I, the other

Sipra Pati

Fear

Frustration 

Exasperation 

Deep inhale... long exhale

my skin

my gender

my religion

my God

my temple

my child

my language

my culture

my race

my state

my nation

my love

my caste

my attire

my community

my work

my school

my beliefs

.... .... ....

Conform not. 

I am

but, the other. 

My Friend Monte : A Tribute

My friend Monte Christensen passed away on Oct 25, 2019 after an yearlong unsuccessful struggle with squamous cell cancer at the age of 51. Although for the last few years we didn't meet as often, some relationships are such that it leaves you with positive memories even when you realize that the chapter has ended. This is something I wished to write about him and I want it to be positive, a celebration of his life, not an obituary. Such an amazing person deserves a few words.

 I met Monte on my first job in the Bay Area in the mid-nineties, California where we both worked for the same company which later on became part of Hewlett Packard through an acquisition. He was a gregarious character; boisterous in spots and quintessentially American but yet with an openness and generosity that drew some people towards him, and maybe by the same token pushed some away from him. I was one of those who felt drawn towards him.  He was a smart software developer and later manager who rose to very high professional position in Microsoft; and an even smarter gambler who had mastered the art of beating the casinos in a game called blackjack and also a great poker player as also a connoisseur of certain varieties of alcohol that accompanied his legendary skills in the card-rooms. The roster of mutual friends from those days come flooding to my mind: Steve W, Marc S, Leonard I, Doug, Ranjit and others.  Softball and lunchtime running forged bonds that last a lifetime. Softball events were so much fun those times in the great weather of the Bay Area. Monte was the best raconteur of them all… the way he would recount his experiences would be very captivating… how he won poker games in smoky card-rooms in San Jose and caused a Vietnamese guy to go berserk at having lost a lot of money - was told with a lot of emotive dialogs and hand gestures and giggles that would make the whole anecdote come alive for the members of our usual gang.   

I remember my first introduction with Monte and Marc to the beautiful town of Monterrey a little bit south of the Bay Area.  It was a typical guys' night… the venue was an auditorium that may have been gentrified as such with some creative face-lifting of a warehouse; certainly not swank, but worthy of putting up a boxing event with a ring(or stage where the fighters engage) surrounded by a gallery of seats;  an evening of boxing starts with some undercards (meaning junior and up-and-coming boxers going up against each other and then the final event of the evening is the main 'card' or the match between two reputed fighters that attract big purses, bettors and spectators). Not being too much of an expert of boxing myself,  I forget the boxers' names, mostly Latino fighters who looked the part, with some signature scars and tattoos in abundance.

 I remember the tickets were quite affordable, probably twenty bucks at most for a ringside seat, maybe the fourth or fifth row from the ring. I remember the vivid nature of the spectacle; an uppercut dislodging a mouthguard, a little gore and blood and the back and forth nature of the pugilists going at each other with a lot of spunk and gumption. While us three, beers in hand were taking it all in; not a care in the world, before the responsibilities of taking care of a family, in our twenties and not too much bothered about what came next in our lives. Those are the moments however where indelible impressions are conjured and the bonds that go beyond superficiality get casted with a permanence of friendship, ethos and sentimentality that is not popularly ascribed to the masculine gender. 

One fine day in the mid-nineties news broke that Monte was headed for an exciting new job at Microsoft in the Emerald city of Seattle; Microsoft was the holy grail of software professionals those days and it made the fortunes of many. I remember having mixed feelings; was very proud and happy for him but also knowing I was going to miss him. He wasn't my best friend, but he was the kind of person you felt you could approach were something to come up that you needed him to share and seek some sage advice; he seemed to have a degree of maturity to go along with a swashbuckling attitude towards life.

So I resolved to keep in touch with him even though he was no longer going to be in the Bay Area. The next thing that I remember was my second trip to Seattle; the first one was quite forgettable and happened before I ever knew Monte. The second trip to Seattle was me and Marc S. going up to meet Monte in Seattle and then from there going up to Vancouver Canada. I remember being really pumped up about it. Those days you had to save up for such trips, first job and all. I was still single so fortunately the only thing that came into balance in making the decision was me and myself. 

The second visit in my life to the Pacific Northwest was quite memorable. For a wide-eyed young man both Seattle and Vancouver were quite remarkable… magnificent scenery of white crested Olympic mountains and lush evergreens everywhere. Vancouver was fascinating; I remember we stayed at the Holiday Inn… and went around the downtown and the usual sights like Capilano etc. for the first time. Monte, Marc and I had a great time.

The next time I met Monte, a year and half had passed by and I had met my wife and no longer single. The two bedroom apartment where we lived in Santa Clara was getting cramped… it is funny how when single a room in a two-bedroom flat had sufficed for me as a more than adequate bachelor pad but after you get married the need for space multiplies. So before flying home for my wedding I had done a rather hasty and incredibly messy job of moving all my belongings into a two-bedroom flat in the same complex!  I was looking for greener pastures and I had outgrown the organization that had given me my first job opportunity; albeit grateful, I felt the need to grow professionally. 

Monte was back in town to visit friends and had stopped by his old stomping grounds for lunch;  I had started interviewing for other jobs in the Bay Area and when he asked me what I was doing, I told him that I was looking around. As luck would have it, he had moved up to a manager role and was looking to fill a couple of positions in his team and asked me if I was interested. I decided to take a flier and he was willing to bring me in for an interview. Microsoft really put out the red carpet for me and my wife - very nice hotel, all expenses paid trip and some of the sights and sounds of a great city - we both liked it. Real estate prices were also a great selling point as compared to the Bay Area which was almost out of reach even then.  Microsoft interviews are no picnic and is a grueling day where one person who doesn't like your responses could end your day, and the questions were all problem solving in the field of software or brain teasing puzzles, barring a rare few softballs to put you at ease; after the hard work I had put in and some ability to think on my feet, I was able to land the job and probably a vindication of my friend's faith on me, I put in more than twelve and half good and productive years in the company, including the initial couple where he was my direct manager. 

When he moved to Capitol Hill on the West Side of Lake Washington and in a rather bohemian and charming part of the city known for its block parties, I couldn't see him as often; however we did go to his house for Thanksgiving… we did it at least several years regularly before that too became a hit or miss. During those Thanksgiving parties we would reminisce about the Bay Area years; we didn't make much money during those Bay Area years, but still it was a great life… full of days of great weather, outdoor activities and exciting places to explore, people to meet. Not everything was about him and me, but we knew all the mutual people that we had shared those moments with and so the anecdotes were very relatable for either of us. Those parties were great fun… it is with a bittersweet feeling that I recollect the house since I know my primary connection with it no longer graces this earth, although he is survived by his wife and two boys in school - his wife is also an impeccable human being

 There is a little balcony he had in his Capitol Hill house which has a spectacular view of Lake Washington where he had set up his barbecue grill and he would be grilling all kinds of stuff on it while people were having their drinks and engaging in small talk while the amazing vista from the hilltop sloped down towards the water level of the huge landmark Lake Washington and you could see all the way to the Cascade peaks;  and the crisp November northwest air was interspersed with the happy relaxed banter of friends. 

The last time I saw him was on May 4, 2019.  He and his wife Lori had invited us to their home on Capitol Hill for a party…by that time I had found out he had cancer; that too in February he had sent me an Instant messenger via the FB app and I don't use it much…by some serendipity I had found his message while rummaging quite out of the norm in Messenger and came upon this appalling note from him.  Immediately I responded and expressed the desire to see him, apologizing for not paying attention to Messenger. Even at that late stage this amazing person was throwing a party to watch a boxing event from Las Vegas!  Destiny or karma oftentimes has an uncanny knack of completing a proverbial circle in life… from that day that flits like an evanescent slide show from Monterrey in the recesses of my mind to a house in the Seattle suburb of Capitol Hill, the unlikely thread of Boxing brought me to see my ailing friend for what would be the final rendezvous.  I hadn't seen much of him lately as our lives had drifted apart weighed down by the responsibilities foisted upon us, and also due to other social and geographical factors; but my wife and I always had good feelings for Monte and his wife. He was a good father and husband and their favorite pastime as a family was snowboarding with their two boys.

 In this final opportunity that I had to interact with Monte, he was a shell of himself; a tube of some sort was inserted into his neck and he was wearing a bib… he looked bloated and sickly; gaunt and haggard… the carcinogenic cells were waging a winning war against this lovely and free-spirited man who had lived his life with some verve. His wife had quit her work temporarily for a year to care for him through the vicious cycle of chemotherapies and the slippery slope of cancer.  You could see the strains on the family; although the two boys were oblivious of the fact that the disembodied buzzards were circling their dad waiting for his final capitulation.  Despite the backdrop, it was a incongruously festive air with food and drinks and the boxing card from the MGM in Las Vegas. The boxing under-cards were going on; people were eating and drinking with gusto … Mexican food was catered from a restaurant in Kirkland. One would have to assume the analyzing skills of a Poirot to even detect the undercurrent of a family going through this ordeal, although I felt deep within me the pain of my friend, and hoped against hope for his recovery. The only clue might have been that Monte never spoke and instead used an iPad to type his responses which an app then spoke out in a synthetic voice to the people who asked him questions.

This was May 4, 2019. I couldn't stay for the final fight on the Boxing event.. I did manage to stay the first two or three rounds as the heralded Main event of Canelo Alvarez fighting Daniel Jacobs for the IBF Welterweight championship and Monte was indulging in the simple pleasures he had remaining in his short time left. I wished him the very best towards recovery although I didn't convince myself nor do I think he needed convincing; he just wanted to see his friends for one of the last times;  he had called me over to his house one more time after that when I couldn't attend because I had a family trip planned to Banff and Calgary; such is life. I never got to see him again. Farewell my dear amigo, there won't be another like you! 

Basanti and my Navratri tale of 2019

Sipra Pati

So, you think only Basanti can dance on broken glass? Wrong! I did. Yesterday. And, I didn’t have Gabar breathing down my neck telling me Veeru’s jaan depended on my dancathon! It is that time of the year when Indians pay obeisance to their goddesses starting with Goddess Durga. When Gujaratis form a major part of your community, you join them on at least some of the nine-days of celebration doing garba. The collective frenzy of gyrating to a slowly-rising tempo of garba music bows to a Gabar-like bidding because your jaan (and limbs) and that of several other dancers depend on your continuing to dance - swing left bend forward clap, turn right arch backward clap, swing right arch halfway clap, repeat. An abrupt, unprecedented stop would make the person behind bump into you and like dominoes yielding to gravity, every dancer would lose balance and splay in every conceivable direction! So, in the broad interest of humanity, you dance on.

Hey Durge - you slayed the Buffalo-bodied asur (and as much as my secret prayer alluded to a certain asur with a carrot-top) and I swear I most sincerely bow to your ‘I-can-take-care-of-myself-and-then-some-self’, my mind did wander to Basanti in the stark ravines of the infamous Chambal. Because right in the middle of the swing left bend forward clap, turn right, (and so forth), I stepped on something. Needles shot piercing pain through my feet as they stomped and moved. That part of my brain which registers pain was literally assaulting itself by demanding the part that controls the lower limbs of my body to shove ego issues into temporary abeyance and stop.

It listened because the pins and needles left it no choice.

I eased out of the never-ending ‘what goes around comes around’ circle of dancers limping to the water cups. Two cups of water later, I surreptitiously sought an empty chair (darn, Basanti, I thought). There were a couple of sequins stuck to my foot. Flicked them, and what looked like a broken bead to my presbyopic eyes, off. Time to jump back into the fray, oops, the circle of gyrating sequined-ghagras, backless cholis, and their beaus.

Deep breath in - swing left, no it’s right, oh.... got it - swing left bend forward clap, turn right arch backward clap, swing right arch halfway clap. Ouch, ouch! Pins and needles! Pins and needles! Swing left, right foot half-down... bump into the person on my right. Ease out again. Pins and needles! Pins and needles!

Darn Basanti. No chair in sight. I lifted my foot, ran my finger over the pins and needles area. Nothing. Put my foot down. Ow! Ow! Ow!  I wanted to go home. As luck would have it... I had not driven but had been driven to the temple by friends. So, I couldn’t leave. Till they were ready to.

Fast forward to thirty minutes later… (because those thirty minutes all I felt was pins and needles) I was home. Hubby, who in my absence, had returned from a business trip was in deep slumber. My foot was in less pain, so I limped to bed and slumped - it had been a long day and a longer evening.

Morning saw my pins and needles more of one pin in one area. Carefully running my fingers under my foot - OWW! There was something. Hubby managed to maneuver a pair of tweezers into coaxing that ‘something’ out. Sighing in relief, I turned to tending to the weekend mundane. It was a beautiful Fall day - we decided to go out. After strolling for about 5 minutes, pins and needles were back. I couldn’t put my foot down. We rushed to the nearest in-network Urgent Care and spent the next couple hours filling out forms and waiting for a doctor. It took the doctor thirty minutes to anesthetize my foot and remove three tiny pieces of glass stubbornly embedded (she had to scalpel-cut my sole almost half a centimeter to extract them) in my sole.

Like Basanti, I had danced on broken glass. That’s my Navratri tale of 2019.

A poem on Hmmm

Sid Padhi

A poem on Hmmm,
To counter my Creativity,
Would cause it to desert me,
In my hour of Nessocity.

It amounts to self-injury,
And avoidable contrition,
When I ruffle my Creativity,
For the sake of a 🐼notion.

Then I read this commendable Ode,
I saw the wonderful opportunity,
Of demonstrating the value of Hmmm,
With some singular support from my Creativity.

The Ode is good, there is no doubt,
Drawing words of wonder and praise,
But, if 'Someone' were to say just "Hmmm...",😑
Wouldn't it hackles raise?🤨

I bid adieu my old friend

Mrigank Das

I bid adieu my old friend

For a decade we have fought in the trenches,

My silent and imperceptible tears only you witnessed

Even when the clouds were scurried away by the radiance of the Sun

And you witnessed me rise again like a Phoenix brushing through the Amazon of life's travails

You were always the Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote

Gently tapping the Ford Explorer from the back and avoiding the voyeurs at the Insurance firm from fleecing us

Or fighting valiantly to lose your alternator and your battery only a few furlongs from home and fortuitously in front of kind neighbors

You witnessed my valleys and my peaks, of ebullience and despondence

Loyalty and love always ubiquitous as there is some Spirit in Matter

I have a journey still in progress my friend and I must send you to the comfort of retirement under the Texas Sun,

As your bones are creaking and arthritic and I can't see you capitulating on the war front

Farewell my friend and my decade long road companion, we shared lots of precious moments

May you enjoy your golden years as you drive away into the Houston sunset!! 🖐🤗

Rain, steady rain

Sid Padhi

Rain, steady rain.

Incessant and insistent,

Consistent and persistent,

Drenching, forbidding rain.

I have an errand to run.

Run it I must,

At any cost,

Groaning or in pun.

it's been a long, long time.

Getting drenched,

Soaking wet, 

(All deliberate),

The memory bells, they chime.

So, tonight it must be.

To relie that memory,

To recreate that story,

To honour Duty while playing hooky,

And enjoy sharing the story.

Himalayan Rhapsody. Part 1

Sid Padhi

  

It was a cold evening at a mountainside parking lot for one of those ubiquitous temples one finds at regular intervals throughout the hills and the rest of India. There were the mandatory tea stall and paan-less paan-dukan, both highlighted by the colourful chips packets from rival snacketeers. It even had two motorcycles and a car, besides our taxi. But, most importantly - considering the time of the day, (which was around 5:00pm), the cold from recent snowfall and the constant freeze-breeze, plus a heady feeling from the altitude - there was this warm, merry, crackling and soul-saving fire.  

 Notice that we stand in the shadowed eastern side of the mountain face while the horizon is still lit up by the waning sun. Early evening for us. That's what mountains are. As different and unique in time and space as people and their points of view.

That shining crescent, which could have shone better through more sophisticated lenses, is Bhimtal Lake. We are on the way back from a trip to Mukteshwar Temple further up from where we stand, a trip that had to be aborted due to snowfall and treacherous icing conditions of the road. But, where we failed to have a view and a darshan at Mukteshwar, we gained by a lot of first-hand insight into driving techniques on iced mountain roads and how not to negotiate curves and climbs. 

There was this huge jam at a settlement along the way, where the road turns sharply and slopes upward and to the right. As it turned out, it all started with one wrongly parked car, which slightly altered the smooth flow of the traffic. Thereafter, it took a foolhardy novice from the plains to apply brakes on the descent, where none should have been applied, and skid while trying to negotiate the wrongly parked one. A car climbing up from the opposite direction had to slow down and readjust direction to avoid the skidder and found out too late that he had lost both power and traction for resuming its journey uphill. So, now we had two cars, one helter and the other skelter, besides the original sinner, blocking most of the road. It was only a matter of time before other vehicles started pulling up, the first few filling up all available gaps, and ensuring a tight traffic seal. Our car, when we reached the spot, was around fifteenth from the knot. Plenty of time to wander about and feel the place.

I was pleasantly surprised to see sparrows twittering about on the roadside, pecking at human offerings. It's been literally ages (I was quite young in age then) since I had seen one, let alone so many. More about them at a later date.

Having first procured a pack of cigarettes, I proceeded to investigate the chaos and add my two-bit to the solution. 

[Lessons learnt from my first few steps on the iced road can be spared elaboration for the sake of brevity, as the bullet points are self-explanatory.]

1. Stay off the ice. For, although I had on my trekking shoes with their much professed grip on rocky surfaces, they proved to be thoroughly inadequate in tackling the icy paths created by the pressure vehicular treadmarks and polished by indiscriminate braking and the resultant skids.

2. Dig your heels in. (This came from my personal experience at Dalhousie, where I was posted once upon a time. A little digression here to elaborate my point - My SSQ (Station Sick Quarters) was located at a distance of roughly 150 feet in the vertical plane. The flight of steps that took me up and down them twice a day were of uneven height, curve and slope. You could break your neck on them on a bright summer day if you would, for example, try a carefree tune while appreciating the fluffy clouds. In the winter, with snow on them, looking down while descending was a matter of survival. You had to choose where to put that next step. Fresh snow provides sufficient traction & grip. Stepping repeatedly on your own footsteps hardens the spot into reliable footholds. The problem is when there is a lot of traffic. The entire surface is soon coated with an inch thick ice layer. And that is when you dig your heels in. Much like marching. Land on your toe and away you go). This strategy worked.

3. Avoid sudden movement.

During the period of my meditative preoccupation, people had gathered in groups and were lending their hand by throwing their weight around, in a bid to push the stuck cars out of their miserable inadequacy. It was both educative and amusing to watch how Newton's physics antagonized inexperience. 

There are several issues involved in the problem of driving a car up a serpentine, icy slope with zero momentum. It is an intricate combination of correct engine revs, controlled clutch release and wheel direction for gaining some purchase out of ice crust and miniscule tyremark ridges. A straight takeoff is almost impossible and spinning tyres lose control. Nothing is gained by hurrying.

Not surprisingly, most of the vehicles in the soup had Delhi numbers. 

Back to business. I had thus far been a passive but keen spectator of the events unfolding before my eyes. A few sidelong glances came my way from volunteers who had taken a few falls in the line of selfless public service. They perhaps grudged my nonchalant mood and my propensity to lend my hands to photography than to them. The officer in me kicked in. I sallied forth to the top of the tangled formation and caught up with a hapless Home-Guard who was having a hard time being heard. I gave him a tip. Not the currency but the verbal kind. 

"Clear a path and allow all vehicles going downhill first passage. It would allow more maneuvering space for the ones below and a less uphill task". 

He looked askance at me, trying to decide whether he should take me seriously. Apparently, he did. His reply, when it came, was in the form of frantic gesticulations followed by incoherent speech. I discovered that he had a bad stutter, made worse by a nasal twang. A partial cleft palate, most likely. It seemed he agreed with me and his grievance was that the people who mattered, the Good Samaritans, did not listen to him. I understood and could only empathise, my empathy magnifying when he found in me someone, who wouldn't lend others a hand, lending him a ear and gave vent to his vocal chords, alternately through oral and nasal routes. I nodded in sync with his passion until he remembered that duty was calling and left abruptly to attend to an overladen Maruti Alto that was pointing towards the valley. I remained rooted at the spot, processing the inconsequential contents of the recent interaction before moving on uphill. I kept walking until my car picked me up, a few kilometres on.

To be continued…

Snowpocalypse 2019 : In a Lighter Vein

Snowpocalypse 2019 : In a Lighter Vein

Mick (Mrigank) Das 

This is an off-the-cuff piece started on my bus commute and finished during a meeting where my full attention was not entirely necessary, but my presence was... it is barely edited so excuse any foibles. The title is sardonic and somewhat self-deprecating yet with a large dollop of probity.   This blog tries to capture the madness that ensues when people and local government authorities have to react to the really cold weather descending from the Canadian valleys, the purveyors of almost mystical wintry fronts evocative of Disney's Frozen franchise.. 

The first of these snowfall events happened on a Friday and the subsequent ones happened on a couple more days between Feb 5 - 12… For perspective, the snow that Seattle got would be considered by many in the Midwest cities like Minneapolis or Chicago as a springtime dust-up in a park lined with cherry-blossoms worthy of indulging in outdoor frolic,  but for Seattlelites it was time to constantly flit between panic and anxiety and utter a stream of OMGs and expletives to temper their quickening pulse rates. Fortunately the city's burgeoning economy has attracted people from much more hostile climates, so by day 2 or 3 of this weather,  kids could be seen influenced by their buddies who grew up in more snowy weather sledding down blocked-off downhill roads or any steep topographical structure they could land their bums on…  

The days preceding the Snowpocalypse were the most hilarious, especially in the grocery stores. Grown men and women whose body shapes hardly resembled a finely chiseled Olympian were rivaling the form of Usain Bolt down the aisles of supermarkets to theatrically grab away such prosaic items like a case of dozen brown eggs.  Just like Olympic Gold and Silver separates the last bit of skill and will,  the silver medalist came away with the last of the white eggs, prompting a rather beatific smile and fist pump from the winner and a more subdued but still smug grin of the runners up who pipped the also-rans who had to think of which store they must venture to next… :) Bread and cereal aisles were a close second in witnessing the athletic display of the common folks.  Men and women were showing their dexterity in being able to cradle a veritable loot of loaves of bread, gallons of milk, a bottle of OJ and a couple of bags of pasta…!! Several shopping carts proudly showcased a half dozen boxes of their favorite family cereal and large quantities of bottled water which would normally be a two month supply!!

I wasn't immune to this bedlam of last minute emergency shopping. I was singularly focused on finding two more Bic lighters - these are the gas lighters you use to light up the gas cooktops.  Mimi was down to her last one, and the last Bic was already used for a while. It was a race against Father Time… I went from one store to the next with my kid and the treasured commodity was out….I doubt the Conquistadores were seeking gold in the Inca lands with such fervor and frenzy.  It was a chess match; where would the hordes go to find the Bic lighters that I should not :) :) ..  Finally kazaam!! -- the light bulb went off.  I figured out a possible option - a drugstore named Bartells which wasn't under mob siege as a possible place.  It was next to a Safeway and a Trader Joe's, two grocery stores which were attracting heavy traffic. So I went in there and I encountered bitter disappointment in the aisle which had the kitchen and housewares. Nothing.. Nada.

 At this deflated juncture I did walk very very s-l-o-w-l-y past some hard liquor and single malts and I was temporarily tempted to fall into the charms of the amber liquid as many of '83 friends do… I really was; maybe it would get me back up from being forlorn to being on a High!   As I listlessly walked back past the store checkout clerks I saw by the corner of the last checkout person, a small tilted display case of 3 rows of gleaming Bic lighters!!!! Only 7 remained… but I only needed two, so elation and jubilation supplanted the dire mood I was in.

On the flip side, beauty was on display too… Disney's Frozen embodied. At night, one friend remarked that the photos looked like Thomas Kinkade paintings… and they did. In the mid-day, it was a great thrill to walk around in the neighborhood and feel the vibe of a wintry wonderland, and click a couple of pictures for memory. The streets lined with trees looked beautiful like you were seeing a movie screen shot of a colder city with the beautiful frosting on the tree branches, a painting with bold brush strokes of white and off-white framing the familiar landscape in an ornate cape of ivory..  Local news was also extremely riveting; the best part was laughing at the brave yet foolhardy few who ended up in ditches, or rolling back off a hill with the braking system of scant succor...  

Human behavior also lent its entertainment power.  I saw at least a couple of adults with their supercilious confidence step out of their cars, or run towards their bus home and run into a surface of slick ice and take an ungainly tumble.  You also saw the grace in the fellow citizens; valiantly grappling to squash their urge to laugh at the plight of the fallen and instead mutter their civil inquiries as to their well-being and genteel offers of help to pick them off the turf and retrieve their strewn belongings. 

This wraps my little column on the snowy ten days in the third coldest February in the Emerald city's history of recorded temperatures. Leave a tRail :) if you wish… Thanks

I like to remember

Sipra Pati

Remember

Those nights when we lay on the terrace

Counting stars

Spinning yarns of make-believe

Listening to the rustle of the coconut trees

As the summer breeze tugged at them

The lone bat swooping down,

Swerving at the last minute

When its sensors picked up our voices

From afar the strains of a song from someone’s radio

And miles above… a soundless steel bird with flickering lights

Headed to foreign skies…

our minds and tales following it

the soft thud of a falling fruit in the neighbor’s garden

there was a rhythm, maybe not quite…

but dopamine it was.

For even now – forty summers past

(or thereabouts)

When I go there… a lazy smile on my lips

The same summer breeze brushes my cheek

Pushing an errant lock into my eyes

I hear my dog’s contented sigh (at a doggie dream, perhaps)

the off-tune voice of a worker cycling home from a long day

the ring of his bicycle bell

(maybe just whimsical… who’s on the road anyways)?

Purpose-free nights

They were

A colloquy with freedom of a different kind

Naïve I choose not to be

To yearn for time travel.

I don’t know about you.

But me – I just like to..

Remember.

Viva Mexicana - Escape from Winter

(In keeping with the current spirit, Unedited... pardon any slip ups) 

The turquoise waters of the Caribbean,

The friendly coconut trees piercing the azure sky

Vainly sometimes trying to ward off an occasional sneak attack

Of billowing clouds and a musty smelling downpour

Never lingering long enough to deter the holidaying denizens

Moon Palace is the name of this singular establishment

That thrusts a pina colada in my face even at registration

Senor Ola, Ola Senor as the natives aim to please at every turn

Eager infusion of beaming anticipation in our party

Massages, Manicures, Pedicures and shrimp tacos

Spacious and immaculately appointed pool area

Beckons from the back patio of our 'garden suite'

The swim trunks and bikinis abound around the pool

The well-endowed flashing skin to impress, often successfully

The less well-endowed following suit, albeit an exercise in bravado

Relaxation is the name of the game in this shangri-la,

Me and A go around the ground with great abandon,

Crepes are dished out to us, chocolate and strawberry

We savor some and we waste some, all without a care

Ordering fancy lattes and éclairs, some to eat and some to hoard

At a distance of 40 yards from my suite, no greater than two cricket pitches' length

Was the shimmering sea in solemn grandeur

With a few sailboats, canoes and the board paddlers

To take mundane concerns and gently peel them off

Until that magic sense of equanimity descends

Where you feel one with nature, a wondrous childlike solitude in a green canoe

The afternoon sky is a blemish-less sapphire,

The sea like a pretty lady clad in an emerald dress inlaid with frothy white lace

The last stray thought that straggles, is my cellphone safe with teenage Tony in the canoe shack,

And a little touch of gratitude for the affable bearded Brazilian from Boston that clicked me

Evenings are equally languid with the descent of the setting sun

Making a Picasso out of the sky and the tropical foliage

Soothing shades of orange, yellow and red bathe the recliners on the beach

Occupied by bikinis and swim trunks that support the shapely and the shapeless

And a gentle breeze assuages the sun-kissed visage and weary legs of the four of us

The evening's entertainment is just outside the gates

Impostor or not, the great Michael Jackson gyrates and moon-walks

The kiddo is elated and makes a physical investment in impromptu dance moves

The popcorn and the churros come gratis by the subservient wait staff

Aiming to please, as they are eager to see these tourists return with fatter wallets

All the travails that were undertaken to make this sojourn happen are brushed aside

Expired passports renewed by mental contortions and divine intervention

Just this joyous milieu where everyone and every being seems happy and boisterous,

Even the braggadocios cats that lick off the room service plates outside closed doors,

Seem contented that the vagaries of life are in abeyance, and romance is in the air

Postmarked Seville

Sipra Pati

Almazen Café, Seville, Spain, May 23, 2018

By myself post-lunch… time to kill after spending two and half hours wandering in the delightful alleys of Seville. Found this café – colorful chalk-written blackboard announcing its beverage and tapas fare. Freshly-squeezed orange juice – cool, not cold - feels like a liquid savior. Mismatched chairs, stools, couches that had seen better days, floor cushions on wooden benches… tables keeping up with the lack of coordinated décor. Very few people – all young – laptops and iPads up – a place to study – can very well imagine my daughter here - alternating her attention intermittently between books, laptop and phone screens. No fans or air conditioning. Yet this place was cool. Like the orange juice I am drinking.

The outside – the cobbled and the brick-lined alleyways; the sidewalks with the neatly-laid out table and chairs is such a thriving space – it makes you feel like everyone is on a perpetual holiday. Yes… the mornings through bulk of the afternoon is littered with tourists – a different energy – languid, anticipation and excitement. The purposeful gait helps discern the native Sevilliano.

Dana Francisquito. Trattoria Bar and Pizzeria, Seville, Spain. May 24 am, 2018.

So much for its name, we walked into this place because its menu proclaimed Paella – the traditional Spanish rice dish. A glass of Sangria for me even though it is not a typical hot day. The wind that blows through the narrow alleyways has a touch of ice to it. But the sun beams its heat through the thick cloud cover. It’s good again.

Around me I hear people conversing in different languages. Everyone’s a visitor. So it seems. I hear some British English, some Bengali reached my ears, perhaps Italian from the table next to ours, a person walking by talking into his phone in Hindi, a shaky merci beaucoup from an elderly French lady, and so many more tongues that my aural sense could not discern. Families, couples, retirees, school children, University and college students, tour groups… just about every kind of visitor. Languages so different, but expressions and intonations dead giveaways. Excited chatter, confusion, apprehension, aah… comprehension, delight, awe, lost, hunger, irritation… just about every tourist-in-a-new-place feeling.

The alleyways of Seville, Spain, alongside Alcazar. May 24 pm, 2018.

Smells of coffee, shrimp, fries, fresh-squeezed orange juice, fresh bread, roasting almonds, caramelizing sugar… my olfactory nerves are in a tizz.

Time to get started on my walk back to Recarerdo Street. My feet will feel the unevenness of the cobbled street and brick-lined alleys; climb onto narrow sidewalks and back on the street. My eyes will take in the colors of the walls and the angles of the alleys, the flowers and foliage spilling over miniscule balconies, the open doorways allowing glimpses into tiny courtyards overpowered by dense foliage and religious niches, smells of lavender, orange and other exotic aromas would entice my senses. Chirping birds… I will hear the parrots and swallows and see them too… the parrots’ green prominent before becoming one with the dense foliage of the trees once alien to this land. The shadows of the buildings will protect me from the intensity of the sun, and once I hear the tweets of the parrots, I will see the alleys open up into broad streets where the buildings will not deter the sun’s rays from activating my sweat glands as it shines down through the clouds (which I am told was rather unusual for the season).

Charlotte GastroBar, Cadiz, Spain, May 25, 2018

The other side of the Atlantic. The skies. The skies. The impeccable blue with the not-so-soft-cotton-candy, not-all-white, some grey, not-seemingly threatening clouds. The blue, the green, the emerald, the undefinable blue green aquamarine of the waters… the shadows of the clouds rendering the water a tad teal. The warm silvery sands, the sea breeze, now cold now not, young lithe bodies shimmering with wisps of clothing, shrieks of joy from some in the water, sea gulls not soaring… the cold cold waters chilling the toes. Before the shivers can pass through… refreshedness filling one’s being. Red seaweed washing ashore. Gentle breakers. An errant one soaking me beyond my ankles. Sand clinging to my wet feet. Then that seemingly innocent grey cloud sneaked up and opened up. Bodies scrambling feet scampering towels hastily thrown around, rushing into a bar. Five minutes – that was all. The clouds sniggered laughing at us. The sun shone down again on the blue, once again resplendent. Charlotte Gastrobar beckoned. White chairs and tables. Chitter-chatter from under the garden umbrellas. A hot Americano in a delicate china cup.