from New Year's Eve to New Year's Day

The curse is getting stronger. It isn't even midnight yet and already New Year's Eve has let me down.

Well done, indeed.

London, my love

12.11.09. Had an existential conversation with the immigration at London Heathrow airport. Well, existential for me, bit of a security concern for him. He asked me where I was headed and I said, "Home, U.S." Furrowed brow and what not he looked at my navy blue Indian passport and said, "I thought you'd say, 'home, India.'" I told him I was coming from home, India. Confusion pierced the air around us. He looked down at my passport again not having seen signs of dual citizenship and asked how long I had been in the U.S. I told him. "Oh, I suppose it is home for you then," he said, proud for having solved the conundrum of the hour. "There's some general confusion," I said as I hurried off with my stamped passport.

12.13.09. So here we are then back in London. Food poisoning stopped by my first night here and forced me to spend endless hours in the loo throwing up things I was sure I hadn't eaten. I'm more or less recovered by now and ready to bond with the family and shop till I drop -- both I intend to do rather passionately.

12.16.09. LHR Gate A 13 (Closest gate to the Duty Free Shop). Fine, so I might have found my perfume of the season. It's Issey Miyakie's L'Eau D'Issey. A close second is Gucci's Flora. Oh, hmm, just converted the cost of the Flora into the weak and watery dollar and it's 70-unholy-dollars. On to less burn-a-hole-in-your-pocket sort of things then.

I was lucky enough to see London's first snow of the season. Most lovely. Londoners seem to be a bit lily-livered when it comes to snow though threatening to shut down the city as soon as a few flurries hit the city's perpetually soggy streets. Now I'm sitting here watching planes slide on and off the tarmac as the snow outside continues to fall silently.

On a somewhat random note, I didn't know it was illegal to take photographs of airports in India. Unfortunate, considering most of my favorite (and rather similar looking) shots are of airports (in other countries) by day, night, sunset, moonrise, you get the gist. On that continued random note, I'll just say that I'll always love airports and the endless stories they hold, each one updated by the minute. They always give me that feeling of going somewhere, somewhere special, somewhere gloriously happy.

Time to lie down and look out through the incredibly large glass windows. Surprise me, London. Show me a color other than gray.

12.something.09. Home.

chronicles of ~d~

it's time to say goodbye again, bombay. you've been beautiful.

A Man And His Jam Are Soon Parted

Darn! Gotta dash. (One might wonder why I logged on if I had to dash off in 3 seconds). More on the man (my dad), his jam (his jam), and airport security later.

5.16 a.m. Time to Wake the Rooster

right ho, this has got to be quick-- our cab gets here in 25 minutes and I've been assigned several (mostly unnecessary) tasks between now and then. (Erm, my dad just said "chalo" -- wonder if we're planning to walk to the airport.)

So, we're off to Goa today. I'm so excited I haven't slept much. Of course that could be the jetlag that continues to plague me. I've had the --some would say previlege-- to hear that darn rooster crow every morning. Today, like any other day since I got here, I finally hopped outta bed at 3.40 a.m., turned on the computer, did yoga for 10 minutes (handy tip of the day: cleanse the aura as you wait for your computer to turn on, pray to the yoga gods for a new computer), then hopped into the shower. I've been ready to GO for about an hour now.

Bombay's been fun so far. I've bonded much with the parents and the aunts and uncles (they're a rather bright, somewhat cynical lot), eaten to my heart's content (by now I'm on a self-imposed okra hiatus), and twisted several muscles outta shape in vague attempts to achieve balance or some such thing in my body. (Eeep just got assigned another task before we "chalo" on outta here)

I'm curious to know what domestic travel is like here. When I got into Bombay airport, I breezed through immigration and swine flu screening (yes, it's true), spent about an hour and a half at baggage claim, then was asked to walk right past (not through, past) customs because I was traveling light. Not the safest, albeit good samaritan-like, move on the part of the customs officer but you won't hear me complaining.

So much more to ramble on about but it looks like I've gotta dash.

O&O,
Divya

oh bloody jetlag

seriously? you'll wake me up at 3 a.m. to tell me you're done sleeping? SERIOUSLY? do you know who you're messing with?

They say honesty, dahling, is a wonderful thing

Met my friend after ages. The first thing she said to me? "You've gone SO fat -- you even have a paunch."

Erm, yes, the silver lining to that (because there's ALWAYS a silver lining) is that apparently I look so obnoxious that she didn't have the heart to get to the follow up question: "So, when are you getting married?"

Coz no one would want to marry a fat frump with a paunch. No siree bob.

::phew::

bhindi, YEAH

and other absolutely delicious things for lunch. sigh, sigh, happiest sigh in the whole wide world!!

Are You Alright, Mum?

7.25 a.m. Thanksgiving in America.
Good morning, London. I saw you in your golden, glittering beauty as we touched down just before the crack of dawn. Now here we are in the pink morning sunlight waiting to shift gears once more. 3,669 miles down, 6,000 to go. First I'll have to get me a cuppa tea.

Alan Carr (is that his name?) is a funny guy. This flamboyantly gay stand up comedian from Manchester kept me reasonably entertained on my flight (on video, of course). Once I figured out his accent, I giggled all the way over the Atlantic stopping only to silently scorn the man in front of me who embarked on a deep, deep dig into his ears. Once the treasure was found (and by the look of it there was much to be had), he generously sprinkled it along the aisle. Back to less obnoxious gestures though, Carr mocked the sporting skills (or lack thereof) of his countrymen reminding his audience of the token Ethiopian runner who beats everyone in the Olympics while the Brit contestant can be spotted stumbling along with an egg in a spoon. Funnier when Carr said it, but funny still.

There's something to be said for Heathrow airport. It's all jazzed up even at 7 a.m. The strange thing has always been the sudden demographic shift from the flight to LHR. More Indians than ever before all speaking in incredibly thick Brit accents. I suppose I can relate -- I have one prepared without ever having lived here ready to be whipped out for just such ocassions.

It's 2 a.m. my time and I really should be asleep.

O&O,
~D

1.34 p.m. Nov 27, Eid.
Home.

nothing to see here.

I haven't slept very well in the last week. Because every night I climb into bed hoping the morning will roll around in no time. I can't tell if it's because I'm starting to fear the dark again or whether I want something to hurry up and happen. I don't think it's the former, and if it's the latter I have no idea what that something is. All I know is that some unknown element of my life feels a bit incomplete and every night I hope the next morning will hold the answer.

No luck, still.

Harold Pinter's Weather Forecast

The day will get off to a cloudy start
It will be quite chilly
But as the day progresses
The sun will come out.
And the afternoon will be dry and warm.

In the evening the moon will shine
And be quite bright.
There will be, it has to be said,
A brisk wind
But it will die out by midnight.
Nothing further will happen.

This is the last forecast.

1.48 a.m. can't sleep. dunno why. wish i was home. not quite sure where that is. closer to mama and papa.

soon.

She Lives.

That wasn't in the least bit thrilling and I'm convinced it was fate's (more on fate later) ploy to get me out of my PJs. Here's what happened, loyal readers (consider this a shout out, Michael!) So I peer out and see most of the building downstairs. Being a fan of the herd mentality I start to wonder if I should be part of this "communal gathering at 9" as well. I head to the door knob for another one of my foolproof touch-and-sniff tests when I smell smoke. (At this point, I rush back to my laptop, type in the last line of my earlier post), throw on some jeans (no I WILL NOT run down 16 floors in my PJs even if my hair is on fire), and begin running down the corridor, miss the fire exit, run back, then run down to the theme of "this piercing fire alarm". All the while I'm thinking, damn I should have brought some tissues, what if I have to sneeze on someone, gawd am I the last one out, will I make it out, how cold is it outside, when on Floor 11 the alarm stops. Of course I knew this would happen -- I was thinking more like Floor 5, so I curse the world and fate (still more, later) in general and start to make my way up. When, once again, the alarm goes off. So I turn right around, resume my quest for silence in the open air, when, on Floor 10, it's off again.

That's it. I hobble back up, hear my neighbors TV (they never left despite the smoke and caterwauling), throw on my PJs, and get back into bed.

And that's been all the exercise I've had all day.


The original point of wanting to write a blog post was to mull (in words) over my wonderful plans home. Once I get my visa and tickets, of course, I'll be heading home and then to the UK. While I'm home I get to visit Goa after donkeys years which should be fantastic as well. The last time I was in Goa was in 2000 -- my friends and the rest of the world (no, seriously) were there to celebrate the millenium or for those in a ridiculously inebriated state (consider this your shout out, Vids!... note to self: beg Vids to read this post)-- millium. Now I'll be going in all sobriety, with the parents, to celebrate those fantastically sandy beaches, warm waters, and everything that's right with the world. Then to the UK to celebrate some of the world's best shopping sales. Oh and celebrate fam, of course.

This is all provided things go as planned. This would be the point I'd talk about tempting fate and what not but since the time the fate-bashing thought was planted in my head (roughly 10 minutes ago) and now, I seem to have grown more lily-livered and thought better of it -- so only positive shout outs to fate.

That's all there is to that then. Back in the present, the fire trucks have left, silence ensues, sleep continues to evade, and everything is back to being A-OK.

It's almost 9 p.m. and I've been in bed attempting to get some ever-elusive sleep for a while now. Doesn't look like it's about to happen so I hop out, grab my laptop and begin mentally crafting my first line for my blog post. And while I'm doing that the building fire alarm goes off. This not only means that I have to jump out of my PJs and into more respectable attire (although any well-trained foreigner knows that you've got to drop everything and run -- embarassing nightware or not) but also that I'm now expected to run down 16 floors, stuffed sinuses, weak-willed, and what not. Sure, that's going to happen. So, like any self-respecting foreigner I touch the door knob (feels cool enough), look for smoke under my door, peer out of the window for signs of smoke in the next building, and hop back into bed. The alarm's still shouting at me to quit this path of least resistance, the fire trucks downstairs seem to be saying the same thing, and I'm having one of my best existential crises in a long time.

Time to peer out one more time.

DAMN I gotta go.

Take 2

to pick up and leave.

this thing you've called life.

right so i caved. in more ways than one. how does it matter? what the heck even matters? i'm so tired of trying to make shit work. i shouldn't even be posting this on the I-net but again, how does it matter? everything's just plain horrible right now. and i have no faith. none.

life, i dare you to prove me wrong this time.

go
right
ahead.

Goddamn the Puppeteer.

ok then, the schizophrenic in me has resurfaced and ordered me to get the heck GOING!
my organized side has had me make a list.
(hope reigns supreme.)

i have to say that one of the hardest things i've ever dealt with is being so incredibly far from my family. for the first time in five years, today, i regret coming here. because nothing (nothing) is worth this feeling. of not knowing when i'll see them next, and when i do, knowing that it won't be for more than two weeks.

good morning, midnight.

Another beautiful summer night. It's about midnight and I've just about gotten home. Sleep is as evasive as ever but it's just a gorgeous night to be awake so I'm not really complaining. There's hope now and some semblance of energy that should get things moving in the right direction. Letting has been harder than I thought and I have no one else to blame but myself.

Here's to another night that promises of a brand new morning.

hold that thought ...

very nice:
Getting over a painful experience is much like crossing monkey bars. You have to let go at some point in order to move forward.
-- Author Unknown

I remember, as a child, playing endlessly on those monkey bars and having the skin on my hands peel right off because I held on too hard. Is there a lesson in here somewhere?

(Aah, yes ... avoid those darn monkey bars. Play hopscotch, instead.)

10.21 p.m. any day, anywhere.

Life you funny little thing: You’ve kicked me hardest when I’m down yet you’ve lifted me to unfathomable heights. Tonight I’m sitting here, at rock bottom in my 16th floor apartment balcony, living through this maelstrom of emotions and there’s nothing I can do but hold on tight hardly knowing where you’ll take me next. Life you funny little thing: you’ve taught me to improve on everything that I believe in yet you threaten to take it away in a single instant. Life, you odd little ball of uncertainty, you’ve shown me things that I would never have dreamed of and promised me the world of happiness never telling me when it will be mine and when it won’t anymore.

Today’s been a rollercoaster. What started off with the sight of a friend’s tear-stained face in the morning, unraveled into a series of inconsequential, then high-strung, then inconsequential moments. Difficult decisions plagued my mind, sometimes giving me strength, other times just barely seeing me through. All this as I did my best to function for an office-full of seemingly functional colleagues. Today, life reminded me that I will never know what lies around the corner. And whether that’s a good thing, or whether rock bottom from the 16th floor is still rock bottom, the truth is this: that’s—just—life. I’ll just have to do the best I can, then sit back and watch the moon rise.

godot would know

for some odd reason, this quote has been playing and replaying in my head all morning:
The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.

(today, my friend is going through a rough patch which has kept me from fretting about my own life)

::wanted to cry but you can't when you're laughing::

(my new fave mantra)

Voices

Voices in my head,
Chanting, "Kisses. Bread.
Prove yourself. Fight. Shove.
Learn. Earn. Look for love,"

Drown a lesser voice
Silent now of choice:
"Breathe in peace, and be
Still, for once, like me."

- Vikram Seth

Under Water

(A snippet of something I wrote in October 2005 as my city lay submerged under water.)


The sea roared. Rain lashed incessantly against the buildings seeping into houses with cracks and crevices. Water levels outside rose and road after road resembled a long winding river, chocolate brown and caked with mud and grime, gushing through main streets and narrow alleys. The city would remember this season well.

“Bombay has too short a memory,” Preeti Gopalkrishnan says, already bitter about her city. “You can come back six months from now and everything will be status quo.”

I nod silently. My city thrives on a high level of complacency. It’s the country’s melting pot and in this pot is a fine blend of poverty, crime and disinterest. Everyman goes about his daily life, stopping only to spit in the nearest corner or shout an abuse at a co-passenger in the crowded 9 a.m. local train. Scuffling, pushing and just barely surviving: this is Bombay and here is the life of her people.


Twelve explosions tear through the city, killing more than 300. The first blast rocked the Bombay Stock Exchange. Eleven more major detonations and several minor ones, most caused by car bombs, shook the center and some of the suburbs of India's largest city. (Associated Press, Friday, March 12, 1993)

Twenty-five people were injured in a bomb blast at McDonalds fast food restaurant at Mumbai Central railway station. The bomb was planted in the airconditioner duct. It was suspected to be a crude bomb. (rediff.com, December 6, 2002)

Torrential monsoon rains have returned to the Indian city of Mumbai (Bombay) as it tries to recover from flooding that has left nearly 900 dead. (BBC, July 31, 2005)


It hasn’t been easy. The complacency forms a shield from the city’s constant beating. Whether it’s an outside attack or an inside war, strikes that leave the city reeling, also help her get to her feet quickly and surely, and resume life in her detached manner.

And so on July 26, when the dark clouds shed themselves of their weight in water, the city didn’t react as quickly as it should have.

“I stayed around in office and wrapped up the day’s work,” Malini Dutt, relationship manager of the Unit Trust of India Bank said. “Given that I live five minutes away.” When she finally left, the city was submerged. She began her otherwise short journey home; wading through waist deep water, feeling for pot holes in the road.

Meanwhile, her mother sat anxiously at home. She tried opening the door to her balcony to watch for her family but the rain lashed heavily against it and the wind banged it shut. Outside, it was dark and the afternoon resembled a late evening long after the sun has set.

Dutt reached her building two hours later but her twin sister wasn’t as lucky. She didn’t work as close and needed a train to take her home. She wasn’t to get one for another 48 hours.

By the time the city realized the seriousness of the situation, it was late. Almost too late. Cars were jammed for miles, public transport had come to a screeching halt and people had resigned themselves to the prospect of spending the night on the streets.

By the next day, things were worse. Incessant rain caused the water to rise further and people who had spent the day and night outside decided to stumble home. Some were stuck in their cars; others couldn’t wade through the floods. Some suffocated in their vehicles, others drowned under water. Public transport had shut down completely. The All India Radio reported 150,000 people were stranded at railway stations across the city.

Sometimes ambition can be a very painful thing.

Well Thought Out

The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly. (Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah)

Lately I’ve been drawn to books with a common theme. “What Would You Do If You Had No Fear,” “The Secret,” and “Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah” all seem to be telling me the same thing: to believe in the power of good, to envision my life in a certain way and so it shall be, ask and you shall receive. The truth is I want to believe. It’s such an empowering feeling to think that I can will things in my direction or away from me. That the universe is working to keep me happy. That happiness is the default setting in each of our lives. I want to believe but it’s hard when people are dying of cancer or bullet wounds. It’s impossible when I walk by a homeless man in Georgetown bundled up in the freezing cold. Why won’t he just wish happiness upon himself?

The thing is I think he’s probably doing it every minute of every day. He can’t be wishing for much else. Tough stuff. Yet in my life whenever I’ve had these positive days when I expect things to work, they have. There’s something about my frame of mind when I set out to reign supreme that forces me to believe that we’re spending too much time and energy expecting things to go wrong. I wonder then if it’s true – that happiness is meant for each of us and anything different is an exception to the rule.

I certainly have the privilege to mull over these existential questions while others are out living them. I want to believe. I really, really do.

New Soul-ish

December 28,2008
10.30 a.m. or thereabouts.

I boarded the plane in DC last night. Today, eight hours later, I've seen the sun rise over Amsterdam and I'm now waiting to board my nine-hour flight to India. I'm unsure of where I belong. I search the faces of my Indian fellow-travelers for clues of some sort and find none. I look toward the stray foreigner and smile. Nothing there either. All of a sudden Yael Naim's New Soul streams through the speakers. The world feels familiar again.

January 5, 2009
Sometime in the afternoon.

She looked at my backpack, then said. "You look like a traveler. Where are you from?"
"Here," I replied.

It's true my backpack looked big and heavy. It had two bottles of water, a Best of P.G. Wodehouse, music, an organizer, emergency toilet paper, and a hand towel.

"Who are you visiting?" she asked. "My mother."
"Oh, I'm sorry."

I was too.

The previous night my mother had tripped in the dust and rubble that's spread like a thin permanent film over Bombay and broken her ankle. In excruciating pain she was rushed to the ER -- also known as the casualty ward -- of one of the city's finest hospitals where she waited for close to 25 minutes as doctors pondered over the state of her ankle. She had broken two bones. They would have to operate as soon as the swelling went down.

January 6, 2008.
It's 5.30 a.m. and Wodehouse no longer appeals to my literary senses. Instead I pick up odds and ends of my mother's conversation with the nurse as she's being given a spongebath. They're discussing the state of the city's roads. Yes, they're terrible, the nurse sympathizes with mum. There are seven other fractures on this hospital floor. How many are the result of broken roads and a crippled system?

January 14, 2009.
8 a.m. local time, Amsterdam.

That was one of the heaviest cheese pizza slices I've ever eaten. I'm contemplating getting a coffee to clear the clogged arteries but the Euro intimates me so. Althought it's not all that much against the now weak and watery dollar -- a pleasant surprise that came with a euro 1.99 or $2.71 tulip-shaped-wooden-bookmark purchase.

Schiphol Airport is bustling with life even at 8 a.m. I've explored all discounted stores that are spread across this brightly lit marble coated floor. I'm dead beat from the nine-hour flight and exhausted at the thought of an additional 12 hours of travel. My brain is urging my body to crawl under a table -- any table -- and sleep the hours away. Social grace stops the two in time.

It's been a rough trip. I can't write anymore. I'm just too tired.