Snowglobing in Michigan

Coming to Michigan State was exciting in many ways... and one of the things that I was terribly excited in my first winter here was the snow… and sure enough, when it first snowed last year, I was as happy as a little kid in candy store. The irony is that the first snow storm occurred before one of my final exams of the year, and as it always happens before any exam, I wasted a lot of time of time doing something other than studying. This time, it was absently staring out of the window partly in amazement and partly in wonder with a big, childish smile plastered across my face. The white stuff falling from the sky was quickly occupying every square inch of spare space on the ground. Pretty soon, the entire street and the beautiful green lawns outside my house had turned white!

The next day, the campus, the streets, and practically everything in sight was covered in white. Even familiar roads and lanes and turns seemed different with snow accumulation. On top of it, the sunshine seemed even more brighter than usual, what with there being a lot of white to reflect off of. It all seemed kind of magical that first day.

But that was just the one day.

As winter dragged on, there came the biting wind, the icy roads, and the black ice. And the snow every single day of the week. Snow and winter seemed to be totally losing its charm. In addition, winter never seemed to stop! December came and went, January went by, February, March, it was still snowing! In India, the arrival of March generally meant that winter was almost over, and it was time to look forward to summer. What happened in Michigan in March? Freezing rain. Definitely, the worst part of winter ever. I particularly remember this one time, when I was standing at the bus stop, freezing my socks off, despite wearing about 4 layers of clothing, when it started raining ice drops at a frenzied rate, in sub-zero temperatures. It seemed to be hell on earth those few minutes, and when April and May brought warmer climes, I couldn’t have been more glad.

Cut to the Winter of 2011-2012.

October and November passed by with the gloomy and windy and depressing fall. December started and ended with minimal snow. We were enjoying a surprisingly mild and warm winter. After having made up mind after the first winter in Michigan, that I did not like winters, I was very surprised to find myself actually missing it. No more white fluffy stuff falling on your head, no more cursing as you got out of the building, and definitely no more steam as you let out a breath. Things seemed amiss.

Then January finally started, the temperatures plummeted, and it started snowing again. And all seemed right in the world again. I found myself actually enjoying walking through the fresh white blanket on the ground. And then one evening, when I was walking back to lab, I understood why Bollywood has always been fascinated with snow and shooting romantic songs and movies in snow clad mountains.

It wasn’t snowing very heavily that evening and most of the snow flakes seemed to be falling down very idly—almost lazily—to the ground and melting away as soon as they touched the ground. Watching them fall down, everything—the buildings, the streets, the trees—seemed to fade into the background. As if the only thing that existed that evening were these pretty flakes falling to the ground, and me—destined to enjoy them. It was surreal—like being inside a snow globe. The only thing that could have possibly made it better was to have had a Prince Charming—a Bollywood fantasy à la Om Shanti Om come to life!

I know it would be too much too soon to say that I genuinely like the winter. And I know that this year too, the winter will drag on till I want to cry. There will be expletives, there will be cursing and there will be angry shouts at the person living in the sky, for having put me in this terrible terrible place. But somewhere in my mind, there will also be this memory to bring a smile on my face. Of a nicer time, when the entire world seemed pretty and small enough to be captured inside a globe. Of snowglobing and dreaming in Michigan. 

Home is where the heart is

Whenever you take someone's leave at the end of the day, at the end of meeting, at the end of a of wonderful candlelit dinner in a restaurant or simply tired and and exhausted at the end of a walk, you end up saying something along the lines of  "I have to to go back now.."

For some days now, I have been contemplating on the inherent implcitness of the sentence. Gotta go back. So much is stated in what is not said. That you have something to go back to. A person, a friend, wife, family, a roommate, maybe even a pet. It's implied that you have a home, a sanctuary, a place to go back to and call your own. 

At various times during the last five years, the word home has meant different things to me. When I was in Pune, my hometown, home always meant Prabhat Road. The house with the big backyard, the big old house where I'd grown up. In Baroda (what I always think of as my adopted home), home was K.G Hall, Girls Hostel, M.S. University. Here at the other MSU, home will always be the one on Abbott. 

What I never realised all the time that I had been in India, was that home was actually India. Hindustan. Bharat. Bharatiya Ganarajya. 

All my life in India, I had never been patriotic. You could almost say that I never liked India. Or at least I was convinced that I would never miss home or India if I ever went abroad. I criticized everything about it, the roads, the politics, the people, the idiocy, everything about it. I was convinced that this was the worst place to be in. Little did I realize that all the same things that I professed to despise in India, were the same things that I would grow to miss here in the US. 

A couple of American friends asked me last year, what was the one thing that I missed about India. Food ? Yeah, well.. not so much. People ? Maybe.. The weather.. to an extent (especially in winter!) Craziness.. definitely! I mean where else in the world would you get as much entertainment as the one provided by Baba Ramdev over the summer ? Or as much amazement as the one provided by the Madurai Temple, with its secret treasure trove ? Here in the States, where we are obsessed with hygiene, no wonder then that Bhel and Pani Puri  never taste the same.. they are missing the essential key (?!) ingredient of the mysterious and elusive water used to prepare the dishes!*

Home... just some of the things I miss!

You, see, it was never just one thing that I missed the most. The vendors selling hot jalebli, the stereotypical 'pandu havaldar', the side slap humour of hindi movies, the noise on the streets, the incessant cawing of the crows, the smell of the earth after the first rains of the season, the joy of Coconut Water on a hot summer day... there are so many things to home, to India that can never be captured under one category. To quote Aristotle, what I miss most about home is the whole, which is always greater than the sum of the individual parts!

In Baroda, at DD circle, where we had our daily Chai, we encountered daily the orphans who lived on the street. I often couldn't help but feel sad about their homelessness and misfortune (though they never let us on of any such feeling on their part!) In some ways, that is what moving out of the country has turned me into. Sure, unlike them, I have the four walls of my house to retreat into, but somewhere deep down is this nagging sense that this is not where I belong. Where I belong is in the alleys of Sadashiv Peth, Pune, haggling with shopkeepers, in Baroda dancing away to glory at United Way, or merely by the side of street in any Indian town, wolfing down Pani Puri and cutting Chai. 

Home, then is not just a place where you have grown up, and you're used... to but someplace that is rooted so deep within you that it somehow becomes a part of your psyche. It's a feeling of belonging... of knowing irrationally that you understand a land and its people and that you ought to be there. Its the first place that comes to your mind when you close your eyes. 

Don't believe me ? Try it! 

------

.* The water used to make Street Food (Chaat) in India is believed to be the key to the taste. In a nutshell, the more unhygienic the water, the tastier the Chaat! 

A decade later...

9/10/2001 Pune, India

It had been another regular day at school, and I was home with my Dad and my grandmother having  wrapped up dinner. As usual we were awaiting the regular phone call from Mom, who was in Mumbai. Two months had been enough to get used to the regular after dinner phone call which . was the only time I talked with Aai in the day, ever since her job as a lecturer had transferred her over to Mumbai. It wasn't so bad, I was still in school--in Std. 9 to be precise, and things had slowly fallen into place after two people had left so close to each other. Dada--to Boston and Aai--to Mumbai. 

Like I said, it had been just another day at school, and was going to be just another day at school the next day but for Aai's second phone call late that night around 11pm asking us to turn on the TV and watch what was happening. A little worried we turned on the TV to watch what would in later months and years be merely known by 2 numbers seperated by a /. 

9/11. Nine Eleven. 
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

                                                         

It seemed unbelievable and unfathomable to me that someone would just hijack a plane and be able to crash it in two of the tallest buildings in the heart of the most powerful nation on earth. I remember discussing the events the next day with friends and then very actively following the Afghanistan war and the following war. For a little time, I even idolized Ahmad Shah Masood, the rebel leader fighting against the Taliban and was even pretty saddened when he was killed. How long ago that seems now...

It seems unbelievable and unfathomable to me now that a decade--10 years--have already passed by 9/11. So much has changed, me, people and the entire world order at large. Sadddam Hussein is dead, Osama bin Laden is dead, Musharraf is in exile, the Swine Flu, SARS have come and gone, walkmans and cassettes are out being replaced by iPods, and iPhones and Droids are substituting for Nokias. Gone is the bespectacled uniformed school girl from 10 years ago, and taking her place is an older, smarter, independent and wiser (?) version of the same girl.

Life truly is strange in terms of not knowing where it will take you... what you have in your hands is determining whether you go along passively with the flow or actually dive into it and enjoy the swim !!

One Line Movie Reviews

The Importance of Being Earnest: Funny, witty, Wodehousian movie; bit of a musical; Starring big names like Reese Witherspoon, Rupert Everett; a typical 'English' comedy, light and airy.

The Painted Veil: Beautiful movie, stunning locations, poetic almost; subtle yet intense and gripping performances by Edward Norton and Naomi Watts; a tragic love story.

Hotel Rwanda: Haunting, searing, story of the genocide in Rwanda; extremely difficult to forget.

The Law Abiding Citizen: Brilliant, Intelligent, if not at at times, slightly disturbing movie--definitely worth a watch.

Balgandharva: Moving and educative portrait of a great man, stunning visuals and beautiful music, even if its not original--a little scattered at places.

No One Killed Jessica: Very intelligently made Hindi movie, rare, but does not stick to real life events.

Creative Non Fiction Workshop Exercise 3: A Life Changing Incident

Written from two different perspectives. The Incident, is, as you will find out, moving away from home into the hostel.

Me:

I wish they'd just go... I thought to myself.

It was 8pm in the night and I was completely exhausted. Standing in the office of the hostel, feeling a little lost, I just wanted to sleep. My parents, on the other hand, were having an animated discussion with the hostel warden, insisting on getting the tiniest of doubts clarified. I looked here and there, trying to get a feel of my 'home' for the next two years. Some of the hostel girls came in, took one look at me and started sniggering amongst themselves. I looked at them indifferently, hoping that one of them wouldn't be my roommate. I was jolted out of my reverie by the warden asking, "New Wing Room ? Wo to bahut kam hai... do you know someone who's already there ?"

"Yes!", I blurted out, a little too fast, proffering the name of a senior from the department. "Room No. 77!", she anounced pompously, putting an end to any further debate.

I rolled out my bag and came out of the office, followed by my parents. We stood wkwardly in the hallway for a few moments, not knowing what to say. The advice, the instructions all seemed to have dried up. "I guess, I'll go up now... I'll see you tomorrow...", I muttered.

I could see tears weling up in my mom's eyes. "Mom...", I protested. "You're here tomorrow... save these for tomorrow, when you leave...", I said, pulling her into a hug.

Finally, letting go, she said, "I know.. I know.. I'll see you tomorrow then... Goodnight, take care..."

And just like that, they were gone, leaving me in a building full of girls with no place to call as my own--except Room No. 77.

Manishaben - The Hostel Warden

Manishaben looked up blearily from the paperwork to look at the tired and distraught faces of two parents. She looked over behind them at the girl standing behind them. Dressed tomboyishly, you could make out a mile away that she didn't belong here.

"Humph", she thought to herself. "These Pune-Mumbai girls are all the same. Parents over-worried, daughters in their own sweet world..."

She pushed her glasses firmly up her nose nad turned to field a barrage of questions from the parents. "Nahin, garam paani nahin milta... only in winter. Deadline is 10pm; attendance is taken every night... temporary room right now, room final only after fee payment. "

It's all the same, she thought to herself, she thought to herself. Whether they come from big cities, or the smallest villages... despite the notices on the boards, despite the brochures, despite the instruction sheets, they ask the same questions again. Over and over and over.

She sighed deeply on being requested a New Wing room. "New Wing ? Everyone wants New Wing... Where am I going to get New Wing Rooms from ? What can I do if there are so few... and the University refuses to improve the old ones ?", she muttered to herself. Out loud she said, "New Wing Room ? Wo to bahut kam hai... do you know someone who's already there ?"

Looking through the pages for the name told to her, and finally finding it, she announced, "Room No. 77" and thought, 'Lucky girl... to get one of the last good rooms...' Watching them walk out, her thoughts to herself, ' One girl comes in, another goes out... but where am I ? Stuck here... as always..."

Creative Non Fiction Workshop Exercise 2: Travelogue

Imagine this. It's 2am in the night and you're climbing steps. Step after step after step. It's a chilly winter night and all you can think of is your warm bed with the patchwork quilt. Yet, your legs seem to be working autopilot without respite.

They are the steps of Pavagadh--a hill shrine about 50 km away from Vadodara, Gujarat. Pavagadh gets its name from its unusual location--it rises suddenly out of the otherwise flat land surrounding it. The local legends make full use of this apparent anomaly by claiming that it is a broken part of the mythical Dronagiri mountain which Lord Hanuman carried all the way to Lanka. Its not all a myth though. The discovery that Pavagadh is home to a few non-native herbs, otherwise found only in the Himalayas has not only lent credibility to this legend, but also bolstered its status as a holy mountain in the minds of the faithful.

A popular trekking destination apart from being a pilgrimage center, it is THE place, if you want to go for a night trek. From stories of tiger spottings to near death incidents to getting lost in the forest and fearful "I-think-I see-someone-there" experiences, everyone has their own version of the Pavagadh trek. What gives it this whole "aura" of menace and excitement though, is the climb at night. The wind rustles leaves of the trees as you climb, the undergrowth crackles with every step. Its a harrowing task for your eyes as you try to adjust from a world of light to one of complete darkness. Guided by the hazy light of torchlights and the ever present moonlight, you walk gingerly through the forest, your eyes busy trying to find the easiest way through the rocks, your ears alert to every sound coming from your side. More often than not, you feel there is someone walking beside you. You walk, "he" walks. You stop "he stops". You're eyes widen at the thought that slowly creeping in your mind. You stop your climb, your ears alert to the smallest sound. Still petrified, you shine your flashlight "out there" but there's no one... just the forest; as it always has been.

Coming out of the forest is where the steps start. It's a relief initially--at least you're not walking half scared anymore! But then the boredom takes over... the steps go around the mountain face and the higher you climb, the steeper they get. The sides of the step are dotted with little shops selling flowers, coconuts and other offerings to the Gods--most of them already setting up shop by early dawn. If you're lucky to have climbed on a non-festival day, you'll get to enjoy the solitude and the beauty of the place...otherwise it just becomes like any other holy shrine--noisy and crowded.

The beauty of Pavagadh though, is not in the climb. It is in seeing the sun rise over the mountain. Sitting at a vantage point on the cliff face of the mountain, a 1000ft drop behind you, you see the sky start to lighten and a faint chanting. You can't help but feel the divinity of the moment. The earth and heavens both awakening, in one moment, together. The sun rises up high now, clearing the mists and leaving you with a trace of the sublime...

Creative Non Fiction Workshop Exercise 1: The First Time

"So, will you play? The show starts in an hour", came Chirag's voice down the phone.

It was 7:30pm and I was still in the lab, having worked for 5 hours straight running an experiment. I paused, feeling incredulous at what he was asking me to do.

"Well, will you play ?", he asked again.

He was asking me whether I'd play the harmonica, an instrument I'd only just started to learn, in a rock show, in front of 200 people! Now although I play other instrument; and I have played in public before; but to play in a rock show ? Without even a bit of rehearsal ? Never!

Everything after that phone call seems like a blur now. The disbelief and the near-hysteric cackle after I agreed... Grabbing my bag and rushing out... The few rushed rehearsals... The bright glare of the lights... The leaden feeling in my legs... My hands trembling as I started playing... The screaming crowd fading into oblivion and the music taking centrestage... The relief when it was over... and finally the joy of being place second...

Looking back, I still don't know what made me say yes. Maybe it was the chance to escape from the cage of routine that life had become. Maybe it was the chance to do something completely on a whim. Or maybe it was just the chance to challenge myself.

But that momentary insanity of saying yes, led to an out of the world experience. Away from the deliberate, calculated, planned way in which I always lived. And for that, I shall be always be grateful to that phone call.