Journey to Pakistan - The Precursor

1 Dec, 2012

I’ve finally got it – approval from Pakistan, from the airlines, and my parents. As in, I’ve got my visa, ticket, and the green signal. At the moment, there are so many emotions running through me, that I can only give a passing glimpse of each:

·         Exhilarated: You know how people have a bucket list – a list of things they want to before they die? Well, I’ve never formally written one, but I’m sure visiting Pakistan would have been near the top of mine. And it’s finally happening!!!!

·         Grateful: For my parents, who absolutely hate the idea of me going to Pakistan, yet went out of their way to ensure that I got my visa. It’s not easy to do something for others when your mind is telling you to do the opposite.

·         Awed: Guess who put the stamp authorizing my visit to Pakistan? The Ambassador of Pakistan to Kuwait himself! I got to meet him personally, and was quite blown away by his friendliness, cordiality and professionalism. On a side note, he also gave me a new quote to ponder over: “The creation of Pakistan was based more on pro-Islam sentiments than anti-India sentiments. Unfortunately, that was not the legacy that was passed down.”

·         Nervous: Of that immigration line. Call it paranoia, but I’m actually afraid of going through the immigration: what if they pull me aside? What if they decide to grill me because I’m Indian? What if they decide to lock me up simply because they feel like it? Guess the India-Pakistan rivalry didn’t manage to escape me entirely.

·         Frustrated: I was asked not to tell anyone that I am going to Pakistan, until after I return. That’s like me deciding to get married to the man of my dreams and then being told to keep hush about it until after the wedding is over. Actually, it’s much worse than that. Going to Pakistan has been the one thing that has been at the top of mind and tongue all year, and being restricted from sharing this excitement with others is frustrating.

·         Guilty: Okay, so I didn’t declare my travel plans on Facebook, but I couldn’t help myself from telling my close friends about the trip. And now I feel guilty for doing that.

Anxious: I’ve been building up this trip in my head for so long, that part of me is worried it won’t live up to my expectations.

·         Excited: I’ll finally get to meet my best friend and her mom, in their own house, in a city that I have heard so much about!

·         Curious: Do I have to be covered from head to toe out there? Do I carry sleeveless kurtas? Will they put me behind bars for wearing a t-shirt and jeans?

·         Hopeful: That this trip will help me understand myself a lot better, as clichéd as that sounds.

*****

14 December, 2012

I received a call from the PIA office regarding my ticket. There was a bit of a mix-up, but after a little clarification, I was given the green signal to go ahead and print my ticket. It was finally official. I entered my classroom, and the first thing my friend asked me was: what’s with the big smile? And being the mature 23 year-old that I am, I started jumping up and down, ignoring their amused glances as I squealed loudly that I got my ticket.

*****

15 December, 2012

After a night of drinking and dining with one of my close friends, we found ourselves sitting at a familiar location, gazing out into the sea. Having the sudden urge to talk to our friend in Pakistan, I made the call. In response to her “hello,” I screamed loudly into the phone: “I’m coming to Pakistan!” even as my friend gave me an “are you mad” look, before shaking his head and grinning away.

The excitement was contagious, I suppose.

*****

26 December, 2012

It’s the eve of my trip. I want to blog. But I can stop feeling ultra jittery and hyper.

*****

27 December, 2012

If I were the kind of person who believed in destiny, I would say that someone up there is trying really hard to piss me off. My flight has been delayed. Again. And it’s starting to annoy me.

But I have no plans of giving that guy up there the satisfaction of getting to me. I’ll take whatever he plans on throwing at me, and I’m going to make sure this trip happens. (Unless of course the flight gets cancelled, in which case there’s not a whole lot I can do.)

In any case, the silver lining to this whole mess is that I’m no longer jittery. Trust me, a few hours ago, I couldn’t sit still. I was literally shaking in anticipation, nervousness and excitement. I sat down to write, but couldn’t sit still long enough to get any words down that didn’t sound like “wheeeeee!!!”

But rest assured, I can do more than that now.

After 23 years of wondering, 5 years of pestering, 3 years of dreaming, 1 year of planning, 1 month of freaking out, 3 days of overwhelming excitement, and two flight delays, the day has finally arrived: I’m going to Pakistan today. Assuming Pakistan International Airlines doesn’t have some ties up there.

For anyone who knows me really well, they’d know that I’m not a very hopeful person. Sure, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, I’m the most optimistic and positive person you’d find. But when it comes to my life – I’m really scared to get my hopes up. I’m the kind of person who’d rather keep a check on my hopes and be pleasantly surprised, than allow my hopes to soar free only to be crushed by disappointment.

So in a typical ruchi-world, I’d be sitting here contemplating every possible thing that could go wrong from this point forth (because let’s face it – there’s a lot that can). But this time, instead of dwelling on all that, I’m going to try and be something I never am – I’m going to be hopeful. I’m hopeful that this trip actually happens; I’m hopeful that I don’t give my parents reason to worry more than they already are; I’m hopeful that I get to reconnect with some old friends; I’m hopeful that I finally get to see the country I’ve always wanted to visit.

Because at the end of the day, there’s not much else I can do. 

[Like I said, someone up there is trying to piss me off big time. My word doc closed without saving. So I just had to re-type my blog. ]

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.

Of Chauffeur-driven cars...

Disclaimer: For the purpose of my satisfaction, a taxi does not count as a chauffeured car in this blog.
Disclaimer 2: In case it's not evident, I don't drive.

Well, holiday season is over. No more waking up on my own time. No more demanding breakfast. And no more chauffeur-driven cars.

Because that's literally how I spent my vacation. Surrounded by now-affluent family members, I was lucky enough to have 17 days of complete relaxation, both in Kuwait and Bangalore. And now, I'm back in my house, wondering when to call the landlady to pay the rent, setting an alarm to get to work on time, and trying to put this house back in a a live-able condition.

It sucks to be back.

Then again, there's something that's been nagging me for the past few days, something that just didn't feel right. I've boiled it down to chauffeur-driven cars.

Before I begin my rant, let me put out this disclaimer that I have utmost respect for anyone who lives in Bangalore and survives that horrendous traffic. For those who can afford it, these chauffeured cars are life-savers. Even for me, having family members spread out in all possible corners of the city, these cars were a blessing. I didn't have to think about traffic, directions  or potential brain-damage from navigating those roads.

In fact, I didn't have to do anything.

Having gotten used to catching buses, hailing taxis, daringly entering local trains or unashamedly hitching rides with friends, the process of just sitting in that backseat was rather wonderful. And unnerving.

I didn't know what I was supposed to do.

I was comfortable and idle. And that can be a troublesome combo, because as much as I was put off by the idleness, I was easily getting used to the comfort. The comfort of not having to do anything. It's easy to get sucked into that lifestyle. After all, who doesn't want comfort? Why would anyone take public transport when they have this amazing facility available?

Because it can get addictive, and I don't think that's an addiction someone my age should have.

And hassling as it might be, I feel like there's something liberating about discovering the routes of a city and getting around on your own. In fact, I couldn't keep the smile off my face as I sped past the roads of Mumbai in a pre-paid (by me) taxi, breathing in the lovely, garbage-filled air of the city, heading towards a house where I have to pay an exorbitant amount in rent every month out of my salary.

Independence sucks, but it's totally worth it.

An Ode to Boredom

Silence

Except for the steady sound of the fan

Which surprisingly does not manage to do its job too well

Because it is hot

Stifling

I ought to change

But that would mean getting up

This couch is comfortable

But not enough to make the clock move faster

Has it even moved?

I’m shocked

At the clock

At myself

At this couch

Today was supposed to be the day

The much awaited one

The one with no expectations

The one where I could do what I wanted

The one some call a holiday

So why is it that I’m lying down on my couch

Dissatisfied

Longing to do something

Anything

But not alone

There is a need for company

Male or female

One or many

Drinking or talking

But doing something

Anything

That would be able to get me off this couch

And stop staring at the clock

And listening to that fan

They really ought to be moving faster

Both of them

I could sleep

But I want to do something

I could read

There’s a big book staring at my face

I could watch a movie

But even Lord of the Rings doesn’t sound tempting right now

I could work

*

*

*

*

*

Did I mention that the fan is noisy?

The Sangh - Part 2

Traditions are funny things. They tend to overburden you with norms and expectations, without ever having to explain the reason behind the actions. But strangely enough, they always do have a purpose. It's just that the purpose gets lost somewhere along the way. 

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

 After that first meeting in Chail, the Sangh eventually evolved into a tradition. It became a part of their yearly calendars, and there was no two ways about it. Traveling not only from different parts of the country, but soon from different parts of the world, the family converged at locations ranging from Ooty to Gangtok to Kumbalgarh to the deeper parts of the Himalayas. Resorts were blocked well in advance, applications for leaves submitted to work, travel arrangements made in meticulous detail, and bags packed to last an entire week.

To outsiders, it might have often appeared a little bizarre – the idea of 20 family members dropping everything for a week every year and traveling to a remote location to be with family. Maybe it is. I certainly haven’t met anyone else who has such a tradition. It can be difficult for someone who has never been a part of the Sangh to understand this particular tradition.

Or perhaps it can be really easy to understand it, if they consider a simple premise: maybe all the family members really do want to meet and spend time with each other.

Granted, they all had different reasons. For some, it meant spiritual guidance. For some, a chance to walk down memory lane. For some, a chance to build new memories. For some, a chance to learn. For some, a chance to share. For some, a chance to unwind, allowing everything else in their lives to fade into the background. In the end, it didn't matter whether their reasons were same or different, as long as they were there. 

Like I said, traditions do have a purpose. It may not be obvious, but it's there.

Sometimes, you just need to dig deep enough to uncover it. 

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

In two days, the family will begin their journey to a new location, marking the beginning of the 16th Sangh Meet. 

The Sangh - Part 1

I think we all have moments in our lives which stand out in our memory. 

The Sangh Meets have always been a part of mine. 

It started off as six. Four brothers, and two sisters. Growing up together, they moved from a small town in Punjab to a suburb in Dehradun. One by one, the six children passed into adulthood, and began to move out. They separated, not out of want, but from the need to pave their own way in life.

Soon, each one was caught up in the struggles and events of life. They began to spread, both in distance, and in numbers. Six eventually became 20, reaching out into distant corners of the country. They tried hard to keep in touch in an age where phone calls were expensive, and internet non-existent. That was, until, one of them decided to take matters into his own hands, and to stop waiting for an occasion to bring them all together.

In the year 1992, five siblings received a simple message from the eldest brother – “Let’s meet.”

And so they did.

Packing up their bags for a week, a caravan of 20 adults and children converged at the small town of Chail near Shimla. Their agenda was simple – to spend a week with family.

At that point, I doubt any of them knew what they had actually embarked upon. They hadn’t just come together – they had started a tradition, one that would continue for years to come. Their lives would continue to evolve, and they would soon find themselves spread across different parts of the world, but one thing would remain constant in their lives: the desire to be with family.

The Sangh had come alive.

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

Two weeks from now, the family will converge yet again at a new location, marking the beginning of 16^th Sangh Meet. 

The Immigration Line

They’re treated like animals. 

Okay, maybe that’s a little strong. 

But they’re definitely not treated like humans.

They are different. Set apart from the crowd. You can spot them easily, waiting in the lines of the flights going to the Middle East. Their hardened hands clench their passport and ticket, holding on to them dearer than life. Maybe they are.

They huddle together, looking for a familiar face, or at least, someone from the same state, speaking the same language. Someone to share their fear. Their nervous eyes continuously scan the counters ahead, as they know those counters represent a gateway to a new life. Whether a better one, they’re not sure. As they watch in dread, one of their own gets pulled aside by the staff. There’s a problem with his ticket. He is told he needs a new one. As the hyperventilating man tries to reason and grovel, the others clench harder to their documents. Praying. Hoping. Worrying.

They approach the counter slowly. Told by the guard which counter to join. Pushed forward. Pulled back. Shoved around like cattle. While the girl standing next to them, wearing markedly different clothes, looking calm and relaxed with her earphones, is told respectfully, “Madam, line number 3.”

As they finish up at the counter, wondering if it is time to relax yet, they’re handed a new document with their boarding pass: a form they are expected to ‘fill out.’ A form in English. A form that requires reading and writing. A skill that had they already learnt, they wouldn’t be leaving their families and homes for Jeddah and Bahrain. Did these officers think they didn’t know that already? Looking up in confusion and expectation, they are met with a politely distant smile, as the person at the counter is already looking at the next customer.

Dejectedly, they look around, trying to find someone to help. Should they ask that family traveling with kids? Or those men in the business suits? Or the young college girl? They hesitantly approach one, holding up their passport and form in a silent plea for help. The airport staff say they are too busy. The passengers have a flight to catch. Ignored. Refused. Waved off. With each failed attempt, their insides get clammier. They had come too far to back off now. Too much was at stake.

Trying not to think of that poor man who was turned away at the ticket counter, they continue to ask for help. And the moment one of them gets a positive response, they swarm like bees. It’s their one chance; there’ s no way they can let it pass. Especially if their jackpot is too polite to refuse. But what that miserable person filling out a dozen forms does not realize is that he really is their jackpot. To him, they’re a bunch of illiterates hovering around for whom he’s doing a favour. To them, he’s their ticket to a new life.

Besides the one they’re already clenching in their hands.