"Happiness
is a Butterfly which, when pursued is just beyond your grasp... but if
you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you."
- Nathaniel Hawthorne, novelist.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Thursday, September 06, 2012
Incubator
I remember a day when I was in primary school, the school had organized an outing to the SeaWorld and I still felt the excitement on the night before. I put out my best outfit from my wardrobe, a little dress my mom gave me the previous week, combed my hair and hoped that it will not rain the next day that I will not be able to see the fishes. I remember running around with my best friends, my carefully put up hair already messy from all the queuing. I remember the salty snacks and the oversweet soda drinks. The instructions to stay close to our buddy for the day. The meeting point. The threat of not falling into the water in the petting pool.
I remember the awe when I stood on the beginning to the tunnel, with thick glass above me and around me. A blue wonder where fishes swam and shells slept. I remember looking up until my neck was stiff. There was too much happening, too much to see. It felt like an incubator, where one rests and learns from everything that is taking place all around, everywhere, all the time.
I feel like I am in one now. I do not know where it will take me, what I will be once I step out. I just feel in awe every day. So many moments, so little time, so much to tell but too much to write.
I remember the awe when I stood on the beginning to the tunnel, with thick glass above me and around me. A blue wonder where fishes swam and shells slept. I remember looking up until my neck was stiff. There was too much happening, too much to see. It felt like an incubator, where one rests and learns from everything that is taking place all around, everywhere, all the time.
I feel like I am in one now. I do not know where it will take me, what I will be once I step out. I just feel in awe every day. So many moments, so little time, so much to tell but too much to write.
Thursday, June 07, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
India Ink: The Stars of Jaisalmer
Jaisalmer, the far-most corner of Rajashtan that borders Pakistan, was very hot. If Jaipur was the loud, chatty sister then Jaisalmer would be the calm, reserved one who enjoyed beckoning the sense of agelessness. The city, where its inhabitants derive most of their livelihood from tourists, was small with the Fort majestically residing in the center of it all; walking through the empty lanes one feels like being in a maze yet reassured that being lost is not possible.
One day I was walking alone, and during the blazing heat of the afternoon stumbled upon the city's only Italian place in the old Fort. I ordered some pizza and chai, sat next to its largest and only window. I could see the waves of heat seeping through, blurring the Fort. Tourists were seldom seen, perhaps they too had taken cover as I did. The city seemed deserted, just little girls waiting for their little stalls selling some shiny desert crafts and camel miniatures. Sometimes some women would pass, always in a little group and never alone, walking silently in their long dresses and transparent headscarves that even covered their ankles. All I'm hearing is the jingles of their bracelets but never any chatter.
Right outside the city, right at its backyard lies the desert that separates the Indian sand to Pakistani's. From the jeep I saw little huts that looked like tropical igloos. Gipsy settlements, my guide exclaimed, protects them from the heat. I looked outside and they looked inside, it was as if they could see through my cotton veil, that I was a foreigner and a stranger in their backyard.
A mosquito bite. My guide laughed. Pakistani mosquito, he said in all seriousness he could muster, no mosquito here in India!
We continued the journey by camel. I have never been a rider, despite my love for horses, and in all truthfulness being on a camel's back was like that scary ride in the amusement park you always wanted to take and regretted just when the seat belts are put on and the instructions read. Without any saddle or a rope to ease the rider's fear, the tall-legged creature stood up, hind legs first and after an awkward 3 seconds was followed by its front legs. He then walked on, slowly and dramatically, munching something while flies escorted us near his nostrils. A royal treat.
When we decided to camp, it was almost sunset and I took advantage of it by climbing on top of the tallest dune to sit and write while waiting to see the sky change color. A true generousness of nature, this change when the sky went from light yellow to softer orange, purplish red to a calm blue whose hue goes darker until everything is dark and the only light came from the moon that appeared so large and full from where I was sitting and the stars which were numerous.
Contented, I noticed another camp fire over the sand hills. 2 camels were munching on grass. Intrigued, I naively crossed and waved. They waved back and invited me over to make chapatis. A Czech traveler with his native guide who was preparing for dinner. We sat there as the night grew darker and the fire brighter, eating with our hands. I asked the guide whether he ever thought of living in a city like Delhi. He looked away, shy, and rolled another chapati. No option there, he mumbled, no, no, only camel safari.
We sat there by the fire until my own traveling companions found me and I returned to another meal, another story until we finally fell asleep under the stars that remained even after the sand storm passed.
One day I was walking alone, and during the blazing heat of the afternoon stumbled upon the city's only Italian place in the old Fort. I ordered some pizza and chai, sat next to its largest and only window. I could see the waves of heat seeping through, blurring the Fort. Tourists were seldom seen, perhaps they too had taken cover as I did. The city seemed deserted, just little girls waiting for their little stalls selling some shiny desert crafts and camel miniatures. Sometimes some women would pass, always in a little group and never alone, walking silently in their long dresses and transparent headscarves that even covered their ankles. All I'm hearing is the jingles of their bracelets but never any chatter.
Right outside the city, right at its backyard lies the desert that separates the Indian sand to Pakistani's. From the jeep I saw little huts that looked like tropical igloos. Gipsy settlements, my guide exclaimed, protects them from the heat. I looked outside and they looked inside, it was as if they could see through my cotton veil, that I was a foreigner and a stranger in their backyard.
A mosquito bite. My guide laughed. Pakistani mosquito, he said in all seriousness he could muster, no mosquito here in India!
We continued the journey by camel. I have never been a rider, despite my love for horses, and in all truthfulness being on a camel's back was like that scary ride in the amusement park you always wanted to take and regretted just when the seat belts are put on and the instructions read. Without any saddle or a rope to ease the rider's fear, the tall-legged creature stood up, hind legs first and after an awkward 3 seconds was followed by its front legs. He then walked on, slowly and dramatically, munching something while flies escorted us near his nostrils. A royal treat.
When we decided to camp, it was almost sunset and I took advantage of it by climbing on top of the tallest dune to sit and write while waiting to see the sky change color. A true generousness of nature, this change when the sky went from light yellow to softer orange, purplish red to a calm blue whose hue goes darker until everything is dark and the only light came from the moon that appeared so large and full from where I was sitting and the stars which were numerous.
Contented, I noticed another camp fire over the sand hills. 2 camels were munching on grass. Intrigued, I naively crossed and waved. They waved back and invited me over to make chapatis. A Czech traveler with his native guide who was preparing for dinner. We sat there as the night grew darker and the fire brighter, eating with our hands. I asked the guide whether he ever thought of living in a city like Delhi. He looked away, shy, and rolled another chapati. No option there, he mumbled, no, no, only camel safari.
We sat there by the fire until my own traveling companions found me and I returned to another meal, another story until we finally fell asleep under the stars that remained even after the sand storm passed.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
India Ink: Jaipur
We arrived in Jaipur exhausted from another train ride at dawn. The temperature difference is apparent, dryness prevailing in this desert province of Rajashtan. Somehow this city reminds me of Delhi; the traffic, the lively bazaars, overshadowed by pink buildings that granted it its nick name: the Pink City. Never before have I seen arrays of crafts more colorful than these Rajashtani heritage. Never before have I seen such immense collection of markets selling everything from shawls, sandals, saris, Lassis, accessories, gems, holy stuff, shirts, tents, teas to donkey and camel apparels.
Truthfully, slight reluctance accompanied my journey here. I thought that it would be a mistake staying here for so long, what would we do, I wrongfully assumed, in this boring tourist city? My first day proved me wrong.
Walking through the large gates, into the Old City, is breathtaking. Honks from the traffic was only surpassed by the incessant calls of stall owners, kids, strangers with accented English to beggars who spoke Hindi and demanded compensation for their misfortune. The colorful bazaars are inviting, the owners eager to get you in and shopping. Despite this, bargaining in Jaipur entailed a myriad of conversations, stories shared over a cup of chai even without a sale.
All the time, I would blink and felt like everything changed. Leaving a store, high on sugar from the Masala tea, I turned and saw a colored elephant navigated gently by a local to avoid crushing the (tiny by comparison) cars next to it.
We walked the whole time we were here, stopping here and there for pictures and conversations and trinkets. We laughed alot; I ran for pictures, my heart raced in pure excitement. Moments - I wanted to capture everything and yet I know I will never be able to. It's like you are dancing to a special song and you don't want the song to stop for when it stops, the curtains are pulled up and everything is normal again.
One afternoon, we stumbled upon a small temple and decided to go in to watch the daily procession. I looked at the flower seller who was composing a bouquet, the smell drew colors so bright in my mind. He looked at me, smiled. Namaste, I mustered. He looked at me still without a word. He was a deaf-mute. Without any reply, without a word he lifted a necklace of jasmine flowers and put the link on my neck. The sweetness of the flowers infatuated me. The sweetness of the gesture surprised me. I put my hands together and said thank you before waling into the temple, sitting at the far back, not knowing what to expect.
We sat there, talking and feasting on the rich visuals of calm believers. Suddenly the bell chimed, I looked up and saw the worshipers queue to hand a bag of fresh flowers to the "leader" on the stage. They raised their hands, closed their eyes and soon started singing, chanting. Some bowed their head onto the floor. There was no text, no instructions. I stood there, precisely quiet and still, not understanding but aware of the feeling, the energy they communally exuded to the gods they believed in.
The sun was setting when we started walking home. The street lamps and the everlasting traffic illuminated the city in a bright orange hue gave contrast to the dust (or was it the sand?), granting it the appearance of a suffocating fog. The Pink City was covered in a yellow polluted mist, tonight like any other night, I am sure, and remain so it will even in my absence tomorrow once more at dawn.
Truthfully, slight reluctance accompanied my journey here. I thought that it would be a mistake staying here for so long, what would we do, I wrongfully assumed, in this boring tourist city? My first day proved me wrong.
Walking through the large gates, into the Old City, is breathtaking. Honks from the traffic was only surpassed by the incessant calls of stall owners, kids, strangers with accented English to beggars who spoke Hindi and demanded compensation for their misfortune. The colorful bazaars are inviting, the owners eager to get you in and shopping. Despite this, bargaining in Jaipur entailed a myriad of conversations, stories shared over a cup of chai even without a sale.
All the time, I would blink and felt like everything changed. Leaving a store, high on sugar from the Masala tea, I turned and saw a colored elephant navigated gently by a local to avoid crushing the (tiny by comparison) cars next to it.
We walked the whole time we were here, stopping here and there for pictures and conversations and trinkets. We laughed alot; I ran for pictures, my heart raced in pure excitement. Moments - I wanted to capture everything and yet I know I will never be able to. It's like you are dancing to a special song and you don't want the song to stop for when it stops, the curtains are pulled up and everything is normal again.
One afternoon, we stumbled upon a small temple and decided to go in to watch the daily procession. I looked at the flower seller who was composing a bouquet, the smell drew colors so bright in my mind. He looked at me, smiled. Namaste, I mustered. He looked at me still without a word. He was a deaf-mute. Without any reply, without a word he lifted a necklace of jasmine flowers and put the link on my neck. The sweetness of the flowers infatuated me. The sweetness of the gesture surprised me. I put my hands together and said thank you before waling into the temple, sitting at the far back, not knowing what to expect.
We sat there, talking and feasting on the rich visuals of calm believers. Suddenly the bell chimed, I looked up and saw the worshipers queue to hand a bag of fresh flowers to the "leader" on the stage. They raised their hands, closed their eyes and soon started singing, chanting. Some bowed their head onto the floor. There was no text, no instructions. I stood there, precisely quiet and still, not understanding but aware of the feeling, the energy they communally exuded to the gods they believed in.
The sun was setting when we started walking home. The street lamps and the everlasting traffic illuminated the city in a bright orange hue gave contrast to the dust (or was it the sand?), granting it the appearance of a suffocating fog. The Pink City was covered in a yellow polluted mist, tonight like any other night, I am sure, and remain so it will even in my absence tomorrow once more at dawn.
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