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.

Utterance

“I don’t like it.”

Four simple words. Nothing complicated about them whatsoever, with the possible exception of the apostrophe on the second word. They were just there, swirling around in my head, as though waiting for me to swoop in with a net and throw them out of my mouth.

It seems we do a lot of that – waiting. As the words waited impatiently for me to pick them up, I waited too: for the right moment, for my anger to subside, or perhaps, for it grow to a point beyond control, so I would have an excuse to say those words. Waiting was the means to my end – what that end would be, I wasn’t sure. Whether, like on the stroke of midnight of August 15, 1947, my words would find utterance; or whether they would fade away to silence and grudgingly trudge towards the enormous pile of forcefully discarded thoughts.

I hoped for the former, but hope, when mingled with waiting, can be a dangerous combination. The determination is there, the resolution set, the anger surging. Yet the trigger remains just out of reach, as I sit around, waiting, hoping for the opportune moment to come along.

The scene has already played out a gazillion times in my head. For all the silence that envelopes me from the outside, my inner mind is seeing the satisfaction of an eloquent and persuasive monologue, one that Shakespeare would be proud of. I know exactly what to say, and effortlessly express my anger, my hurt, my disappointment, while a wave of understanding washes over the other person. All our misunderstandings are forgotten as my words drive the point home, and the ending, as Disney so eloquently puts it – is a happily ever after. All thanks to me and my words.

But while we applaud Shakespeare for giving us words that manage to grasp the complex emotions of misunderstanding, we forget something quite obvious – he wasn’t the actor. He wasn’t the performer. He wasn’t the one standing on stage, with hundreds of eyes upon him, waiting expectantly for him to say those words. No, there were others to do that task. His job was writing, and that’s what he did. He was lucky there were people around him willing to say those words aloud for him in his plays; just like the one taking place in my head, the one that had ace performers and cheering audiences.

Reality, of course, is that other stage, the one set outside my head, where I play the role of a mute, unable to express the feelings that are now becoming too painful to restrain. And so I close my eyes, willing myself to calm down, when the truth is that I want nothing more than to let go and let it all out.

As always, silence wins the round. Reluctantly, I assure myself that the next time, my words will find their utterance.

The good, the bad, and the murky

Hero or villian
Friend or enemy
Freedom fighter or terrorist
Founder of a nation or destroyer of another
Victim or criminal
Martyred or punished
Pro or anti
Heads or tails

People say there are two sides to every coin. True. But when you flip a coin you should get only one side: either heads, or tails. So how is it that the two of us can look at the same coin, and you see heads, while I see tails?

That's when things get murky.

I'm right, you're wrong
We have no common ground
We stand on opposite sides
And from my side, I cannot see your heads
From yours, you cannot see my tails

In 1947 - two major events happened in the Indian subcontinent. Depending on who you ask, you might get two different answers:

A nation was carved apart by a butcher's bloodstained knife,
A new nation was born, eager to open its eyes to brand new life.

It seems like an obvious statement: they both refer to the same event. But again,

I'm right, you're wrong
We have no common ground
We stand on opposite sides
And from my side, I cannot see your heads
From yours, you cannot see my tails

If you studied history in India, you might have come across the name 'Mohd. Ali Jinnah' - the driving force behind the partition of India. He was the one responsible for tearing our nation apart; for forcing the largest human migration in history; for all the communal bloodshed that followed; and for creating a country that has done nothing but wage wars against India ever since it was born.

Yet if you studied history in Pakistan, you probably came across the name 'Quaid-e-Azam' - the man responsible for creating Pakistan; the man who fought for the rights of Muslims in a country that tyrannically oppressed them; the man who envisaged and executed the impossible; the most revered and respected man of our nation - the founder of Pakistan.

Partition or Creation
Jinnah or Quaid-e-Azam

And so, depending on which country you grew up in, you were instantly indoctrinated in the respective ideology.

Two opposite sides of the coin. And again:

I'm right, you're wrong
We have no common ground
We stand on opposite sides
And from my side, I cannot see your heads
From yours, you cannot see my tails

Stuck in these dichotomies in our beliefs, refusing to take that step around the coin and trying to look at things from the other person's perspective.

Why? Because seeing things from someone else's point of view would mean

admitting that I am not the only one who is right
admitting that there are alternative positions on the same topic
admitting that while the other person may not be my friend, he isn't necessarily an enemy either

admitting that there exists a middle ground - a no-man's-land infested with murky terrain forbidding in its appearance

admitting that it doesn't have to be
only friend or enemy
only victim or criminal
only hero or villian
only pro or anti
only good or bad.

Sometimes, it can just be murky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bombay blast blues...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I'm afraid of being afraid.

The Dark Cloud of Helplessness

"I stand in the middle of a crowd, shouting at the top of my voice, but no one can hear me."

I always thought this was a metaphor. But standing in front of my 41 kids, trying to project my cracked voice over the combination of theirs gave an entirely new meaning to that metaphor.

I came to India because I wanted to come back home. I came to Teach for India because I wanted to transform the lives of kids. So far, all I have transformed is my voice. Actually, at one time it was a voice; now, it's just a croak.

Standing in that crowd shouting at the top of my lungs, I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me. What if every day is like this for the next 2 years? Will I go in every day eager for a new beginning, and end every day questioning my decision to be in this classroom? Will I keep shouting at my kids and turn into the very teachers I used to detest, or will I just sit there helplessly waiting - hoping - that they notice the person standing in front of them and decide to quiet down? Because if this is the case, forget transform - I won't be able to teach them a single thing over 2 years.

True, there is a silver lining in each cloud. If winter comes can spring be far behind. Change takes time.

Heard all that.

But at this very moment, there is no silver lining, no sign of spring, and no time to waste. 

Reunions

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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


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

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