Trust

I dream of a world

Where I could walk down the road

Any road

At any time

And feel no fear

Meet the eyes of others

Randomly passing by

A smile on our lips

And trust in our eyes

I dream of a world

Where I didn’t hesitate

To help those who ask for it

Where I could roll down the window

Stop my car

Offer some money

Give a ride to a stranger

And not wonder

The entire time

Whether I’m the one

Being taken for a ride.

I dream of a world

Where I can travel by bus

The only woman on it

The only man on it

And not fear

Fear for my safety

Fear for my life

A world where every other person

Is just another passenger.

I dream of a world

Where strangers aren’t feared

Where people aren’t doubted

Where gazes aren’t avoided

A world where trust isn’t naivety

Or something to strive towards

But rather

A world

Where trust is.

Just is.

******** 

I've shared this quote before, but it's something that keeps coming back to me again and again.

"...teach them not to fear. Fear is good in small amounts, but when it is a constant, pounding companion, it cuts away at who you are and makes it hard to do what you know is right." 

- Inheritance, by Christopher Paolini

The Train

I couldn’t really think of a better title than this. You see, the train is a bit of a foreign object to me, the kind that you know you were once acquainted with, but which you struggle to connect with now. Until the age of 12, I travelled across the country by trains. Living in the south, and having relatives in the north gave my family enough of a reason to spend days and nights on this fascinating object. In the early years, I remember we used to travel by sleeper. I don’t remember much about those days, except that the moment we started travelling in the AC coaches, I remember missing the wind. So even though travel in the AC coaches was supposed to be a step up, to me, it meant giving up one thing that I had loved longer than I realized I did so.

In any case, that’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the train rides. Looking back, what I can remember is a multitude of random images and videos that are burned into my memory – learning to play and acing the art of playing rummy and other card games with the family; walking to the pantry car clutching tightly on to the cup of cup-o-noodles and asking for hot water; mami coming to drop us off at the Delhi station, and always with some delicious dinner to go; bhai and a friend of his lying down on the top berths eating moomphali (peanuts) by removing the outer shells, which they discreetly placed on top of the heads of unsuspecting passer-bys; crouching on the toilet and waiting to do my business while watching fascinatedly as the ground raced by underneath; mamma neatly laying out the bedding at night only for it to be a complete mess by the morning (or a few minutes); worrying every time pa stepped off on to the platform that he may not be able to get back on the train in time; jumping up and down the berths excitedly from different places; watching the rail tracks criss-cross as though they were moving with us; feeling extremely proud each time we successfully crossed that point where the two coaches are joined; watching pa stand at the doorway and hesitantly approaching him, only to be pleasantly surprised when he’d let me stand by his legs near the edge of the doorway, feeling like a daredevil.

And then suddenly, just like that, the travels stopped. We moved countries, and subsequently, also our mode of travel. At the age of 15 I took my first solo flight, and from then onwards, it seemed I never stopped. Travelling across countries, trains were hardly the most feasible option; yet somehow, we stopped travelling by them even when we came to India. I mean, yes, we could afford flights now, so it just made more sense to take those, but coupled with the limited time we always had, travel now became more about getting to the destination than the journey in between. Everyone was so busy with their lives that it never even occurred to us (or to me) that I could travel by train from one city to another.

And so, here I was, a 25-year-old girl who had not only not been on a train for 13 years, but had also never done so alone. Basically, when the opportunity to change this cropped up, I jumped at it – both in fear and a determination to set things right. My first journey last month was about 28 hours, and I was travelling with a friend who resolutely refused to travel by AC, so after all those years, I found myself in a familiar and not-so-familiar bogie. The wind – it was just as I remembered it; the toilets – even more so; the hijra who lifted up her skirt when a passenger refused to hand out money – not so much. But over all, the journey was fun. I spent it in parts sleeping, looking out the window, reading a book and sitting on the doorway (which was a first!) with my friend as we chatted into the night.

But I knew that this was still the relatively easy part. I’ve spent the last year hearing a lot of friends recount what an amazing experience it is to travel by train, particularly alone. So I was determined to give it a shot. In an attempt to control my parents’ already rising heart rates, I decided to travel by AC instead of sleeper. I kept a book handy, charged up my laptop, picked the side lower berth so as to get the best window view, and made my way to the station. The train was, of course, delayed. And the station is hardly the same as an airport where you could just plop yourself on to an empty seat and read your book as you wait. Firstly, there isn’t anything that qualifies as a seat. Secondly, it was just so damn crowded! And everyone looked absorbed in conversations with either every single member of their family who had decided to drop them to the station, or busy with a phone. Option number two was closed to me since I had recently lost my phone. So, steeling myself, I found the place where my coach would stop, took out my book and tried to look as nonchalant as I could while standing in the middle of the crowd and reading.

When the train arrived, I’m proud to say that I was one of the first inside (no, I didn’t push anyone out of the way, thank you very much). It turns out that the fear of missing your train during the few minutes that it stops for can really pump your adrenaline. That and the huge family with over a dozen suitcases I saw making their way towards the coach. Inside, there was no place to put my suitcase, since the Indian railways seems to have an unofficial rule that each passenger must carry at least three suitcases as big as themselves. That was sorted after a few minutes of moving things around. Next, I settled in on my seat to look out the window, and instantly I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t see anything. Granted, it was dark, and the laws of physics would dictate that the window of an AC coach does not allow for gazing out at night, but even the few lights that passed by looked messed up. The doubt was confirmed in the morning, when I realized that my window was the one window on the coach (or the train) that was too messed up to see anything through. All you can see is glass. And tiny water droplets. To top off the journey, the berths next to mine (in the next cabin, if that’s what it’s called) were filled with a family consisting of seven children. That’s right – seven, and the oldest of the lot didn’t look older than six years old. Basically, when one started crying, the rest took it as their cue to follow. So the night was certainly musical.

But more than anything, I think the part that’s disappointing is that – I’m bored. I mean, sure, I exchange a few sentences with my other passengers occasionally (mostly to complain about how late the train is getting), and the rest of the time I’m trying to pass time with my book or my laptop. But still, the time is passing so slowly. I really don’t know what my friends were going on about when it comes to travelling alone by train. I suppose if you’re the more talkative type, then this grants you opportunities to start lifelong conversations with random people. But that’s really unlike me. So here I am, sitting on my berth, staring out at glass, missing the company – with my parents, with my brother, with my friend. Because, I really do have some great memories on the train, but most of them involved other people. Alone, all I care about is reaching home. All I want right now is the destination.

On a side note, I found that the one spot that has remained my favourite across these 25 years and sleeper / AC trains is the doorway, and standing there by myself, all I could think of were those times the much tinier version of myself would carefully sneak around pa’s legs, hoping I could stand there for as long as I liked.

Well, I suppose I can. The way this train is going, Bangalore isn’t getting here any time soon. 

The Green Sofa

It first caught our attention several years ago, seeming a little out of place in its environment. It sat there, royally, ignorant to all the hustle-bustle around it. The green was not bright enough to be flashy, yet its dullness was somewhat dimmed by the largely duller surroundings. Its seat looked really soft; the kind that tempted you to want to jump down heavily on it. Of course, we didn’t know at the time that the sofa was a mascot for the ‘appearances can be deceiving’ slogan. It was one of those things you had to find out for yourself, apparently, as you massaged your rather disappointed behind.

Okay, I don’t know why I’m talking like this. I mean, let me say it straight up – I hate this green sofa. It’s a sofa situated in the departure terminal of Kuwait’s airport, and is the sofa that my family tends to sit on and have a last chat before the final farewell. What started as a pleasant surprise soon turned into a tradition, and I found myself, with every departure, grudgingly making my way to this sofa. Why grudgingly? That’s a little hard to explain. I think it has something with not liking those final conversations; there’s an air of the looming departure hanging over your head, so ever little bit of talk seems really forced. It’s as though you are suddenly sitting there to have a few more minutes with each other, but the price of those few minutes is awkward conversation. I’m not a big fan of long drawn-out goodbyes, so I found myself hating that particular sofa with a vengeance.

That green sofa is long gone from the airport, and here I am, sitting by myself at my departure gate in Kuwait for the last time, writing what sounds to me almost an ode to that bloody sofa. Who would have thunk?

It’s weird. Kuwait’s not my home. It stopped being my home 9 years ago. The country is alien to me. Every time I visited, I was much happier inside the house than outside. If anything, that house where my parents live, where I used to live, is my home. And I’ve just spent the last few days packing up every little piece of that house as my parents prepared to leave. Yesterday, we were staring at a house filled with cartons packed to the brim. Today, it was nothing but empty walls (and the stuff that wouldn’t fit in the container). That’s 13 years’ worth of our lives stuffed into a container, or dispersed around. 13 years. That’s more than half my life. See, now that is what I should be writing an ode to. The house. My home. That sense of belonging.

But no. Instead, all I can write about right now is a bloody green sofa. No, I don’t miss it. I don’t even like it. But I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe because the last 9 years, every time I have come to Kuwait, it was with a sense that I would soon be leaving it. And every time I sat on that sofa, it was with a sense that I would soon be back. But this time, there’s no going back. That’s a weird thought. It’s not happy or sad. It’s just different. Weird.

I tell you, these departure lounges have a weird effect on me. They make me introspective in a way similar to sunsets and all that. Of course, by the time I post this, I would be too far away from this gate to actually care, so I thought it would be best that I wrote this while the sofa was still hovering around my mind.

Adios Kuwait.

तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

Because sometimes, I need to convince myself to do the things I want...

माना घर में अपनों के होने का एहसास है
बचपन से लेकर अब तक हर लम्हे कि छाँव है
तू उस छाँव की आड़ से बाहर देख तो सही
फ़ाटक के दरवाज़े को ज़रा खोल तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

माना रास्तों में पत्थर भी हैं, कंकड़ भी
पैरों में काँटों के घुसने के आसार भी
तू उन काँटों को सहने की कोशिश कर तो सही
उबलती रेत को कदमों से महसूस कर तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

माना रास्ते अक्सर टेढ़े हैं, सीधे नहीं
पलख झपकते योंही कहीं खो जाते कभी
तू खुद रास्ते से भटककर देख तो सही
पहाड़ों में कोई नयी दिशा बना तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

 माना सफर अकेला है, डरावना भी
चेहरा हर एक नया है, अंजाना भी
तू उस अन्जान से दोस्ती कर के देख तो सही
अपने आप में ज़रा खुद को ढूंढ तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

माना दूर तक मंज़िल का कोई निशान  नहीं
निशान  क्या, मंज़िल की ना कोई पहचान भी
तू मंज़िल को छोड़, रास्ते में जी कर देख तो सही
घाँस की ठंडी ओंस पर लेटे, तारों को देख तो सही
समुन्दर की लेहरों में कूद तो सही
खुली हवा में साँस ले तो सही
तू कभी घर से बाहर निकल तो सही

*****

Inspired by the man who loves pyjamas, the fellow poet, and a recent trip.

"I want to travel. You know, the kind where there's no planning, or too much thinking."
"That's the best kind of travel. The only kind, I think. Otherwise, it's a vacation."

Domicile

6 years in Dehradun

6 years in Bangalore

4 years in Kuwait

2 years in Bangalore

4 years in Toronto

2 years in Bombay

…and that’s 24

****

“Where are you from?”

I cringe every time I hear that question – not so much for myself, because I personally love the answer. But I feel bad for the person asking the question, because I’m sure the answer they receive is far longer than the one they had bargained for.

As a kid, I used to complain often about moving around (by grade 2, I had attended five different schools. And no, I wasn’t kicked out). Being socially awkward, it took me a long time to get comfortable in my new surroundings and make friends, and it seemed like every time I managed to settle down, it was time to move to a new place again.

Somewhere along the line, things changed. Or I changed. Because the last few times I’ve moved, it’s been out of choice. I spent four amazing years in Toronto, making friendships that I know will outlast me. Yet by the end of college, I was ready to leave and go back to India. Similarly, my two years in Bombay were better than I could have even imagined, but towards the end, I wanted to move to something new. That kid who loved normalcy and comfort and hated change suddenly became the one eagerly packing bags and changing homes every few years.

A while back, I was filling out an application that had a section for ‘domicile’. I had no idea what that meant, and actually had to look it up. Apparently, it means residence. Abode. Home. Dwelling. Etc. Not something I can fill out in the 3-centimeter space that the form provided. It’s definitely not a one-word answer.

Sometimes, I think it still bothers me – not belonging anywhere. Not staying anywhere long enough to become a part of a group of friends that’s closer than family.  Last night, I watched over 40 people take time off from their work day to come home and celebrate mom’s birthday. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it – that feeling of knowing that you’re surrounded by people who would be there for you no matter what. I do have family and friends like that all over the world, but that’s the thing: they’re all over the world. And Facebook and Skype can only do so much (and yes, that includes smartphones).

But it’s a fleeting moment of doubt, because at the end of the day, I have thankfully never regretted my decisions to move till now. I’ve been happy at every place that I’ve called home, regardless of the longitude it was at. And to be fair, two months ago I was with friends in Bombay; two weeks ago with family and friends in Canada; today with my parents in Kuwait, and in another two weeks, with more family and potentially more friends in Bangalore.

Can’t complain J

Besides, from what I've heard:

Home is where the hugs are.

And there are hugs all around!

Ruchi Mittal, officially 24 years old, at home with all the hugs, signing off!

Destination: Montreal

It was a trip initiated by an old friendship, controlled by our wallets, and guided by our stomachs!

We were trying to save money. That’s really where the whole story begins. (Alright, fine. If you want to be technical, it begins when the two of us decided to take a trip down to Montreal, made plans, made bookings, etc etc – but the fun part of the story starts with us trying to cut costs). With one of us flying down from Kuwait to Toronto, and the other from Calgary, I think we could safely say that we were low on funds and wanted Montreal to be a cheap holiday.

In our desperation, we decided to cut costs on the only flexible part of our trip – the accommodation. Following vague recommendations, we booked a three-night stay at…a hotel? Motel? Hostel? Not entirely sure what it was, but definitely closer to the last option. After dragging our luggage across the city, we arrived at a 3-story townhouse filled with beds peeking out from behind curtains. Our request for a private room was initially met with blank stares, but thankfully, a few seconds later, we were shown into a room with two queen-sized beds – and asked to choose one bed and stick to it (I should mention here that one of the beds already had luggage on it, so we weren’t exactly left with that much to choose from). The bathroom was across the room, and was shared between at least 10 other people living on that floor. And while our first night was relatively peaceful and solitary, we didn’t realize at that time that we would soon be joined by a third person (the owner of the luggage) – someone who makes it very difficult for light sleepers such as my friend to, well, sleep.

For the next two days, we explored as much of the city as we could. Our roles were clearly designated – one was the researcher and the other the navigator. Equipped with maps and walking tours, we walked through as many of the streets as our legs allowed, and ate as much as our stomachs allowed (and possibly a bit more).

But this was all well into the future. That first evening, as we dumped our luggage on our bed, I remember there was a moment when we looked at each other, suppressing incredulous stares and the urge to laugh uncontrollably at our situation. I think it was decided at that particular moment – Montreal was going to be a trip to remember!

*****

Enroute to Montreal.

The door-knob of our room. If you pulled it too hard from outside, it would come off. But if you yanked it back in too hard, the one on the inside would fall off!

Realizing (a little late) that we were staying at a place that would obviously not be providing us with toiletries, we decided to go shopping. But being the cheapskates that we were, we were only willing to spend on hand towels (because a full-length one would have been so expensive), and the cheapest most outrageous shampoo we could find: outrageous.

Our favourite bagel place, where we started each morning with cream cheese and nutella.

Mexicans have tacos, Italians have pastas, and apparently Montreal has poutine. Not a big fan, I must admit. 

Notre Dame: a church with the most spectacular light-and-sound show that I have ever seen. A must watch!

Catching up on the last eight years amidst Mojitos and Long Island Iced Teas!

Boustan – the best shawarma place ever!

A view of Montreal city

Jacques Cartier – a street in old Montreal city!

And of course, a special thanks to our transport manager (sounds cooler than chauffeur): for getting us started on the journey!

It's That Time of Life Again...Yet Again

At the age of 6, I left Dehradun, saying teary goodbyes to some very close people, telling myself more than them that I would be back in 2 years.

At the age of 12, I left Bangalore, quietly, without much fuss, excited at the prospect of starting life again in a new country.

At the age of 16, I left Kuwait, confused, wanting to hold on yet wanting to get away, scared of leaving home for the very first time.

At the age of 18, I left Bangalore again, trying desperately to hold on to the friends who had become closer than family, afraid yet again of stepping out into the unknown world.

At the age of 22, I left Toronto, 

• hesitant to say goodbye to the countless people who had come to understand me better that anyone else in the world, 
• excited to go back to a country I had always been in love with, 
• nervous about taking up a challenge that would shape not only my life but that of dozens of others, 
• scared that friendships of the present would become friendships of the past, 
• stunned at how fast the last four years of my life had flown by, 
• desperate to hold on to everyone and everything, 
• eager to try something new, 
• unsure, still, of how to say goodbye

At the age of 24, I find myself packing my bags yet again as I leave Mumbai,

• Grateful, for every single moment I have experienced in the last two years
• Hesitant, yet excited, at the prospect of going back to the classroom as a student
• Curious, to know what Bangalore will have in store for me the third time around
• Sad, to leave a city that I surprisingly fell in love with
• Befuddled, as to how I managed to hoard so many things in two years
• Pained, to leave behind some very close friends
• Ready, to move on to something new
• Accepting, that I don’t stay in one place for too long, and that goodbyes will always be a part of my life.

Journey to Pakistan - What's Pakistan Like?

For several years as far as I can remember, I have wanted to go to Pakistan. It was the country I was told was supposed to be the enemy, the people untrustworthy, and more recently, a land reaping terrorists. I wanted to see this for myself. It was probably the most anticipated trip of my life, a trip where I had decided beforehand that I would write pages about – a trip, that for some unknown reason, I’m unable to put in words.

You went to Pakistan? How was it?

I don’t know how to answer the question. I thought it would be an exhilarating, mind-blowing, and awe-inspiring experience.

It really wasn’t.

It was the same faces, the same clothes, the same streets, the same houses, the same music, the same wedding celebrations. Granted, the women on the streets were fewer, and the pyjamas of the men roomier, but for the most part it was the same.

It was sort of like visiting home.

I couldn’t help but feel a little cheated. After all the horror stories and warnings and cautionary tales, I think I had expected Pakistan to be different. After all, Pakistan was the enemy. THE ENEMY. Why on earth would our enemy be the same as us??? How could the other side of the border feel like home? How could my friend’s mom and grandmother and cat feel like my own?

It’s easy to write about an experience that stands out – that’s different and exotic. But when something feels so normal that it almost feels like a part of your regular life, how do you write pages about that?

Yet people ask me what Pakistan is like.

It’s a country struggling under terrible governance, antiquated patriarchal laws, and a corrupted system that serves only the elites;

A nation that prides and tries to protect its sovereignty;

A force of people slowly realizing the power of their own voice and their ability to speak out against injustice;

A breed of parents that want to keep their children safe;

A mass of youngsters that want to improve the future of their country, so that they may be able to live peacefully in the place they call home.

What’s Pakistan like?

India. 

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. 

The Ahmedabad Diaries - Raju's Story

Raju's story is not that of a single man. It's the story of a community put together through anecdotes from several people. "Raju" just happens to be the main source. I have no idea what his real name is.

He lived in a slum, or as NGO workers like to call it, a community. It was a community where the stone-houses were haphazardly lined up against each other, with just about enough space to accommodate two small people. For most families, however, the actual number stood around 2 adults and 5 steadfastly-growing kids. It was crammed, but as their nation had taught them since the day they were born, they had to adjust.

Mazdoori was the main livelihood. The men worked from morning to night, laboring in exchange for an income that allowed the family to survive. The women worked hard around the house to ensure the family could survive on that income. And the kids…they learnt soon enough that the innocence of childhood did not waste its time on their likes.

Life was hard, but Raju knew there was something to be thankful for – they had water and electricity for the most part. They had jobs. They had their family and friends. They had a solid roof over their head. They had a home.

I guess he thanked too soon.

On a day like any other, Raju returned home from labouring to find that he no longer had a home. It was gone. Every last bit. As were all the houses of his neighbours, and their neighbours, and the entire community.

The only thing left was rubble. Piles and piles of it.

On his left, people were crying – moaning; to his right, a man was sifting through the rubble looking for something, though he didn’t seem to know what. Children were clinging on to their mothers, looking confused and terrified, trying to forget the sounds of the bulldozers as they tore down their homes in front of their eyes.

The government had decided it was time to vacate the land so that it could be used for construction. That Raju understood. What he did not understand was why they were not given a moment’s notice before their homes were turned into rubble. A hysterical mother had to beg the authorities to allow her to get her son who was sleeping unawares while the bulldozers approached his house. She had to beg, because they didn’t seem to care what came in the way of the bulldozers – a bed, a dog, or a child.

As Raju looked towards his wife and son standing where their house used to be, he could not explain the emotion that passed through him. Everything that he had, that they had, was gone.  The house, the clothes, the TV, the stove, the thali they ate from, they vessel they stored water in – it was all gone. “I was lucky I carried by identity papers and toolbox with me to work,” he recalls, “or I wouldn’t even have that now.”

Their lives were turned inside out. Without even the courtesy of a notice.

*** Flash forward 6 months later ***

Dust, for as far as your eyes can see. Bamboo sticks, attempting to stand upright in their position on the ground. Tarps – red, blue, white – hanging desperately onto the bamboo sticks as the wind tried fervently to release them.

This was the new community that Raju was now living in. Some might call it a camp. Some might call it a dump. The government seemed to prefer calling it home. And it had been “home” for the last 15 days.

Although the details of his life are not too clear after the house was destroyed, from what I understand the government gave some of the families flats in a distant community in an attempt to relocate them. But not everyone received a flat, and so they continued to wait; they continued to live on the rubble of what-had-once-been-their-house for a few months. After 5 months, it seems the government had had enough of the squatters and wanted to clear the land, so all the remaining people were rounded up in trucks and dumped unceremoniously onto a far-off land next to a major garbage dumping ground. There was no water closeby, no sign of electric lines, no food, no job, no money, and certainly no home. Just a vast ground filled with prickly weeds and plants.

When I met Raju, he had been living there for 15 days. His new home, consisted of a few bamboo sticks precariously holding up white tarp, with a sandy floor that had been laboriously cleared of the wild plants.  He stood in front of his house as he unabashedly narrated his story to me. The flaps of tarp that stood as a door fluttered in the wind, giving me a chance to look inside his house. It was bare.

He had sent his wife and son to their village and was living here alone. “Why didn’t you go with them?” I asked. He looked tired, almost defeated. “Because I will not be allocated a house unless I stay here,” he said, the unfairness of the situation crushing him. “I do not want them to have to live through this misery.”

And misery it was. It was the end of December in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, and temperatures at night were steadily dropping. Blankets were nowhere to be seen. The number of people living on that ground surpassed a few thousand. The men claimed there were no jobs available around them. Food was hard to come by unless it was through charity. Three children had already died by eating poisonous plants growing nearby. Water was available thrice a day – almost a kilometer away. No one had bathed in days. No one had properly quenched their thirst in days. All around, the faces - whether they be of an 8-month-old or an 80-year-old – showed signs of exhaustion.

The question that seemed most pertinent, was how long they would have to endure this hell. The authorities said that they will respond by the 31^st – 3 days later. “And if they don’t?” I ask hesitantly. Raju looks at me directly, his eyes burning with an emotion I couldn’t possible describe, and said, “We might be here for 5 years. Or more. Who knows?”

The tarp-homes held upright with bamboo sticks

Raju's home 

Breathing New Zealand

Pristine. Breathtaking. Untouched – words that are usually found in novels that prefer to delve more into description of the setting than to carry forward the plot. And I hate those novels. Well, at least I don’t love them. I crave a story – something to predict; something to look forward to. The description – well, that’s just there, isn’t it? It’s still, static – boring.

In the last 48 hours that I’ve spent in New Zealand though, I’ve realized that there is something to be said for that stillness – some kind of perplexing beauty in the lack of action. Ever since I reached New Zealand, which just happened to be on Labour Day (which was co-incidentally also the day after the Rugby World-cup final, so everybody was busy sleeping over their hangovers), the country has been dead. No people in sight. I’ve seen more sheep and cows than humans. Every 5 minutes I would turn to my parents and ask – so what do we do next – gesturing helplessly at the deserted water-sports area around us. And every 5 minutes, I would receive a shrug in return. So eventually I stopped asking.

And started seeing. And hearing. And feeling. And most importantly, I started breathing. I saw before me some of the most spectacular lakes and clear blue water, with snow-capped mountain peaks rising from behind, so far away that I couldn’t even capture them on my camera lens. Behind me, green grass spread out for acres, often covered by the straight-backed pine-trees neatly arranged in perfect lines that could have put a march-past team to shame. The scene was right out of those ‘scenery’ pictures I used to draw as a kid, never realizing there really were places that had such a perfect blend of blue, white, and green.

I heard the rustling of the leaves in the wind. I heard the sounds of insects which I had forgotten existed thanks to my busy city life. I heard my own feat crumbling the gravel on the ground below. I heard water gurgling from the boiling geysers that form part of New Zealand’s main natural attractions. I heard the sound of my own breath – quite a strange experience when you actually think about it. You know what I did not hear? People chattering, music blaring, horns honking, children shouting, myself yelling – everything was quiet. And calm. And peaceful.

I felt the wind like I haven’t felt it in ages since Bangalore. I felt the cold like I used to feel it in Canada. I felt the relaxation I had felt every time I went home to Kuwait. I felt the beauty of the landscape that I felt as a child in my house in Dehradun. I felt alive the way I do in Bombay – but so much more. Not alive to do things, but to just be. And I used to think that being alive means making the most of every single minute, of not wasting time but doing all the time. Yet in the last couple of days, I haven’t done anything. Unless you count lying down on the grass and actually falling asleep without a care in the world. Or walking along the most beautiful lake I have ever seen. Or realizing that I could feel alive while actually being static.

And so I took a deep breath. And then another. And a few more. I let the calm and the silence wash over me.  I let myself be immersed in beauty that for the most part has been left unaltered by man. I fell in love with something that was pristine. Breathtaking. Untouched.

Something that was static. Yet alive.

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.

It’s that time of life again

At the age of 6, I left Dehradun, saying teary goodbyes to some very close people, telling myself more than them that I would be back in 2 years.

At the age of 12, I left Bangalore, quietly, without much fuss, excited at the prospect of starting life again in a new country.

At the age of 16, I left Kuwait, confused, wanting to hold on yet wanting to get away, scared of leaving home for the very first time.

At the age of 18, I left Bangalore again, trying desperately to hold on to the friends who had become closer than family, afraid yet again of stepping out into the unknown world.

At the age of 22, here I am again, packing up my things to leave Toronto, 

hesitant to say goodbye to the countless people who have come to understand me better that anyone else in the world, 

excited to go back to a country I have always been in love with, 

nervous about taking up a challenge that will shape not only my life but that of dozens of others, 

scared that friendships of the present will become friendships of the past, 

stunned at how fast the last four years of my life have flown by, 

desperate to hold on to everyone and everything, 

eager to try something new, 

unsure, still, of how to say goodbye.

Weekend in NY

Going to New York City by myself was the most amazing experience ever!!!

I wish I could say that. Because really, considering the amount of time I spent fretting about that weekend, and booking tickets and convincing parents, I really did think it would be an extremely exciting weekend.

Not that it wasn't good. The twelve-hour bus-ride (one way) did wonders for my bottom; the tiny hotel was great when it wasn't freezing; and the incessant rain really made Times Square look so much more appealing.

Actually, I'm not really in a position to complain. The bus ride was pretty decent; the hotel was quite amazing considering it's price and location; and I've never really been a big fan of Times Square anyways.

The trip was fine.

But I think that's what's unnerving about the whole trip - it was fine. Not great, not amazing, but fine. Everything worked out the way it was supposed to, and nothing out of the ordinary happened. And while I'm relieved on one end, part of me is a little disappointed.

I mean, this was New York. This was my first time staying alone in a brand new city. "Fine" wasn't exactly the word I would have expected when describing it.

Maybe I really should move to Mumbai and try living by myself. "Fine" will definitely take on a whole new meaning then.