The last 24 hours of being 24

I turn twenty five soon. In a matter of a few minutes I will officially cross the line I drew myself to find all my dreams and make them real, and at that line I will look back to the 8 year old me, convinced of happiness and success and say, “I’m sorry love, life didn’t turn out like we planned and I haven’t found what we are looking for, but what a journey!”

It all starts with a ridiculous plan to travel ten hours for a hair and one ridiculous friend who decided to make that journey with me.

24 has been many years put together. I have seen myself succeed well beyond my expectations, or anybody’s for that matter and then watch everything crumble. It was April and I had decided life could not get more perfect. I had almost everything I wanted and what I didn’t have was tied up in ribbons to arrive soon. I was as happy as I have ever been and thanking the universe for aligning the stars just for me. 2 months later life caught up with me and bitch-slapped me like never before.

I hit my lowest yesterday over something as stupid as speeding over a speed-breaker and crashing near a sewer. I stood up gathering the shreds of my dignity, my bicycle and phone (that I shouldn’t have been using while riding) and resigned myself to the life I now found myself living. Every single thing had the unpleasant odor of failure, even something as seemingly trivial as riding a bicycle home. I wasn’t looking forward to the stupid trip to Delhi. Given the course my life had run since June-July I just couldn’t bring myself to believe things could be anything but rotten.

But Nivi had booked our tickets and it seemed more of a pain to live with my ridiculous hair and cancel my tickets than just suck it up and go. So go I did and how very glad I am, I can now see that it might just get better, my faith in humanity is restored and I have the best bloody hair cut I have had since leaving Bombay.

Today, things just worked. We found an auto to take us to the station-easy peasy. We got the best damn seats on that beautiful double decker train- the one across a table with ample leg room. As if that wasn’t good enough there were army jawans on the other side of the table. I will apologise at this point for not doing anything special to show them the gratitude I feel for all they are willing to do to make sure I’m safe. I hope they know, I wish I had, in some way, let them know. I’ll forgive myself knowing I woke up at 5.45 (thank you Anju) after a late night.

I reached Delhi and realized the man I wanted to cut my hair (the entire purpose of this 5 hour journey, remember) was on holiday. Given how I am now used to having things not go my way I made my way to option two- this place called Looks in Khan market where Deepak (man number 2) had taken the day off. It doesn’t help that I didn’t have an appointment but then the guys at the counter suggested Nicky, and thank God they did.

They say a hair cut can change your view of the world, Nicky seems to have worked his magic on my day. A brilliant hair cut, cinnamon roll and a few book purchases later we walked around Khan market to some random place called Mamagoto because we weren’t in the mood to travel to where I wanted to eat lunch. Oh Mamagoto… how happy you made two girls craving sea food in faraway land-locked places. I love you.

Ne, Sashaa and Kaka… it was so blood good to see you despite the madness of Sarojini Nagar market. Ne and Sash, you were absolutely right- bad call, we should have just stayed in Khan market’s blissful laziness, but now I have a beautiful lamp, you’ve met Kaka and I have discovered his cool Ninaja skills. I’ll be sure to recruit you if I’m ever on a manhunt Kakkey. 

I will now take the time to thank the strangers who made this day everything it was.

1. Strangers on the road who told us three times to not listen to an auto man. They told us (three times I remind you) to get into the auto and then tell him where to go and insist on going to the police station if the meter wasn’t turned on. You had no reason to help two very lots very adult women but we thank you. I love how happy you looked when we got into the auto and I stuck my head out to flash you a thumbs up sign.
2. The auto man. We didn’t need to pick a fight.. You took us where we wanted, without driving around Delhi. I know because I turned on my Map-app expecting to be over charged. I love how you joined in when Nivi and I were sounding excited like every other tourist about how gorgeous the Rashtapati Bhavan and India gate look. I love how you then showed us every sight there was without a single detour. When we got off at Khan market at 11 something you even cautioned us about not being disappointed about seeing the shops shut because everything only opens at 12.
3. Auto man 2: You made zero drama outside Khan market when I insisted you drive us through an absurd route to pick up Ne befor heading to Sarojini Nagar. I didn’t put on my app but honestly, auto man 1 and you are part of the same brother-hood, and you were so patient even reversing on a road you knew better than to simply because we asked.
4. Bubble gun man: We were at a signal racing to the station when this man selling the coolest bubble making device ever passed our auto. I saw Anju gift even before I saw you. I thank you for giving us a new bottle of the funny liquid we need pointing out the leak. We wouldn’t have known and were very confused till you told us why. Nivi and I love you even more for telling us there was time enough to show us that it worked fine- clearly you know what can be done in 40 seconds better than either of us.
5. Uncle on the road: We came back to Jaipur and with very little sense sat in an auto despite suspecting our driver was drunk. He was pulled up by a cop, sped away after an argument and like stupid ducks we continued sitting in the auto all the way home. Drunk auto-man and his friend then picked a fight with us about how much to pay him and we saw you walking towards us. I was sure you wanted the auto or were walking to the shop until you came up and asked us if we were ok. I love you even more for turning back around and walking home as soon as you found out we were safe. Thank you, in this lonely city that shuts down at 8 and can’t be bothered with strangers (other than stare at them like aliens) I love you for going out of your way to make sure we were safe. You didn’t need to- you and I both know that and that is precisely why your gesture meant so much.

My faith in humanity is restored.

Bring it on 25, I’m ready. Could you though, make an effort to beat 24’s highs and never ever drag me down as low as your predecessor?

Lots of love and the happy bubbly feeling of the world not being such a shit-hole,
Me.  

Reposted from: http://sitaramenon.wordpress.com/2013/10/06/the-last-24-hours-of-24/

My mother

I sometimes smell that particularly flowery smell of sunshine- I can be in a sweaty compartment of the train, in a restaurant, in the canteen- and I feel like I've been thrown into another world. Time stops, my body is independent of my mind and I can do nothing but let fragments of a memory that I can barely remember take over.

There is a strange comfort in things that don't change. At 24 there is very little that hasn't changed and yet when I smell that mix of sunshine, starch and flowers I'm transported to a warm cocoon. I feel four again. I watch as my beautiful mother wears make up and combs her hair, watch as she stands in the middle of what looks like reams and reams of beautiful silk. I feel the cool breeze of the air cooler and the magic in the air as the puddle of silk on the floor rapidly disappears. Amma was always impatient dressing up, she would click her heals and swear at safety pins. I hardly blame her, there is a bewildering ritual in wearing grown up clothes. The click of heals, the touch of rouge, the right shade of lipstick and the precise fold of every pleat.

I watch as she carefully combs her hair and snaps at me for getting in her way or bringing food into the room- I'm a clumsy child and in my jaw dropping wonder I can't seem to balance my plate. Sometimes, and these were prize days, I would be called on to to be part of the enchanting ceremony. I would sit on the floor and yank on pleats so that Amma could tuck them in just right. She would then spray on that perfume- it was never the same perfume, I could tell by the bottles being of different colours- and yet it would be that same ambrosial bliss.

When I was a child I dreamed of growing up, of dressing to Naval balls just like my mother did, of being as pretty, as perfect. It's amusing how childhood dreams turn out. I don't yearn so much for any of that anymore, we live lives that are of mutual pride and yet so cosmically different; but sometimes, on that rare special evening I'll walk into my mothers room and pretend to watch TV as I take in the unchanged present and revel in the permanence of that smell.

I have "borrowed" a tidy sum of perfumes from Amma in the hope that I can conjure that moment on demand but it's never the same without my mother, her boxes of make up and those magical reams of silk.  

Magic bus

In a comforting world there would be a midnight bus; A bus for the broken, lonely and dispirited. The bus would have no destination it would invite neither conversation nor silence. Nobody would compete, not for the happiest nor saddest, nor bravest stories. We would drive around and around knowing we are united among strangers; That heart break and sadness are not lonely, inescapable little cages.

I would like to think that it would be a magic bus. An open top bust that will let you see the stars through your tears, magical because no matter where you are it will always feel 12 degrees Celsius  You could wear a sweater , hold yourself, maybe cry into your sleeve and believe what you will.

I would wear my hair down, find the darkest spot and wrap my oldest shawl around me. I'd snuggle into my shoes and cry as though it were raining. I'd carry some music, the kind of music I'm too scared to listen to on a regular day because of the truth in the writer's sadness. Maybe I'd whisper along. I would love my sadness on this magic bus, I would know it's a part of who I am. I wouldn't need to find excuses then and we would all drive round and around for hours until we stopped counting. I wouldn't carry a phone, or maybe the magic bus would jam all signals.

Airports are much like my magic bus. Everything is temporary- A collection of strangers who don't belong, so much left incomplete.