Excelsior Geyser | Yellowstone

The sun is still rising higher. 

Mist swirling into my eyes, face

swirling above me into the sky 

engulfing the few humans on the boardwalk. 

Greeting us with a mild sulphuric dew, enlivening skin and hair

Like a mother spraying soft water on her children's hot faces. 

I can't see, I can't photograph

but I feel one with the geyser, 

she is gentle and kind 

lets us sense her might 

just a little bit 

just as much as our little senses can comprehend. 

 

Bison | Yellowstone

Matted, tattered coat 

pulled over their heads. 

Big eyes cast down

along with horns and a big jaw 

cast down by gentle focus but mostly gravity. 

Unless they tip themselves over 

and roll around in the dust. 

Babies looking like woolly brown sheep, 

not yet with large heads, 

looking up expectantly. 

A lone bison sits by himself 

in a favored spot

on the incline before a cliff 

no fucks given.

The Grand Prismatic Spring | Yellowstone

Majestic. 

Bubbling blue and aqua 

easing into gentle teal.

Yellow soil and bacteria surround

in silty strokes.

Finally encircled by a sunlit orange 

radiating rays that bleed into the earth.

Nani

Nani. For years now, I've planned to sit down one day and write about the kickass woman that is Nani.

Nani loved her teatime. Even when she was well into her nineties, she did not lose her taste for treats. She had dementia, she didn’t remember most of us, and she was bedridden for about a decade (she never left her room really after Nanaji died). But she never lost her taste for good tea. She never lost her acute alertness for details. And she never lost the ability to sharply rap her middle-aged children with a disciplining word.

For the last few years, we had a regular tea ritual which was the highlight of our visits. We would visit in the evening around 4 or 5pm, when she had woken up from her nap. Mom would pack snacks bought on her travels, mithai, gajjak, chhaina murgi, Ghanaian chocolate, matthis and all kinds of namkeens. The maid at Garden Estate would make tea for all of us. Nani would sit up in her bed, we would all settle around her, the foldable tea table would be brought to the foot of the bed, and tea would be served.

Nani loved sugar in her tea. She would hawkishly examine whoever was on sugar duty for the evening. Normally it was Vidur. Per routine, Mom would pretend she had already sweetened the tea in the kitchen. This was because regardless of whether sugar had been put or not, Nani would take a sip and declare “Cheeni kam hai”. Then Vidur would add a spoonful to her cup, she would take a sip, and say “Hor pa!” After a few iterations of this, Vidur would deftly start putting fake spoonfuls in Nani’s cup and earnestly stir the tea. When this process had been repeated a few times, Nani would appear to be satisfied, and start drinking her tea. 

Nani would try most if not all of the snacks on the tray. She had none of that fragility or desire for simple foods that people often have in old age. She would munch on the Ghanaian chocolate, she would try the Matthis and if she liked them she would have 3 or 4. She dipped her biscuits in the tea, proper style. When she particularly liked something, she would say “Yeh kahaan se aaya? Bahut accha hai. Kitne ka aaya? Iske paise mujhse le lena!” 

Our visits always started the same way. We would come in and greet her, have her gently sit up, and then mom would lead the charge of introductions. “Nimma! I am your daughter Geeta!” From this nudge, Nani would quite quickly recognize mom, and then mom would introduce us all as her kids/husband. It was quite funny really -- while Nani certainly knew mom, she mainly opened up to us because she believed mom, not because she recognized us 100 percent!

My job was normally to help Nani sit up, and then be her backrest while she got out of the sleepiness and got used to sitting up again. Sometimes, she would just slump into me with all her weight, and though she was a tiny woman, she was really quite heavy! I remember I would have to use some resistance to keep her upright — I swear it was her strong will that was bearing me down despite her tiny size! 

In the initial years after Nanaji’s passing, I was also on duty to cut Nani’s nails. Mom was the CEO of this operation, and she would send someone off to bring warm water in a mug. I would be asked to soak Nani’s hands for a few minutes, while a newspaper was arranged and the nail cutter rummaged-for, normally with Kaka Mama’s help. Once these were ready, I would need to carefully cut Nani’s nails without hurting her. This was tricky because her nails were super hard and thick, and they were always quite on the long side. I would be on my toes during this operation, because she was acutely aware of every moment of nail-cutting, and after each nail was done, she would run her thumb over it to check if it had been cut properly. If she was not satisfied she would say “Ei phir katt!” She was also very particular about the nails being smooth -- if they were not, she would have me file them. In the end, she would always say “Thank you so much. God bless you,” sometimes with her hands folded.

In the later years though, Nani’s nails really got quite hard and only mom was skilled enough (and let’s face it, able to control her enough) to cut her nails. Mom would always look forward to this, and she took care of Nani like she was a newborn baby. She would cut her nails so gently, and rebuke her lovingly for letting them grow so long or not cleaning her hands under her fingernails. Mom was also required to maintain the highest nail-cutting standards; meanwhile, I was put full-time on backrest duty. I would massage Nani’s back while doing this. Her back was a bit rounded by then, like a concave curve. I would massage with my fists up and down her backbone, and she would invariably say “Hor zor naal kar.” When I combed her hair, it was the same. I would try to be extra gentle not to pull her hair, but she would always say “I can’t feel the comb! Phir se kar.”

Mom addressed Nani as “Nimma”. This is because Nani’s name was Nirmala as a child. When she got married, her name was changed to Sushma; but mom addressed her using a variant of her original name. In the earlier years mom would say “Nimma! Mainnu pechaneya?” But later she felt this caused Nani unnecessary confusion so she switched to “Nimma! Main Geeta! Thuadi beti!” This worked quite well.

In 2016, we managed to pull off a feat which had been mom’s dream for years: we took Nani to visit Chhatarpur temple. Nani was 91 years old at this time. It was near-impossible to convince her to get out of bed and walk. She had lost faith that she could walk; we kept giving her pep talks but she was not having any of it. She had had a terrible accident as a child, when her leg got caught in a mechanical wheel which caused multiple fractures. Her leg was always bad, and after Nanaji’s death she stopped feeling that she could walk on her own. The trip to Chattarpur was special because Nani and Nanaji used to visit this temple on key occasions, and this tradition passed on to the Sharmas too. I think only mom could have made it happen.

Moments from 25 March 2016, the day of the miraculous visit to the temple. 

Before we head to the temple. 

Dad: Mandir chaloge?

Nani: Kaunsa?

Dad: Chhatarpur.

Nani: Gaadi hai?

Dad: Haanji hai. Chaloge?

Nani: Meri kangi kaun karega??

In the car there. 

Nani: Kya karti hai aaj kal?

Me: Naukri.

Nani: Kitna kamaati hai?

Me: *Silence*

Nani: Yeh nahin bataayegi. Mein nahin maangoongi!

In the car on the way back. Nani is recounting memories from her pre-marriage days which she often does.

Nani: Mujhe khana banane ka shauk nahin tha. Papa bolte the, “beta kya karna hai? Aaj maid bhi nahin hai ghar mein sirf tum ho.” Main kehti thi, “pulao bana doongi. Usse pet bhar jaata hai.”

Me: Aap apne students ko daant te the?

Nani: Nahin, kabhi nahin. Humaare school mein humein bolte the, "Have some patience!"

Me: Aapko apne students pe gussa aata tha?

Nani: Naturally.

Back in nani’s room. It is teatime.

Nani looks at the sugar cup near the tea cup.

Nani: Yeh kya hai?

Vidur: Cheeni.

Nani takes a spoon of sugar and eats it directly instead of putting it in the teacup.

Nani: Bahut swaad hai.

Two minutes later, Nani takes a sip of tea.

Nani: Cheeni nahin daali.

Vidur puts in a fake spoon of sugar after having put 4 real ones.

Nani watches avidly as he puts the spoonful in.

The moment he finishes his act-

Nani: Aur daal.

Nani passed away on 20 December 2019, a Friday. It was the day mom and dad landed in Delhi after wrapping up mom’s apartment in Accra. Everyone said Nani had been waiting for mom before moving on. I believe that too. It’s a truth that you can feel rather than understand.

I remember Nani for her unfettered positivity. She emanated an infectious positive energy till the end, right into her advanced age and diminishing senses. She would always fold her hands and say "Thank you for coming. Bahut accha laga. Please come again,” when we were saying bye after the tea visits. She had the combined spirit of a mischievous child and an experienced matron, she would play and rebuke, all very lovingly, all without trying. It was simply who she was. I felt that she taught Mom to love in the generous, unfettered and joyful way that she does. 

She loved chanting "Jai Mata Di!". Once in a while Kaka mama would come into the room and go over the Jai Mata Di chant. He would stand by Nani's bed, and she would fold her hands. Then they would start: 

Kaka mama: Sare bolo!

Nani: Jai Mata Di!

KM: Zor se bolo!

Nani: Jai Mata Di! 

KM: Sheron wali!

Nani: Jai Mata Di!

KM: Ashta bhavani!

Nani: Jai Mata Di. 

Once Nani was lying down, either snoozing or on the verge of a nap, when mom and Minky masi started having a childish verbal spat. Minky masi was busy chastizing mom, when out of the blue, Nani declared: "Chup kar!" We were all taken aback, and Minky masi was stunned into silence! It was hilarious, and classic Nani.

Rest peacefully and joyfully, dear Nimma. 

I can remember so many moments when she made us laugh, and surprised us. I’ll leave you with some moments from a visit on Sunday, 8 November 2015.

Nani lays down as mom cuts her toenails. “You skipped the big toe!” Nani calls out as she leans back. 

Nani is holding my hand. She feels the rubber band on my wrist and tells me, “remove the rubber band.” Then she grasps my hand tightly. 

Nani and I are lying in her warm quilt. She has her eyes closed, but I keep engaging her in conversation. As I pause she says “Why don’t you let me go to sleep?”

***

Snow in November

It is snowing.
Snow transforms.
Transforms the window into a TV frame. Through which
the people come and go
passing by the christmas trees that line up outside the door
of Ace Hardware.
The orange trash truck, "Tenleytown Trash", leaves figure 8s
in its wake.
People on the street
anonymous indistinguishable yesterday,
are characters in a very American show.
A man takes out a wiping device
attached to a long stick
and cleans his car. Sketching neat patterns in the snowy layer,
falling snow outspeeds his progress
and he drives off.
Little ones walk,
overwhelmed by their protective jackets,
tottering balls of fur with hoodies and legs.
The cars, commonplace, parked in the lot every day,
become semi black-and-white, like the subjects
of photos in the 50's.
One man
has donned a summer beach hat
as he bikes on the pavement
crossing the christmas trees.
But it's 9am, on a Thursday after all, and my turn
to turn towards another screen.

Leaving from Vermont

Do we live in a world 

That’s already past its peak 

Small and big computers 

Fragment my distractions like the shredder of Banksy

Since I was born

I keep trying to go back in time

To simpler meals in huts and homes 

To the evening silence in villages of Udaipur 

Lately I strayed into the woods 

And I couldn’t leave without wrenching my self from them

Restaurant Table

You discuss your favourite philosophy and I frown, and so we talk,
till one by one, the rest of the party trickles by to say goodbye, and we are the last two left.
We order greek salad and continue the discussion and the frowning.
But the large table, communal a few minutes ago, becomes yours and mine.
The air becomes cooler, and the fairy lights dot the space above in a bright blur.

Boatman

(Volta river, Ada, Ghana.)

The clouds close overhead,
the water takes on a grey hue, mutedly shining like some molten metal,
the treeline in the distance is unchanged, muted and graceful now as it was in the sun.

The boatman is standing, one leg on the boat's edge,
a long oar piercing into the water, perhaps it could churn the molten silver all around, if he were a hero in an epic.

I try in vain to photograph the beauty of him, old man in an old boat,
strong, weather-worn, old.
Should I ask him first? He is too far. And moreover, he is part of the river.

Before the fireworks on the 4th of July

Big hallways up the pillars of the Supreme Court
(one of the three equal pillars of government, I overhear),
The smell of homemade sandwiches wafts, and the soft spray of the fountain drifts, light teal like the couch at home, on which I napped. And the quarterfinals are discussed.
Everyone's two hours early, in a tranquil wait for sundown,
And in these minutes before my friend arrives,
I think of you.

Lucknow III: Tourism

One evening I decided that enough was enough, the situation was getting out of hand, I needed to stop living by the screen light of my laptop. The clinching moment was when I ordered Domino’s pizza in the middle of answering emails. Here I was, on my tenth day in the city, a stone’s throw from the Hazratganj market with all the spiced kebabs of Lucknow on offer, for less than 200 rupees no less, and I was inside a guest room ordering Domino’s. (It was cheese-burst though, so I can’t say it wasn’t worth it.) And the European girl staying in the room upstairs had already been for a ‘history walk’ to the bhool-bhulaiya, after having arrived just the previous night. Unacceptable.

So the next day, on the way back from office, I got off at the Hazratganj bus stop and allowed myself to be absorbed into the beehive of people that was permanently present at the entrance of the market. The first order of the evening was to get a taste of the famous Lucknow kebabs. I floated along the waves of the crowd, using my elbows to convince myself that I was carving my own route, and slipped into the largest restaurant that wasn’t called Moti Mahal. (Every single city seems to have at least a few Moti Mahals, offering varying quality of what they consider North Indian fare, though many of them have nothing to do with each other. Of course, Hazratganj had one too. The common-ness of the name made dining in a Moti Mahal an un-novel thing to do.) The inside was grand in a familiar way, with tables and chairs wrapped in white cloth till the floor. The menu looked pretty regular, more or less the same selection of kebabs that the Delhi places offer. I ordered a safe-looking chicken kebab, with roomali roti that is ever a mystery with all the folds and whatnot, and a Coca-Cola which in my head was an essential part of the authentic kebab experience.

They took at least 25 minutes to bring the kebab and roomali roti, leaving me to stew in grumpiness from hunger. But when the food arrived, I got a taste of that Lucknow kebab magic after all. They were the simplest and softest kebabs I’d ever eaten, chicken with the scent of elaichi, delicate and powerful. The roomali roti was fairly Delhi-like, but with swirlier fairy folds, and even the coke tasted better after a bite of the kebabs. This thoroughly satisfied me, and I could happily go back to living in front of the laptop and ordering guiltless Domino’s in the homestay.

Lucknow II: Commute

The homestay was located behind Mayawati’s house, which was its claim to fame apart from the word of mouth from happy guests. I soon grew fond of the commute. The journey had three legs. The first was a walk along the winding lanes behind Mayawati’s house (the fifteen foot walls were safeguarded with five foot fences) till one found a (manual) rickshaw that would take one to the auto-rickshaw stop near the Hazratganj Market. Said winding lanes were below a highway, and passed by a number of interesting semi-underground havens. One was a large wall which had become a canvass for a variety of human expressions, including chalk graffiti, slogans, plain-paper posters of the local politicians, and urine from Indian males. Another was a nondescript shop of all the odds and ends that one can ever need, from biscuits in-lieu of breakfast to cigarettes, coke, chips, paan sachets, and tiny bottles of coconut hair-oil. The classic Indian kinara shop. Yet another haven was a nondescript temple, barely as big as the kinara shop, and with a vague gota-trimmed triangular flag waving above its orange-covered roof and a deity seated in the dark interior from where incense fragrance wafted out and mingled with the humid hanging air.

Once you arrived at Hazratganj Market, the second leg of the journey began. The auto-rickshaw stop stood across the archway of the old market, offering a packed glimpse of the place. Encrusted with shops on at least three or four storeys, the entrance was like a layered cake with a tuition centre on top of a restaurant on top of a garment store. My favourite was a tuition centre named ‘Epic’, which had the tagline ‘Even failed can pass!’. From here you took the shared-auto, which for fifteen rupees took you across an amazing distance at an alarming speed. Unlike the more expensive ‘personal’-auto, the shared-auto followed a definite, pre-defined path and had at least three other people, both major safety points as a young woman. We would zip by the detailed chaos of Hazratganj, and in a matter of minutes find ourselves along the massive, broad, vast highway with the bare building architecture, broad pillars, statues and waterless fountains gleaming under the sun, signifying the new glory of Lucknow. A few more minutes, and we would be among the shady groves of one of the V-khands, a residential neighbourhood where the office was located. 

This is where the third leg began. The shared-auto dropped you off at X and Y prominent hospital. At this point it was crucial to figure out which direction you needed to take. So packed was this area with identical sized shops, that the four points of the crossroads were impossible to distinguish as a newcomer. It was only once I had the names of all the shops memorised that the direction became intuitive. From here, you could either walk the final kilometre to the office, or, if you were lucky, take another (manual) rickshaw, feeling like a princess on this light-wheeled chariot. 

The most vibrant part of the commute was on the way home. The evening would start cooling the streets, and various impromptu kitchens would spring up on both sides of the road. Everyone who lived in the streets, from beggar men to women selling bhuttas, would come to the road with their pots and pans, large, clean and sturdy. They would light firewood and coal, and begin cooking dals, chopping onions, green chilis, tomatoes and potatoes. The evening would soon become fragrant with the smell of freshly cut herbs, and the street would be lit by the fires and embers of the open kitchen. It was a moving and organic sight, this communal daily dinner.

Lucknow I: N

After a week at the cheapest acceptable-looking guest house in Vijayant Khand, I was keen to move into the ancestral house-cum-newspaper office-cum-homestay that my Lucknow colleague recommended. I walked into the house and N greeted me. N spoke fluent Hindi with the fast cadence that mohalla ladies have while gossiping. He sometimes broke into English, which he spoke with a striking Western accent and dubious grammar. He was probably in his 60s, had thin hair spread out over his head, and was vaguely pear-shaped but not overweight.


Over a few days, N and I became comfortable and came to accept each other's flaws. I thought N was quite lazy, and N thought I was quite demanding. Both were true. The daily dinner included a small bowl of daal, some sabzi and two perfectly rolled, thin chapattis -- delicious and quite insufficient, I always felt. I often asked for extra helpings, which I think slightly annoyed him. He would disappear into the kitchen to talk to the "cook" but I'm quite certain that he was the cook. When he told me he had only been working at the house six months, I was surprised. "Yes," he quipped in his low, fast manner, "main jahaan bhi jaata hoon, bilkul wahan ka ban jaata hoon." ("Wherever I go, I become one with the place.") He had the gift of familiarity, which he quickly developed with all of us guests, and had clearly cultivated with his employer too. One felt comfortable confiding in him that the bathroom tap had stopped working, or that there was beer in the fridge. He would say "Ah, will you let me have one?" but would never actually take up the offer.


One morning when N handed me my lunchbox, I asked if I could get another helping of upma. N stopped, his eyes widened, and he looked up and down my face. I wasn't sure what to do, so I tried to keep a neutral expression (which might have erred on the side of the defiant) and maintained eye contact. After a few seconds, N took my lunchbox and brought it back with more upma. He half-approvingly said, "You have a bigger appetite than most young girls!"


Oftentimes, N played the Naarad Muni in his crisscross communication. As I paid for my stay, he explained that the receipt book was too old and he would not be able to keep a receipt to show his employer -- I would need to take with me the only receipt made for the payment. When I left, he told D that I had promised to sell him two bike helmets we had bought for our fieldwork. He bought them for a 100 rupees each. It confounds me what the man wanted to do with two bike helmets, and why he wanted to pay for them at all. But well, I didn't have a plan for them either!

Cherry Blossoms in DC

Suddenly, they are everywhere. Springing out behind a house, trapping the sunlight behind them, growing brighter each minute. Springing up on a street corner in Crestwood, blooming more with every step you take. Getting thicker, thicker, till they fill every other frame, they are there when you look up at the sky, there near the door of the church, flashing by just before the bus stops, standing in a line and peeping from behind each other when you turn the corner and look up.

They are there when you look out from your morning window, and there when your eye catches a swing and follows the ropes to the cherry branch, and there when you walk through Lafayette square to work, and petals filling up the old lamppost you are trying to photograph.

From the first tree spotted early in the season (is that a cherry?) to the hundredth (here's another cherry!), they pull you with their magic, along the green mall, to the thickest grove along the Monument which is rife with them. Branches lifting thousands of blossoms up to the sky. Branches bowing with weight, lower and lower each moment, kissing the ground. Branches woven into a frame through which the majestic landmarks of D.C. are seasonally seen. Martin Luther King, Roosevelt, Jefferson-- millions of flowers paying respects to all of them.

At the tidal basin, they transform the colours. Blue above, blue below, a soft pink and a rosy white dancing in the middle. They are really everywhere, thousands of trees, all in bloom, beckoning from three feet across and from the bank across the water. Flowers, bows, branches and trees, blooming round and reaching long, up, down and far till you don't know where to look!

Beautiful cherry, born to entice on a sunny blue day, one day a year.

Diary of Days | Nairobi, July 2017

The day started with N's smile which is warmth and dignity. Flashing past the city in a matatu, with loud music blaring from barely-installed speakers around a TV screen. I wondered at the driver's commitment to this setup. The front part of the matatu was all boarded up, leaving no possibility for a rear view mirror. Apart from being a distraction if too loud, the TV-speaker set must be a bit of a cost to buy, set up and maintain, especially since it's in a moving vehicle. Yet it is there, not in one but many matatus, and almost always blaring in full-blown glory. The TV-laden matatu doesn't just survive, it thrives. It's how it makes you feel. It's what it means to the thousands who use it, and even the thousands who don't, the place it occupies as the bad-boy of the road, showing off what Sacco it's tied to and what football club it supports (Chelsea and Arsenal seemed to be gunning for the top spot based on observations from the morning), a rushing bustling brewing of cult and culture. Safety, security, pshaw. How can they stand against the unfettered energy of this road creature?

We "alighted" (a word very common in daily Kenyan English) into a lane studded with a beautiful array of tiny apartments, curving along the bend and out of sight. As we walked down the main road, the bridge-railing on our right vanished, leaving us one step away from the roads 200 feet below. These are the sort of things that endear this place to me, no less because they instantly transport me to Delhi, Bombay, Bangalore, Lucknow, Banaras and a million cities that I could call home. 

The main road withered into a dusty path which in turn flourished into a thick parting of robust maize leaves as we found ourselves in the village. N led us into his house, and I was once again a bit shocked by how much it looked like the houses I have visited in Bangalore. We walked past a tiny kitchen with a firewood stove (literally a chulha!) into a snug living room, perhaps 10 feet by 8 feet, crammed with four sofas and a table, with a showcase (balancing a TV, two speakers, the entire cutlery of the house, and toothbrush containers) to boot.

For breakfast we had big containers of chai (!) and unassuming, sumptuous cake. F, N's wife, was beaming, silent, round and comforting. She had an air of contentment about her and gently smiled as she helped us wash our hands with mugs of warm water. We conversed with N in preliminary pleasantries braked with questions, with wide smiles beneath it all. He was very happy --as he smiled his weathered face deepened into crevices, and it looked like a hundred years of wisdom smiled with him. Perhaps our presence in his house made him feel like he was near G. She bubbled up in each stream that the conversation flowed in; this was a day dedicated to her. (If she knew she would be so pleased, lucky loved bastard.)

We finished breakfast and walked to church. This is the part I will dedicate least time to here, since we dedicated most time to it during the day. N is in the choir and was very keen to show us the best experience of the church. We stayed for two services, an hour-long English one and a 3-hour-long Kikuyu one. I nodded off about fifty times during the sermon, and when I was awake, I saw J nodding off and/or N looking across to see what we were up to. Ha. The church building was simple, full of clear windows shining with light. The members of the church seemed unassuming, and there was less showmanship than I was used to from the few churches I'd visited in Gaborone. The choir, the church secretary, the guitarist, drummers, and the wielders of the powerpoint presentation that projected hymn lyrics for all to sing (what a good use of PPT!) -- they all exuded a calm competence free of airs. After the somewhat interminable service we were reunited with N, who had changed out of his choir uniform, and were introduced to his many family members and friends. He insisted on providing for us in every way, from buying me a cup of fermented porridge to taking us to what he felt were good photo backdrops when we expressed a desire for photographs. But through it all he was talking of G, remembering her and beaming each time he got reminded that we were here because she sent us. 

By the time we strolled back to the homestead, I was feeling very at home with the surroundings and with N. F had readied lunch for us, and to my surprise she had prepared chapatti (that's actually what they call it in Kenya too!) and aloo-matar-beef (haha). Between the silent, stable homeliness, the home decor uncannily akin to S-ji's in Dommasandra circle, the tender and contained care from N, and the Indian-but-not-Indian food, I felt like I had come home. I had been longing for a trip home before my next relocation, knowing that I could not take one-- this chance trip to Nairobi fulfilled my home-longings in some strange, imperfect, precious way, piecing together memories from disparate spaces across India, melding them with jolts of surprise, creating a mosaic with enough elements of home to make me feel connected to the red soil that N proudly observed would stain our shoes. I felt comfortable enough to wander away from my host after lunch, and take rogue photos (so many attempts, so many misses!) of windows and doors around the homestead, ignoring some people and disrupting others in my heedless style. Again, something I've only done in Bangalore and Udaipur before. Perhaps I missed home badly enough to project it on the first suitable canvas I encountered. Nonetheless, the place remains one of the most precious I've visited, perhaps second to home.

***

A few wisps of memorable conversation. 

During lunch, a tail becomes visible in the three inches between the table and the sofa.
Me: Do I see a cat in there?
N: Yes, that's our cat.
Me: What's it's name?
N: It doesn't have a name.

After lunch, peeking into the living room to find the elusive Jo. sitting on the sofa.
Me: Hey you!!!!!
Jo.: <hides his face in his hands and shuts down>

In the matatu home (N is dropping us all the way back at 4pm, just like he came all the way to pick us up at 7am. He has the same smile from the morning-time and has become quite chatty.)
Me: How do you contact G?
N: I call her on this number.
Me: Oh, you call her phone?
N: Yes. I call her, because I like to hear her laughter.

Various point throughout the day.
N: No no no.
N: No no no...
N: No no no, 
N: No no no :) 

Diary of Days | Plumtree Border, April 2017

(Somewhere on the land border between Botswana and Zimbabwe.)

 

We're at the Plumtree border, clocking our fourth hour here. The sun is now bright. As the 4am chill in our skins starts thawing, our bodies forget the sensation of cold. 

Customs officers are checking bags. Or rather, sacks. One of them demands that a sack be emptied so that he can inspect the items. Two men handle, haul and wrestle with the sack as the officer stands by. Out come potatoes, and a pack of butternuts. There is also 2 kg pasta, a few feet of wire and random cans of beans. The men are gently amused and they put back the items. The potatoes go in first.

***

The lead conductor is in his element. He's walking around in his bus t-shirt, jacket tied around his waist, chewing gum with vigour. He's segregating bags, pouncing on the occasional passenger with customs-forms advice, and summoning his stout, hard working colleague with a gruff "Bighead -- Bighead!". He doesn't seem too concerned that we're steadily heading into our fifth hour at this border post.

***

Bighead works steadily, and is unassuming. He has a friendly face and is much slower at writing (filling in our passport details on the ticket sheet) than at shifting around heavy bags. His deftness with the big sacks is an interesting contrast to his in-bus persona.

Everyone is waiting, waiting good-naturedly. They're mostly Zimbabwean, and are calm and pleasant. Though there is the occasional worn-out youth who was up all night in the bus since the "standing" section of the bus were encroaching on his aisle-seat, sitting in his face and propping their legs up on his knees. He tries to catch a wink of respite out on the border-post platform, his bag propped under his head.

***

I of course, am feeling quite at home on this random border in Africa. Existential thoughts start whirring and settling. Why do I work so much? Do I need a break between jobs, and can I take one? I run so fast to keep up with life. Why don't I write everyday? I borrowed K's book and reading soothes me so. Why am I not reading more? What do I want to read? Am I on the way to becoming the person I want to become? I'm 24.

***

L, the worn-out youth, is now sipping coke. He brought a straw with him, I don't know from where. He looks buffeted and resigned as the sweet girls next to him laugh gently at something.

There's a single tree with big red flowers against the canvas of the sky. A woman sits eating a banana. In my line of vision she's directly under the tree. Life is so pretty.

My love affair with Kamla Nagar

The mad search for identity in the colour stained streets. Living the market life, where a quiet moment of solitude happens on the floor of a balcony, from where you can look up at the telephone lines and clothes lines. You can't see the chatter then, though you can always hear it.

A quiet moment of wonder comes when you look across a street into a lane you didn't notice before. A lane studded with its own houses, its own children taking turns on a bright green bicycle, even its own roosters clucking around and disrupting motorcycle traffic. But in the split second before you witness what lies behind the opening of the lane, you know it could be the lane leading to a seller of magic carpets, or a motherly tarot card reader who you could patronise, just to have someone to talk to.

The air is heavy with chatter all the time, the lights are always flashing, the rickshaw wallahs always beckoning. The heat is unrelenting, the life of the market palpably throbbing against it.

It's a home. You always return here tired. Often in search of some alone time to think or cry. Often not getting that moment, even one moment. Distracting yourself in a conversation with the warden of the PG, which leads to the conversation with your PG friend, and you visit her room and sit on her bed to evade the sense of loneliness that started reclaiming you when you climbed into that rickshaw back from college. 

The hours melt away here. The signing in at the camera-guarded gates and the picking up of keys from the key-box and the walking up to your friend's room and then coming down to dinner in a group that has ballooned to so many girls, and then chattering loudly, laughing, and seeming like the least lonely people in the dining hall, and the final return to the room to finally turn the unused key in the lock, and collapsing into bed in a fear of losing all this tomorrow. All the moments of the quarter-day fused together by the heat of time. 

The imaginary tinkling of music in a far away lane that you saw in the morning, which you imagine to be lit with soft yellow bulb-light. The image (in time it will fade away) of a girl or a boy sitting at a dull PG window, plucking away at a guitar.

I can feel, in my balcony (one of the only balconies of the congested market), the golgappas being fried at Vaishnav Chaat Bhandar, a kilometre away. I can feel the taste of the quick burger that I (exhausted after heavy efforts to draw out my innermost feelings in portrayal of a character on the carpeted stage of a dark auditorium in SRCC) bought from McDonald's in a new-found freedom to spend my money. I can feel people I know, at the coffee shops, and the juice shops, and the departmental store, that line the outer boundary of my market. I can feel the chowmein being prepared by "Maharaj ji" as his helpers wipe plates on the terrace. 

Once, four of us rode back on a rickshaw singing Don McLean's Amerian Pie, and alighted just as the song ended. 

Once, Shivan and I stood and just watched the owner of the egg-thela in his astonishingly meticulous cooking. 

Once, I got very scared on a long walk around the campus, when I thought I got lost.

And one day, maybe around the death of July, it went away. I've never found Kamla Nagar since.