shades that give me an air of eminence.

You must have heard Desree crooning "love will save the day." Well, I simply can't wait around for love to salvage my days for me.

Beauty, is my saviour.

While you were sleeping...

[Sunday, September 19, 2010: The Girls walked inside my house after a night of partying at 5:30 a.m. Now that I was up, how could I let them sleep. Thus happened the early morning (6:30 a.m.) trip to Hauz Khas Village, right before the morning showers. These are the days, when I love Delhi. I will let the photos do the talking. Photo courtesy: yours truly. Models: Muse and Suu, the odd goose and the ruins.]

As the geese swarmed for the little boy to feed them bits of bread, the odd one stood out.

The girls looking upon the quiet lake, with a cutting chai.

Enjoying a free flight before the morning shower

Thus I framed the lives of those on the other side

Look through, and what do you see?

I flourish through the remnants of what used to be.

The lone street lamp, doesn't belong.

Do you wonder how many looked through that balcony to find something but didn't know what they were looking for?

Now people power walk though my paved pathways, every morning.

If you pay attention, you may hear the sounds of the past...

of the little boys reciting the Koran in unison and of ladies talking in hushed whispers.

While the little girls played hide-n-seek, sheltering themselves around my resolute pillars

I stand witness, through the ages.

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.