The Departure Lounge

I once wrote, “What is it about New Year’s, sunsets and birthdays that make you so reflective?” Apparently, airports have the same effect. Or maybe that’s just when you know that you have stuffed in two-years-worth of your life into 30 kilos of checked-in luggage (not an easy feat, I assure you).

That’s exactly where I am. At Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport. Physically.

Mentally? I’m already gulfing down Mom’s food and stretching out in my bed at home. A.k.a – I’m excited. And surprisingly, not at all sad.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ve loved every single minute of the last two years, and I wouldn’t change it for anything. From landing in the middle of the crazy monsoons to changing worn-out floaters faster than I lost my umbrellas; from house-hunting without any money to paying every possible bill imaginable; from being overwhelmed that first day in the classroom, and then the day after, and the one after, and so on, until slowly, I began to feel like I belonged, to getting engulfed in a massive 43-student hug on my last day; from catching up with long-lost friends to finding familiarity in new ones; from preparing myself to run after buses and trains to unashamedly hailing cabs out of laziness; from the sweltering heat of summer to the best winter ever; from the wind of Marine Drive to the waves of Worli Sea Face; from Wada Pavs to Long-Island Iced-Teas; from Aksa beach to Panchgani; from the slums of the city to the 35^th floor of skyscrapers; from my roadside Hakka noodles to mac n cheese at Phoenix mills; from spending a few grands in a single weekend to surviving an entire month in just fifteen; from standing scared on one side of the road to confidently shoving my hand in front of drivers’ faces as I crossed between traffic; from the deepest trench of depression to the height of inspiration; from the best moments to the worst – these two years have been exhilarating!

Ever since I was a kid, Bombay had seemed like the kind of city every youngster needed to experience on their own – something like an initiation rite. Don’t ask why. But I think that was part of the reason why I opted for this city when I joined Teach for India, and I’m glad to say that I managed to survive it. In one piece.

Before, every time I visited Bombay – I hated it. All I saw was people, traffic and trash. Well, that’s still there. But there’s so much hidden in this city that you just have to live in it to allow yourself to fall in love with it.

And so, my stint with Bombay (I still can’t get myself to say Mumbai!) comes to an end. And yet I’m excited – for what’s going to come next. Maybe I’ve just said goodbye to too many people and too many cities that it just doesn’t bother me anymore. Or maybe I’ve just grown up and become better at accepting change.

I prefer to go with the latter.

Ciao!

PS: My only regret? I still didn't get to see Shahrukh Khan or Shahid Kapoor!!! :(

Here Comes the Rain

I can hear it: the soft (soon to be loud) pitter-patter that sounds strangely familiar yet foreign. I can smell it: that distinct scent of dust being washed away as the parched ground finally finds solace. I can see it, the haze of short, vertical lines that manage to block the background despite their own transparency. In a few moments, I know I’ll be able to feel it too, the dampness spreading quickly through my clothes. And I’m sure I could even taste it, if it weren’t for my fear of accidentally taking in the droppings of unmentionable creatures.

Just last year, around this time, I was doing a rain dance with friends: jumping around in excitement and frenzy at the arrival of our savior who would relieve us of the heat. Whenever people ask me how I found the infamous Bombay monsoons, I just shrugged and waved my hand as though it was no big deal. And maybe then it wasn’t: I had been dropped into the heart of Bombay monsoons just as I was starting a new life. There was no time to be apprehensive; there was just so much to do! The monsoons just happened to form the setting of my story, and I took it as that.

But now, it’s been a year. I’ve been through the rains, the amazing winter and the unbearable heat. For the last one month, I’ve been claiming that I can’t wait for the rains to get here. I would get excited every time the clouds got bigger and blacker. I bought my umbrella and floaters in preparation. Unlike last year, this time I was prepared and ready.

And then the rain started.

I can’t get myself to step outside. Maybe it’s because I know what’s awaiting me, and I really don’t want to face it. Maybe it’s the fact that rain makes me want to get into a blanket and watch a movie. Maybe it’s the idea of standing under my umbrella, waiting for a bus while trying to protect my backpack, which doesn’t seem as courageous anymore. Maybe now that the monsoons are finally here, part of me is craving for summer to come back. Maybe I’m afraid that once I step out into the rain, it’s going to become sealed: there’ll be no turning back the monsoons.

Unfortunately, one thing I learnt last year is that waiting for the Bombay rains to stop means waiting for forever.

...

...

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Here goes nothing.

A Walk Down Marine Drive

It’s a sea like any other. There aren’t even big waves to boast of. But there is a charm – a rather inexplicable one – that draws me back to this place again and again.

I’ve always wondered what was so special about Marine Drive. Why is it that I make sure that anyone who visits Bombay has to go there? What makes it such a major tourist destination? What makes me – time and again – walk into Dadar station just to hop onto a train heading towards Churchgate, just to go and lie down next to the sea all by myself?

The view is beautiful, there’s no doubt about that. But at the end of the day, it’s a sea like any other. It doesn’t have Goa’s waves to boast of, or the breathtaking shades of blue like Maldives. It’s isn’t lined with pubs or amazing restaurants, and if you ever begin to search for a dustbin, you’re probably in for a long and unsuccessful trek. In fact, having been home recently, I’d say it looks almost identical to the Gulf Road in Kuwait.

Despite all this, I keep going back there. And the last time I went there to show Mom around, staring at all the people around me, I think I started to understand a part of that charm.

It was a Sunday evening, and as any Mumbaiker would know, Marine drive was packed. Packed with anybody and everybody – children, adults, old couples, young couples, gay couples, Parsis, Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Indians, non-Indians, rich folk, poor folk, people in saris, burqas, tank tops and shorts, either jogging or walking or sitting or sleeping  –  all human beings were welcome. Actually, for that matter, so were monkeys and dogs (pet as well as stray). And I realized that this is exactly what makes Marine Drive so special – anyone and everyone is welcome there. There is an unspoken, unwritten, open invitation available for all.

Then again, it’s Bombay. It’s filled with people. Nobody ever needs an invitation to get on the local train. So how can people make this place so special? I think it’s because over here the people are no longer special. Sitting in awe of the vast sea and feeling alive with every gust of the wind, individuals stop mattering. There are no expectations, no entrance fee, no dress code, no code of conduct, and no restrictions based on your background. Nobody is going to ask you who you are, nobody cares what you wear or where you live. You could live in a mansion or on the street – here, it doesn’t matter. Because here, everyone’s the same. Whether you’re the CEO of a major company or the street vendor selling channa, it just doesn’t matter. Unless you’re Salman Khan, I doubt anyone’s going to spare more than a few seconds to glance at your. it’s just you, the sea and the wind, and about a hundred odd people whom you probably have nothing in common with, except a love for this place.

And unlike every other place in Bombay where people seem to always be in a hurry to get places, here, time just slows down. You’re no longer trying to reach a destination, you’re already there, so you might as well enjoy every moment. 

Mommy missing time

This is going to be an ongoing list...

• When you have to discard a favourite pair of pants because of a hole, knowing that the remedy lies in a needle-thread
• When you wake up one morning craving aloo ka paratha, or mooli ka paratha, or pyaaz ka paratha, or anything along those lines
• When the one shirt you need is all crumpled and there’s no iron around because you had vehemently argued with your mom about there being no need for such an item
• When you need to be nudged awake at 6 in the morning after a late night of work, which somehow the alarm just cannot manage to do
• When cutting onions
• When you crave coffee that’s not made from nescafe’s 3 in 1 sashes, but is rather the exotic pheto-ed version only one person can get right
• When you spend several hours painstakingly following the recipe, and at the end of it all feel “that’s not the way mamma’s food tasted”
• When you just want someone to ask you how your day has been so that you can let it all out
• When nobody around you seems to intuitively realize you’re having a bad day and are in desperate need of a big hug

Clubbing in India - eerily similar to a walk through dadar station

I know it's a weird comparison - a club and a railway station; people 'dancing' and people trying to get on/off trains. But once you get to experience both - and I mean really experience both - you realize the two are not so different.

What is Dadar station? Only the biggest hub of local trains and national trains in Mumbai - where you start to feel like a snail when walking at a normal pace; where you come to expect being pushed and squeezed like a lemon (not unlike the juice vendors outside the station) while trying to get on or off a train. The attack can come from any side-  perhaps the woman brandishing a long black umbrella or the bare-handed one preparing herself with a fist.

Either way, the experience of Dadar station is incomplete unless you leave the place as the proud owner of a more than a few bruises (and in all fairness - you probably caused a few as well).

I never would have imagined I would compare this hellish intersection of train lines to a fun night of clubbing with friends. It's not that I expected an empty club - after all, the popularity of clubs is based on the number of people it can engulf. It's the same everywhere. Mumbai. Toronto. Wherever.

But there was a slight difference in the clubs of Toronto. Because there are so many couples grinding (which I still do not consider dancing, but whatever), they tend to remain within their own space. Even if there are hundreds of people jammed in a club, the majority of them are busy sticking to their partners, so they tend to leave the others alone.

Continue to imagine that club, but just replace the grinding couples with a bunch of Indians for whom dance is incomplete unless it involves the unchecked flailing of hands and legs. Add a few bottles of liqour and you've got Indians gone wild - or rather - hoards of hands and legs gone wild. And once they start flailing, they don't care what or who comes in their way - they will whack you right left and center.

Not unlike the woman brandishing her umbrella as prepares to get on the train to Kurla at 6pm.

Next time I want to get whacked like that - I think I'm really going to have to think of which of the two options I'm in the mood for.

Bombay blast blues...

It's happened again. Blasts in Mumbai. Terrorist attacks. 3 of them within half an hour. Again, it is a major media story. Again, phone lines are jammed. And again, people are starting to go back to their lives as normal.

Personally, only one thing has changed: me. I am no longer sitting in the comfort of my home in Kuwait and watching the news of local train blasts, nor am I sitting tensed in a dorm in Toronto, following the latest on the Taj attacks.

This time, I am sitting in my house in Mumbai, in Dadar, 10 minutes away from the blast. And it feels wrong.

Those last two times, I was at a distance: far away to do anything, or to ask for more information than was available. But today, I am in the city. I am just a short walk away from the spot of the blast, I am craving some news about what has happened, and all I keep hearing is: don't get out of your house.

True, these messages are all from friends and family. True, they are all thinking about my safety. True, they are all probably right.

But despite being aware of that truth, all I want to do is go out. Perhaps it is the kid in me that wants to rebel against restrictions. Or perhaps it is the gossip in me that craves information. Or perhaps it is the human in me that wants to help others. I'm hoping it's the latter.

I know, I'm a 22-year-old kid. What help could I possibly offer? I would probably be more of a hindrance than anything. It's not as though I'll be the mighty rescuer. But I never thought that I would feel more helpless sitting in Mumbai than I would sitting 1000 miles away.

Yes, safety is an issue. A very valid issue. I'm lucky to have been sitting in my home, and not waiting for a bus at the stop where the blast happened. And I'm grateful for that. But there were others who weren't so lucky. And knowing that makes it a little difficult to sit comfortably in your own house.

But I think Mumbaikars know that. I remember when the train blasts happened, life in Mumbai was back to normal (according to media) the next day. Life here does not stop. Back then, I thought this was actually a sign of indifference towards terrorism - and indifference towards the cost of human life.

Now, sitting here, I understand the need for people to go back to normalcy. I need to feel like I'm doing something worthwhile in my life. What's the point of having a life if we spend it cooped up in fear? I want to get up in the morning, get on my bus, and go to school - if for no other reason except that it will give me an excuse to get out.

Again, that would be the reckless side of me talking. We all have an image of ourselves. I picture myself (aspirationally) as someone who can be of help to others when they really need it. This is a time when people do need help. But this is also a time when I am sitting comfortably at home. If I were out there, amongst the crowd, I would probably run. As much as I picture myself as the person who would rush to help others, I'm afraid that I might run.

I think I'm afraid of being afraid.

Reunions

"You meet someone, become good friends, separate, and never see each other again. What's the point of it all?"

This was my exact thought four years ago, when I was saying goodbye to Jenny, my roommate from 12th standard. I was pretty sure I would never see her again (still haven't, for that matter).

But in the last three weeks, I have met / spoken to friends from so many different phases of my life that I feel like I'm living someone else's life. I mean, my life usually consists of going somewhere, making friends, leaving them, never seeing them again, going somewhere else, and repeating the entire process. It does not consist of meeting friends from the past every other day, and I think this more than anything else has really made my transition to Mumbai so amazing!

From the TISB (Blore) days: Abhinav, Aman, Avi, Arjun (lot's of A's) and Rohit! Met them all after so long, and felt instantly like I belonged! Last seen: 4 years ago


From Kuwait - Neha. Still haven't met her, but she's moved to Bbay as well and I plan to meet her ASAP! Last seen: one year ago


From York: Sajil - our exchange student, wanna-be cool dude, chindi Gujju, cab lover - and still the same!!!  Last seen: 3 years ago!


From dad's side of family: Sonu bhaiya (sorry :P) - Also moving to Bombay, and living very close to my school! The person I will go to when in need of advice. Last seen: 2 years ago!


From mom's side of family: Winky di (sorry again :P) Even though we met for about 2 minutes, she's always been my go-to person when in need of career in the media advice. And that's probably not going to change. Last seen: 2 years ago (or has it been 3 or 4?)


From TFI: Uma and Cigar. Got sloshed with the former last night, and plan to do the same with the latter soon enough!

And there are still more people on the list to meet! Hopefully, maybe that list will include Jenny's name sometime soon!

Mumbai - the complex maze

I had heard about it. I had seen it in movies. I had even written about it. But hearing, seeing and writing are hardly enough for a city like this - the only way to experience Mumbai is by living it.

The first day I landed in Mumbai, I was thoroughly depressed. I mean, this was the metropolitan and economical capital of India!?!?! The city that never slept?!?! To me, it felt like the city that had never seen a broom, the city where curly hair is possibly the worst curse to bestow upon someone, and the city where the refreshing effect of a shower lasts for a grand total of one minute!

It's still all of that.

But knotted within these obvious superficial settings are people who are struggling every day to earn their living, who are so busy in their own lives that they have no time to poke their nose in yours, and yet who are always willing to help you out should you need it.

- In my school, where I've been teaching grade 2 for a few weeks, we have helper staff who maintain our classrooms. The eldest one (whom we call Maushi) saw that I barely ate any food (except wada-pavs) and offered to bring me lunch everyday! I now enjoy her home-made roti-sabzi daily!

- Our security guard (Hari bhai) is the most cheerful person ever! Every time I come back home, he greets me warmly. And he's really helped us settle down and try and find us a maid.

- A random guy on the bus helped me figure out which stop to get off at (considering the conductor had no idea!)

For a newcomer in the city, getting around is quite a daunting task. But every time I get lost (pretty often), I always find someone to point me in the right direction. In a world where we are told that nice people get nowhere, I've found that people respond to you nicely if you ask them nicely. Of course, that doesn't mean I've never been ripped off, but I'd call that more a result of my ignorance.

In this complex maze of a city, there are an incessant number of things to complain about. And maybe the things worth praising are few - perhaps so few, that you really have to hunt for them. Sure, the buildings in Mumbai have all gone from their original colours to black, and there is more garbage on the roads than anything else, but the people - they are simple. And yet complex (should I say simply complex?).

It's the people in this city that make Mumbai work.

Post Birthday thoughts - continued

So just to be clear, the TFI line that I'm completely enamoured by is not "Bah screw it" - that was just a result of the clock turning twelve and cake appearing in front of my eyes.

The line I was talking about it: "What will I do about it?" It's the simplest question one could ask, yet the most rarely asked question. We always end up with "Why aren't they doing something about it?" "It's out of my control." It's also one of the hardest things to ask yourself, because it means taking responsibility for something that no one is forcing upon you. It means willingly facing numerous challenges and failures along the road less taken. And it also means getting off you comfortable backside and actually become a doer, rather than just a complainer.

I've always been the complete opposite of that - probably still am. I find the easier route of complaining so much more - well, easier. I wait for others to get things sorted, often because I don't think it's my place to butt in, and often because I'm just too scared of taking onus of something big.

But I've taken an onus now - I've taken the responsibility of 45 second-grade students who barely speak or understand english, who refuse to sit quietly and study, who ask to go to the toilet (including number 2) every 5 minutes, who incessantly fight with each other and drive me up the wall by their lack of cooperation and who make me question my own decision of taking up this fellowship.

So I did the thing that comes to me most naturally - I complain. Like I just did above. And as good as it makes me feel, it doesn't solve any problems within my classroom. At the end of the day, it is up to me to decide what will I do about it - I've taken a responsibility, and it's completely up to me to make sure I meet all its expectations.

I have no one to answer to - except for my kids, whose future might depend on not just my ability to ask that question, but also to answer it.

Birthday time...

Three weeks in Mumbai! Three weeks of running through traffic, trying to squeeze myself onto local buses and trains, walking endlessly around crowded marketplaces, whipping out my umbrella at the first sigh of raindrops, complaining incessantly about the weather, looking for a house, trying to convert that house into a home, food hunting, getting sick of wada-pavs, getting sick generally, familiarizing myself with street names, meeting old friends, making new ones, getting lost in Marathi-speaking crowds, trying to get my kids to speak English, trying to actually get them to stop speaking, period, yelling myself hoarse to no avail, bribing them with every method possible (still of no avail), singing songs of six little sucks making melodies (have to try that!), trying to gauge the english and maths levels, losing all my levels in the process, and listening to a cab driver tell me I should get married soon since I have a poorly paying job (I may have twisted the numbers)......

All this, and I choose to write my blog the night before my birthday. Well, 2 minutes before, but close enough.

Mumbai has been a maze of mixed emotions, but it is a city I'm slowly getting used to. My classroom, my kids, my school, my home - all of these are interspersed with the city. And over the next one year, I don't know what it's going to throw at me. I'm sure it'll be a lot, what with the pending infamous monsoons, to the stifling humidity this city is known for. My kids may continue to shout every single day, making me lose my voice altogether, or they may just decide to give me a few minutes of their time and actually bother studying. I might just end up transforming myself in ways that I never expected, or I might remain exactly the way I am.

Who knows? Not me. But there is one line often used at TFI, a line that speaks volumes......

Bah screw it!!!

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!!!

The beginning of an entirely new beginning

This is it. Five weeks of institute are up. Four years of college are up. Two years of boarding school are up. Sixteen years of home life are up. This is it.

Now it’s time to step out into that crazy wild thing people call the world, to meet the crazier people that live comfortably in that chaos, and to become one among the many crazy out there. In other words, it’s time to move out of home, out of campus, out of college, and into the city of Mumbai as a member of the grown-up working world.

It’s going to be a new city, a new job, an almost new country, and a whole new life.

That’s a scary thought. Slightly exhilarating, true, but scary nonetheless.

Institute at TFI was an absolutely amazing time. It was the most inspiring, motivating, rejuvenating atmosphere I’ve ever been in. A group of young individuals working together for a common cause – not because it would look good on their resume, not because they couldn’t get any other job, not because they felt they’re doing a favour – but because they truly believe in the cause. Five weeks spent working, teaching, learning, eating, playing, laughing, crying, living with these people is enough to bring us close.

But like I said, the five weeks are now up.

Everyone has gone their own way. Of the 150 fellows who joined at our institute, a third have gone to Delhi, another third to Pune, and the remaining have come to Bombay. Even here, however, we have all spread out across the city, some going back to their homes, others desperately trying to find a home. We’re going to be placed in schools across the city, no longer having each other constantly to work, teach, learn, eat, play, laugh, cry and live with.

It’s going to be me. And my new school. And my new kiddos. And my new house. And my new life.

And that’s still a scary thought. 

Rain Dance

The land was dry. The air was hot. The wind non-existent.
Our parched throats cried out for relief, and only to be met by the glare of the sun.
And as we sat squirming uncomfortably at the rolling streams of sweat
It happened

The horizon changed
From light blue, shades of gray entered our vision
And before we knew it, the glaring sun was gone
The non-existent wind was now cool and refreshing
The mood around shifted from frustration
Relaxed smiles replaced our frowns
And then we saw it

The dark hue of the sky was split apart
A dazzling light streaked across it
Carrying with it loud rumblings
A glimmer of hope started emerging within
We all knew what we wanted, but dare we say it out aloud?
Would the clouds and the wind betray us, and they had so often done before?
We looked at each other, wondering, hoping, waiting
And then we felt it

It fell on my head, trickling down my face
Overpowering the sweat, and bringing cool comfort
As I looked around, I knew I wasn't the only one who felt it
Loud cheers erupted from around
But before we could even finish screaming for joy
The clouds decided they could not longer hold on against the force of the water
And they let loose

Putting our bags under the shade, we ran out down the steps
Shouting, screaming, cheering, singing
Hugging, dancing, jumping, twirling
The rain dance had begun

***

I've lived in many places in my life, and seen various types of rain. In Dehradun, I've gone into the garden and collected hailstones. In Bangalore, I have gotten drenched returning from school because the rain decided to time itself accordingly. In Kuwait....well, no rain there. And in Toronto, I've complained incessantly about the rain and the depressing weather it brings.

But two days ago in Pune, I experienced rain like I never have before. As the rain started pouring, a bunch of us, ranging in age from 20 to 35, ran outside and danced in the rain for almost 2 hours. We sang and danced to every song we could think of, played every game our kids could have thought of, and bantered with our project managers to cancel our lesson plans for the day (without success, of course).

There were no inhibitions left. No awareness. No thoughts. Just feelings. Feelings of relief, excitement, craziness, laughter, friendship, and pure happiness. It was the best kind of high.

I know that monsoon in Bombay is hardly a romantic fantasy, and within a few weeks, I will be complaining incessantly about it. But for those two hours in my life, I learnt to love rain the way I never have before.

And knowing me, I think that's saying a lot.