This actually happened!

After a long day spent tackling a part fictitious problem for a fully real organization, Mr. D cracks me up. Of course, he has no idea why.

Mr. D: Do you speak French?

Me: Un pah!

Mr. D: Ha ha! So, you speak English and Indian?

Me:!!!

*****

Recruiting season was quite a hilarious ride for me. I didn't expect to enjoy it this much but the unforeseen fun I had did take me by surprise.

Recruiter: I am impressed with your accomplishments. But, your driving experience concerns me.
Me: What are you talking about? I don't have one to concern you
(Recruiter: Precisely!)

*****

Being brown and being tan are not one and the same thing. Or, are they?

S: Hey, you look so tan!
Me: Yep, it's all year long.
S: Wow, really!
Me:!!!

*****

Being Indian in Quebec warrants for some strange culture clashes that later evoke laughter.

J's father kisses both my cheeks as is customary in this part of the world. I awkwardly oblige. Then, he winks and says, "You come from country where no kissing in public, no?". Of course, he knew that and yet...

Frozen Frames

There are these moments with these people. In the elevator. In a crowded train. In an empty train with no one and nothing but the space and the air molecules between you and them. When you are just about to turn down an aisle in PA on a frenzied Friday and your OCD stomps in. You stop in your tracks bringing to a momentary stop the rhythm of the collective pulse of all the shoppers. And, unapologetically holding the cart in front of you, you lean backwards to check if you have missed anything. And, in that moment, you catch their eye. Them whom you did not know lived and breathed and shared this planet until this very moment when you shared the light rays bouncing off your eye lenses. In that moment, although they are unknown to you, they cease to be unseen.

They don’t have to be a stranger. They can be the casual acquaintance with whom you deconstructed a life puzzle. If only by fortuitous timing. This morning, this happened to me. I could not have not noticed that bright sunshiny yellow jacket. Even if I had tried. They were standing there ear pods plugged in their ears and thick glasses perched on their nose. And, there was a moment’s urgent hesitation to just keep walking past them. It is the easier path. The path of least resistance. At that moment, their head turned and they could not have missed me either. Even if they had tried. We entered into a definitely genuine yet laborious exchange of pleasantries and updates about each other’s understandably exciting immediate future. Of course, there is something seductive about the impending immediacy of an un-occurred event that has not yet shattered or surpassed the built up superhuman expectations. We, then, could have promptly said goodbye and walked away. Yet, we did not.

For the next several minutes, we stood there talking about what motivated us to study our respective fields. I have a lot of time these days and I spend a lot of that in my head. So, I am reflecting on life, and connecting with others at that subliminal level, and relying on those shared moments to understand why things unravel sometimes and are just perfect some other times. It is impossible to justify my numerous decisions that are still continuously weaving themselves into a carpet of my remarkably colourful existence. An existence that makes justifications irrelevant. Maybe if I tried and maybe with some help, I will understand that. As a means to that end, I have deliberately slowed and in that I have found ways to connect. As a result, there is a collection I am slowly building up. A trove of treasured moments.   

Don’t get me wrong! I love running, too. In fact, till this point, I have been running at what might even qualify for a breakneck pace. I have devoted much of my young life on sharp productivity for sustained performance. In turn, I have flirted freely with the inevitable darkness and experienced the full force of unwieldy being. I know all too well that point. That point called giving up altogether. I am lucky and grateful that that point was not a destination. I would like to believe I have learned to stay connected, to slow and not to self-destruct.

Tonight, as I replay today, it flashes forward in slow motion, dwelling delightfully on each frozen frame. Amidst the bustle of learning a new language, figuring how to run an NGO, a passion pet project, putting down the words necessary to graduate, learning a new choreography, attempting to produce radio, and desperately trying to not break my neck or leg on an icy sidewalk, I have become of a collector of these frozen frames. I do not have all the answers. I do not know what the balance is. I am going by my gut. I am going by feel. And, right now, how this feels feels right.  

All of our selves

We are happy/ We are sad// We stay calm/ We get mad// We are eloquent/ We do fumble// We are articulate/ We also mumble//

We are gentle and savage// We are whole and damaged// We are garrulous and reserved// We are fresh and preserved// We are green and gnawed// In time, mellow and marred//

We are obtuse/ We are astute// We are sincere/ We are synthetic// We are kind/ We are cruel// We are bound/ We fly free//

We are joyful and cynical// We are casual and methodical// We are approving and critical// We are emotional and physical// We do falter and fall// In time, we' walk tall//

There are so many of us// There are so many of them// All of them in us// All of us is them// When we all deem as one// My work here is done//

Home

She was twelve years old when she left home for the very first time. It was to go on a nature walk at a local reserve park as part of the "Kids for Tigers" program. She was to leave home at 7 am and was expected back later that night. Technically, it would not qualify as leaving home. But, for someone who had never been anywhere without the constant, caring and concerned presence of her family, this was a start. Granted there were no tigers in the park nor do 12 year olds qualify as kids, but the vibrant paradise fly catchers and the gregarious jungle babblers more than made up for it. There was also the Plaster of Paris impressions of black buck hooves. It was fun, joyful and liberating in myriad ways that only a twelve year old can possibly fathom.

She was still a teen when she spent a few summer months in McLeod House, Fredericton. Getting there on her first ever flight was exhilarating. The persistent hum of the engine was hardly annoying. Her inane excitement had replaced the usual claustrophobia that accompanies with being trapped in a 757 with a multitude of strangers. Landing gear failures were a myth. So was the insipid nature of airline food. She celebrated her birthday against the backdrop of a sky lit up with fireworks at Niagara. Life could not be better. All that mattered was the sweet smell of independence, of doing your own thing, and of making your mark in the world. Of course, we can offer some latitude to a naive, delusional, unscarred teenager, can't we?

A year later she backpacked across the sub-continent and trekked up the Himalayas. Woman on a mission but when the mission was accomplished, home bound she was. Another year passed. She was in the abode of a well respected Buddhist monk. That escapade too had an expiry date.

Three years hence, after a battle or two lost but with the relentless spirit not all intact, she left home another time. Only, she was not going to return later that night or even in a few months.

What is home? Where is home? Who is home?

What is home? Is it the the pale blue walls and the grainy, granite floors of an urban dwelling? Is it the salt of the sea that you feel before you smell? Is it the parks that are in ruin or the potholes in the streets? Is it the intolerable rush hour traffic or the insufferably ruthless heat that is waiting to scorch you alive?

Who is home? Is it unconditional love in the form of your mother or the firm discipline in the guise of your father? Is it the sister who is almost always second mother? Is it the unruly kid next door who shares his birthday with you? Is it the neighbour who instantly recognises you from only hearing the whining engine of your two wheeler? Is it the shopkeeper at the photocopy shop who gives you a hearty discount? Or could it be the infuriatingly noisy crow that incessantly crows at your window sill every morning to eat the food your mother not-so-secretly feeds?  

Where is home? Home is where the heart is. But, hearts are by default treacherous and deceitful. They often cloud judgement and conjure confusion. Most of all, they set off a chain reaction with chemical precursors that signal the onset of an emotion that is specifically designed to overwhelm logic and reason. (Author note: Quite likely the reason for this ramble).

For the longest period of time, she lived in denial assiduously avoiding any and all talks of the sub-continent. Clarity remained elusive. She didn't fit in. She felt different and definitely looked different.

Another year passed. Home and the sub-continent slowly ceased to be synonymous. She scoured the best vegan places in town and devoured blizzards at DQ. She whipped up some red velvet cupcakes and learnt to skip pronouncing four of seven letters in Jacques. She took up sports and blossomed into a semi-professional dancer. She made a friend and then some more and then even more. She unwittingly witnessed ice-hockey in rapt attention with an astonishment characteristic of a child who learns about gravity for the first time. Soon enough, she will feel she has made her home, whatever that means. Who knows, there probably never was an expiry date to begin with.

Back covers in a blink # 1

She was a freshly minted nerdy PhD-glaciologist. He was a wise beyond his age diplomat working for the government of the United Provinces. Fate and their combined intellectual curiousity put them on a flight bound for Tybet, a recently separated free nation from  the Red Territories. Little did they know, this was to be the flight of their lives.
Interspersed with historical developments inside Tybet, 'In the land of Snow', **** debut novel travels seamlessly between the past and the present. Starting with the mystery of Tybet's exiled leader gone missing,  **** goes on to intertwine a compelling romantic encounter with the most pressing issue of our not so distant past.

                                          --- UP Times best seller ---   

Connected

If one thing can bring people together and break ice, that's food. Well, there are two things that can do that. Given that my supervisor almost always mentions the weather in every meeting, I can't believe I forgot that. Okay, there could many more things. Clearly, my digressions here indicate my state of mind. Getting back, Santropol Roulant is an 'NGO-type' organisation that uses food as a means to bring people together. Food security, urban heat island effect, rooftop gardening, hydroponics, meals-on-wheels, inter-generational gardening - all of these fall within their ambit.
Having casually started weeding at Jane's garden, I found myself at SR one evening with Jane. My experiments in Jane's patch were more a way of spending time with Hans (he's 95!) and hearing stories of Hitler. But, volunteering at SR brought with it a whole host of information. I learnt how hydroponics can effectively be used to garden any concrete building covering the grey with green. I saw firsthand and was astonished at how McGill grows peppers, basil, tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, summer squash, eggplant, and cilantro - a wide variety of veggies given how much, rather how little, space is used to grow them! Spending time in Lise's garden at Beaudry, I very briefly witnessed how lonely aging in North America can be. But, the true joyous moments were the ones of human interaction. Lise didn't understand English very much and my French is non-existent and yet at some level, we connected. Hans finds that I speak too fast yet managed to retain my interest with his articulate conversations. Jane is soft-spoken and earnest yet we forged a friendly bond. Charlotte who coordinated gardening at McGill was fantastic to work with and treated us to fresh zucchini, cucumber and basil! Each person has a warm demeanor that has left me wanting more, for it's not just their well tended gardens that bring joy!
So, thank you - Santropol Roulant - for introducing me to some wonderful souls and the vegetables, of course.
          

13,000 kms and 3 months later...

The following is a bulleted recollection of my days in and outside of grad school. During a spasmodic burst of writing inspiration, triggered by a recent conversation about blogs, I decided to spend a lazy Saturday afternoon and write the following: 

• Learning a new language is a largely by imitation (of native speakers) and a little by memory.
• The French can totally understand Tamil. I was talking to my room mate in, what I thought was, rapid Tamil and my landlord answered my question. So, much for leaving him out of the conversation!
• The prettiest features are usually seen on those from the troubled lands of the Middle East. 
• Snow(flake(s)) falls exactly and precisely in the shape in which I have seen it drawn. It's fascinating to watch it fall.
• I can't ski which is obvious. But, I can't even walk on ice. (The last time I would've fallen like I did the other day while accidentally stepping on ice, was when I was learning to walk).
• A damn good Prof/supervisor can make the sun shine brighter on a cloudy day.
• I am sure to forget English (at the very least, the spellings) when I start to take French classes (or even Russian - given the uncanny resemblance).
• Being vegetarian in a country whose 96% aren't isn't actually very difficult.
• My convictions about writing grow stronger while my engineering intuition wanes. (Given that I never had one to begin with, it's mostly like the Montreal temperature right now! :P )
• It's difficult to start something here unless you are completely disciplined and committed to it than home or in undergrad. (Abhi thinks otherwise!)
• Indians are by far the most emotionally attached to their families and home. (My sample space is small and I could definitely be wrong).
• Writing opinion columns gives you clarity that transpires into all aspects of your life. (Or so, I would like to think! :P )
• Eliminating uncertainty is impossible. Embracing it might make it more enjoyable. No one knows everything for certain, anyway. 
• You are more likely to be a shining star and a success story in a field that you are not only passionate about but can conjure great 'gut-feels' almost always. (The two, I think are somehow interwoven and inseparable). 
• I do need occassional reminding that I do have some 'real estate' in the virtual world. 
• Indian accent and British spellings rock.
• Tea can never be coffee.
• Dollar store's is Canada's Saravana stores. (If you're from Chennai, you know exactly what I mean!)
• I can't quite tell if baking is the precise science that requires shallow or deep knowledge.
• McGill's most famous graduate, according to an American political scientist, happens to be Captain Kirk and I now know why my newspaper office building is unofficially called Shatner!
• "Whether it's sticks and stones or predator drones, war is still a story of humans".   (the aforementioned war analyst - hearing him in person is a LOT more interesting and fun!)
  "Neural networks help in predicting oil prices, stock prices, or in our case, actuator sizes" - Silly alliteration and imagery still hold my fancy and unleash an inexplicable need for cheap imitation.  
• Star wars and Anakin are my eternal source of mood lifters.
• Leave alcohol. What about Ritalin?