The Departure Lounge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I prefer to go with the latter.

Ciao!

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

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 – Fear

The final chapter: I was afraid. Not all the time, but in amounts small enough to remain undetected, yet big enough to leave an impact.

It’s been over a month since I returned from my visit to Pakistan, and I’ve been procrastinating when it came to writing this particular post, partly because I don’t want to hear the voices saying “I told you so,” and partly, because I don’t want to see looks of disappointment. Because writing this down – penning these words down – would mean finally admitting to myself the presence of one particular emotion that was present in this trip.

Fear.

Now, I’m not ignorant. Not entirely. I knew I was visiting a country that has been mercilessly targeted by terrorists, and is a long-term enemy of India. I expected a certain amount of fear to present itself in various aspects of the trip: in the eyes of my parents, in the words of cautiousness from my relatives, in the streets of Karachi where people preferred to drive than walk; in the need to lock car doors and put up window shades at night; in the presence of army troops in the city; in the cancelling of cell-phone networks on tempestuous days; in the blast that occurred not too far from a public demonstration.

While these incidents were new to me as an outsider, they were also expected. I was prepared for that. But it wasn’t the fear in my parents or in the city that bothered me: it was the fear in me.

I was afraid. Not all the time, but in amounts small enough to remain undetected, yet big enough to leave an impact.

Considering that this was the most awaited trip of my life, I wasn’t expecting this reaction. I was afraid of not being appropriately covered; I was afraid of the prospective immigration officials; I was afraid of being left alone for even a second.

Basically, I was afraid of being an Indian in Pakistan.

For the last eight years of my life, I have lived away from home. The last two years have been the most liberating of my life – where I could go where I wanted, whenever I wanted. Perhaps it’s my luck that Bombay is a safer city when compared to others, but I’ve never had to think twice about walking on the streets, or travelling on public transport. Fear is not an emotion I feel too often out here.

But in Pakistan, with no cell phone reception [because I had an Indian network] during the entire trip, and an ID document that could potentially be more problematic than helpful, this was not the case. I felt like a little child, afraid to be away from known faces even for a second.

On one particular event at my friends’ wedding, I called over a friend and asked him if he knew every person at the event. He said yes. Then I asked him if I was the only Indian present. Giving me a what-kind-of-a-question-is-that look, he said: “Yeah. Obviously.”

Obviously. I knew the answer ever before I asked the question. But just hearing that said aloud was unnerving – it made me feel vulnerable in a way that I have not felt in a very long time. I have travelled to a lot of countries across the world, and it usually doesn’t take long to forget where I am and just enjoy the holiday. But on this trip, I was very aware at every given moment that I was an Indian in Pakistan, and for some frustratingly unknown reason, that thought would not allow me to unwind in the way I had hoped. I couldn’t even place a finger on that emotion – I’m only now starting to admit that perhaps it was fear.

Part of me wanted to let everyone around me know that I was from India, but a tiny, rational and cautious part of the mind kept butting in and stopped me.

I think it was the part that read our history books; the part that followed media reports; the part that felt alone during cricket matches; the part that had heard of the horrors of partition; the part that had seen movies like Veer-Zara, the part that listened to every single anti-Pakistan comment ever made in my presence.

In other words, it was the part of my mind that has succumbed to 23 years of anti-Pakistan ideology.

For someone who has always prided herself on standing apart from the majority – from being able to see things from a variety of perspectives and not take hatred at face value – this was a disconcerting realization.

So, I’m going to say it once and for all – the trip was a let-down. I went to Pakistan, and I was afraid. The fear came in such small doses, that I could barely even identify it. Yet it was there. I didn’t get to enjoy being in Pakistan, because I was too busy worrying about being an Indian on enemy ground.

 Fear is not good for enjoyment. It’s probably going to take several trips for me to rid myself of that fear. And I’ll know I’ve managed to leave that fear behind when I’m able to go to Pakistan and just be in Pakistan, and not be an Indian in Pakistan.

******* 

I hate that I'm ending the Journey to Pakistan diaries on such a dismal note, but I felt that the blogs would be incomplete if they were all just merry and joyful - because they'd be ignoring a big part of the reality. 

The trip didn't turn out the way I expected - for a myriad of reasons (some good, some bad). But do I regret going to Pakistan? Definitely not. Am I going back? Definitely yes. 

The Journey to Pakistan will continue - it may just take a break for a few years.

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.

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. 

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.