Haircut

For the love of dialogue and conversations...

I think you should get a haircut soon.

What?! I just had one a few days ago.

That was a few months ago!

Yea but, I don’t think I need one as yet.

Look at your hair. It’s almost below your neck.

So?

So, it’s too long. You should cut it.

But why? What’s the problem if it’s too long?

It’s not supposed to be that long.

Her hair is so long!

She’s your sister.

Thanks, I didn’t know.

Don’t take that tone with me…

Sorry mum. But so what if she’s my sister?

I meant, she’s a girl. She’s supposed to have long hair. You’re a boy. You’re supposed to have short hair.

…

…

…

…

But why?

Enough with the ‘why’s!

I’m serious. Why can’t boys have long hair?

It doesn’t look good.

Says who?

Says everyone.

But I think it looks good.

Well, it doesn’t.

But if it’s my hair, and I think it looks good when long, isn’t that all that should matter?

If you were stranded alone on an island, then yes.

Huh?

I mean, if you lived entirely alone, it wouldn’t matter. You’re part of a society. And the society’s opinion matters.

You mean the people in our building?

No, I mean society at large. All the people!

All the people as in…all the people?!

Yes.

Including all the people I’ve never met?

I said all the people.

Why do I have to care about the opinions of 6 billion people who I’ve never met about the length of my hair?!

It’s not just about the length of your hair!

Then what is it about?!
It’s just that, the society has some rules. If we want to be part of this society, we need to follow those rules. And the length of hair for boys and girls happens to be one of those rules.

Look, mum, why does the society have rules?

What do you mean?

I mean, rules exist for a reason. What is that?

…

Rules are there to ensure that everything functions smoothly, right? To make sure people don’t end up harming each other? We have traffic rules and signals to make sure we don’t have accidents. In the same way, we have rules in society like don’t kill each other or don’t steal from each other to make sure that we don’t harm each other. In a way, the rules tell us to consider other people around us, and not just think about ourselves, right?

Yes…

With me so far?

Yes, that makes sense.

So you agree that people should follow the rules of society to prevent themselves from harming each other, right?

Exactly.

Okay, then who am I harming by growing my hair?

Well……maybe it’s not just about harm. Many rules came up for practical reasons as well.

What do you mean?

Historically, men were supposed to fight or work in the fields and things. It would have made practical sense to keep their hair short. It wasn’t about preventing harm to others, like some of the other rules.

That makes sense.

Thank you.

I mean, it makes sense if I were going to fight. Do you see me prepping for war right now?

I didn’t say that’s the reason for it now!

Then what is the reason for it now?

It’s just a practice that has continued.

Even when the reason is no longer valid?

It’s become a norm now, hasn’t it? That’s how most things around us work. I don’t really see the point in challenging the rules.

By that logic, we’d never challenge any rule. Nothing would ever change.

That’s a little extreme…

Seriously, do you actually believe that we should continue to follow society’s rules just because that’s the way things have always been done? That the rules should never be challenged?

I’m not saying that all the rules of society are great. Some are already harmful, and they need to change. But there needs to be a proper reason to change it.

For example?

Well, take dowry. It’s been a societal practice for many generations, and has led to the abuse and death of so many women. So that seems like a very good reason to challenge this rule and to push for a change.

Yea.

But growing out your hair – what reason is there to do it?

I want to do it.

That’s not a reason.

Of course it is. Being told that I have to keep my hair short makes me unhappy. Growing my hair will make me happy. Why isn’t my happiness a good enough reason to go against a rule?

That’s hardly the same thing.

I’m not saying it is. But at the end of the day, if a rule makes someone unhappy, isn’t that enough of a reason to change it?

Perhaps, if everyone felt that way, then yes. But I don’t see all the other boys in your class trying to grow their hair.

That’s like saying if one woman was abused because of dowry, but others’ weren’t, she shouldn’t push for any change.

The two situations are completely different.

In the extent of happiness and misery, yes. But they are both still about happiness and misery.

Misery is a strong word for a haircut.

Fine, unhappiness. How does that change anything?

Look, you keep talking about change, but it’s not an easy thing. You think the first push to challenge dowry would have been simple? There would have been a lot of resistance, people pushing back, even adding on to the abuse. But that cause was strong enough for people to continue taking a stand against it. Now, if you were to grow out your hair, you’d face a lot of resistance too. Of a different kind, yes, but it would be there. Everyone would make a big deal out of it. The school would not allow it. Your classmates would ridicule you. Is the length of your hair really worth all that?

If I said yes, would I then be justified in growing it?

Really?! You’re telling me that having short hair is making you so miserable that you would rather be a laughing stock or a thing for everyone to point at and comment upon – just to be able to grow it?

No.

Exactly. That’s what I thought.

I’m saying that I see no reason why I should not be allowed to grow MY hair, when it will make me happy, but would bring absolutely no harm to others.

I just told you the reason. Everyone around will make your life that much harder.

That’s a reason for why it would be difficult for me to do so. Not why I shouldn’t do it at all.

I feel like you’re starting a revolution in this house.

It does feel like it, doesn’t it?

A revolution for hair. If only Gandhi could see you right now.

Correction: A revolution for personal choice.

Fine. Do what you want.

Really?

Well, in another few weeks, your school is going to call you up to have this exact same conversation. So we’re really just talking about a few centimeters of hair then. I can live with that.

What makes you think I won’t be able to convince the school?

You know what? You actually might. Now that would be a conversation worth getting a front row seat for.

Thanks mum. I can just picture you sitting there in the parent-teacher meeting with some popcorn, enjoying the show!

Just let me know the date and time!

So we’re good here?

I think so. Wow. I can’t believe we spent all this time arguing about the length of your hair.

My thoughts exactly.

The End of May

It's that time of the year again, with June and school just around the corner. A new year. New teachers. New books. A rush to the bookstore. Carefully going over the required booklist for bhaiya, and then the same for me. Counting the number of sheets we'd need to cover the books. Oh wait, they come in already cut up smaller sheets now. And they look different. More...orangy than brown. Why'd they have to change it? Oh but....this might make covering the books much easier. And we need to decide our stickers. Uff there are so many options. I don't know which one to take. I pick some at random. I don't like making decisions. And we need some pens. Yes, this is the second year my class will be writing with pens. That means I can buy the micro-tip pens like bhaiya. No more of those ink pens. Thank god, they used to be such a mess. Back home, the four of us get together. We have a big job ahead. I hate doing this, because it means school is starting. But it's also so much fun to do this every year, and the books smell so nice. I don't know whether I actually enjoy this or not. Mamma is in charge. She begins by taking a book and placing it over one of the sheets. The sheet is a bit too big, but mamma says she'll just fold it. No point cutting so much. I remember in the earlier years mamma had to spend so much time cutting those big brown sheets. She aligns the book carefully, then opens the front cover. Folds the side. Then opens the back cover. Folds the side again. She closes the book and holds it with her left hand, picking up the scissors with her right. She quickly cuts off all the corners in a neat diagonal shape. Next she cuts the inner side, but this is a little harder. I know. I tried last year but kept doing it wrong. After cutting it, she passes it to us. Pa has gone out of the room because of a phone call. I let bhaiya take the book, because I don't like folding the edges. Somehow they always get bent at the wrong places. I watch him carefully fold the inner flaps between the outside cover, and then breathe in relief as the hard part is over. Now he just has to fold all the outer remaining flaps inside. That part is easy. Even I can do it. But I cut tape and hand it over to him so that he can stick the flaps. Mamma has already started on the next book. She tells me that I could try to do the fist part - placing the book on a single sheet and folding the sides. This will help her go faster. I try to do that. The book keeps slipping every time I fold it from one end. I stick my tongue out in the side while trying to concentrate on the task. I had just finished folding one side before mamma takes it from me. She had finished her part already. Disappointed, I take the next book, trying to g a little faster. This time, I'm able to finish my job before mamma. But bhaiya is having difficulty cutting tapes by himself. So we decide to leave that part for later. Pa comes in, but seeing the big pile of books we have already finished, goes out again. Finally the pile grows larger, and then there are no more textbooks or notebooks left. Mamma looks tired. She says the rest is for bhaiya and me. I don't mind. The remaining part is fun. We break for lunch, and then the two of us come back to finish the job. I cut the tapes, he sticks them on the books. When that is done, we separate our stack of books. He takes his stickers, and I take mine, and both of us quietly try to put the stickers clearly in the centre of each book, without letting it tilt on any end. And finally, only one thing is left. Bhaiya picks up a pen, and offers one to me. This year mamma won't be filling in the stickers for me. I take the pen and carefully start writing my name in capital letters, silently admiring my own handwriting. It feels strange to write the class and section - it makes me feel so much older than I am. We check the lists before writing the titles on the notebooks. All the writing takes a long time, but finally, we both are done. We stack up the books neatly, and pick up all the pieces of paper lying around, throwing them in the bin. The bed looks clear. And the books look so nice sitting on the table. Oh but school is starting. I wish it wouldn't. I wish we could just do this ritual every year and not have to actually go to school afterwards. 

The Happy Place

It was cold, not such that it had you shivering from head to toe, but enough for the three-year-old girl to be bundled into a knitted, pink sweater. She picked at it uncomfortably, as she gazed out at the big lake around her. Boats dotted her vision, moving slowly across the water as the grown-ups who sat in them huffed as they pedalled.

On her own boat, her parents sat across her, pedalling the boat with an unhurried ease, while her dad kept one hand on the long stick behind. On her right, her older brother chatted away excitedly. The four of them were on their way to Mussourie, a few hours away from home, and had stopped for boating on the lake that had become customary to these trips.

As she listened to her brother going on and on about his own skill with pedalling the boat (he had done it for a minute at the max), she tried unsuccessfully to enjoy the wind and the water. Finally, feeling that enough was enough, the girl decided that it was time to speak up for herself. Plastering a frown on her puffed-up cheeks, she folded her arms for extra effect, and heaved in annoyance.

“Even I want to pedal,” she said.

Her parents looked at her in surprise. “But you’re too small for this,” said her mother, while her brother sniggered on the side.

“You let bhaiya do it!” she persevered. “Even I want to try.”

“But – “

“Sure,” her father said, cutting off her mom’s objection. Her mother looked surprised, and was about to say something again when her dad gave one of those grown-up looks that she seemed to understand.

“Really?!” the little girl asked, trying to mask her nervousness in excitement.

“Yes. But you’ll have to switch seats with me,” her father said, and proceeded to show her where to place her footing as the two of them carefully switched seats with each other.

As she plopped down on to the seat of power, she suddenly wasn’t too sure about what to do. Her mother, who was now sitting next to her, spoke up.

“Okay, now put your feet on the pedals. And start moving them forward, like this,” she said, as she continued pedalling calmly.

Following instructions, she put each of her buckled shoes on the pedals, and then pushed.

And pushed some more.

And a little more.

But the pedals wouldn’t move. Not even when she scrunched up her face from the effort, and put out her tongue in the unconscious way she always did when trying to concentrate on something.

The pedals just wouldn’t move.

Trying to ignore her brother’s snigger, she glumly looked up at her dad. Thankfully, he wasn’t laughing. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “It takes a lot of strength. You’ll be able to do it when you’re a little older.”

And with that, he took over the pedals from his own seat, and motioned for her brother to take over from her mom, and the two started pedalling the boat in reverse.

Turning to her side, she pretended to look at the lake as she fought off the urge to cry, as the feeling of uselessness spread all over her, ringing deafeningly in her ears. In fact, it took her a couple of seconds to realize her father was talking to her.

“What?” she asked, turning in front.

“Can you turn us a little to the left?” her father said. “We’re getting a little close to the edge.”

Confused, she asked him how.

“That stick,” he said, motioning to the stick behind her that she had noticed earlier. “It’s for navigation. Turn it towards you.”

Turning sideways, she put her hand on the navigation stick and pulled it towards her, half expecting it to stay where it was. To her surprise, it moved easily, and slowly, the boat also started to turn.

“You mean I can control where we’re going with this?” she asked, as the smile slowly started to find its way back on her face.

Her father nodded, explaining how the direction of the turn would depend on which side they were pedalling from.

The three-year-old nodded as she listened. “So, you mean that if mamma and I were pedalling, I would have to move it in the opposite direction? Hmm…that makes sense.”

Then, as though suddenly remembering her own age, she turned to her mother and asked her if she wanted to navigate. Smiling, her mom shook her head slowly. “Why don’t you be the navigator today?”

The words seemed to drop a load of responsibility on her, but for once, instead of feeling like shirking away, she sat up straight. Now this, I can do. With a big smile on her face, she turned to the other three passengers. “Alright, I’m going to get us to there,” she said, pointing to the far end of the lake with one hand, while the other firmly moved the navigation bar in the proper direction.

“And after that, pa you tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you there. And bhaiya, you tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you there. And mamma you too,” she rambled along.

“I’m the navigator,” she said proudly, oblivious to the tired looks exchanged by the others. This was going to be a long day of pedalling.

**************

A friend of mine once told me, maps were my happy place. Looking at maps, figuring out directions, and navigating from one point to another – these are all things I love doing. Sure, the most I’ve ever put this in practice is at amusement parks and the occasional (alright, once in a lifetime) walking tour of Montreal city with a friend. But the simple fact is, I like knowing my bearings, and the best way for me to do that is by looking at maps. Even when going on road trips, I love being the navigator, which is why I was very annoyed when the GPS came out. [Of course, it might be worth mentioning here that I have major motion sickness issues, so technically I can’t even look at a map while in the car, making the whole navigator role quite pointless.] Although, I have to accept now that the GPS allows me to understand maps in an entirely new way, which is exhilarating in its own way.

I remember telling a cousin once that I first need an aerial understanding of my whereabouts before I can figure out the street level directions. A frequent hazard of operating in this way is that I often talk in north-south-east-west while others talk in left-right. It’s made me realize how few people really understand directions in this manner. A friend once told me that wherever we face is north, and east, west, and south change accordingly [I swear I felt like throttling the friend at this point]. I find myself surprised that most people don't actually look at the sun to figure out which direction they're heading in on a regular basis (yes yes, I do that. Get over it). 

I'm not sure why I suddenly chose to write about the incident above. I think it might have something with constantly being met with incredulous expressions from people saying 'You mean you actually know directions?!' Or it might have a little something to do with a friend recently asking me to talk about something that I'm actually good at for a change. Or it might have something to do with gazing out at a lake here in Bhopal and the many pedal boats floating around on it. 

The Acceptance Letter

Dear Ms. Mittal,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

I stared at the words, clutching tightly on to the sheet of paper in my hands. I read the letter over several times, fixating on the first few words. It’s not real. You know it’s not real, I told myself over and over again. But even as I repeated the words, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement, and perhaps, a surge of hope.  What if…? No, it can’t be. But what if…? I bit my lips in an attempt to keep myself from squealing out loud, not out of concern for my fellow passengers, but to conceal this very important letter from everyone else. Of course, I didn’t realize that at the same moment, my brother was sitting on another berth of the train and reading a very similar letter addressed to him.

It’s been…maybe 13 years since this incident happened, since that 12-year-old version of me found a little envelope tucked into my bag on the train to Bangalore. My family and I had just spent a few days in Delhi with my cousin and her family, and were making the customary 2-days-2-nights journey back home. I had just been about to settle down with the fourth Harry Potter novel (having recently discovered the series), when I saw the envelope containing two letters. The first was, if I may take the liberty of calling it that, my Hogwarts acceptance letter. It was a good thing I opened that one first. The second was a letter from my cousin – a fellow Harry Potter enthusiast – explaining how she had always wanted to receive such a letter ever since she started reading the books, and that she thought my brother and I might have liked to get one too. I looked over at the berth on the side, and saw my brother grinning away at a piece of paper in his hands.

Now, those who’ve never read or enjoyed reading the Harry Potter books may not truly understand the significance of the moment. It’s just a bunch of kids trying to make themselves a part of some fantastical world. Well, yes, it is. But there’s a lot more to it than that. I know every person who has enjoyed these books would have had his own reasons for doing so. For me, I think the reasons had a lot to do with the idea of extraordinary – magical – things being possible in the life of an ordinary kid. And that’s what we all were. Ordinary kids. With ordinary problems. Stuck in an ordinary world. And these books took us into a world that was narrated to us from the point of view of a kid who was just as baffled and confused and scared as any of us, and over time, as this other world become more familiar and started to make sense, we fell in love with it. At least, I did.

And because this was a world that was knowable only to wizards and witches, of course it was entirely possible that it really did exist, and we muggles were just never aware of it. So that letter, that acceptance letter, was not so much about being told that you possessed magical powers (though that bit was cool too), but more about receiving an invitation to officially enter into this world that we loved, this time, not through someone else’s eyes, but our own.

I’m rambling, I know. But these books have that effect on me. As someone who has read all the books a countless number of times, jumped at the chance of answering any and every Harry Potter quiz out there, written an entire philosophy term paper based on these books, and proudly accepted the title of a Heek (Harry Potter Geek), I [and maybe the people around me] have to accept occasional hazard of being unable to stop talking about the books once I start.

But I’m not sure why I’ve been itching to write about this incident in particular for a while now. In all honesty, I’m quite sure I’d forgotten about it. Most likely, so have my brother and the cousin who gave me this letter. But recently, I heard someone say that it might be interesting to write something about the Harry Potter books in a children’s magazine, and all I kept thinking was – what else is there to be said that hasn’t been said already? And just like that, this memory resurfaced. [Perhaps it was prodded by a recent conversation with my brother on these books, or the fact that I recently travelled by train in India after almost 12 years].

It’s a memory that is simultaneously and bizarrely very personal and possibly far more universal than I can fathom. I mean, who knows? Maybe I’m not the only person to have dreamt of receiving the Hogwarts acceptance letter. And maybe I’m not the only person who ever did.

:D

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.

The Smart Phone Rebellion

Rebel without a cause.

That’s what some people think I am. That I have a need to rebel against anything and everything, just for the heck of it. And so goes the story with smart phones.

That’s not exactly true.

Which part, you might ask?

Well, all of it.

I mean, I am a rebel, yes, but I don’t think anyone rebels without a cause. There’s always a reason. We just may not do a good job of articulating it, nor feel the need to do so. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a reason. You just need to dig deep enough.

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, my rebellion doesn’t actually apply to smart phones. I rebel against things I don’t like. I have nothing against smart phones. If anything, I think they’re quite fabulous.

Okay, all those of you shouting LIAR!!! – calm down. Let me explain.

It’s like crème brulee [you know, that fancy French dessert with a million accents on the words]. Well, I had never tasted one. And that was fine. But then one day, in my final year of undergrad, I made the mistake of going along with a friend to a fancy wine and cheese party where I knew no one, and had little else to do other than try out their fancy desserts. And that was when I tried it. And Oh. My. God. It was the best thing I had ever tasted.

From that day on, I developed a craving for crème brulee that I could not suppress for several months to come.

You get what I’m saying?

Okay, so maybe crème brulee isn’t the best analogy for a smart phone. Let me try again. No food this time.

Facebook. Now that’s a simpler and more relatable example for many, I’m assuming.

Let me say this straight up: I’m addicted to Facebook. And I’m well aware of that addiction. With most of my friends living in a physical proximity that makes it difficult to meet on a daily basis [or a yearly basis, for that matter], Facebook to me is the easiest way to stay in touch with people. [Of course, along with the world of virtual communication comes the world of virtual narcissism, but that’s a discussion for another post].

The point is, I joined Facebook in my early undergrad days, when the novelty excited me. Today, I’m hooked on to it, and I can’t unhook myself. Often, I find myself spending more time on my laptop than talking to people, and that’s scary.

And that’s exactly why I don’t want to get a smart phone.

Think about it. Probably 80% of my family and friends live in different cities and countries from me. And if I spent most of time whatsapping them or bbming them or vibering them [is that a word???], I’d have little time left for the people who are physically present in my life. And I know it’s a matter of choice in the end, but I’ve seen from my experience of Facebook what happens to my will power and choice when I’m put in front of social media.

So you see the problem? If I ever do get a smart phone, I know I will get addicted to it faster than Facebook and crème brulee [okay, maybe the last one is a stretch]. And once I do, I can completely see myself joining the hordes of people sitting across each other and texting away on their phones the whole time.

Somehow, I’m just not ready to go there yet, because I know there’s no coming back from that point.

To summarize, I’m not rebelling against smart phones because I think they’re bad. I’m running away from them with everything I’ve got, because I think they’re bloody brilliant. And it's not easy. Imagine me running away from a platter full of creme brulee, only a million times better. It’s a battle of will powers. And it’s a lost battle, I know that. One day, soon enough, my will power is going to break down, and I am going to give in to the dark side of the force.

But until then, I’m going to keep running.

Goodbye December

Heads up: this post is rather senti. Ye have been warned.  

Well, the wedding is over. This month of masti and compete madness is over. And all of a sudden, I’m not sure what to do anymore.

For the last one and a half years, the wedding has been the destination that all our plans had been geared towards. The month before, I was juggling assignments and shopping and exams and dance practice. The month before, I had no time to think. I was fed up with the wedding even before it had started, to the point where I threatened my brother to make sure he never gets married again.

And then December came. And with it came Ahmedabad. And Bangalore. And Kuwait. And non-stop crazy fun. A chance to meet up with old family and friends. A chance to spend time with new family and friends. Of running around. Of dancing. Of smiling. Of eating. Of celebrating. And of being chased by camels. It really was a month like no other. I didn’t want it to end. Ever.

But it passed by in a blur. For a month that had been under planning for over a year, these last few days have whizzed by. And the whole time, even though I was enjoying every second of it, I kept having this nagging sinking feeling that it was going to end soon. And it did.

Last night.

G, S and A have left from Kuwait [wait – can I call you three GAS for short?]. And with them, I feel like a big chunk of my family has left. And considering that they live in Canada, I probably won’t be seeing them for a long time now. All I can do is sit here on my bed, feel mopey and write about it.

But the weird thing is, I’m not sure why this is hitting me so hard. I consider myself a master of goodbyes. I’ve said bye to so many people and moved to so many places, that I assumed I was over it all. But thinking back, I think the difference is that all those times, I was the one packing my bags and leaving. This was the first time that I found myself staying in the same place as someone else waved goodbye to me at the airport. This was the first time I had been on the receiving end of the farewell, and not the giving. That’s probably why this was the first time that it actually hit me so hard.

Watching G & S make their way to the security check last night as we stepped to the side, I think I actually got a little choked up. [Of course, I would rather lock myself in a bird cage than break down in public. Actually, that’s a tough choice. Never mind.] In any case, I could feel all the excitement and memories of this last one month crashing down around me as I realized that this had all just come to an end. I knew this was coming. And I hadn’t wanted this end to come. I’ve never thought of myself as the sentimental type, but in that moment all the Karan Johar emotions were wreaking a big mess through me. That was, until the security sent them back to the check-in counter for over-weight baggage and whatnot, so by the time they took their second walk down the security aisle, I was sleepy and tired and like “go already.”

And they did. So now it’s time for life to go back to normal.

I’ve never been a big fan of normal.

2014, you have big shoes to live up to. 

You who?

A friend told me yesterday that if anyone wants to find out something about me, all they have to do is read my blog. Everything is up here. From identity crises to teaching experiences, from lice problems to ass problems, it’s all there.

And that’s true…to a certain extent. Except I realized that there’s something I’ve never written about, something that anyone who knows me will vouch is a defining aspect of me:

I can’t recognize faces.

I know what you’re thinking – oh that’s not a big deal. I have a hard time remembering people too when I first meet them. No. I don’t have a hard time remembering people. I have a hard time remembering their face. I can spend hours talking to someone the first time I meet them, and then the next day, I might just walk past that person simply because I don’t recognize the face. It’s not that I remember the face and I can’t place it – it’s that I just can’t recognize it. But if you tell me your name, I’ll remember every single thing we spoke about the previous day.

Apparently, this is a medical condition. It’s called prosopagnosia. Face blindness: Where you can’t even recognize people who you see on a daily basis. Brad Pitt apparently has this. But I don’t think my condition is that bad – or it might just be.

Simply put – when I see a face, I don’t focus on eyes / nose / chin / cheeks etc. Probably the most defining features for me are hair and glasses. So if you’re usually a bearded person and decide to shave one day, don’t expect a hello from me. Or if you go from having very long hair to very short hair overnight, expect me to walk past you. Not because I no longer like you, only because I no longer know that you are you.

In case it isn’t evident, this can lead to a lot of socially difficult situations. People think I’m extra rude when I don’t acknowledge on a second or third (or even tenth) meeting. There have been occasions when I have hugged random strangers thinking they are acquaintances, and ignored acquaintances thinking are strangers. And because I can’t remember faces of others, I assume that they won’t remember mine. So I’m always surprised when people actually remember me.

And if you think this isn’t bad enough, ask me to describe the face of my closest friend. I wouldn’t be able to go past “She has long wavy hair…” You know how in movies, the police ask witnesses to describe the criminal, and they proceed to describe the shape of the eyes and the tilt of the nose and the little mole on the cheek – the whole time I’m thinking: how the hell are they doing this?! To me, that’s like a superpower, being able to notice facial features to such an extreme (or even at a basic level).

Basically, this whole rant is to tell you that the next time we meet, and I ignore you, and I say: it’s not you, it’s me. Well, it actually is me.

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!

Journey to Pakistan - Cricket Mania

For those of you who know me, this will be old news. But for those who don’t, be prepared to cover your ears………..

I don’t care about cricket.

Yes, you read that right. And yes, in this country, where heart rates depend heavily on the Indian cricket team’s run rate, that’s almost as good as blasphemy.

And being who I am, I decided to take the blasphemy a step further. At the age of 8, I decided to cheer for Pakistan during an India Pakistan match. Was it because I was insanely in love with our neighbor? No, I didn’t know anything about the country at that time. But I’ve always had the uncontrollable urge to support the underdog, and in a room filled with Indians spewing words of hatred for the other team, I felt it was only fair that someone should cheer for them. And so I did, for several years and several matches.

But as much as I enjoyed cheering for Pakistan and soaking in the scandalized looks around me, I never cared about the result. It didn’t matter to me whether India won or Pakistan – as long as I had a good time watching the game. Even at the 2011 World Cup Semi-Finals, where for the first time I was genuinely cheering for India, I didn’t care about the result. I was too busy having the time of my life trading insults with my Pakistani friends. Which is why, towards the end of the game when the winner was almost decided, I wasn’t expecting to see the looks of anger from my Pakistani friends, as their eyes silently warned me to stop the insults now.

The naïve 21 year-old in me was definitely surprised. Here I was, thinking of it just as a game, when in reality, to every other person in the room, it had been so much more.

******

Someone asked me the other day if I would rather me normal or weird, and without the blink of an eye, I said weird. Where’s the fun in normal? But for all my rebelliousness, I’ve often wondered what it might be to feel – for even just a moment – what everyone around me seems to feel – what it might be to be normal.

I got that shot at normalcy a month ago, when my trip to Pakistan coincided with a one day cricket match between India and Pakistan.

Here was my chance, I told myself. This was the match that I had been waiting for; a match that would go down in history as the one where I genuinely and whole-heartedly supported India against Pakistan. I could picture myself vividly, sitting in a room filled with Pakistanis, shouting and cheering for India, pushed by that rush of patriotic adrenaline that had always escaped me. It was all perfectly planned out in my head. I even packed a blue t-shirt in my suitcase specifically for this match [because apparently, Pakistan has called dibs over the colour green. Weird. I always thought the Indian flag had more green than blue, but maybe that’s just me].

And so the day of the big game arrived – with me sleeping through the first innings, of course [which turned out to be a good thing because we got thrashed and were only saved by Dhoni]. In any case, I donned my make-shift blue jersey, and headed over to a friend’s house to watch the match.

As with everything else on this trip, it didn’t go the way I had expected.

First of all, I walked into a house filled with very few familiar faces, and instantly my stranger phobia kicked in. I hesitantly hovered between two rooms, torn between wanting to see the game and sitting with the familiar friends who were having a dance rehearsal for the wedding. Finally, I decided to take the plunge, and plopped myself onto a seat in front of the television in a room full of strangers, feeling more awkward than cheerful.

That was minor setback number 1.

Next, I realized I was in the presence of a few adults, and I instantly zipped up my jacket to cover my t-shirt. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t because I was scared to sit in the room wearing blue, but more because my shirt had a picture of a pig saying “Are you Suar?” And I really didn’t think it was the best moment to offend anyone with pig jokes [Pakistan IS an Islamic country, after all]. And so my dreams of cheering for India while ‘bleeding blue’ came crashing down.

That was minor setback number 2.

Now, in my head, I had decided that India was going to win this game – after all, their least favourite supporter was supporting them in this game. How often did that happen? As the people around me slowly began to realize there was an Indian sitting in their midst, and as I started feeling more relaxed, it became easier to shout cheers and frustrations. For every 10 voices screaming “no!!!!”, there was one voice echoing “yesss!!!” and vice versa. For a change, instead of getting scandalized looks, I basked in the looks of curiosity, amusement and incredulity. Once again, I started exchanging insults with my friend – an old tradition between us. And sitting in that room filled with Pakistanis and supporting the Indian team as the underdog, I slowly started to enjoy myself, and the game – which we eventually lost.

That was minor setback num……..Ufff!!! Why do I even bother?

Yes, we lost that match. No, I still didn’t care. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, and wasn’t even slightly upset that all my cheering had been for nothing. The image I had built in my mind didn’t come true, but I got to experience the thing that I have always wanted – supporting the underdog team from both sides of the border. I would hardly call that a setback.

Maybe I’m just not cut out for that fanatic passionate cricket cheering. But honestly, I just enjoy the process of cheering and jeering without caring about the result so much that it doesn’t bother me. To me, cricket is, and probably always will be, just a game. And if my state of happiness does not depend upon the run rate of the batting line-up, I could live with that.

Yes, I am suar.

Flicker

There are a lot of things - inexplicable things - that escape all forms of logic and rationality. And that's when you start to wonder.

So, I don’t believe in religion. I don’t think I believe in God. I sure as hell don’t believe in heaven and hell, swarg and narak, jannat and jahannum.

People often ask – so what do I believe in, if anything?

I believe in humanity. I believe in compassion, kindness, empathy; I believe in the gut feeling inside me that tells me what’s right and what’s wrong.

But that’s not what this blog is about.

There’s a reason (one of many) why I don’t believe in God. In the words of Landon Carter, “there’s just too much bad shit in this world,” and if there is a God, I can’t understand how he would let this happen. People say what goes around comes around. You reap what you sow. But then how does that explain the fate of a small child who dies from maltnutrition a few months after being born – what exactly did the little guy do to deserve a miserable and short life?

Karma, they say. But Karma doesn’t explain the fate of that child – not unless you want to get into the possibility of multiple lives and reincarnation. Surprisingly enough, I don’t believe in either of those. I believe in what I know, what my senses tell me, of what I’m sure. But nothing in my life has ever suggested that there is any reason to believe in past lives or reincarnation.

Nothing, except for a book I just read.

It’s called “Many Lives, Many Masters,” and is written by a well-established psychotherapist in USA, Dr. Brian Weiss. In this book, he recounts the case of a patient who he treated using hypnosis (a common technique), but who ended up regressing into several past lives, and slowly, through this regression, healed.

This guy, Dr. Weiss, is a man of science. Like me, he never believed in past lives or supernatural elements. He believed in what he saw or heard. And he saw and heard some rather unnerving things through the case of this patient, and later on, several others. Past lives. The process of death. The masters. Like I said, unnerving things.

When I picked up this book to read, I knew what it was about. I knew I was going to read about something that goes completely against my own perception. Still, I was curious.  So I read it. And throughout the whole process, I could feel something changing. No, I didn't suddenly started believing in reincarnation and past lives, but I did start to open up my mind a little.

There are a lot of things - inexplicable things - that escape all forms of logic and rationality. And that's when you start to wonder.

What if there really is something out there, that’s beyond this level of consciousness and understanding? There are certain wavelengths that we can’t see or hear – what is there’s a lot more that we can’t sense? How do we explain all those inexplicable moments of déjà vu when certain events feel like they have happened before? How do I explain my own inexplicable health that was my bane for four years in Canada but improved the day I landed in India?

I can't - not in any way that I am familiar with.

This book didn’t change my perception by 180 degrees, but it did manage to do something else:

For just a moment – a flicker of a moment – it made me wonder about what’s out there.