Leaving home

This day, five years ago, I left home. I had ceased living with my family 4 years before that. But this, this was almost a renunciation. Left motherland, Ma, Pa, the smell of drenched earth in Monsoon, and everything that was familiar for a... I don't know what it is yet. I don't understand what I was running away from. I could have gotten great education, as good a job back there too. So what was I looking for?

This was written by M and given to me before I left. I have received many a love-letters. Some of them now only serve the purpose of reminding me my hostel's room number with their envelopes. I don't read them anyway. I can not empathize with the feelings of erstwhile me. This I read quite often. May be because M understood me better than most men I met. May be because I felt most hurt when she forsook us and this was the last bit that reminds me of her as I knew her.

No crayons and colors to wish you Happy Birthday

But words may play their vicarious part

So here I go drawing for you

With a little girl in pajamas, let us start.

Papa's pet, and Mamma's ladyship

A little doll sans dolls in her hand

Hiding in nooks and crevices of the ancient house

Breaking through into her own wonderland.

You look for her from dawn to dusk

And she's nowhere to be found.

For she's curled up with a perpetual book

Blind to the outside sound.

Now she's off on another venture

The Discovery of America, the big run

With hugs and kisses, her friends arm her

Bon Voyage they all shout in unison!!!

Wondering as an afterthought

When on the jet plane

Which book will be her companion

What wonderland will keep her sane.

I didn't open it till my birthday that year as I was instructed. And it turned out to be more beautiful a gift than I imagined. Much has been lost since then. Contact, innocence, hope, bits of our hearts and souls, a whole lot of tears. But, I have made my peace with it. I WILL see you someday. Hear this?

Of peace, and not armistices!

This is odd. I write this while listening to a very soothing tick-tock of my clock and sipping beautiful red wine. I am not outraged, or sad, or in any way trying to purge any emotion out of myself. I am, in fact, happy. Happiness shows too. In a paunch, full of days worth of "real" mozzarella. In my toasted skin. In my (for once) big, tousled hair. 

But, this ain't a travelogue, and definitely not one of the post summer vacation essays we were expected to churn out about each museum/monument/mountain/beach visit. Not yet. This is just a first. In a series of, hopefully more to come, inspiring times. 

I crossed half the globe for this one. For Italy. Italy of glorious espresso shots and equally satisfying Chianti moments, of heat that burns the insides with every breath in and of Gelato that cools it all off, and of women so beautiful, even bad ideas seemed great (read going out bra-less and jumpsuits-that I was almost willing to spend EUROS on till I remembered warnings from SH of not getting carried away, fashion-wise). But, come on. I was on a vacation. Well-deserved, after 4 years of grad school + unemployment + job. 

I met Caesers and Boticelli in Rome. I touched a forgotten street-dwelling Michaelangelo. I tasted the sunshine and the sweat, that they tasted right there. And then, I saw a million paintings of “Bambi and Madonna”. I was teleported right away to second grade moral-science classes. Resonations of “He died for your sins” came screeching through the quiet hallways of the gallery. “What sins? I am 7 years old. I am a HINDU. Pagan/Infidel/Kaafir. Non-kosher. I have a billion gods to worship. What on earth are you talking about? If I see another cherubic, blue-eyed, blond-haired baby and a blue robed mother, I’ll effin’ scream (yep, 7 year old me was uber profane and bi-polar). Where is the well-preached religious austerity, damn it?” Yeah, it is difficult to remain neutral when it comes to art. If it doesn’t evoke any emotion, it is a big failure. Right? I saw all the angels, with Morton’s toes at that (Seriously, what’s the deal with that? Eve, Madonna, Destiny, Venus. A disorder common amongst ALL models from the era? And after I had noticed a few, I couldn’t not find them in EVERY painting.). I left hungry for the characters. Where are the mistresses and the harlots? Where is the darkness? Where is the humor? Would I have to re-visit France for that now? Then I came across the ghetto-est train I have ever seen, and it made my day.

I found my anarchical humor. And then some blues.

What “Yesterday” are we talking about? I can negotiate for some. Am I going to be unemployed again? Or worse, would I have to sit for competitive tests again? I want SH's hundred Reservoir Design stories (that I cried through before exams) worth of “yesterday”. I want my futile attempts at harmonizing with AM through Antaras and Alaaps worth of “yesterday”. A yesterday to encompass all times of hope and exhilaration, of peace and not just armistices. That is what I want. Else, ça va bien, merci.

I had forgotten how a city can have 2000 years all wrapped in a few square miles. Reminder: Need to visit Delhi soon. But, wait. That’s not where the similarity ends. How can I forget the men? Yep, didn’t miss Delhi for that. Making way through catcalls, whistles and very inappropriate propositions, I felt completely home. I have lived in the US for the past 4 years. My sister thought I was naïve again. She handled them well enough while I stared dumbstruck at being asked by a couple of 38 year olds (who assumed I was 22) if I wanted boyfriends for the evening. Yeah, creepy much. Pedo much too. Europeans, I say! When did she grow up to be the older, protective one? I thought I was the older brother. Nevertheless, I realized I am now soft in spite of being the fittest in years. Walking 8 hours a day doesn’t just get you drunk faster. So to all that is Rome, to its founders, preservers, and re-founders, my fantastic- looking calves would be eternally grateful. 

Ave Maria.

You know, fuck that.

Ave Caeser!

Chandni Chowk

A man taking a moment to button his shirt.

Credit for the most breath-taking reference picture goes to Ankit. Yet again! I live my India through his pictures nowadays.
And I deserve a better camera too.

42?

It was recently brought to my attention that identity and questions of the like "Who am I and the meaning of it all?" hold a special place amongst existential conundrums. Not that prior to now I could not have fathomed most of the humanity being tortured by this elusive, mystical riddle. I am and have been completely aware that this is a very prevalent and legitimate question people ask themselves, probably with more frequency than highway travelers ask for restroom directions from 7-Eleven employees. Even the Paranoid Android has devoted much maniacal moroseness to the subjects of tantamount enigma. This time, though, it encompassed an allusion to a dear friend which led me to believe that I must be nuts to have gone so long without falling prey to my own bitch of a brain's manipulations regarding the meaning of it all.  This could be because I stopped listening to that little inside voice long back. (Now that I think of it, it explains a lot more). So I decided to pay my dues. 

Beyond the obvious address of name that my parents gave me, I have been called many other things. Some good, some bad, sometimes both by the same people (One person is doing that right now a few miles away. Yes, I know. You, be very afraid of the memory of my big eyes and soon-too-follow cold shoulder). Going further though, who?what?where? transcended from midnight gossip sessions to an uncomfortable, as-per-convenience self-interrogation. While I have mostly thought of myself as just a bona fide anxious coffee-drinker and a pure carnivore (till recently, when I decided to give vegetarianism a go), I have in the past year also been labelled cow-belt wandering Hindi speaker, a psycho, way-too-free a spirit, yadda yadda yadda. So I summarized the answers to some aforementioned FAQs to:

• Hindi
• Hindu
• Punjabi/Garhwali
• New Delhi, India (I like writing answers in points just like Mrs. George taught us)

THIS, apparently, is supposed to define me now. WTF!(Mrs. George said this was a bad thing to say). My dad and sister talk to each other in FRENCH. Frikkin French (Mrs. George is very pissed now). 

Ma has to coerce me to shower early on festivals (Sarees, I wear on my own to look pretty). I listen to her and do all of it now just because it is easier than arguing against the ritualistic bunkum. I have spent good six years of my precious teenage arguing, when I could have learned more profanities and faster. It was exhausting. And still my mom mutters the Gayatri Mantra under her breath while cooking. Apparently small intestines have an ability to digest blessings as well (okay, I agree, that is just sweet of her). 

And don't even get me started on that half-n-half thing that I am. Don't know any of the languages. Don't know one's culture and don't care for the other's. Even the Hindi-speaker labeler speaks better Punjabi than I do while teasing me for all that I am (or am supposedly defined by). I need my Garhwali Ma to interpret things while conversing with my Punjabi grandmother. Ain't that sad? 

New Delhi? Dilli. Dilli of big roads and manicured lawns, of Metro-rides and crazy traffic, of sweltering heat and freezing cold. I love Dilli for all that. But, I love it most for the food. But then, any good food would make me a turncoat and change loyalties. I do not even need 30 pieces of silver. (I wish food was a nation right now). Anyway, no one outside India is ever particularly interested in knowing what part I am from. Just India suffices. Always. Errr. Almost always.Yeah, I do meet a couple of people here and there who ask "Are you from Gujarat?" or "Do you speak Hindi or Tamil?". This is more out of equating all Indians to that one you know better, just like every time I meet someone from Iran I go "Oh, I have a Persian friend. She runs Marathons. You do too?". You get the drift?

So while this turned out to be a good exercise in moot-point making, I remain as blithely cavalier about my non-existent identity as always. I have been very mutable and will keep evolving, just like I hear the apes did. I can be yours. I can be you. But, I speak only in capacity. In reality, I would neither be of you nor you. I would rather be nothing.

Cold California Day In/Out

Coffee beans under the table-top (Bet they weren't fair-trade!)

Oh Suchi you are such an adorably lost kid, I want to take you home. Wait! I HAVE done that :) See you again, very soon.