Travel New Year

Yesterday a friend who I hadn’t seen in a really long while called to ask if I was free to meet for a drink in the evening. And while I had tentative plans with another friend, I decided to give this one a higher priority just because I thought it would be interesting to catch up with another travel obsessed individual after a significant gap. Besides there was a chance that the other plans may not even come through and who wants to get stuck at home on a Monday night!

We met at a relatively new pub close to my place, which he good-naturedly complained about (“we always have to meet by you”) knowing fully well that there weren’t very attractive options close to where he lived. Except for a couple of tables that were occupied, the place was fairly deserted. After he had sucked out every last drop from the straw of his Long Island Iced Tea, I got done with my beer and we had made a mess un-shelling peanuts, we decided to go someplace else.

The next bar, about a 1 minute walk away, situated on a rooftop, was buzzing with activity. Felt more like a Thursday rather than a Monday night. Busy enough to be fun but not so packed that you had to jostle through a crowd to not find an empty table! We asked for a table under the stars to which the hostess commented that only tables with high chairs were available in the uncovered area. Which made me laugh because immediately I pictured the two of us sitting at a regular sized table in booster chairs! 

“That’s okay,” I said to her. “We are still a couple of kids”. She didn’t get the humor and maybe it wasn’t very funny.

“Two Long Island Iced Teas” he said to the server when he came over to take our order. He looked at me and smiled. “You don’t need another boring beer”. During the next hour, he drank three of them and I had two. We also ordered a pizza with lamb and sun dried tomatoes. He told me stories about his travels to Marrakesh, Dublin, Ladakh etc. etc. I felt a little envious as I wanted to be in all those places too. Next he was headed to Spain, backpacking for 2 weeks in January. 

“Whatever happened to working?” I asked the doctor-dude. A question that I get asked all the time. 

“I have a new mantra,” he responded. “Work for a while, save up and travel. Once your money runs out, look for another job.”

Sounded perfect to me. “You and I are lucky to have the choices that we do. To live our life the way we want to,” he continued. 

Of course I knew that already, which is why I count my blessings every single day. I told him about my trips to Uttarakhand, Sikkim and Kerala and gave him tips for Spain. 

“I want your life you lazy f***”, he said.

I wanted to slap him across the face because he pretty much had my life and possibly more.

“Sometimes I worry that the bubble will burst. That I’ll get sick or lose everything. Then what?”

It was a rhetorical question and I expected no response. We both got a little quiet for a minute, which is when we both realized that Louis Armstrong was singing ‘What a Wonderful World’ in the background. The timing was eerily uncanny. 

As we parted ways shortly after, we made no promises to meet again in the near future. 

“Every time you travel in the new year, send me a text and let me know where you are,” he said before leaving. “And I will do the same”.

I told him that I would. “I hope we both have a great travel filled year.”

“Stay safe,” he said getting into an auto-rickshaw. 

“Happy New Year!” I shouted out after him, feeling positively buzzed. 

The Quest(ions)

Another piece I recently wrote for my Writers Group where the topic was Quest.

It had been 9 months since I had quit working and 5 months since I had moved back from New York City. Here I was sitting literally at the edge of a cliff in Himachal Pradesh, wondering what life had in store for me next. Not for a moment was I worried or concerned - the emotion I felt mostly was ‘excitement’.

The Big Apple was actually the beginning of my quest. On a lark and without giving it much thought, I turned in my notice at a job in Bangalore that was not just paying me extremely well, it was convenient and relatively less demanding than my previous positions. Making a lot of money had stopped being of interest to me for a while.  ‘Convenient’ and ‘undemanding’ translated to boring and a waste of my time. Having just lost my last surviving parent, being single and responsibility free, it was time to make a change, get out of the rat race and experience a life that I never had time for. 

I turned down a senior management, high paying job that was first offered to me in New York. They couldn’t understand why I wanted a pay cut and a lower position when I didn’t have to take one. I tried explaining to them that I wanted a balanced life, a job that would allow me to have time to build a relationship with the city. If I had to spend my life at airports and inside buildings or on conference calls, I was better off in Bangalore. They continued to look puzzled and I could almost read their minds which said “who turns down more money you idiot”. 

Outside my apartment building in New York

The eighteen months in New York City were life changing for me. I moved into a one-bedroom apartment by Central Park and within a week it had everything new, from the largest piece of furniture to dessert spoons. Anybody walking into that apartment would find it hard to believe that I had just moved from India. I had never fallen in love with a city until then. A city that gave me the option to do as much as I wanted. I became a member of a Journalists Association, which organized events with authors, big names in media, folks in the movie industry among others. I attended film festivals and workshops conducted by famous Hollywood directors, went to concerts, the Opera, dance performances, watched shows on Broadway, off-Broadway and off-off-Broadway. I took culinary lessons, ate street food as well as ate at the snootiest restaurants. I celebrated Thanksgiving, Christmas, Diwali, Cinco de Mayo, St. Patricks Day, Easter, Halloween, you name it. I watched the US Open, NFL and NBA games at the stadiums, threw a Super Bowl party and celebrated on the streets when the Giants won. I probably did more in that year and a half than most people do in a decade. 

While I wasn’t quite sure what I was searching for, I also knew that it was time to move on to look for something else. A purpose for the rest of my life? Possibly!

The cottage in the clouds in Himachal where I spent a few months

So I did the cliched thing and decided to spend some time in the foothills of the Himalayas. Thanks to the generosity of a friend, I had a cottage to myself at the edge of a cliff. Once there was a huge storm and I was certain that the pre-fabricated home I was in was going to be blown away and I wouldn’t have to worry about a quest any longer. However, that didn’t happen so while I was there I enjoyed a variety of seasons, I made an effort to teach the local kids English, I read, I wrote some short stories that are still sitting in my old Macbook, I travelled some and trekked a lot. What I didn’t do was meditate, which may be the reason that I didn’t get any answers. But then I wasn’t even sure what my questions were any longer, since I was in such a happy place.

One of the homes in Navadarshanam

Recently I caught up with a relatively old friend and we went over to this place called Navadarshanam to spend the weekend. In all the years that I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her so happy. It was as if she had found herself, living a vegan sustainable lifestyle in a little community, planting vegetables, playing with the newborn calf, making chappatis in the communal kitchen and singing bhajans at night, she was completely in her element. Her school kid like excitement was infectious and I was so happy that she had made this discovery.

My friend Uma with Gauri the calf in Navadarshanam

As much as I loved spending my weekend there, I was happy to be home. A while ago I gave up ‘questing’ because I realized that I already had what people quest for. It was my life and the answers had come to me during the course of my adapting to not having a routine, not earning a salary and not conforming to a ‘normal’ lifestyle. 

Never in my life have I had as much as I do now. 

Where the Heart Was

I wrote this piece recently for a Writers group that I belong to. After some debate with myself, decided to share it with my world.

When I was just a little boy my parents moved into the apartment where I went on to spend seventeen years of my growing up life. With four older sisters, one of who got married when I was five, we were previously crammed into a modest two bedroom place of which I remember very little. My biggest memory of the older flat is running into our household help who was carrying a pot of hot water and having it spilled on me one morning. Something I would much rather forget.

The new apartment was large with four bedrooms, three baths, three balconies, a formal dining room and even a room for storing ’stuff’. The entire place had Italian tiles laid out on the floor which made it always look shiny and new. The bathrooms had granite walls and one of them was large enough to be a bedroom. Each time we had a new visitor, my dad would give them a tour of the 2400 square foot rental, with probably the same kind of pride as the owner.

It was always a very busy household with a revolving door of relatives who would come to stay for a while, whether it was for business or pleasure. Additionally there were friends of my sisters and mine that would drop by to hang out. I don’t think it was because of the apartment size - it was more because my mother was much more welcoming than the other mothers. The refrigerator was always packed with jugs full of summery drinks, refreshing lemonade, mango milk shake, bael sharbat etc., and varieties of sweets to satisfy a family of sugar lovers. A supply of snacks would keep coming from the kitchen, whenever there were people over, which was pretty much most of the time. A busy household it was for sure.

More than a hundred people were invited to my 10th birthday, which was celebrated right in that apartment. I had recently turned the corner from a long and serious illness and my parents were in the mood to party. The place was completely packed with people, an enormous cake had been ordered from my favorite bakery, Flury’s, and my bedspread was completely covered with presents. The excitement of opening those wrapped gifts, most of which were books, was the part I recollect most vividly. I also remember one of my uncles asking if it was my birthday or my wedding that was being celebrated!

In all the years that we lived there, my family saw both good times and rough times. Many years of affluence were followed by some years of struggle. We went from owning two cars, two drivers to using public transportation. Household help became minimal, the sister just older than me began working and I was tutoring school children while in college. I remember the stress that my parents were going through but I don’t remember us being unhappy. While eating at restaurants came to a stop, there was always food at the table. Looking back, I think it taught me many lessons that helped me get through life as a stronger person.

Over the course of my existence I’ve lived in eight different ‘homes’ but it’s the one I grew up in, the one in New Alipore, Calcutta, that must have made the biggest impact on me. I say ‘must have’ because that is the only place I dream about on a regular basis. Not the apartments I rented in Chicago, the house I owned in Naperville, Illinois, the pre-war apartment I loved in New York City or the penthouse that I’ve now rented out in Bangalore. It’s not as if I miss the place or even think about it, but more often than not, its the set for my dream theater.

Four years ago I went back to 617 ‘O’ Block, which is now occupied by a childhood friend and his family. The entire time that I was there I felt a strong sense of discomfort. I haven’t figured out if it was due to my friend intruding into my memories or if I still felt a sense of ownership for a space that was no longer mine. When they moved into the flat, they inherited a trunk with some possessions from our lives. Crazy about rock music from a very early age, there was a stack of LP records that I was so happy to see but had no clue what I could do with them. The biggest treasure in that trunk however, was a graduation photo of my mother, which I was sure had been lost.

Last year I passed by the building again but didn’t stop. The exteriors looked like they had been recently painted. I asked the taxi driver to slow down a little as I kept looking back until it was no longer in my line of vision. No there was no feeling of melancholy, no moistening of the eyes and no lump in the throat. That apartment was no longer home but it’s memories would be mine forever.

Someone I met recently asked where home was for me.

I thought about it for a second and replied, “it’s wherever I am at the moment”.

The Cross-Dressers - A Halloween Story

Recently I watched a critically acclaimed American television show called ‘Transparent’. The story (supposedly) revolves around a 68 year old divorced man, father of 3 adult children who decides to start living his life dressed as a woman. Transvestite’s, I found out, are people who dress like, but continue to be attracted to members of the opposite sex. Not to be confused with Transgender’s, who do not live their life as their birth gender.

Sometimes I feel that critics, as well as most folks, feel compelled to like something just to be politically correct. As far as I’m concerned Transparent is probably the worst show I’ve watched this year thanks to lazy writing, an entourage of easily the most unlikeable, selfish and sometimes hateful characters with a story that is heading absolutely nowhere. The show is less about the ‘trans’ parent than it is about his three irritating kids, who have no redeeming qualities and are obsessed with having graphic sex in every 30 minute episode.

Of course it’s also possible that I don’t understand good television. But if pretentious and unlikeable characters is good, then keep me away from it. 

I’ve wasted almost 5 hours of my life watching the show - let me not waste more time writing about it. Last week when I was cleaning my apartment I found a photocopy of a  picture of my friend Rory, dressed as a woman. No Rory is not a cross-dresser or a transvestite - we were simply having some fun on a Halloween many moons ago!

Cross-Dressed for Halloween

This is when I used to work in Chicago. Each department would have a Halloween theme and I remember clear as day, a group of us standing around discussing costumes. The previous year we were in the 70’s ‘Saturday Night Fever’ type outfits and this year we had to up the scale. Ideas were being thrown around but nothing was interesting enough, when somebody suggested cross-dressing. Initially it generated much laughter but nobody took it very seriously. While we continued joking about it, no decision was made until Rory came over the next day and announced that Michelle, his wife, and he had picked up his dress and pumps! 

For me, it was, by far the funniest Halloween ever. 

We had one of the managers, Jim who came dressed as a redhead slut in a short orange skirt, fishnet stockings and two gigantic squishy balls stuffed inside his low neck blouse!

Han, the Chinese guy with almost no facial hair, fished inside his wife’s closet and wore a long elegant dress, necklace, earrings, hat and even his wife’s very girlie watch!

And while Rory, Han and Jim displayed their feminine sides,Walt, who was a much taller and much manlier version of Tom Cruise could do very little to be convincing. In his plaid skirt he simply looked like a Scotsman in a wig! 

Yours truly was not in costume though. I was traveling to India the same afternoon and used that as an excuse. But of course, I couldn’t get away with it. Someone brought a nightgown that I was made to get into and trust me, it was a very funny sight. Especially since I used to sport a mustache back then. 

The women, dressed in business suits and ties, did not make an impact. The other guys weren’t nearly as funny so I’ve erased their look from my memory. The team paraded around the entire two-floored office building amidst peals of laughter and needless to say our department won first place. I wish, I wish I had more photos. 

Before writing this piece, I sent Rory an email with his picture and asked if he was okay with me using it in my post. 

‘Who is that good looking lady?’, he wrote back.

You’re the biggest sport I’ve ever met, my friend! 

Hope y’all have a funny, scary Halloween!

The Exchange

As I stowed away my carry-on luggage inside the overhead bin of the Emirates flight, I was going through mixed emotions. It was always hard to leave New York but I was also looking forward to going back home, being in my own space, ‘space’ being the key-word here. As much as I love the city, living conditions are always crammed, whether I rent a room from a stranger via Airbnb or depend upon the generosity of friends. 

And while the economy class seat of a 14 hour flight was the last thing I wanted, I was also glad that I had checked in early and got myself the best seat I could get under the conditions. My two co-passengers had already made themselves uncomfortable in the window and middle seats. I smiled weakly, nodded my head a little as if to say ‘hello neighbours’ and plonked myself on the aisle seat. 

Rarely do I pay attention to the people on flights and even after many hours of being around them, it’s unlikely that I would recognize the person sitting next to me if I were to ever run into him/her. As I always do, I took out my book and began reading, while new boarders kept settling themselves into their seats. In a little while the announcements began, my eyelids started to droop so I closed my book and decided to take a nap. 

I had probably slept for about 30 minutes when I heard the clinking of glasses as the flight attendant brought around the drinks trolley. I asked for their selection of cheap red, as did the gentleman sitting next to me. 

“I need several of these to get through this flight,” he said.

I laughed. “Cheap wine always helps one pass out faster”.

We began making small talk. Where do you live? Where are you headed to? Blah blah. 

He was a large, middle-aged man and the first thing that struck me was how tired he looked. When I say large I don’t mean fat, though he could easily afford to drop several kilos. He was very tall, I’m guessing at least 6 foot 3, with a large frame and even in the nicer seat with adequate leg room, he looked extremely uncomfortable. 

I also found out that he was a senior manager in a technology company and was on his way to Dubai for a conference. It was a last minute thing, business class was full and here he was stuck with the rest of us cattle. 

“Could you do me a favour?” he asked.

Like I didn’t know that was coming. 

“Could you ...?”

Switch seats? You mean give up my aisle seat, that I selected 3 months ago when I made my flight reservations? For a middle seat?

“I’ll pay you for it,” he said.

I started laughing when he offered me money to move a few inches into my spot. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask the man how much, but I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me and what if he took the question seriously. 

If it had been a smaller person I would have politely said no. As nice a person as I am, I have, in the past, refused to switch to a middle seat to accommodate someone. Not on a long flight, I’ll be damned!

In this case however, I couldn’t do it. The man really needed that extra leg room and I for sure didn’t. And considering everything, the middle seat in the first row, left column, wasn’t all that bad. 

After several movies and sporadic bouts of sleep, we finally reached Dubai. John (we had exchanged business cards) and I had barely spoken two words to each other after the exchange had taken place. As the flight landed and the seat belt signs went off, I began getting my luggage out of the bin. Standing by me, John thanked me again and handed me over a roll of 20 dollar bills. I was so startled when I saw the money that I almost dropped it. Hurriedly I pushed it back into his hand as we went back and forth with words for a couple of minutes.

“I can’t take your money for giving up my seat. It seriously was no big deal.”

“You have no idea how much difference it made to me. Please take it. Get something for your wife.”

“I don’t have a wife”

“Then get something for yourself”

“Please. I can’t take your money. In fact I can’t believe that you’re offering me cash for exchanging my seat with yours. Who does that??”

It went on for a while. He was insistent. For me it was unthinkable. Eventually I won. Or so I thought. A month later I got a package with a bottle of single malt whiskey and a very nice bottle of Merlot. There was a card along with it that said “Enjoyed drinking the cheap wine with you on the flight. I hope this will balance it out. Hope we run into each other again some day.”

The first thought I had was, how the heck did he get my mailing address?

The Naked Truth

I used to attend morning classes at St. Xaviers College in Calcutta (the city was called Calcutta and not Kolkata when I graduated, so for the purposes of this piece, that’s the name I’m going to stick with). Classes would begin at an unearthly 6 am and not being a morning person, I rarely made it to the first class. Or the second. And mostly not even to the third. Which meant that I usually got there at break time, which was at 8 am, when my friends and I would play football/soccer with a rubber ball in the basketball court. As weird as it may sound, it was more fun than I could possibly describe. 

We’d have an exam every Friday at 6 am, which made it the most dreaded day of the week. It was an unwritten code for the non-slackers to wake up the slackers. I was one of the slackers so I would not only be woken up by a friend, Tony, who lived in the neighborhood, but would also get picked up from my home and driven to college on his motorcycle. Similarly other friends would be responsible for the slackers in their locality. One of the worst was this guy, who I’m going to call Anil. 

Regardless of the day of the week, the time that college would begin (or end), Anil would follow his own private schedule. He was like a guest at St. Xaviers - the day’s he would show up, people would stop and point at him, professors would have a hard time recognizing him and it was as if the football games had a celebrity player. 

Friday’s as you are now aware, were a whole different ball game - missing exams could get one into serious trouble. Fortunately for Anil, he had friends who loved him and would stop by his home, get him out of bed and drag him to college. It was a weekly routine and the others (who would all be packed into one car) would have to wake up early enough to plan for this diversion.

So it was one of those exam Friday’s and the group was at Anil’s place, trying to get him to wake up. He was being overly stubborn and it was getting close to 6 am. By the time they were able to get him out of bed, it was already too late to brush, change clothes etc. One of the guys had proactively squished toothpaste onto his toothbrush, another had picked a bottle of water (so he could brush on the way) and a third had his text book (so he could hurriedly read up on his way to the exam). 

A couple of hours later, the worst time of the week was over and everyone had gathered together on Short Street, which was on the other side of the college’s main entrance. There was a little shop that sold tea, samosas, biscuits, which would be breakfast for all the hungry boys. There was loud chatter in the group about the exam, making plans for the rest of the day and the upcoming weekend. It was a small street with barely any traffic so basically the students were occupying all of it. In the distance we could see one of our friends walking towards us. Anil, who as I had mentioned, hadn’t had time to change his clothes in the morning, was wearing a short kurta that came up to his hips and drawstring pajamas. He had his text book in one hand and a clay pot with tea in the other. 

The friend, who was known for being a prankster, walked directly over to Anil, bent a little and pulled on his drawstrings. All of a sudden, there he was in the middle of the street, his pajamas having collapsed towards his feet, both his hands occupied and in the air, his shirt too short and no underwear! It was as if time had stood still and every eye was on Anil’s naked butt or crotch. 

Of course nothing ever fazed Anil. There was no sense of panic or embarrassment. Instead he calmly handed over his tea to one of the guys, another got his text book, as he bent over and picked up his pajamas. 

If I close my eyes, I can still hear the laughter that followed for a very, very long time. 

Paranormal in the Family

Based on true incidents, with minor dramatization

In the heart of the city, on a street most people would be envious to live on, was this majestic five storied apartment building. I was maybe six years old when my uncle moved in there with his family. The building had no elevator and they lived on the highest floor with (what felt like) innumerable steep stairs that would eventually take you to the top. In spite of so many years having gone by, I clearly remember the first time I was in that enormous apartment with incredibly high ceilings, extra large bedrooms and a living-dining area that could, in most cities, comfortably house a small family. The best part however, was the terrace that one could access from the living room and get a view of the bustling, populous city.

That was then. The years had not been kind - the stagnating economy had given the city a tired look and the once-envied building was now frayed, neglected, badly in need of a paint job. The chandeliers, that once adorned the stairwell, had now been replaced with dimly lit light bulbs. As opposed to running up the steep stairs when I was six, I was now climbing them, one step at a time. Once inside, the place looked exactly the way I remembered it. The furniture, the artifacts, the rugs, light-fittings, once shiny new, now badly in need of being updated, polished or replaced. In spite of everything being clean, it felt that there was a layer of dust that could never be wiped away. 

It had been a few years since my uncle had passed away and my aunt, after a prolonged illness, had also died recently. I was sitting across from my two cousins, both of who were still living in the apartment. While they are both quite a bit older than I am, our conversations would not give away the difference in our ages. We talked about happy times, the lavish parties that were once a part of that household, the festivals we would celebrate together and the warmth shared by the families. We remembered the past, my dad and their parents who were no more, recalling incidents about them that would make us smile and get teary-eyed at the same time. 

“Much after she passed away, her spirit continued to stay with us,” said the younger of my two cousins abruptly, referring to her mother. 

For a minute there was complete silence. I didn’t know how to respond to what she had just said. Instead I just looked toward them questioningly, waiting for more, but choosing not to ask in words. 

The older one broke the silence. Facing her sister she said, “She took care of our mother night and day, relentlessly, without complaining for a moment. It was very hard for her when she passed away.”

“But what did you mean by her spirit still being with you after she died?” I asked, not wanting to let this go. 

“Initially I thought it was my imagination that I could see an apparition of her and could feel her presence in the house. But it wasn’t. She really was here.”

“How can you say that with such certainty?” 

“Her hand-prints would be around the house. We’d wipe them off and they would come back.”

“I can vouch for that. It wasn’t her imagination,” said the older sister. 

“And so many times,” continued the younger one,”I would see her walking across the hallway, catching the end of her saree as she would vanish.”

“Were you spooked?” I had to ask. 

She laughed. “Not at all. Why would I be spooked with my mother’s presence?”

I was a little spooked and intrigued. I’ve always wanted to see the dead. 

“Do you still see her?” I asked, hoping that I too would get lucky. 

“She was basically here because she was worried about me,” said the younger sister. “We spoke to a priest and he suggested that we have a special prayer service and more importantly, I had to stop grieving for her. It was my grief that was holding her back.”

“I didn’t want her to have to go through any more pain on my account,” she continued. “It was hard but I had to let her go.”

“And you haven’t felt her presence since?” I asked once again, almost as if I needed to confirm. 

“Her last set of hand-prints faded away on their own. That’s when I knew that she had left and was at peace.”

We didn’t speak for a while, each of us lost in our thoughts and probably in the past. One of the sisters decided to make tea, the other one brought out my favorite treats and we moved to the dining table, catching up on each others lives. 

As I got up to leave with promises that I would come see them again before I left the city, I looked at both sisters and found my aunt looking back at me through their eyes. It was then I realized that I didn’t need to see her apparition or hand-prints - she would always be around as a part of her daughters. 

Finding La-La Land

“And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make” - The Beatles

In my dream last night I was at the doctor’s office. I had gone there to pick up some test results and was told that I had 6 weeks to live. When the physician broke the news to me, I had around me, a few members from my family, a couple of  my co-workers from Chicago, who I am not even in touch with and Leonardo DiCaprio. 

Somewhere in my sub-conscience, I knew that this was a dream and I wanted to wake up, but wasn’t able to. When I finally did open my eyes, I didn’t necessarily feel a sense of relief about the death sentence not being real. Instead I began to think about my life, as it stands today and how I would change it if I knew that the end was near. 

Last month I discontinued my subscription to the newspaper. The reason being that I no longer wanted to begin my day reading about dirty politicians, accidents, lost planes, murders, rapes, global warming, etc. Maybe if they come up with a publication that has stories about the good instead of the bad, a ‘Good News’ paper, I would want to have it in my home.

From my Facebook newsfeed, I’ve hidden the friends that spread gloom through their postings. Or try to influence me with their political or other viewpoints. Believe it or don’t, but I do happen to have a mind of my own. As far as I’m concerned if you’re not using Facebook for entertainment purposes, then sooner or later you will go from being hidden to being unfriended. 

In the real world, I’ve distanced myself from several people that were once a part of my life. Those obsessed with money, those who have the rich as role models, those who don’t bring anything positive into my life, people who take me for granted, who have trouble laughing, who are narrow minded or close minded, who are living in a time warp, whiners, fake people, fanatics, cynics, know-it-alls, glass-is-always-half-empty types etc. Been nice for too long, I now need to be free from the likes of such. It’s a miracle that I still have friends!

I used to be but have now stopped being concerned about who likes me and who doesn’t. I try to be a good person, try not to hurt anyone, try not to get angry, not be judgmental, spiteful, but sometimes I screw up. The day I achieve Nirvana I will stop (screwing up). Until then, feel free to not like me. 

I’ve become a lot less dependent on people. If I want to watch a movie, I don’t think twice about walking over to the theater by myself. If I’m in the mood for a slice of banoffee pie at a local cafe, I have no trouble enjoying every bite of it at a table by myself. I’ve stopped consulting anyone and make my own decisions, even if they happen to be wrong. I’ve made peace with squabbles within the family and between friends. Get along, don’t get along, it’s your life and not mine. 

I spend my time doing the things I love, travel being on the top of my list. I am at my happiest when I travel to a new place or to a beautiful place or to a place that has special memories. I sleep guilt-free as much as I want. I eat the foods I love, I entertain at home, my workouts give me positive energy as well as some time to hang out with my gym buddies, I recently began meditating, I constantly meet new people and then there are times when I shut everyone out and just enjoy being by myself to read and write and sing and watch television.

So after lounging around in bed for quite a while and after much introspection, I came to the conclusion if I had 6 weeks to live I would squeeze in a couple of trips, eat all the foods I love, have a big farewell party and hang out with people that make me laugh. So pretty much continue to live the way that I do now. I’ve found my la-la land and am constantly discovering that it’s a great place to be in. 

I’m not in the least bit concerned about my morning dream coming true but I seriously wish I could figure out what the heck DiCaprio was doing in it.

The day my friend almost gave birth in my apartment

The beautiful mother-daughter pair

I remember it being an unseasonably warm Friday in November. It was the day of the week when I worked from home and didn’t have to worry about getting out of my pajamas. Quite obviously, this incident is from a few years ago when I was a corporate slave in New York City. 

My morning had just begun. I had turned on my laptop, responded to a couple of emails so it would look like I was working and was in the process of figuring out what I was going to eat for breakfast, when the phone rang. It was Aparna. 

“Hey,” she said. “Can I come over and hang out at your place for a while?”

An unusual request for a Friday morning. Fortunately, being a dear friend, I could ask her why. 

“My contractions have started,” she responded. 

So you’ve obviously figured out that Aparna was incredibly pregnant. 

And what good would I be in this situation?

“My doc wants me to come to the hospital only when the contractions are about 5 minutes apart,” she continued.

Suddenly I had lost my appetite for breakfast. 

I should probably give you a little background about why my apartment was a good place for her to hang out at, while she waited for her contractions to be more frequent. Aparna lived in Hoboken, New Jersey  while her hospital was in Manhattan, a 10 minute taxi ride from where I lived. 

A short while later I buzzed her in and she made herself comfortable on my futon.

“Carry on with whatever it is that you were doing,” she said. “Just pretend that I’m not here.”

Ha! In addition to pretending to work, I was now going to pretend that there wasn’t a woman about to give birth in my living room. Piece of cake! I sat down at the dining table, staring at my laptop, worrying about the ‘what if” scenario. 

What if she actually had the baby in my apartment? I had seen some movies and knew that I would need blankets and warm water. Except I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with them. Was I going to have to get rid of my almost new futon mattress if the baby was born here?

“How far apart are your contractions now?”, I asked.

“I’d say about 10 minutes,” she replied, seeming remarkably cool about the entire situation. 

“Don’t you think you should call Ankur?” 

The husband, who should be by your side. 

“He had a really important meeting today,” she responded dismissively, as she began leafing through the New Yorker. 

Was it stress or was it getting really warm? I cracked open a window. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked turning towards her. 

Her face was completely scrunched up and she was holding her stomach. 

“Ow” is all she said, while I looked at my watch to begin timing the contractions for myself.

The television went on. There was no sense in even trying to pretend to work. I began loudly chopping crunchy vegetables. May as well make lunch, I thought

“You’re freaking me out,” she said. “Sit down and relax.”

Words that I thought I should be saying to her.

Seven minutes later the face scrunched up again. Once the pain had passed, I decided that I now had to take matters into my own hands. 

“I’m calling Ankur even if you aren’t” I said sternly. 

She gave me an exasperated look and began dialing his number. It went to voice mail and she began leaving him a message.

“Ratan’s insisting that I let you know that the contractions are about 7 minutes apart. And that maybe you should come over. But I really don’t think there’s a need for you to rush.”

‘Maybe you should come over?’, ‘No need to rush?’. What kind of a message is that to leave for an expectant father from an expectant mother who is very close to having a baby? And what's the deal with the father who lets his wife's call go to voice mail at a time like this?

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” she said hanging up.

Except that I wasn’t so sure. It was time to change into my street clothes and prepare to take her to the hospital myself. I was pretty sure that the baby was rolling her eyes wondering when her parents would understand the urgency of the situation. 

The contractions were now 6 minutes apart. Or maybe I had mistimed them and it was really 5 minutes. 

“Okay,” I said commandingly. “Let’s go jump into a cab.”

Funny picture - a 9 month pregnant woman ‘jumping’ into a cab. 

As she began slowly lifting herself up, the phone rang.

Saved by the bell.

It was the husband. He was downstairs. 

“Grab my stuff,” she said. 

“Gladly!” I replied, ecstatic to see her leave!

So it turns out that there was no need for me to panic. Aparna went through a pretty long labor and little Mira didn't make an entrance into the world until 2 am. I dropped by the hospital to see her the next evening and Aparna, Ankur and I had a good laugh.

“I wish you could have seen your face,” Aparna said looking at me. “Can't believe I didn't think of taking a picture!”

Wasn’t funny then but yeah, it was funny now.

His Name is Khan

I was standing outside the taxi with my luggage but there was no sign of the driver. Calling his number a couple of times had proven to be futile, so I just stood there, waiting for him to appear eventually. It was probably a minute later, though it seemed longer, when I saw a man in a red shirt, running towards me. He had a big grin on his face.

“Sorry sir, I thought you would be a few minutes and decided to get some tea.”

On closer inspection, he seemed more like a boy than a man. His smile had a mix of both innocence and mischief and whatever irritation had accumulated inside me, vanished. 

Once we were on our way he apologized again.

“I haven’t had a chance to eat lunch today - it’s been really busy.”

It was a few minutes past 4 pm. I asked him to stop at Fanoos on the way, where he could pick himself up a kaati roll. He nodded his head and said that he would take a break after dropping me off. No amount of insisting on my part could get him to change his mind. 

“Arrey saab, this is a daily routine. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a nice meal in peace,” he said. 

It broke my heart when he said that. As we kept talking, I got to know that he was 24 years old, had a son who was born 8 months ago and was the only earning member in the family that included his parents and two younger sisters, who he had to marry off. He told me that his name was Mabrouk. 

“But you can call me Khan,” he said laughingly.

I could see Khan’s face in the rear view mirror and not for a moment while we were talking did he stop smiling. He began asking questions about me but I was embarrassed to tell him about my indulgent lifestyle, where I did not feel the need to work and worse still was on my way to New York for a 6 week holiday. It made me feel horribly guilty. While not being unaware that most people have to work really hard to make ends up, hearing about it first hand from an individual who didn’t seem outwardly unhappy, was especially hard. 

Overly burdened from a very young age, Khan began driving a tempo truck illegally at the age of fourteen. An age when all I had to worry about was homework. When he was seventeen his father lost a limb in an accident and couldn’t go to work any longer. His sisters were taken out of school because they couldn’t afford the fees. I would have got really depressed if he wasn’t so nonchalant about it and if the smile had left his face. 

“It’s all kismat,” he said looking towards the Heavens. “I didn’t want to get married as it would mean even more responsibilities, but my parents would not hear of it.”

“They are also right,” he continued. “After all the family name has to continue.”

“What if you were not able to have a son?” I asked.

He laughed and said “Uski ab fikar nahin, beta to paida kar liya (I don’t need to worry about it, now that I have a son)”.

I wish I had taken a picture of Mabrouk. He had the warmest and most honest smile I had seen in a while. As he helped me unload the luggage, I felt almost sorry that we had reached the airport so quickly. He had told me so much about himself including the fun he used to have with his friends and how he looks forward to Eid, which is one of the rare times that he takes the day off and has a celebratory meal. By the end of the cab ride, I didn’t feel like Mabrouk was a stranger or just an individual who had driven me to the airport in his taxi. I opened up my arms and gave him a hug. I also gave him a large tip.

“Go have an indulgent meal now,” I said, pretending to scold him.  

I could see that he was fighting back tears. We exchanged numbers and I made him promise that he wouldn’t forget me.

As I began walking towards the check-in counter, looking at the crowd, filling out forms, going through security and waiting to board my flight, my mind moved on to so many other things. By the time I was in the plane, I had pretty much forgotten about Khan. 

                                                                         ****

Two days ago on Saturday I got a call from a name that I didn’t recognize. But as soon as I heard his voice, I knew. 

“Sir, I’m outside your building,” he said in his usual lively manner. “Chai pilaoge (can I drop by for chai)?”

Once again he hadn't had lunch so I made him a plate with whatever I could find in the refrigerator. And once again it slipped my mind to take his picture.