The thing that excites, arrives and whooshes by

After declaring supreme love for my blog, I pack up and leave it all alone. The ironies of life.

Got back from a Kolkata wedding replete with Bongs and desserts, both of all shapes and sizes. Started out by having my hand baggage confiscated for having a Swiss Army knife. It's called the cons of last minute packing, but what can one do? The guard was quite pleased with himself for having correctly identified the prohibited object, and I was quite amused at myself for having let it get by me. We all got away unhurt and unscathed though.

On arrival at Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, I was picked up by an old, toothless Dada and a shorter than short, bespectacled Kanu. Dada drove the rickety white Ambassador like there was no tomorrow, while Kanu smiled with a flourish. Dada and Kanu...my heroes for you, while on the other hand my travel companion had her boyfriend pick her up at the airport with a bunch of flowers. Moving on.

Kanu was extremely chatty, and although Dada was too, I barely could understand him through his lisp. We drove through all the backroads, almost ran over 5 pedestrians (I kept count) and a few rickshaw pullers added in for good measure, and finally made it to the bride's house. Red-oxide flooring, high ceilings, slow moving fans, bowlfuls of jaggery dipped rosgullas, and a cuter than cute grandma. What more could one want?

Took some trips on older than me Kolkata buses, and visited the opposite-end expatriate type lounges. Wedding was small and fun. Was, of course, kind of weird to watch your friend from school marry someone you barely know, but the sugar intoxication erased any kind of sad feelings that may have arisen.

The bride told me she spent a whole day ripping up letters and such from boyfriends of lore, and recounted our own letter writing days. She solemnly announced that although she could not read any of my scrawl on random bits of paper (those days I used to write on the backs of opened up used envelopes), she still saved them. Nice memory type moment. It's also nice to feel the closeness with someone you've hardly kept in touch with for the past several years. Some things don't change.

I have always maintained that weddings are fun, for dress up purposes and for eating purposes. Non South Indian weddings are even funner because people dance. A nice break from overwork and from seeing your colleagues for 12 hours a day. The wait is now on for next wedding of cousin in February. Chirotees and kumkum, here I come.

Sprinting away from the elephant herd...

Am home for another weekend. Train rides are mighty fun...I lay for at least a few hours each time just listening to the sounds of the train...the actual movement, the fans, the snores of the middle-aged man who's always there no matter what train you go on, the random cough, the whistle every now and then...also the feel of a light breeze coming from somewhere. Nice.

Was doing some random blog-hopping today. From my sample size of say, four, I conclude that a large percentage of young Indian bloggers (probably all female) have at least one 'marriage' post. Looks like the thing to do. People are either of the "I'm against arranged marriage" stance, or else "I find nothing wrong with it" or else "undecided"....Anyway, just making observations.

Blogger is smart, they track your age for you all on their own. I was going to faithfully update, but they seemed to have taken care of it already. Smart blogger, pat pat.

Am reading Isabelle Allende, given because of my renewed verbalization of interest in Chile and other things South American. A colleague even gave me this cool Chilean tea, which was ummm interesting. She said they don't use caffeine, but something more potent. I didn't bother to ask for details, just noticed that I was particularly active that day at work :). I feel that a cup of this every monrning would work just fine on my proposed trek through its length. It'd probably help to learn Spanish first though, and of course find an extended stretch of time.

I have begun to acknowledge to myself that I have an obsession for earrings. A major one. I just can't seem to have enough of them. I have many many with me already, but I almost every day rue the ones I've left behind on the other side of the globe, and my eyes are always always open for cooler replacements. Sigh. Its kind of bad when earrings are now running a close race with books for things you want to be given to you.

Lots of authors in the headlines these days. I think it would be mighty cool to spend three or four years doing research for a book. Am closely associating with loads of kids on a regular basis nowadays, and I am bowled over every time by their eagerness. I think that is so lovely, the eagerness and the enthusiasm and the earnestness. Its really appealing, and gives you this reach out and reach in type feeling. Kids are cute. That eagerness is sort of lost along the way maybe.

Met the cousin menagerie at recent family event. Everyone is so grown up! Have jobs, vehicles, girlfriends, big bank accounts, the works. Sometimes I missed the kids I used to play make-believe games with oh, so long in the past. Bangalore is going up up up.

Also feel like it is good time to announce a blog anniversary. Especially since I've rather kept away from it....we need to give the blog some more loving. Blogger tells me how many posts, I know, but I generally fail to notice. So here's a cheer to whatever number post this is!

Scoot over please, so that I may step in with consummate ease...

Am freshly back from a major verbal war with the bank dude. My account is yet to be activated, and I wholeheartedly threw my caustic best at him. Plus the branch is tiny, and even my even-keeled voice carried easily. Poor guy. It was his bad luck really, to have come after I attacked the cell phone person for not getting me connected yet...because the latter got off easier, I think. Basically, things are just not working. I've been looking out for a place to stay for three weeks now, and neither has that been successful. Oh, and plus, this evening, I got locked out of current place of residence because of bad coordination in terms of timing my arrival. This, however, happens to me a lot. I agree to meet someone at their place, and go there too early, or too late, or at a time when they are just not expecting me. They are gone, I'm left on the road, I wait for hours, and so on.

These things get resolved though, eventually. Stories are made too. This evening I spent a couple of hours walking back and forth on a 500 metre stretch outside the locked house. I bought a whole bunch of Iyengar bakery 'plain' buns and got the stray dogs onto my side with treats. At least that was fun. Next time I can go to the bank with canine ammunition in tow.

Work, on the other hand, is quite lovely. I have barely six colleagues, all of whom are smiley, easy-going and are willing to shake a leg. Long hours don't seem so long therefore. Gaining a sense for the way things work is another plus.

The city, is a whole different story. Bus travel is expectedly unpredictable, crowded, and physically tiring. But fun, lots of fun. Lots of mini-exercise sessions trying to balance yourself inside the vehicle. Also, lots of unstructured relationships. And I'm the sort who really thrives on unstructured relationships. The random faces you see every other day in the bus, its kind of nice to keep seeing those faces again and again. Smiles..etc. And then the iron person along the way from the bus-stop to work, the old woman who sits on her verandah reading the newspaper. Smiles there too. No structure really, but quite lifting nevertheless. Speaking of travel, recently had my first motorcycle ride after ages, and it was s-c-a-r-y. You are an inch away from these huge, effluent generating trucks and buses and so on. If you fall off, you're really done for. I just close my eyes. And place my trust in hope.

Updates end here. Stories to follow, maybe...

Daylight come and me wanna go home...

So anyway, am back in the homeland. Things to note on the first layer: a) I currently live out of a suitcase and have done so for the last three months, and will continue to do so at least for another month. b) Since I tend to pack light, I have a sum total of three different outfits that are my own. Basically I look the same every other day. Yay for minimalism. c) I have with me none of my favourites—my books, my mugs, my masks, my earrings. I guess I miss them. d) My suitcase keeps getting shifted from room to room based on presence or absence of guests. e) Moral of the story, I am in transition, basically :).

I took this career choices test as a senior in college. Essentially you sit for an hour or so and fill out a pointless questionnaire with a host of largely unentertaining questions. Why did I do this exercise? Because I was struck by senioritis, and it seemed better to sit in the AC room of the Career Center rather than attend a boring lecture. More importantly though, the Center gave away free pens and I liked collecting pens since I keep losing mine. Anyway, after two weeks of waiting while the test was being ‘processed’ in an undisclosed, far off location in the Nevada desert, perhaps, I was summoned back into the office for a ‘discussion’ of my results. Okay, I thought, one more hour of lecture to be missed, and so I rather looked forward to this discussion. Maybe, if I got lucky, ‘the results indicate’ that I’m meant to be the next female Elvis or something.

I was met by this too-much smiling short woman with even shorter hair. I can too-much smile back if I so choose to do so, and at that moment I did choose to do so. So after a few minutes of too-much smiling at each other, exchanging pleasantries on the weather, and how exciting it was to be a senior and all, the official ‘discussion’ started. The first thing this short woman did was open her drawer and take out four pens. Four. I would have merely noticed the number and gone back to ‘discussion’ mode, if I had been color blind, perhaps.

But unfortunately for me, I was not color blind. And I did notice that the pens were a) sparkly gel pens b) of different colors c) all colors were pastels. Now these three observations set off a distinct train of thought in my head. The long and short of that train of thought was ‘God, is this for real?’.

Try to step into my shoes, and think, sparkly gel pens?!, pastels?!, are we in drawing class?, in third grade?. Whether you step on the same train of thought as me or not, is not the point. The point is the moment ‘gel pens’ registered in my head, the minute sense of seriousness that I had about this ‘discussion’ dissipated into total nothingness. I couldn’t believe this lady sitting before me with her short hair and gel pens and really, really just wanted to leave her and her pastel colors. How could I take anyone who does this to me any seriously?

Poor me, no. I don’t have the patience for this type of sparkly pastel pen nonsense really. But I was in too deep at this point. She reached back into her drawer, and I was half expecting her to produce whiteout, but thankfully for me, she brought out my ‘report’. Then she proceeded to mark up this report with the sparkly gel pens. I could have retched right there on her desk.

Some have ventured to suggest that I may have been overreacting, but I stand firm by my feelings. There is no way in the world I can ever, ever give anyone who uses sparkly pastelly gel pens for a supposedly serious discussion, any ounce of serious respect.

Not noticing my feelings so superbly hidden behind the too-much smile I still had plastered on my face, she proceeded to mark up the whole report. All along, she kept up a barrage of auditory cues and too-much smiles thrown in for safe measure. I nodded every now and then. In reality I was dreaming of a hot bath and cream-filled donuts to calm myself down. Either way, the ordeal somehow came to conclusion and the final result was pronounced.

*Drum roll*….I was supposed to be a kindergarten teacher! Apparently the ‘report’ reflected my inherent patience, understanding of children, creativity in designing activities like coloring and make-believe, and desire to educate.

This pronouncement erased all the sparkly gel pen induced torment I had silently endured thus far. I laughed, right in her face. I really did. Just the irony of it all was too much, just too much. I was being lectured to via sparkly pen route that I would do best if I chose a career as a kindergarten teacher, and in fact, used these very same gel pens for my grading. Such is life. End of random story.

However, after watching Rani Mukherjee in KANK, I would start work as a kindergarten teacher any day now, as long as I was paid as much as she seemed to be getting paid. At least by the looks of her clothing and her house interiors. At this point, with only three outfits to my name, I would do anything for a nice new wardrobe, really I would.

Okay, okay, this time I am overreacting.

Respectfully yours, said the curator, and left the stone, alone and waiting…

An unpolished piece written at an airport. Would have liked to work on it more, but decided to leave it as spontaneous as it was. Any resemblance to anything in reality is coincidental...

She adjusted the fabric over her forehead, carefully looking into the mirror. She didn’t mind it anymore…he had said he liked how her brown eyes blazed through out of the black when she wore it. So she didn’t mind as much as she used to in her university days. They had only been married a month, and of that the two had only spent a few days and nights together. The family was moving the business south, you see, and he was busy with work. And she too was caught up in it all... helping her sisters-in-law pack, tossing out old carpets, taking the paintings out of their frames and wrapping them up….

People had said that this was a good family, they didn’t share like some others did. She had accepted the proposition and now was very excited. She had never been south and looked forward to setting up house, to raising the children that were bound to come, and sending them to study abroad like her aunts had done with theirs. She was excited, for sure, and her excitement manifested itself as frenzied activity. She packed all through the day and then helped cook a large meal at evening. She even put her freshly loved nieces and nephews to bed each night. And sometimes when she fell asleep beside the youngest baby, she felt as though the well that held her excitement hidden through the day would have risen to the earth before the night ended.

Her older sister had said that being married was wonderful, more so than sitting in the back of humid classrooms swatting flies to dull out the drone of the professor, especially if you married to a good family. And she had done just that, she thought, and smiled into the mirror. She felt open; her senses were expectant of all the happiness that was to be hers. There she was, prepared to be happy, eagerly anticipating, ready and waiting, like she never had been before.

The train ride south was long, but uneventful. One of the boxes got misplaced and had to be searched out.... He had given her a special name during a few stolen moments on an unnamed platform stop....They were to stay in an unused wing of an uncle’s house while their own was being painted. All six adults and six children in two rooms made for cramped quarters, but it was only for a few days, so they adjusted.

The very next day the men went to open their new office, while her sisters-in-law decided to take the children out to keep them from running over themselves in the house. She offered to stay back and do some dusting.

In the midst of all her cleaning, she also made tea for her second brother-in-law who had come home early and tired. She arranged the biscuits neatly on the tray like she had seen her sister-in-law do the week before. Both sisters-in-law freely shared their cooking skills with her. They had even begun to give her tips on starting a pregnancy. She was thankful for all their help, but had not anticipated she would need it so soon. The tea, on the other hand, lay untouched and grew cold.

The painting took longer than expected, but three weeks later their house was ready and they moved in. The very next day the new family doctor told her she was carrying child. Everyone laughed and good-naturedly made fun of her that evening for her ‘quick work’, as they called it. Her sister-in-law made special lamb for dinner.

But…how could she tell? And…maybe she needn’t tell, maybe they already knew. Maybe they deliberately didn’t quell the talk that said they didn’t share. Yes, that was how it was, she thought as she fell asleep that night. They knew already.

Da di dum dum....

The shape-shifter Artful Badger has said tag. Although I do not much like picking and choosing one out of a whole set of possibilities, I shall. Better to know that each answer is situated in thought and time. Cause motion in either one, and the answer changes…

Which book changed your life?
Reinterpreted as which book left a deep impression on you. I guess Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost. Lesser known than his The English Patient, and not in the awesome book category. But one that sets you thinking. Understated violence, devastation of strife, understated identity crises. Read between and beyond the lines, then lasting impact. Especially relevant today with what is beginning to re-happen on the island.

Which book have you read more than once?
Many, especially poetry anthologies. Also go back to The Prophet by Gibran a whole lot. Reading it takes you to different plane altogether.

The other book I often go back to is Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, not because it’s a life changer, but mostly for its appealing visuals. I have a worn copy from an aunt I never knew, and I’ve read it so much that I think there’s a small niche of my brain devoted to Manderley—the grounds, the mansion, the water, the dogs, the cottage, everything. It’s like a favorite room I can visit every now and then and just sit and be. Ditto for Illusions by Richard Bach.

Which book would you want on a deserted island?
Tales of Suicide by Luigi Pirandello, a collection of short stories on people committing suicide. I’ve read this before without it being of any use to me, but the situation might perhaps be different on a deserted island.

Which book made you laugh?
All Blandings tales by PG Wodehouse. Never fail to make me laugh out loud. Lord Emsworth is my dear darling, and I often wish I had one of him in my life.

Which book made you cry?
Hmmm, I tear up very easily, and do so at all sorts of moments, even happy ones. But I guess Kamala Markandaya’s Nectar in a Sieve. An older book, one that I read after a long refreshing walk in a light drizzle, the kind that leaves your senses intensely acute for hours afterwards. I cried much during this very real book.

Which book do you wish had never been written?
Sidney Sheldon nonsense, I’ve read one and found it intensely detestable. Enough said.
Oh, and everything by Haruki Murakami, because I wanted to write them :).

Which book are you currently reading?
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. Lovely, lovely, lovely. Each time I pick it up, it’s like I’m drawn into this magical world of intense uniqueness, and yet it’s uncannily identifiable. Everything is ‘normal’ and yet nothing is. Expectedly, it’s also hard to put down.

Which book have you been meaning to read?
Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse. I once met a very interesting transitory friend and she lent this to me, but had to leave before I got very far. I mostly want to read it because it was her favorite book, and as I said, she was very interesting. Oh, and Steppenwolf are a cool band too. Okay, I’m off on my own Magic Carpet Ride for now :).

Hmmm, I believe I may have missed a question. Anyway, to tag—Govind—do it :)

Spotted frogs ride on rainbows...

Here I sit in the El Fishawy Café somewhere along the back alleys of bustling Cairo. Every tourist is supposed to come here and sit, like me, and perk up with shai or maybe sip water. So, I sit.

The alley outside is also taken over by the café’s patrons. There are large mirrors everywhere, along the inside and outside walls. After a few seat changes, I’ve found what I believe is the most strategic spot in the café--I can see into a four mirrors at once. With the variety of reflections, and reflections within reflections, I am happily people-watching on a range that a mirror-less café could not afford me.

My last full day here and my second time in El Fishawy’s. These alleys I recognize well and the shopkeepers say, “I see you again”. Clearly, I’ve been retracing my path. Outside I see some tanned tourists chugging away, most probably on their Marlboros, the only brand that I see being sold. Clouds of sheesha smoke come floating by at regular intervals. Haze.

If I could take a peek inside my head, maybe that’s what I’d see too, a haze. And so, I focus on the seat of the empty chair in front of me. The wooden face is decorated with a peacock sitting on some branches encased within a circle. I cannot imagine Egypt having seen a peacock in any of its eras, but the picture is pretty nevertheless. The seat next to it is worn by thousands who’ve passed through this ahwa for the 200 years it has been open. The café obviously has a long history.

History too is sometimes a haze. And I’ve obviously had a lot of that, these past several days. History, lots and lots of history. A history that is in turn complex, identifiable, baffling, immense, hidden, overwhelming, but awing. Always awing. Maybe I should sift through the haze; it is often a word with negative connotations. But I do not want to. Puff of sheesha smoke floats by. It feels nice to be awed. A hazy awe. It is whatever I make of it.

It also feels nice to just be sitting here. A couple I saw at the hotel breakfast table this morning just walk in. I’m even recognizing people now! There is bustling and hurrying of waiters and of in-a-hurry customers. But it’s only nearing one, and I’ve beaten the late afternoon rush by a good three hours. So I sit. And every now and then I fidget. Alleys are notorious for cats, and this one is no exception, crowded though it is. Every ten minutes or so, one of them decides to make the wooden legs of my chair its chosen haunt. Ah, how these things just keep coming back to get at you. Regardless, I am in no hurry whatsoever; the temperature is a pleasant dry and my corner’s almost perfect.

A mother and her son have just noticed me and stare for a bit, so I smile back. A ledge above my head has four foot high brass pouring jugs. Sharply designed, they look like antiques from the bygone. Right up there on the ledge, safely carpeted in at least an inch of black dust, a part of the hazy past that clouds my mind has been preserved and revered. But more tangibly, this past has been thrown back expertly by the jeans and shai of the present.

I regret not seeing more of that present. Time not being a limitless commodity, I picked hazy past over hazy present. I’ll have to come back, that’s for sure. To see more of hazy past and also dive more deeply into hazy present. My thirty-something tour guide touches old hieroglyphics on a temple column while explaining their significance, and the juxtaposition of past and present occurs fiercely. Neither exists without the other, and at any instant I am experiencing both, knowingly or unknowingly.

Back in the café, the son is now taking a cellphone picture of his mother. She wears a loose, embroidered white blouse, much like my own in blue. But my face in unmistakably Indian, and the smiles and greetings I get from store owners, taxi cab drivers and waiters make me feel good for that fact. Be an Indian and walk but two steps from your room and shouts of “Hindiya” (Arabic for India) and “Amitabh Bachchan, Namaste” ring incessantly in the ears. That man is so popular here, and maybe its partly thanks to him that people either smile at Indians, or say a special welcome when taking your entrance ticket. Ah, the wide, wide reach of Bollywood.

A young man comes along to sell me some leather wallets. I say no thank you in Arabic, which is 100% more effective than saying no. In a country driven by tourism, the choices to ‘buy’ are so many, many. It is of course overwhelming, and accepting one person’s ware and saying no thank you to the other’s does not come without a subtle pairing of I’m sorry. I have faith however, in the 7-8 million others who walk through these very same alleys. Between us all, I hope, there is enough to go around.

I like the waiters here. They just let you sit. They don’t keep asking you if you want anything else, or if they can clear away your cup. They just walk around and let me sit. Makes me want to stay here some more…and I do. Finally, when my crossed legs start aching to be let free again, I get up and leave. None of the sentimental last-touch of the wooden table or the lingering last-look at the café’s awnings. I’ll be back, I say simply, and swing on out.