All knotted up!

Two months of relaxation translates into an insane amount of time spent chatting with friends on the internet. One of my mates from Brisbane – a metro sexual, Indian, Business Analyst has been carrying on a discussion with me on the topic of Holy Matrimony – a theme, that I am irrevocably convinced, is a national obsession in India. Our discussion over the last week is the high point of a culmination of similar anecdotes from many a friend and cousin in the same age bracket.

“My father is arriving in Brisbane for a conference”, he writes. “I am dreading his visit. It will be one of those awkward father-and-son talks, about how – at 32 – I am perilously near my expiry date in the nuptial market.”

His email was almost despondent. I understood the feeling. At 29, I had been told by many an over-enthusiastic friend and relative that I was delaying the thought of marriage too much.

“Australia is such a small population”, he rued. “Such few Indian women to choose from. Besides, I have to first contend with the obstacles of over-enthusiastic screening parents who demand every last detail of my pay cheque and share nothing about the daughter, or descriptions and resumes that shame the best story tellers and even air-brushed and photo-shopped pictures of the girl!”

I laughed and typed back, “Oh yeah. I know exactly how you feel. My cousin was once offered an alliance where the prospective boy was like a sitting duck in a photo taken with a huge, weird feathery pillow on his lap! She forwarded it to me saying – Check the feathers on this beauty – I know I’m going to hell! We almost died laughing!”

My little tale seemed to cheer him up a little.

“You know, I even asked my parents to set me up with a good girl. Their choice had me horrified and running for cover!”

I had a little tale of my own to swap there.

“You know, the parents of my best friend called her and claimed that they had found the perfect boy for her – decent, intelligent, from the same profession as her – even from the same college as her. Suspiciously, she asked to see the boy’s particulars… It was the college druggie from our senior batch. After that her folks were officially banned from looking for a boy for her!”

He laughed out loud. “So don’t you have any horror stories of your own to share?”

“Nah. I have never let the groom hunt culminate into anything more than a vague possibility. Too busy chasing a career and a postgrad degree!”

His response was almost wistful.

“Lucky you, Shruti. I am thinking of co-authoring a book on all my experiences with the partner hunt, along with a girl I befriended on the matrimonial website.”

This tickled my funny bone.

“Ooh! How nice! There are all the elements of a great plot there – rib tickling comedy, tragedy, drama and hopefully a love story! Maybe you can sell the film rights after releasing the book! Can I write the introduction?”

His response was a wry, “You are running away with yourself! I’ll let you write a foreword for the book. But if I name the website, I’ll probably get sued for defamation. That will put a lid on all our grand plans. What should I do?”

“Well, give it an alias then”, I replied helpfully. “Maybe you can christen it shady.com.”

Laughing, I logged out of my email and gave my Macbook a sorely needed break from discussions on electronic dating and match making. Seriously though, the time frame for tying the knot may have changed, but it does remain a priority. Really not worth getting all ‘knotted up’ over!

Now if only someone could explain that to my match-making family!!

The friendly Neighbourhood Ghost

(I was recounting this story to dad and my sister, thought it would be a fun memory to blog about as well)

We had finally moved into the new home – and it was delightful. Located on a hilly street, in a leafy Brisbane suburb, close to the shops, train station, buses and yet, delightfully quiet, the house had a beautiful yard, quaint rooms and a lovely kitchen. As we settled in, we distributed home chores and responsibilities, and life progressed – tickety-boo. The one chore that we forgot to assign, was putting the bins out on the kerb every Tuesday, on Bin Day, when the council truck came along for collection.

So, the first Tuesday of our tenancy, I got out to get to work, and saw empty bins lining the pavement of the neighbourhood. Ours were conspicuous with their absence – being tucked away discreetly around the side of the house. I made a mental note to call Stephen (my new housemate), as soon as I got onto the bus. Twenty minutes later I had a bemused phone call from my housemate.

“Thank you for taking the bins out”, he said.

“You don’t need to be sarcastic!” I exclaimed. “I am sure that the bins will not overflow by next week.”

“Eh?” he returned, puzzled. “You did not take them out? But….but, the bins are empty.”

“Maybe someone else did it? Ask everyone at home”.

When I got home that evening, I had an army of confused housemates and friends waiting for my arrival. Nobody had put the bins out. Already there were a number of conspiracy theories brewing.

“Maybe you did not put anything in the bins this week.”

“Not true… I discarded heaps of packing boxes”, I retorted.

“Maybe a neighbour took it out?”

Someone snorted. “Oh yeah, the frail little eighty year old widow who lives alone next door?”

“Well, perhaps someone stole your rubbish?”

Laughing it off, we moved on to other things and soon forgot the mystery of the bins.

Next Tuesday, once again, the bins were forgotten. Yet again, they were empty. I glared at my two housemates with suspicion.

“Are you sure that you are not putting them out at night and just trying to freak me out?” I demanded.

They shook their heads in confusion. Our skeletal next-door neighbour tottered out at the very moment, and struggling visibly, wheeled her bins back into her house. We checked that option off our list of possibilities immediately. On the other side of our home was a set of partially constructed units. I could not imagine such exemplary behaviour from any of our neighbours, so as to wheel our bins in and out of the house.

“Curiouser and curiouser” as Alice in Wonderland would say!

The following Tuesday, our friend U, who was staying over, came out charging in the morning….

“I heard the collection truck come by. And I heard someone wheeling our bins. He or she was whistling”.

“Did you look out of the window and see who it was?”

“There was no one. I looked all around. Just the truck driver, sitting in his truck”.

I had goose-bumps as he finished recounting his experience. With unspoken agreement, we rushed out. The bins were indeed empty. We looked at each other – wide eyed.

“Maybe it is a ghost”, someone offered tentatively.

I shivered. I was not alone in my reaction.

“Aww. Come on. That kind of stuff does not happen.”

“Then how do you explain this?” I demanded, pointing to the empty bins.

Quietly we disbanded to face the day. By evening however, the spooky element was played down. The spectral presence was not harming us. He was quiet. He was helping us. Like a friendly neighbourhood ghost.

And so we christened him Melvyn.

Life continued peacefully after that. The house was delightful. Every Tuesday, Melvyn collected the bins and emptied them, unfailing. We stopped our investigations – no sane person looks a gift horse in the mouth, after all. We even contemplated leaving him a ‘Thank you’ note. But what if ghosts cannot read? Status quo continued for another three months.

On an idle Tuesday morning, into the fourth month of our tenancy, we were all sitting in the living room enjoying a cuppa. We had hosted a get-together for our friends the previous night, many of whom had stayed over. One of them Rahul, started to narrate how he was awakened in the morning by the clanging of the of the garbage truck.

“Did you know, that the truck driver wheels up your bins for you?” he asked, conversationally.

“WHAT?” we all started.

He looked at our shocked expressions.

“Did you not know that? Apparently the council records state that there is an old couple living here, and so he assists by wheeling out the bins.”

“Oh”

“I told him it was a mix up. He was delighted to know that he will not need to do that anymore.”

We looked at each others stumped expressions and burst out laughing. And so, just like that, the Legend of the Bins was explained rationally. The ghost story was forgotten, and I had a new chore every Monday night – putting the bins out.

And yet, I sort of like the Mervyn explanation better, though! It suddenly felt like we had one less member in the house!

Goodbye Brisbane!

In my two years in Brisbane, I made some of my closest friends – My boss, mentor and guide – Paul, (P – to many of you who have followed my blog), Brian, Shreema, Carrol, Hastak and Stephen.

They followed me through my ups and downs and helped me in my journey of self-discovery. With each person, I shared a unique equation, almost like all my friends knew a different ‘Shruti’. And yet, perhaps Paul and Stephen knew me most comprehensively.

This post is about Stephen – my best friend. I usually refrain from journaling deeply personal experiences in this blog, but I make an exception today. Partly because, I feel like it was worth sharing, and partly because Stephen (unlike all my other friends) never reads my blog.

Usually, I would give you some background and introduction, but as the intention of this piece is not, to make good reading, I will not include any detail on how we met, or became friends, or even our ups and downs. I will not draw much attention to his introversion, introspection, Indian-fascination, Italian origin, chocolate obsession, under confidence, patience, complexity, intelligence, sensitivity, moodiness, reclusion or humour. He was just my housemate Stephen, who gradually grew into being my buddy.

Leaving Brisbane was a hard time. I was stepping out of my comfort zone and perhaps I should have spent more time preparing myself. Instead, I tried to ignore it for as long as I could. Then I became ambivalent about my life ahead. But not for long. Reality and an almost tangible sense of homesickness hit when I landed in Delhi. And so – I started to do what every home-sick person does – call home. Or rather, call Stephen.

He was amused, gruff, supportive, sardonic and reclusive. Almost preparing himself to be forgotten by me, as I got involved in my new life, he chose to distance himself bit by bit. The more he distanced, the more I was wounded. I thought I needed his help, support and encouragement. It was like a dance of wounded souls.

Finally the inevitable happened. I issued an angry ultimatum and he admitted that for him, absence made the heart grow fonder, constant communication cheapened it. Our ideas on staying in touch were irreconcilable. Agreeing to disagree, we decided not to stay in touch anymore. It has been ever since, and will stay so.

It was amazing how quickly a friendship so deep, unravelled. Was it all because I left ‘on a jet plane’ one fine day? Or was it for deeper, more underlying issues? Are we so frightened of being abandoned by our friends, that it is easier to sabotage the friendship ourselves, first? And is it so difficult to process the grief of closing a chapter in your life, that you need the continuous encouragement and contact of a friend or loved one to get through it? I cannot say.

It has been two weeks since the day we said our final, super melodramatic goodbyes. I wept enough to justify a death, not a mere fight. Probably because I knew, that there was no going back. It was like a chapter closing in my life. The ties were cut. It was finally, my good bye to Brisbane. I was finally processing the grief and pain of leaving.

I just wish I had not sacrificed a friend in the process.

Happier times - Cheerfully Drunk at Easter

Quirky….in Pictures

I love Brisbane. And I can never explain how much. But here are some really quirky snaps that I shot on my humble cell phone camera…seriously! Have you ever had one of those moments where something so memorable came upon you, that you just HAD to click, but had no camera?! Well, here is a list of a few such moments – there were many more, but then I did not even have a cell phone handy!

Just two girls giving a free cuddle to anyone who felt low, at the top end of the Mall!

This was one Satruday morning – my friend Chinky and I were taking a day off from our harassed schedules in the mall- and wondering, what on earth could make us feel happier. And then we met these two – their enthusiasm was infectious!

Notice on the office of a Math Prof at uni

This was a notice I saw on the door of some Professor’s office in the Math Block. My Risk Management class was held in an auditorium in the Math Department.

Not long after...!!

The slightly pompous professor was rapidly pulled down a peg or two, by some devious mathematician brain by the time I walked out of my class!

The Butcher's best!

Stephen and I once drove down to a tiny little island called Russel Island – off the coast of Brisbane in Moreton Bay. It was really just a tiny little village of retirees, with one bank of shops – comprising a post office, a supermarket (IGA, not even Coles or Woolworths), a bakery, a beautician and a butcher.

I was most amused by the tall claim made by the butcher in this poster though, and HAD to whip out my phone camera!

Wax one leg... get the other leg free!!

Ok, so This photograph did not come out so well – a bit amateurish! But look beyond my obvious lack of photography skills and you will see the best kind of buy-one-get-one free… Wax one leg, and get the other one free!!

I laughed aloud so hard at this one, Stephen was afraid that the islanders would come and hit us!

Signage in the Parking Lot at the Powerhouse Theatre

The Old Brisbane Powerhouse, actually is the old renovated Powerhouse of Brisbane. Not only does it house some very beautiful riverside dining options, but is also a landmark on the art circuit, boasting of an eclectic mix of cinemas, art galleries, exhibitions, comedy clubs, jazz concerts and markets. After spending a lovely day poking around the complex, we walked out to see this quaint little sign in the car park!

Little Plastic men at the Bus Stop at Kelvin Grove

It was a balmy morning and I was hopelessly late for class. I descended, pre-occupied with my tardiness, from Chinky’s trendy urban Village apartment, to check for the next bus to University.

And there stood these three little plastic men on the bus schedule – perfectly balanced and blissfully unaware of life bustling around them. Others came and checked out the bus timings – everyone left with a smile… not one disturbed their little gathering!

Baby Yati and her "Doy" (doll) at Woolies

So, have you ever tried taking a restless two year old toddler into a super market? Its toddler heaven and parent hell all at the same time. Megha and I were in Woolies, to grab some provisions for dinner. Baby Yati brought along her Doy (Yati lingo for Doll) and decided to go for a ride!!

Suddenly, it was mutual heaven for Yati, Megha, me and the doy!

er... canine inspired coffee anyone??

Mount Coo-tha is the highest point in Brisbane – a delightful little hill top that offers a 360 degree view of the city. It also has this trendy little cafe and restaurant that serves delicious (albeit) expensive coffees and ice creams. I am not sure though, that many have paid attention to its name!!

Er.. Fake Gillete anyone?

The Chinese Mach 3

And then there was this one time that Stephen and I wandered into the dollar shop – looking to buy a cheap pack of cards. It was such a wonderfully funny place, that we were lost there for well over an hour. I was most thrilled to find Fake Gillete shaving gear… now if only someone could get the Chinese to spell right! lol! I wonder who would risk his neck though!

A Day in the Park

(It’s a sad time for me – the last few days that I have left in Brisbane. I have been packing and wrapping up affairs with a heavy heart. Days are poignant with silent goodbyes – and also wondering – with some trepidation about what the future holds)

There was a new message in my inbox. It was from one of my dearest friends – Stephen. It may sound odd that I routinely correspond with my closest friends in the same city over the internet, but I have come to find it a more efficient way of staying in touch (not to mention, heaps cheaper!)

“Hi Shruti,
I don’t think I will come out with you guys today – I had an awful night last night and I think I will just buy a slab of chocolate, and eat it up by myself today.
Be good.
- S”

Perplexed, I looked at the email for a minute or two.

Two years in Brisbane have given me an unusual assortment of friends and experiences. They have also taught me, that being friends with someone also entails knowing, understanding and accepting all the peculiarities of that someone. Stephen is often a tad bit temperamental, pig headed and shy. But being moronic in the final ten days of my Brisbane stint, hardly seemed likely.

This required some Shruti intervention. Sighing, I picked up the phone and called my other friend Megha.

“Hi, Megha! I’m going to have to cancel our plans for the day. I have yet to recover from my wisdom tooth extraction and I think I should take it easy today.”

(In a burst of bravado, I recently sat myself in the dentist’s chair and had all my wisdom teeth extracted… but that makes for another tale!)

As I expected, Megha was concerned and sympathetic. Giving me plenty of advice to rest, we re-scheduled for the weekend. It was now time to call Steve.

He picked up with a gruff “Hello?”

“My tooth hurts”, I announced plaintively. “Please come and distract me”.

“Oh ok”, he said and paused to think. “Have you taken a pain killer?”

“That and more. Please help me get my mind off it?”

“Oh very well. Ill be there in ten minutes”.

And so, some twenty minutes later, we were sprawled in the grass of New Farm Park, on the banks of the Brisbane River, enjoying the winter sunshine and waving at boats and people as they crossed. It was a beautiful day. I bought us some scorched almonds (chocolate coated almonds – otherwise christened ‘Little Drops of Heaven’) and we munched them away as we explored the old Brisbane Powerhouse by the riverside.

Some candy never goes amiss

Having explored the park and powerhouse to our hearts content, we then popped into the local village Deli for a hearty meal of spaghetti and cappuccino. Stephen is of Italian-Australian origin and so shares with me a passion for Mediterranean food, wine and culture. We walked through the aisles of the deli, wondering at huge wheels of parmiggiano, piles of garlic stuffed, wine marinated kalamata olives and freshly baked foccaccia.

It was the two dollar shop next, where we bought a pack of cards and headed back to the park to play a heated game of cards. Soon however, all that food clogged up our brains and seriously impaired our ability to think. Abandoning the game, we lay on our backs and lazily studied cloud patterns.

Lounging in the grass

“You know”, started Stephen, “This day turned out so different from what I had imagined it would be.”

I had been waiting for him to initiate this conversation all day.

“What did you think it would be like?” I queried tentatively.

“Oh you know, I thought that I would spend the whole day in a corner in the library, trying to do some compulsory reading for class, alone. I had a really bad night”.

“What happened?”

“You know, how some people have nightmares all night? Not me. I have nightmares for an instant, then they are gone and a new one starts”.

“Nightmares? What kind?”

“Oh you know – there were multiple themes. Silly really”.

“Tell me.”

“Well for starters – that all my friends are leaving me, one at a time. You being the fourth of my closest friends to go”.

“Fair enough. What else?”

“Oh, that I am doing nothing, I have done nothing. That I don’t know what I will do with my life, I’m going nowhere, what will I do with Political Science study, that my car is so old, I don’t like the place I live in, and… and… you know?”

He looked across at me helplessly.

“Well, yes. I do know actually. You are one of my closest friends. And leaving Brisbane, feels like I’m leaving my home. I feel so sad that I am going – and that it will be so long before I see you again”.

He smiled.

“It is genuinely sad, Stephen”, I continued. “But we will be in touch. And you will make more friends – as hard as it may seem right now”.

“It seems like a lot of effort right now”.

“You will be fine. You’re feelings are justified. But, feeling sad about it does not justify ridiculing everything in your life. You are doing well. Stop criticizing everything in your life. Just because you are feeling sad, is not a good reason for your brain to pull out every skeleton in your closet and endorse your supposed failures”.

He looked at me wonderingly.

“You are so… right! I am my own worst enemy.”

We both laughed and looked away easily. His eyes started to follow a pigeon, as it edged hopefully towards our scorched almonds.

“And one more thing…”

He looked back at me questioningly.

“The next time you feel upset – locking yourself into a miserable corner of the library is the worst thing you could do. It is like pushing a drowning man deep under.”

Stephen started to laugh at the image I had conjured up.

“Yes it is a bit like that, is it not?”

“It is”, I agreed, smiling. “Instead, step out, find a friend to hang out with. Or do something fun. Remind yourself that life is beautiful – definitely not as bad as you make it out to be.”

“Why thank you Shruti. You are……aaaargh!”

The rest of his sentence was lost on the world, as I playfully punched him in the solar plexus. We wrestled each other like two puppies – both feeling a lot lighter and happier. Both of us had needed to be reminded of the silver lining on our grey clouds.

Happy friendship week!

Life is Beautiful!

Two Weeks

It has been an insane week. I just finished up my degree and needed to file for the Australian residency. It was the end of the financial year and that time of the year when I dream returns, activity statements and payment summaries in my sleep. As the pile of things-to-accomplish steadily grew larger and larger, I started to get irritable and frustrated. I needed a target or outlet to point all my furies at really quickly.

As it turned out, it really was not a long wait to find that target.

Filing for an Australian residency needs a lot of paperwork and two key documents needed, were my Academic credits and a Letter of Course Completion. The lawyer had impressed upon me, the paucity of time and the significance of filing early, so I awaited the declaration of my results with geat anxiety. No sooner was I intimated by email of the release of marks, implying my successful graduation, than I decided to try and get the two said documents released to me over the counter at university.

Since I was working full-time, I requested my friend Hastak to drop in at the Student Centre at University and fill up the paperwork for me. Later in the day, I received a call from him.

“Hi Shruti”, said Hastak, in a curiously flat voice. “I’m at the student centre now and have asked the lady about paying for an instant issue of your paperwork”.

“Oh yes”, I responded.

“She says that it is possible for you to fill a form and pay a fee – $30 for the Academic credits and $10 for a Letter of Completion, to have it issued to you earlier.”

“Oh excellent. So should I come down and pay it now….?”

“She also says that if you let it be, you should receive the documents in your mail in two weeks, by the standard procedure,” he interrupted me.

“Oh no, no,” I replied. “Its hardly a lot of money, I’d much rather pay for the documents and have some peace of mind. How soon can I get the documents by the paid procedure?”

“In two weeks”, replied Hastak in a resigned tone.

It may not sound very civilized, but grinding your teeth while growling under your breath is a great way to relieve stress. I can personally vouch for its effectiveness in most situations.

Sometimes though, you just cannot win. And there is merit in recognising that! ☺

Are you being served?

I am Indian. I have grown up in an environment teeming with people and life. And so, I am quite accustomed to the impatience that is characteristic of us Indians, as also our gross inability to queue up patiently for anything. Being from the educated middle class though, my sister and I were trained to wait our turn patiently, make way for the elderly and the disabled and facilitate their needs. Since mum is a teacher, I have unknowingly imbibed her righteous, strict, school teacher-ly way of telling people off.

Often, I found myself in an uncomfortable situation, turning back to glare at a jostling crowd, while I patiently allowed a person to go before me at a queue in a cinema, or at the bank or provident fund office. My self-righteous glares were met with looks of insolence, frustration and impatience.

At the hotel where I worked, we did up complex statistical studies on queuing theory, to ensure that wait times in any queue did not cross the miniscule threshold of patience possessed by the Indian customer. Therefore we had multiple service counters at peak hours, better technology and improved layouts to ensure the best ergo dynamics. Strangely though, it never seemed to help. It was almost as if people’s capacity to wait shrunk to match our improved processing times. How long a minute truly is, depends on which side of the counter you stand.

Interestingly though, I saw a simple resolution to this problem very recently.

A few days back, on a grey, bitterly cold and wet afternoon, I queued up for a bus home. I think all the passengers were unanimously awaiting the warm dry interior of the bus. The bus came along and we stepped forward expectantly. There was a little old lady at the top of the queue. She was hard of hearing, slow and finding it rather difficult to manage her things, find some change and buy a ticket. All around me people were irritable and shifty. I cringed as I heard the gentleman ahead of me mumble to himself in annoyance. I felt the same annoyance and righteousness well up in my blood.

The bus driver was a petite, smiling, blonde-haired lady. As she patiently dealt with her aged passenger, she looked up and beyond at us, assessing the scene in a flash. Finally she dispensed a ticket, and got the lady seated on a seat close to her. Smiling, she beckoned the rest of the queue to step in.

“Thank you so much for your patience and for allowing me to assist my first passenger for longer – that was most understanding”, she announced cheerily, looking pleasantly at the gentleman ahead of me in the eye.

Her words brought on an almost instantaneous transformation in everyone – me included. We boarded the bus – taller and happier – for once, part of the solution and not the problem. It was a wonderful feeling. Mr. Grumbler clambered in ahead of me, tilting his head sideways as he crossed the little old lady. Not surprisingly, he rushed to her aid, to assist her disembark from the bus at her destination.

Righteousness has no place in such situations. We all want to be part of a positive change – we just need to be reminded of it sometimes!

Meditation class

“Are you a religious person?”

I goggled across at the lifestyle counselor when she posed this question of me. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I had decided to try out the counseling services offered by the university to all its students.

“I am Indian”, I said slowly. “So I guess you could say that religion is embedded in every thing I do, even though I am not consciously aware of it”.

“I see. So do you attend prayer meetings, or listen to devotional songs on a regular basis?”

“No. No,” I answered. “I mean, I respect all prayers. But I guess you could say that I am more spiritual than religious”. I was pleased as pat with my answer.

“Hmmm…” She did not appear impressed. “So do you pray at all?”

“Oh yes, all the time”, I said emphatically.

“And how do you pray?”

“Er…how do I pray?” I was stumped. “Well, you know…nothing formal. I just keep having an informal chat with God as I go along my day”.

She shook her head at me.

“You are probably analyzing everything under the guise of talking to God. That is not praying.”

I felt indignant.

“And do you have any hobbies?”

“I write a lot. I even maintain a blog”, I finished proudly.

“That is probably more analysis there. Don’t you do anything restful at all?”

“Oh that’s easy. I love to read…I read incessantly”.

She looked up – pleased for the first time in thirty-five minutes.

“Really?”

“Oh yes. In fact I read at least three books simultaneously”.

She looked more defeated than I felt.

“That is not relaxing. So you work and study – both of which individually would be a full load. Then you read like a maniac, write, analyze and socialize. But you have never learnt to relax or meditate?”

I shook my head – at a loss to explain.

“Well, we did undergo guided meditation frequently when I was training. But I found it really hard. My brain would not shut down. It was like someone wanted to chain down my legs and arms. I felt the need to drum my fingers or wriggle my toes incessantly”, I finished helplessly.

Her look was almost pitying.

“I want you to find a guided meditation class that focuses on breathing exercises. Stay with it for four weeks. If after four weeks you do not find it beneficial, you can come back to me, and we shall try something else.”

I can be almost dogmatic about something, once I get started. And so, even though I had my doubts, I found a convenient weekly meditation class in Brisbane. As was to be expected, I did not experience any great benefits in the first visit.

But it was a pleasing environment in the class, conducted by the Brisbane River on Thursday evenings, with soft music and group chanting of simple Hindu mantras. Besides I have never been one to fail or give up without a battle. So I stayed with it.

And it truly was a battle. Sometimes I think that we make out simple concepts to be harder than they actually are, when we are resistant. And so, I’d experience a ticklish cheek or an aching leg through my deep meditation hour, while all around me people looked flushed, rejuvenated and deeply relaxed.

Last night was my fourth week. Resigning myself to yet another two hours of slow torture, I decided to at least make myself as comfortable as possible. And so, I placed a cushion under my knees, an eye cushion on my eyes and took a blanket, as it often got very cold. Closing my eyes, I chanted the mantra absently, listening to the music and my voice.

I awoke with a start some forty-five minutes later…and I say ‘awoke’ for lack of a better word. I was not asleep, and yet was not truly awake either. It was a most puzzling sensation for one who is so used to being in control all the time. Almost like being lost for an indeterminate period. And then being found.

I lay there in the darkness and tried to evaluate my experience. But it was not to be evaluated. My mind was too busy floating around in the quiet. For once, it was completely stilled. All around me, people were silently listening to their breathing. As the music faded, we turned on our side and rose.

I saw rosy, rejuvenated faces all around me. For once, I felt like a part of them. The yoga teacher smiled a special smile across to me. She understood.

Letting go of everything is a restful feeling. I now saw what the counselor wanted me to experience.

I floated home, the stillness in my head still lasting.

Easter Sunday

It was Easter Sunday and we were strewn on couches in my friend Carrol’s house.

I always find that I tend to awake from a night of wining and dining very early and very mentally alert. Unfortunately no one else ever wakes up at the same hour – usually they surface about five hours later, clutching their heads and stomachs, looking decidedly green. So I have consigned myself to cleaning, organising or reading in the aftermath of a party.

Unfortunately, none of the above mentioned avenues were available to me in Carrol’s chic little townhouse. Padding up to the kitchen counter, I silently scanned her shelves for a glass. In the semi-darkness, I could make out a shape on the other couch. Carrol and Maureen were probably in a semi-comatose condition in the next room.

There was a clatter as I inadvertently fell over a wire on my journey back to the couch. The bump on the second couch stirred and flipped back the bedclothes.

“You are always SUCH an early riser,” sleepily Stephen shook his head at me.

“Sorry”, I mouthed to him wryly. “Go back to sleep, its only five-thirty. I don’t know why I cannot sleep”.

“Oh well”, he said, as he got up and peered at his watch. “ I am awake now. Lets get a cup of tea each and watch the day emerge”.

And so, ten minutes later, steaming mugs of tea in hand we sat on the terrace watching the rain-soaked day emerge. I relaxed, not feeling the need to be entertaining – Stephen is a very gentle, almost painfully shy soul – he is happy to sit still and not make too much idle conversation.

“This is a very nice house”, he suddenly said to me.

Startled out of my reverie, I looked across at him and smiled.

“It is, is it not? Carrol’s brother purchased it last year.”

“Really?” Stephen’s eyes widened at me. “They are not renting? Wow.” He looked around him with renewed interest. “So what does Carrol’s brother do again?”

“He is an IT Engineer,” I smiled at him.

Stephen stopped his perusal of the wooden deck and looked at me quizzically.

“An IT engineer? Wow. How come all you Indians are IT Engineers, Bankers and Doctors?”

I grinned smugly. “Because a good education is very important for us. We are also, generally speaking, more IT savvy and literate, in our middle class population subset, than most nations.”

He looked at me thoughtfully, nodding gently.
“Yes, I did read that. But you know I always wonder… How come I never find Indians who are…..”

“…Plumbers, builders and carpenters?” I completed for him, with some amusement. “Unlike Australia, the middle class prefers the more educated professions than the trades in India.”

Stephen shook his head at me and smiled. “I was not going to refer to the trades. I do know that the trades are not considered viable professions in the Upper Indian middle class.”

“Sorry Steve”, I said, chastised. “I have to learn to stop interrupting you. You were saying….?”

“Well,” he said. “I was wondering how come no Indians are in professions like….Urban Town Planning, for instance.”

I goggled at him. “Urban Town Planning?”

“Well yes, you know,” he said matter-of-factedly. “What kind of shops are located in a locality, what kind of traffic will flock to them? And so, what network of roads should be laid, etc. etc.”

That is the amazing thing about Stephen. He can suddenly come up with an astonishing idea and stop you in your tracks.

“I don’t think that is really considered”.

“What do you mean?” he asked me. “I mean, surely, you have such large cities. These factors must need planning and hence professionals?”

“No. No. I mean, sure, we have health, sanitation and civic authorities. But so many of our cities have grown so organically, I don’t think they were ever consciously constructed.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Like many other cities in the world,” I said, somewhat defensively. “And I think a lot of this is covered in architecture and urban design. But I cannot recall the civil planning authorities being recruited from Urban Planning designers, really”.

He just shook his head at me.

“And so, I don’t think any parent tells his child – ‘Why don’t you think about becoming an Urban Design Planner’. Do you understand?”

“Hmm…I do. Its like a blind spot in a world of scientists, accountants doctors and engineers.”

We fell silent again – and I contemplated his words. Perhaps it really was our blind spot. One of our challenges as Indians is the heterogeneity of our society. And the fact that the educated Indians are so busy catering to the more visible demands of the Western world, we fail to see the opportunities in the domestic markets. Perhaps it is also, that the average consumer in India still cannot afford a well-planned city, or other civic possibilities that my blinded brain cannot think of. And so, till the demand does not arise, there will be no need to ensure a supply. Whatever the reason, I definitely cannot remember the last time Urban Design Planning was discussed in a career counselling workshop that I attended.

Suddenly, there was a shuffling noise from inside. Carrol emerged looking dishevelled and sleepy.

“You always wake up super early after a big night,” she looked at me accusingly. “What was your over-active brain analysing this time?”

I merely shrugged and smiled.

“Shall we get some more tea and some breakfast?”

Fools Day

N is a lovely, old client of P’s. She has been seeing him for many years now, and counts him as a very fond friend. A fortnight ago, she stood across the counter from me, making her next time to see P.

“Oh, please can I see him in a fortnight on the Wednesday?” she asked.

“Sure thing. Your usual time?”

“Oh yes,” she responded. “Unless he comes in earlier? It’s April Fools Day on the day and I want to play a prank on him”.

After she left, I smiled to myself and made a mental note to be in office the next time N was to come in. I did not want to miss this.

Two days back, she called me to re-confirm.

“So, I am the very first client he will see on Wednesday, right?” she re-affirmed.

“Oh yes”, I said, absently.

“Good. Because I have thought of how to confuse him.”

Today, I watched N with some amusement, as she waited eagerly in the waiting area. I hoped that her prank would be successful. Soon, an unsuspecting P ushered her into the consult room, closing the door behind him. Some five minutes later, I heard much guffawing and laughter drift through the closed door.

“Her prank must have been successful”, I thought to myself absently.

Fifty minutes later, N walked out wringing her hands. She sought me out almost instantly.

“Do you know what happened?”

I looked from her to P, questioningly.

“As I sat down across him, I told him that he was wearing socks from two different pairs.”

P chuckled.

“I expected him to get flustered and check his socks,” she shook her head sadly.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Oh, he just exclaimed at how perceptive I was.”

I was confused.
As if to explain, P raised his trouser legs to reveal one black and one grey sock each.

Trying to contain my amusement, I consoled her.

“I understand N. Does it not worry you that he is a certified practitioner?”

“Oh well”, she said with some gentle irony. “I guess you have to be a little crazy yourself, to treat the crazy.”

I smiled and looked to P, who by now, was gleefully recounting the episode to someone else in the office and showing off his mismatched socks.

“I really should see someone,” I heard his voice ring out merrily, “But I cannot afford to see myself.”

Laughing helplessly, I went back to my work.