A Crunch in the Gravel

Where would you like me to begin?
At the very beginning.

It was late afternoon, long before the sun would melt into a Missouri summer night, when the shuttle eased its way off Route 66. I was in the far back watching a new world speed by at 80 miles per hour, slowing down only to let a passenger off. And then it was my turn.

"Here we are, 1606 University Avenue. Which one's your house?"
"I don't know."
"This must be it."
"Yes, maybe, yes."
Can you handle your bags?"
"Yes, I think so, yes."

Columbia, Missouri. I had never heard of it before it heard of me. And then, within a few months, this town of 100,000 people had a name, a location on my parents' map, a house assigned to me, an advisor who would be mine, places to eat, people to avoid. Within a few months, I was walking the streets confidently, learning short cuts that would get me to class on time, knowing what was "for here, or to go," developing an eye for furniture along the sidewalk, and picking up pronounced "r"s and hardened "d"s as I rushed by.

Studying abroad has a charm to it like no other. I wasn't there to visit, I was there to survive and be good at it. To get an 'A' in 'Stayed Sane in a Foreign Country' class, if you will.

Because everything was about to be different. No amount of "prepare yourself for a culture shock" could have prepared me for the shock that ensued. Shock, first from the simple realization that I was 10,000 miles away from home. Shock, next from knowing that I would never belong to either place again. Too much was about change for me to relate to most back home, too little had changed for me to fit right in to my host country.

What was your first day like?
I didn't sleep much my first night in Columbia. My dream had finally come to life and all I wanted to do was wake up and get going. My first day was drowned in silence and uncertainty, save for the occasional excited voice in my head pointing towards the tower clock, or a comforting muffle telling me everything was going to be ok.

It always is, isn't it?
It always is. Which is why everything seems a bit of a blur now. Key events stick; others merge into waves of day then night
then day
then
night now dusk
now dawn
then day and night.

Except the morning of the gas leak. And the evening I walked down University Avenue to write about twilight for my Advanced Writing class. The night I sat out on the terrace of Jesse Hall smoking cigars with my friends. The day I defended my thesis. The day I graduated. And then a new phase of my life began in Washington D.C.

****
(TO BE CONTINUED)

Other-worldly Things

Here we are then. Back in good old London. We went to Nandos yesterday to chow down their infamous peri peri chicken. There, I discovered my niece's love for chips. Love, like no other. Well, except for mine. Soon she'll be learning all about kettle cooked chips, flavors to grab or avoid without a second thought and other life altering things. (She'll call them crisps but that will matter little.)

My flight was a bit uncomfortable. Delays, food that turned out to be a lot more impressive in words than in mouth, and leg room that was ... well, really it wasn't. By the seventh hour, I had mastered the art of sliding through a three inch gap between my seat and the seemingly comfortable person in the seat in front. I got to London in one (sore) piece though, and I suppose that's all that really matters.

In the last 24 hours, I haven't heard much of the English accent. That could be either because it all seems a lot more diverse to me, or that the city's peeps just aren't saying very much. After all, there's only so many times you can gnash your teeth and snarl about the "bloody English weather."

Despite the rather grey and washed out look of the place, I wandered down to Regents Park this afternoon, walked past magestic houses, took a stray photograph of the canal that whispered of a murder in its waters not long ago and dashed back to hot chocolate and a well-rested two-year old.

She's just ordered me to read her the "Boo Book" now so I must stop. Here's a sneak preview of what it's going to sound like:

Who said boo? Was it the ghost? No I'm making toast.
Who said boo? Was it the skeleton? No I'm making gelatin.
Was it the witches? No we're sewing stiches.

Literature at its finest!

When it was over, the hall erupted. In Vienna, it was the custom that the royal family was applauded four times whenever they made a public appearance. To the consternation of officials and police, Beethoven was applauded five times. Among the many poignant anecdotes surrounding Beethoven, none can be sadder than the account of the end of this, his most triumpant concert. As the applause roared and swelled throughout the hall, singers and conductor took their bows. No one thought of Beethoven until the young contralto soloist Caroline Unger noticed him still standing with head bowed, his back to the audience whose cheers he could not hear. It was not until she turned him round that he realised what he had acheived.

The Men That Don't Fit In

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

Robert W. Service

Mike Dunne

Blog
1949-2007

The Royal Flush

"I'm never serious when it's time to play."

I'm sitting with two people playing poker and having the time of their lives while at it. Granted they're playing with pennies, which significantly reduces the pressure to win, but their attitude is a lot more fun than the game itself.

Speaking of which, Nadal was great at the Wimbledon finals this morning. He put up a good fight and a great attitude about his defeat. I suppose you're taught to put on a brave face, smile at your opponent, and console yourself with images of your own, not-too-far-off victory.

It's always amazing to see passion in form regardless of whether the outcome is victory or defeat. It could be a good hand of poker or a tough game of tennis because nothing beats a good sport.

Unless, of course you're at the mercy of five of the highest cards of the same suit. Then it's pretty much time to lose your poker face and hand over your pennies.

Musical Collisions

Every morning I wake up to music floating through my head. One song will play endlessly in a loop serving as a background score to my plans for the day that unfold slowly (and oftentimes incoherently).

Research shows that it's sort of like a cognitive itch. And to get rid of the itch, the brain rehearses the piece over and over again. The repetition aggravates the itch and the brain gets trapped in the loop.

And so this morning I woke up trapped in Ponchielli's Dance of the Hours. I suppose if one must be trapped, being caught between notes of a 19th century ballet favorite can't be all that bad. And although it's recommended to do everything to force your brain out of this repetitious tangle, I chose to succumb to it.

I headed to my CD player. Turned it on. Skipped through to Song # 9 of The Classic Experience, CD II. Hit the "repeat" option.

And put my mind at ease.

Stay

In an instant it all makes sense. It's time to go home, you think, as the reasons to leave loom large and the excuses to stay slowly fade away.

Years ago I remember standing at the Bombay International Airport, waiting outside in the heat for my Indian American relatives to check in, get their boarding passes, and get through immigration lines. They were headed home. I longed to follow them, if only for a little while, see this world that they talked so highly of. I yearned to visit other countries, see other cultures, learn to say "hello" in seven different languages and "goodbye" in six.

And in that longing, I lost sight of my own country. For in the few brief moments that they would return to tell us they were checked in and hoped to see us in their homes soon, I clutched on tight to the sight of their spotless streets and organized chaos. And when they left, we left. And as the car bumped through potholes on the road that directed us home, I sat in the backseat of our car, closed my eyes and boarded the plane with them.

Years later I landed. "Welcome home," the customs officer said, as he checked my India to Zurich to Fort Worth labels. 10,000 miles away, I couldn't be further away from home if I tried.

But home has been anything I've wanted it to be. Home has been Missouri, home has been Memorial Union, home has been the Columbia clock tower, home has been Stephens Lake, home has been the beach in Norwalk, home has been holiday photographs, home has been a sunset on the Arabian Sea, home has been a sunrise at 40,000 feet, home has been the London tube, home has been the Paris metro, home has been missed deadlines and stomach cramps, home has been mama, home has been papa, home has been.

I suppose then that I never left home. Only built more rooms to an existing place in my life. And in that instant it all makes sense.

I'm here to stay.

Babbling Brooks and Scorching Summers

Last Friday I was walking down old cobbled paths of the French countryside. The Friday before that I was dining with some of my favorite people in India's most populated city, Mumbai. Today, I've spent the evening at Dupont in Washington D.C. listening to street performers make music with large empty tins.

Thank god for Saturdays.

Grim Hairy Tales

"What's going on?" he asked me in Hindi.

Here he was: the star hair stylist who, I was duly informed, has been cutting movie stars' hair his whole life (a huge deal in this city), has endless years of experience under his belt and is quite the charmer.

"Well not much really ... I'd like a quick trim ... some style perhaps, without cutting too much off," I responded.

"Hmm"

I could tell he wasn't listening. Regardless of songs of his praise, I should have been suspicious the minute I walked into this salon located in Basement 2, 27 feet below ground level desperately lacking oxygen and, as I was soon to find out, a hair stylist that listened.

I've been told never to tell a hair stylist (and few others for that matter) to "surprise me!" And so I didn't. I told him I didn't want my hair any shorter (Oh, but we'll have to cut something, he grumbled) and hated that it curled (Oh, but that's what God has given you, he snarled). I protested a little, he shot down all arguments and proceeded to hum a little tune as he began to snip-snip-snip-your hair looks good short-snip-it should always be short-snip-snip-remember to oil it-snip.

Fifteen minutes later the damage had been done. I stared in horror at the ground, then the mirror, then his face. It's short, it's awfully curly ..."It looks great, doesn't it?" He smiled broadly.

Too bad my country doesn't encourage me to sue. I would have made millions off of his smiling face. For now, millions are smiling (laughing really) at this wonderful haircut from the stylist who has cut hair for many a movie star who, it turns out, were all men.

Today's Forecast: Smoke

I planned to spend a day at home, doing nothing significant really; step out later to pick up a few odd things perhaps, then meet a friend for coffee. Little did I know that this loony city doesn't permit quiet and solitude.

After attempting to laze around and failing miserably because of salespeople constantly ringing the doorbell, noisy construction workers drilling into the raw nerves in my head, muttering pigeons nesting on the air conditioner just outside my window, I decided to head out. I got into a tiny autorikshaw (the vehicle of almost-certain death) which flew down the narrow streets first barely missing the passing stray dog, next the clueless pedestrian, and finally not so lucky, scraping the side of a companion autorickshaw. The driver glared at the back of the other auto as it sped off oblivious of the cuts and bruises it had left behind on the man's machine.

All in a days work in Bombay city. I got my errands done and headed home to find a large police van, with barred windows and space in the back for at least four prisoners, parked outside my building. Several plain clothes cops stood around looking suspiciously at anyone who walked through this gate of hell. I looked them in the eye, and walked past with the knowledge that it wasn't me: I was busy plotting the death of the city's piegons. And if that doesn't work, hear this: I was dead at the time.
(I don't know why the cops were here, but like any good nosy Indian, I intend to find out.)

Despite all of this, or maybe even because of it, this place is more than just a sensory overload. There are times I feel like I never left India. It has me wondering if the last three years of my life were merely a dream. But of course they weren't; my landlady, back in the Washington DC, who's waiting for my rent check will vouch for that, I'm sure.

In Flight

Sparkling orange in a twilight sky. One side of the world is winding down, another is getting ready to wake up, a third is in blissful slumber. I glide through worlds that change across imagined timezones and man made borders.

I came to stay. I'm about to leave. Goodnight, Washington D.C. Good morning, Paris. Namaste, India!

No Ordinary Summer

Three days later, the gardener came to work. I stared at him from behind the thick blue velvet drapes in the living room. Every now and then, he would glance up toward the house and I would jump back in fear. I knew it was him I had seen that night.

***

We were on our traditional summer journey to my mother’s childhood home. As the train chugged lazily into the station, 12 hours behind schedule, I peered out through the scratched and dusty double paned glass. The soot from the town’s coalmines encircled the neon light of the train station. Out of the gray cloud, I spotted my uncle and waved.

Visiting this small forgotten town in East India had come to be a ritual. As soon as school closed for the three-month summer, my mother would pack my brother’s bags and mine and off we would go to Asansol. My father would join us later.

***

Asansol? Not for me, thanks. The town has too few people, and is far too polluted. I didn’t mind visiting it for the summer, mostly because I missed my grandfather, uncle and aunt who lived there. Given the choice, I’d rather they visited me. My mother’s seven-room house was like the others. Large and secluded. Every sunset I would be reminded of our isolation, and my heart would sink as the house inside got brighter, and the world outside got darker. “What would we do,” I thought, “if ever something were to happen to us.”

***

As he drove his silent guests home from the train station, my uncle’s voice interrupted my muffled thoughts. “Asansol’s changing.” A new head of police was in town and he had clamped down on coal theft that had been rampant for years. Several local gangs would steal the coal as it came into the town from the neighboring city late every night and sell it elsewhere. Now , coal thefts had stopped and house burglaries had started.

“It happens all the time,” he said. “What would we do,” I thought, “if something were to happen.”

***

It was wonderful to see my grandfather again. And my aunt, by far one of my favorites. She had a gentle air and had numerous stories to tell anyone she met. This was despite her rarely leaving the house, bound to a wheelchair by Multiple Sclerosis.

This family reunion was different from previous ones. Fatigue stopped by and commanded us to bed. The family filled one another in on uneventful incidents and called it a night.

***

At 1 a.m. there was a loud banging at the door. The walls of the house shook and the heavy metal chain used to lock the door rattled violently against the wooden entranceway. I searched for the sound in my sleep. Realm after realm had nothing. I was snapped awake. This was real.

The banging continued. And then several things happened. My uncle jumped out of bed and ran to the door, my mother flung the bedcover over my head to cover me, my aunt wheeled herself into the restroom and locked herself in. My grandfather lumbered over to my room. But most significant of all an intruder, already inside our house, opened the door to seven men armed with knives and country rifles.

Just then my uncle reached the door. Someone struck him on the forehead with a knife and he fell back holding his bleeding head. As one man stood guard over him, the others rushed inside. They were headed for my room.

***

By now I was semi conscious of what was happening. Still covered, I could hear loud heavy voices. I peeked through a slit in the bedcover to put words to the sounds. In the darkness I saw distinct shadows around me, some decipherable, others not. My brother on the bed next to me was sitting up alert and my mother on the bed with me seemed eerily calm. My grandfather had entered our room from the other door and was pushed to my brother’s bed.

The noise was deafening. Three men pounded the steel cupboard with a large rock they had brought in, while two others rummaged through our bags shouting at us to tell us where the money was.

I shook now and couldn’t breathe. My mother held me down the whole time, making sure I didn’t throw off the covers.

Just then a man rushed to her and yelled at her to take off her jewelry. As she tried to get her gold bangles off, he grabbed hold of her hand and yanked at them. She screamed and my brother shouted loudly in Hindi, “What the hell are you doing?” A thug standing behind him picked up a large wooden rod holding up our mosquito nets and struck him on the neck with it. It broke in half and my brother collapsed. The net fell lightly on him. I began to cry as I fumbled with the netting, trying frantically to rip it apart and clutch on to him. In turn, all he said to me was, “sshh sshh sshh” as he did everything to move my hands away.

My family was bleeding and there was nothing I could do but hide under the covers terrified. In all my 15 years, I had never felt so small and so weak. And then all of a sudden I had my question answered: If something were to happen to us, nobody would know. There wasn’t a soul for miles. It was just us, hurting and helpless.


***

The men were monstrous and drunk. They smelled of cheap tobacco and sweat. They continued their raid, and in the midst of it all, someone, to alarm the assailants, shouted, “Police!” With that, the robbers fled. My uncle rushed to call the police but the phone lines had been cut.

***

The next morning, I relived every moment. I tried to reconstruct the night differently. The men had not hit my brother. They had not cut my grandfather. My uncle did not have a wounded forehead. Yet, the blood splattered across the room, the dented steel cupboard and the disarray everywhere showed otherwise.

By mid afternoon, strangers filled the house once more. Police officers asked us about our housekeepers and, over endless cups of tea, talked casually about similar cases. This was common and also rarely solved, they said.

With the help of our housekeepers, we pulled the house together again. My uncle went back to work and my mother spent hours with my grandfather. Only one person hadn’t shown up for work. My uncle said he would turn up eventually.

***

The third morning as I sat in the living room reading, from the corner of my eye I saw a figure walk through the unlocked gates. I knew I had seen him somewhere. I watched him head for the hosepipe, distractedly attach it to the waterspout and begin watering the plants. From the window, I stared suspiciously at his bruised eye and wondered why he had been missing for three days. All of a sudden, I knew who he was and where I had seen him.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fear. The feeling shot to the pit of my stomach. It was heavy, like a mass of rock, anchored to the bottom of the lake having crushed all life that once existed there. Every now and again, it jerked up to my throat, and I swallowed it down.

I wasn’t ever going to let it leave.

Permanence

Bloggit!

It seems that I'm incapable of writing these days. And so I'm posting writings from the summer before last, when I was a lot more dark, sullen and existentially anguished -- but nonetheless reasonably well-traveled!

(These days I'm just hungry)


(Summer 2005)
My city’s under water from the endless rain storms, and I’m sitting on dry land 6,000 miles away anxious and helpless. So what if her people are dying; people I’ve shared space with, people I’ve cursed under my breath, people I’ve turned to for direction. So what if the ground I walked on day after day for 23 years and more is melting under the pressure of human corpses and animal carcasses. I’m here and there’s nothing I can do but walk the streets of Bombay in my mind over and over again, not knowing how it’s all changed beyond recognition. Not wanting to know.

This is where my people and I part ways for I haven’t seen what they have. We’ll never have a common base to stand on again. Our land is breaking and as they struggle to swim to safety, I stand on high ground peering from behind shadows of security.

London, July, 2005
I’d like to say I’ve seen it all but that’s far from true. Today, two weeks after the bomb blasts, the city is on red alert again. Today, the world is an awful place to live in. I’m afraid of everyman as he is of me. I remind him of a concept he has grown to hate. The color of my skin represents threat and terror and he would rather not see me, rather not have me in his midst.

Connecticut, June 2005
As I tried to cross the street, an old Haitian man held me back. He said I was too young to be breaking streetlights, said I had a long way to go. He seemed to know what he was talking about, in his head, at least. “I’m not respected here,” he said. “Look at me.” And I did. He was a professor in that country and dressed like one in this. But he wasn’t getting the respect he had grown so accustomed to. So, why was he here?

New York City, July 2005
“I like money,” a Bangladeshi cab driver confided in me, trying his hardest to justify his presence in a place 10,000 miles away from his own. “Do you like it here?” I had asked him. You heard the man. I tipped him well for his honesty and walked unsteadily into China Town. I was on my way to Washington DC.

“Do I hear a 72nd Street?”
Bidding in a New York subway. I’d asked if the train was going to 66th Street. New Yorkers all joined in the bid. Somebody said it went to 48th, another said he was sure it went to 55th, a third said, “Oh yes, it goes to 66th”

Who said it’s an unfriendly city? For a while there, we were all New Yorkers, brown, black and white. We were all helping a young New Yorker who needed to make her way to Lincoln Center. We all spoke a common language. We all laughed when the bid touched 72nd Street. We were everyman. Only we hadn’t brought along our darling child. Hate was at school that day.

South Norwalk, Connecticut, June 2005
It’s how you present yourself. It’s what you make of yourself. That’s all it is. That’s a valuable lesson I learned this summer.

Oxford Street, London, August 2005
Europeans dress rather well. They must have learned my lesson several summers ago.

Baltimore, July 2005
I’m on my way to DC on an unreliable China Town bus that has just broken down. It’s been nine hours; I’ve slept, I’ve read and I’m far from near. I’ve had an interesting chat with a Yale student who’s traveled the world. His last trip was to Pakistan. He has a story to tell. I listen as I watch the driver stomp around the broken bus.

The Jubilee Line, London’s Tube, July 2005
She wasn’t trying to be friendly when she asked where they were from. She very well knew. She wasn’t curious when she asked why his wife’s face wasn’t hidden behind a black veil, why he didn’t have four wives. She couldn’t care less. She was the epitome of everyman. And she thrived on hate.

And yet, as us brown skinned cousins walked off the tube that day covered in indignation, we weren’t expecting to run into a friendly Londoner. He proved us wrong as life often does; went out of his way to help. Who was he, then?

A member of the minority, I thought as I tried to justify his act of kindness. He had opened the ticket machine to find our punched in ticket so we wouldn’t have to shell out more cash. What was it to him? It was a couple of quid at the end of the day. He helped anyway. And we were grateful for it.

At the foot of the Big Ben, July 26 (or thereabouts), 2005
I got to hear it chime today. It sounds like the Columbia Missouri clock tower; it looks like the Big Ben carved and gilded in gold.

Stomp, the last day of July 2005
They make music with non-musical things. And how.

Portobello Market, London, July 2005
I saw an ancient map today, dated 1826. It was a map of Hindoostan, and Pakistan wasn’t and Bombay was.

Today, on the first day of August 2005, Bombay almost isn’t.
What’s to become of my city?

Priori Road, London, August 3, 2005, 10 a.m.
Today’s Metro reads, “Faith hate crimes rise by 600%”
It was bound to happen.

Today…
On the eight day of the eighth month in the sixth year of the 21st century, I stood at longitude 0. The place where time begins for most of the world.

It felt much like any other longitude and I hurried home, knowing only too well that time waits for no man.

Columbia, Missouri, August 21, 2005
Tired and still on London time.

Don't Read This

Two snippets of nothing... written a while ago. I'm starting to enjoy the power I hold as the author of this blog; this blog that promises direction in one instance and wanders off distracted in the next.

In a world where no words are welcome, no thoughts will form, no ink will flow; in a place of ever-transient emotions, perpetual echoes of silence and nothingness; in a secret dungeon locked away from the others who seek in order to be sought; in a cubby hole shying away from the luminous light, quiet it is, soulful it feels, directionless and empty.


For all the misery in the world; the death and destruction, I stand here in awe of the present moment. A quiet night waits patiently outside knowing I will live one day in the way I've forever dreamed. I no longer seek the meaning of life for I have learned that there is meaning in everything and nothing in every single instant. Joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin and one will never be without the other. We are each the same in our struggle to survive and in our quest for survival seek greatness in varied forms. And in this quest we are mirror images of each other, not knowing, not celebrating; just barely surviving.

Zeus isn't happy!

Is spring really here? Hell, of course not but the last three days have been absolutely brilliant here in Washington D.C. The cardinals and american robins can vouch for that, I'm sure. It's amazing to get out of a cold office fumbling frantically with your coat zipper expecting the cold to seep into your bones, only to be proven wrong.

And then just as you dig out your flip flops and a big sunny smile, you're proven wrong once more. Part 1 of my day yesterday involved open windows and doors, part 2 had dark clouds and icy rain.

Overall a worrying state of affairs.

State of the Media

It's up! PEJ's State of the News Media 2007
(Click on the title of this post to get to the site)

Muddied

I'm constantly complaining (to no one in particular) about the lack of coverage of environmental issues in the Indian media; about the long road we have to travel to "enlighten" people of the close link between their lives and their immediate surroundings. That the future isn't as far off as we'd hope or imagine.

But then I came away from an interview this afternoon having learned that it isn't much different here. And that it isn't all about the media's coverage either. More as an interest for the elite, environmental issues will always take a back seat to any other issue; and that the higher the economic impact of any issue, the further away we are from this "environment" thing. It's really just a bother and not much else.

We've come a long way though. From being unaware, to disinterested, to remotely informed, to possibly curious. And that seems positive enough; it's just that I can't see where we're heading.

Maybe tomorrow when it's light outside.

Words in Wax

From talking to four and a half people (I'd imagine my alter ego has to count for half at least) about my blog title, it seems best to attempt to explain the sentiment of genius behind it.

The room and the weapon (in this case) is a take off my favorite board game, Clue. As a journalist I'm most interested in reporting the truth (have we ever failed you, oh trusting readers?) and "shed some light" using my weapon.

As my blog evolves, I'll reconsider the name and pick something less cryptic. Or not...

Another Miserable What?

I'm finally here. I suppose it's about time I joined the bandwagon. By now, of course it's a little rickety and will soon be a snazzy automated wagon-x with hi-tech everything, and I'll be left behind once more.

Until that happens (or has it already?) I'm here to follow the elephant tracks to some of the best and most interesting pit stops online.