Feelings – The Gait

Morning of Cyclone Nisarga

Mumbai, India – June 3rd 2020 – 12:33PM

I’ve had a Word Doc with this story open on my laptop in hopes I would put it to use somewhere in my writing. I was three months into lockdown when I wrote this during what everyone thought was an early monsoon but really it was just a cyclone. It was a great exercise in describing the senses the way I experience them. Maybe its today’s persistent rain but somehow it felt like a blog post would make a better home for this material.

Sitting at my desktop by my balcony window, the church bells rang. They ring everyday at 12:30PM. I can hear the bells from St. Theresa’s Church just behind my building. Even in the midst of a cyclone, the church bells will ring. One day I need to remember to ask someone if there is an actual physical person that rings the bells (because in India there is a person for every job) or if it’s put on a timer.

I took me a few tries before I got the name right. Naisagara? Nagarasa? I just came to know its Nisarga. I never would have come up with that combination of letters, ever. It’s another thing that separates Indians and me. They probably got it right on the first try.

Dark clouds steamroll through the sky and there is a soft crackle of thunder.

I can hear the squeaky creaky windows and the gusts of wind as they swoosh across town. I can hear the caws of crows in search of a dry home. I can hear the billowing up of a tarp from a rooftop nearby. I guess it wasn’t pinned down properly. Of even if it were, some breeze would sneak in and fill its lungs with air. I can hear the soft rustle of trees as their branches and leave shake, heavy with rain.

I can hear the honking of cars and the screech of a rickshaw’s tire on the wet ground.

I can still hear the pressure cooker from a nearby kitchen. It could be from any of the surrounding buildings, not just mine. You’d be surprised how far the sound of a pressure cooker can follow.

I can almost hear the sound of waves from the ocean, the thunderous clap of the high tide against the water. A definite roar as it crashes on land and over smooth black rocks.

The wind flaps outside my balcony window. I’m drawn in by its smell; it’s fresh, clean, natural smell. Last night when the rain started falling, Martha and I stepped outside. I could smell dirt with a hint of freshness. Maybe that’s my American sense kicking in, thinking of the Mom’s backyard when we’d stand outside on her patio just before a storm, to take in the breeze and breath in the strong smell of fresh grass, wet grass. Grass. We don’t have much grass in Mumbai so perhaps it’s the waft of a wet tree nearby.

I can hear a faraway horn. Is it a conch call? I can’t tell. I have heard pujas and prayers from up here. I don’t know how far or close they were happening but I have heard a lot of religious sounds from way up here, sounds from funerals and weddings.

Solemn straight lines of men dressed in white suits with white beards. A casket follows. Men and women together in kurtas and pants walk slowly and calmly in the street, following a car that inched towards its final destination.

But then, bangles and drums and whistles and singing, the groom is on his way to the bride! A street full of color and movement, and yet, the wedding moved just as slowly as the hearse.

Martha walks in to begin her cleaning for the day. She starts with the balcony. I remind her to bring the fan in today so it doesn’t get spoiled in the rain. Small droplets have probably already fallen on it but it wasn’t plugged in. It seems she’s taken up a new mission today, cleaning the wire mesh that wraps around the front of my balcony, keeping out the pigeons but ruining my photo opps. The wiring has been dirty for a while. I noticed it more when we did a major cleaning during the lockdown (still currently on) and I told her to clean it. I never followed up with her about it. I want to cheer her on, support her, and show that I appreciate her efforts. That she remembered and did it without me having to tell her. Did the dirty wire mesh bother me? Yes. But did I care enough to tell her to clean it again? Not at all. Up close it was a mess but you couldn’t see it from far away, not even from this desktop.

I don’t hear people, I barely hear people. These days, the people are all inside. Because of a pandemic, corona virus, and now because of the cyclone. Because they are scared to go outside, because they need to be logged onto the computer working from home, because the schools are shut and the kids are home and there is too much household work to be done. Cooking, cleaning, sorting, organizing, praying, exercising, playing and typing and talking and laughing that needs to be attended to.

There is so much to do at home and yet with so little space. Even if you live in a big bungalow or five BHK, your space can feel so small. I have been trying to use and occupy my space better, peer out of every corner and look at every angle. I want to see buildings I never saw before and experience new views. I want to absorb my surroundings and hug every inch of my city. My city of Mumbai, my home, my new home. I want to know every sound and watch every person that comes into my view. Observe their behavior, their body and movements. I can’t see most of their faces at this distance so the larger movements are all I can go by. Except for the rooftop of the building next door that faces my balcony. I’m a little higher up from them but they are the closest people I can see. I can see some of their faces and have a good idea what they look like from a distance. Closer up may be another thing. I wonder if I would notice them on the street? If we were to pass each other downstairs or ran into one another at Liberty Chemist around the corner, a corner we share, would I recognize them?

One woman that stands out reminds me of my yoga teacher. She looks taller than Karishma, my yoga teacher, but she’s got a slim build, walks very upright and has the same hair color as Karishma. A mixture of yellows and golds and browns. She always in fitted athletic wear and ties her hair in a ponytail. She moves like Karishma too. Because of this, I call her Karishma or yoga lady. Then there is a pudgy boy with the glasses and his little sister and I’m not sure who those other people are but there is a lady and another teenage looking kid with them. Then there’s spectacles, he comes everyday to go for a walk. A man, probably in his late forties or fifties, in his joggers with his phone and headphones. He walks everyday. He’s looked up a bunch of times at me and we catch each other’s gaze from a distance but it’s more my who the fuck are you type of gaze. Not a warm gaze. I stare hard at him almost like back off I wanna wear shorts and a dress and be myself without having your eyes on me, you creepy Indian uncle.

Beeping of cars and children in the distance. I can hear the beating down of rain now against the ground.

I hear a train in the distance. Martha stops wiping the floors to look up at me and say, is that a train? We both wonder. We wonder where it’s going, why it’s making that noise. Martha says local trains are running again with limited service. But where is that train sound coming from? she asks herself. SV Road? They haven’t finished building that train track, can’t be that. Bandra Station? It’s so far off, how could the sound travel all the way here? Martha says there aren’t any other sounds outside so the stillness of the city would let a trains whistle travel longer than it otherwise might.

I smiled. If only she listened, she’d hear the sounds.

An Old Sunday

**This post was from a little over a year ago when I re-moved to Bandra. It was written on a Sunday so I’m posting it. I never posted it after I wrote it and I don’t know why.

Sitting in one of the three Starbucks located in the Khar/Bandra area (this is my first time at this specific location). Not mad at it since there’s not even one step to enter, so so rare in this country. The upstairs has more seating and I’m sure it’s much more open. But here I am since it’s close to home. A good way to get out of the house, although I’d be happy sitting in my PJs in my beautiful (albeit, regrettably noisy) apartment. I had Balu come later in the afternoon today, since I woke up late and it’s Sunday. I didn’t feel like starting the day with a packed morning punch I normally throw.

The initial descent into Mumbai was as expected. My body ached but not as much as I expected it to. I slept for a few hours on the flight but the extreme turbulence made me so uneasy. At one point I felt like the plane might go down. I’ve experienced travel/plane paranoia before (see my post Old Gay Love). It’s seriously the worst. I popped a pill and eased my nerves by telling myself that it’s okay, if this was my last sleep there’s nothing I can do. The only thing I might regret would be scolding mom for some stupid shit she said before I left. God, I’m such a bitch. What’s wrong with me? Then I zonked out.

As I traveled through the airport, I noticed the newness of Terminal 2. I saw it when it first opened when I was traveling from Mumbai to Newark in 2014 but I hadn’t seen what it looked like coming to India. People (that looked Indian) took pictures by the modern waterfall. More pictures, more sculptures, more art. Mumbai’s gotten an upgrade. I made a promise to myself to make this time different. It wouldn’t be all about therapies and treatment this time. I would maintain my Americanness. It’s part of who I am. India has a way of changing you but I like the way I am. I know India. It’s not my first time. I would let myself keep up what’s comfortable to me in American and make that work here. I would bow out of some of India’s hard and fast rules.

Some things I would keep for myself included:

-I won’t entertain random uncles or people’s curiosities. It’s too time consuming and I just don’t give a damn anymore.

-Time is important. I won’t waste mine here. Productivity and using my mind for purposeful things is important to me.

-Order (almost) everything online, have it delivered, or have someone pick it up for you. I wasted so much time last I was here running around buying groceries, knick knacks, stupid shit for my apartment. In a way, it helped me explore the city, it’s people and the Mumbai motions, but it was almost always exhausting and a huge waste of time.

-Stick to 1-3 therapies locally, that’s it. People offer their opinions for everything here: from physical therapists to the best carpenters and hair stylists, I’ve learned to way I feel comfortable and my best. There is something to be said about going out of your comfort zone but listen. I’ve been to Mumbai too many times to keep going out of my comfort zone. Also, everyday at least once I am encountered with an experience which is out my realm of comfort. So let me go to Jean Paul Biguine, spend a little extra and feel at home.

Stay open, stay positive but keep in mind you have the experience behind you to know what to do. Allow your past encounters to guide you in a better, more well-balanced life here for yourself this time around. Whatever that means specifically, remember that you got this. It’s not your first time around.

You came here for domestic help, physical therapy and the lifestyle that India affords you. Mainly for the help so let them help you. Do things yourself when you can but for now, till you gain that strength back, allow Jaiya and Balu to be support system right now.

Free yourself from that fear that you have that you won’t find love or mom will be sick or that you will have zero career and serve zero purpose in this lifetime. Time is so precious but you must not be pressurized to get everything accomplished in one days time. Things take time, especially those that are worthwhile take time to flourish.

Back to my airport exit: My bags came out quickly. The wheelchair guy threw my ginormous luggage onto a cart which he wheeled with one hand and pushed me along in the other. I called Balu on the wheelchair guy’s phone. I saw Dad and Balu, Dad looked cooler than normal with his dark washed jeans and loafers. Dad? Is that you? He seemed calm and happy. I was tired but happy. I made it. No one died. I didn’t lose anything. Dad’s safe. I am safe. Success.

I didn’t talk about the apartment, brokers, anything during the car ride. Same old Innova ( no, like its old and run-down now) and same street of Mumbai. A thick layer of smog filled the skies. All I could do was watch the streets. I remember Deepali doing the same when I picked her up from the airport the last time she came to visit me. There’s so much to see. But I feel jaded, unimpressed by the outlandish nature of the streets scenes.

Side-note: why are there people crammed up in this Starbucks? It’s spilling over with people. It’s just Starbucks, people. Calm yourselves.

A breakdown of what’s inside my head: Car ride/Taj/Same people, different year/they remember me, yay!/breakfast at the Taj/owner of celestial sucks/no place to live/back to the hotel/call those brokers/apartment hunting/it’s gross living with a man in a hotel room/can’t wait to have my own bathroom/grossed out my D’s scratching /breakfast/l’amour, yes I need to live here/no monies in the banks/shit/when am i getting out of this hotel/contacting people i know here/ashok/mona/l’amour/i don’t know the answer to some of these questions.

Abracadabra

a closer look @ googling

I’ve been wanting to speak on this topic for awhile. It’s been tucked away in an email draft with the subject: Things I Need To Write About #writerproblems. Some of these ideas never see the light of day/make it through my fingers, though most are good. There are without a doubt terrible ideas I’ve had for pieces that should never come into fruition. Still, I like to keep a record of them if not for making myself feel better that I tried but simply for my own personal amusement over their ridiculousness. #writerproblems.

I’ve written in previous posts about how technology has changed so many things for us–culturally, socially, emotionally/mentally/physically/, the list goes on. It has it’s enormously meaningful impact on the world but comes with dangerous side effects and drawbacks we’re only now starting to understand and accept.

I’m terribly curious by nature and also extremely anxious/strategic (part of the reason it’s taking me so long to get to this idea #overthinkerproblems). It works both for and against me, this very special trait of mine. I breeze through research, knowing the right questions to ask to get the information I need/don’t (good for journalism). I talk to strangers, socialize often and keep chugging along.

Too often I succumb to the darker side of my anxiety/curiosity and I google the shit out of everything. When I came home from buying a new line of products from Clarins (and after evaluating the products in-store and online), I came home to google, “benefits of X product.” I even remember thinking to myself, ‘isn’t this the strangest behavior? Didn’t I just spend nearly an hour in the mall deciding which products I liked, even got a mini-facial in the process to test said products out? Why do I still need to check this out online?’ It was the first time I really took notice of what I was doing. And last month, I started including more vitamins and supplements in my diet. Most of them need to be taken after a meal. I chose them based on what my multi-vitamins were lacking plus whichever I found would help with muscle/bone strength. Even though I already purchased the vitamins and devised a plan for how I’d space them out throughout the week, I came back to my Macbook only to read about the benefits of each one of those pills.

What are we doing to ourselves? Have we become so dependent on technology for validation that we stop using our brains? I’ve become addicted to reading about the benefits of the choices I make, mainly when it comes to my health or body. I’m less concerned somehow about the risks but I pore over the good stuff–how drinking enough water can completely revolutionize my skin, what a good nights sleep can do for your body and mind, the goodness that comes from a dedicated exercise regimen, how thoughts can positively or negatively impact your behavior and body, and so many other meaningless searches. ALL information I’m aware exists and will continue doing regardless of those benefits yet continue down the bottomless pit of interneting away.

DISCLAIMER: This isn’t just because I have too much time on my hands. On days when I’m completely busy with writing, researching, scouring the internet for editors contact information, or just living in India (which requires lots of other types of busy work) I still find myself seeking this information. I had to ask myself why is it that I keep coming back to this same, silly activity? Is it because I’ve written those listicles or articles on the benefits of x thing? Or, worse yet, do I actually care about those benefits?

After all the products have been purchased, the water drunk, the sleep slept, the pills swallowed, the body remains kind of a mystery and no one knows entirely what’s going on inside of it. I suppose its my own fascination with the mysteries of the body that keep me googling but it’s also my inherent desire to be validated–to know that I’m doing something ‘good’ for myself, that I’m treating my body the best I can and heading in the right direction. Its my own congratulatory pat on my back. As we get older there isn’t always someone around to say, ‘good job’ or ‘right on’ or whatever encouraging words people offer one another. We need to believe on our own accord that the choices we are making ARE for our betterment. We validate ourselves and keep moving forward, no matter what Google says.

Googling out our anxieties and fears is the modern version of Abracadabra. We instantly get answers to whatever thoughts/concerns/questions/fears/frustrations/elations we feel, anything we feel! Magic happens in front of our very eyes and before we know it, we’ve got our fix. We instantly feel better or worse, satisfied or left wanting more.

I’ve had to consciously stop myself from googling the benefits of anything these days. Live and let live, I say. I can’t remember googling to validate before the internet existed. It only started about 1-2 years ago. I wouldn’t sum it up to one particular reason but I do believe Google searching has made us so dependent that we forget we already possess a treasure trove of knowledge in our heads. We don’t need the internet to tell us things we already know but we like that it does. And when we start to need it in order to function, we’ve already become addicts.

I remember a book from my childhood (pre-internet) that lived in the study of our house. It was called, “The Big Book of Tell Me Why.” I can remember feeling like I was witnessing something special when I turned its thin pages, being privy to information others didn’t have, gaining knowledge to things no one knew. Learning something new felt exciting and that book held a power over me, before Ask Jeeves or Google ever existed.

Today I caught myself googling the benefits of a new protein powder I’ve been taking for muscle growth. I knew I’d be taking the supplement even if I read something suspicious (perhaps I’m also looking for reasons to not partake in whatever activity or product I’m searching about) yet I still googled away. I guess I’ve reached the point of no return–I’m officially an information junkie, strictly speaking when it come to google searching about the body. Is there internet rehab ™? Someone make that happen. And also credit it to me. Help!

Thirsty Thursday

Don’t know how I just discovered this song, but I’m glad I did. Reggae-ton is my jam music for punching out work that feels empty and endless. It’s fast paced and I mostly don’t understand what’s being sung/rapped/talked about. It’s feel good music and boy does it bring me back.

A little Spotify search helped me rediscover old music, specifically Wyclef Jean, Nina Sky, and City High (CITY HIGH! Circa @ senior year in the high school parking lot, driving with the windows down and radio turned way way wayyyyy up. I still remember all the words to every song, didn’t miss a damn beat.)

Enjoy readers!

Stretch yourself

“I am a human being, nothing human can be alien to me. If a human being dreams a great dream, dares to love somebody; if a human being dares to be bigger than the condition into which he or she was born, it means so can you. And so, you can try to stretch. Stretch. Stretch yourself.”

-Maya Angelou

A Fall Sky

Writing hasn’t felt as inspiring as of late, until it did. I wrote this bit outside on my patio just now. It’s short and hardly makes any sense but I like it. (Sidenote: the picture shown is not the picture of the sky I’m describing. It’s just a pretty sky I took a picture of) 🙂

‘Lists. I’ve been writing lists like a madwoman because that’s what people like to read nowadays. Bite-sized compilations that are supposed to illicit a bunch of feelings while being informational and of course ironically funny in under 500 words. Lists. I’m starting to really hate lists.

I forgot how beautiful it is to write from the soul. I looked up at the sky this evening and it was baby blue with white streaks sweeping across the open escape. Some time passed and I looked up again. Nothing else around me changed much but the sky. The sky was on fire. No, it was blushing. The white turned rose and the blue began to fade. The sunburst from the orange and red hues reflected back on the deck. I could feel the warm pink light on my face. I wanted to keep that sky forever, to hold onto it for another day, for another moment when staleness entered and I was empty. The sky filled me full. I could watch it for hours.

I remembered the lists again.’

Epic Rant

And so it begins…the epic rant that I’ve been avoiding ranting on about. Forgive me for this one but it needs to happen. Ever fiber of my being has tried to convince myself that I was ‘bigger than that’; it was trivial and it didn’t matter so much, that I’d get over it. The last part may be true– I will eventually get over it. But when my chest swells with anger at the very thought of it, I can’t deny it bothers me. What I’m talking about here is a bad haircut.

Hair does something for a woman that other things can’t. I could continue on about the femininity that is attached to hair and how we can often literally get so wrapped up in the stylistic variants and pleasure we woman get from our hair. But that’s not what this post is for. I’m here to rant about the awful haircut that was Shiva’s. I mention his name because if anyone does read this and needs a haircut in Bombay, stay far, far away from his clippers.

By now, I’ve made my rounds at beauty parlors across Juhu to Bandra. There are two I bounce between depending on what services I need. I haven’t gotten a haircut since September, before the big fat Russian/Turkish wedding. My hair didn’t grow out as expected and so I made a mental note to not return there when I was next in need of a cut. My hair grew unruly and difficult to manage. The humidity of Bombay (along with the hard water I supposed and pollution perhaps?) hasn’t exactly worked in my curly girl favor. I’ve come to adjust to life in Bombay but my hair was putting up a very clear fight.

After inquiring about a good hairstylist whom knew how to deal with curly hair I made the quick decision to follow my acupuncturists recommendation of a South Indian hair stylist named Shiva. I’m not South Indian but my hair is comparable to South Indian hair in all its thick and curliness so this seemed promising. “But don’t expect much, he’s very simple. Very good but very simple.” Perfect, I thought. A no frills award winning recommended stylist. “My acupuncturist would never lead me astray!” I thought. I trust her. I decided 5 months ago to trust her and it’s worked in my favor so this seemed no different. I made an appointment for the next day. When I walked in for the cut, I felt uneasy. ‘She wasn’t kidding’. It was beyond no-frills–the salon was dingy, at best. It was located in the posh area of Juhu and I had done my research online about the stylist. Google told me he’s done up most of Bollywood but I had to see it for myself. A part of me screamed ‘get the hell out of there, stat.’ But a bigger part of me said ‘she warned me I would react this way. Just let it happen, Sonali.

Now to the scene of the crime—I explained to Shiva what I was looking for and he lazily agreed to deliver. I mentioned my nervous nature especially when getting a haircut. I know, I know, I need a hobby or a life, probably both. But again, forget the superficiality of it all and let me rant on. He proceeded to razor cut my hair, which I didn’t know till it was happening. It was all very surreal. I felt slices of hair disappear and before I knew it he handed me a bouquet of my hair, as if it he were being gentlemanly and my hair were a bundle of beautiful roses. I wasn’t able to process that moment until later. Just let it happen, it will come out nice. As the cut continued he had his staff hand me several magazines opening them up to the pages where he was pictured with celebrities and receiving awards. I could feel the anger and confusion building inside. WTF?!?! Is this man insane? I had my hair blown out and I reached towards the back of head. It felt thin, empty and flat. He was in no way interested in understanding how my curls fell or. He was an award-winning, competitive stylist who was also a sham. I came to learn later on that when a salon becomes a chain, many times stylists purposefully cut hair uneven or incorrectly in order to make its clients keep coming back to them. It didn’t make sense to me at first but eventually I came to see it worked; they would manipulate their client into believing their hair was one way or should be a certain way, and would continue to do this until their client actually believed it. Plus people are obsessed with straightening their hair. Curly hair is therefore not appreciated as much and so its rare to find someone who can cut it properly. Sad but true. For Shiva, he was more interested in showing me his publicity and signs of recognition via beauty magazines.

I was so angry for so long. I told my acupuncturist about it and she suggested I pay him a visit again, that he would fix it. Fix it?! Hell no. I’m never going back there. I was so upset by it all that my anger even showed up in my Acugraph (this is a graph reading acupuncturists do to check your energy levels or chi). I couldn’t seem to get over the fact that I let this fool of man cut my hair and even worse that I cared about it so damn much. Morale of the story: listen to that inner voice when it tells you run far, far away from something. Also, live with your decisions, whatever they may be.

I’m not as angry as I was before. Hair grows back. Life goes on. We must keep moving forward. When you’re in a new city and don’t know better, you’re often reliant on someone else’s recommendation for your needs. No amount of online research could have told me Shiva’s sucked. Maybe bad haircuts are just a part of life. If one were to see my hair now they would like it wasn’t a big deal at all, it’s not as bad as I describe. The perfectionist in me smiles and says, ‘It’s not always going to work out in your favor, now.” All I know is that no matter how much I mature in life, I still feel as though a bad haircut will always certainly put me in a terrible horrible mood. END OF RANT.

Sincerely, 6 Months.

February 16th?! And so I ask, where has time gone? Where oh WHERE did January go? Time is flying by—I’ve been here exactly 6 months to the date. This is the longest I’ve stayed in India since my Pune days, circa 2008.

M has returned to the bitter cold weather of the tri-state. I hear from friends and family that this winter has been particularly awful; snowstorm after snowstorm with huge bursts of chilling wind and freezing rain. Sounds like a mess. A mess I am happy to not be a part of. Although Bombay has its flaws, the weather during this season is extremely pleasant, more so than any other part of India. It’s not humid nor is it too cold. The nights are breezy and the days are still warm enough to forget its mid Feb. There are quite a few people from the States visiting Bombay this time of year, many of whom I’ve met up with for a casual evening out. It’s nice because it lessens the pangs of any lingering homesickness I may feel. Lessens but doesn’t do away with. I came down with a hell of a cold a few weeks back—runny nose, congestion, facial tenderness, the works. I was so incredibly homesick. It came out of nowhere! Perhaps it’s the need for comfort in times of sickness that I become more apt to just let all types of emotions take over me. Homesickness doesn’t happen too often because India has sincerely become a second home to me—I’ve been traveling back and fourth for 6 years—and so it’s become second nature to dive right back into the ‘Indian ways’ once I arrive at CSI airport. I indulged myself in some good old-fashioned comfort foods and chatted with friends from home. Balance, it’s all about maintaining that balance.

I remember my arrival to Bombay airport this time around on August 16th and having the distinct feeling of “So…this is the new normal. Interesting.” The foul smells and broken streets no longer assaulted my senses. It wasn’t because the conditions improved at all but because I got used to it. A voice inside screamed, “This was never supposed to happen!!!” Balu picked Dad and I up from the airport that night and we arrived at a hotel, per usual. Everything we did our first full day out felt so very normal. I hated the familiarity of it all. I wanted to cling onto the idea of India as something else: a place that was removed from home, a foreign land. India as ‘the place I went to heal’ or ‘the land of spirituality and all things eastern’. [SHORT INSERT: I went to a party at Palladium Hotels’ EXO Lounge last month with a friend and I met a woman who worked at the Canadian Consulate. She did not hold back in the least in telling me how much she despised Bombay. She’d worked for the Consulate for many years and lived all over the place, she says. Rio was b yffar her favorite. But Bombay was not a happy match for her. Her job at the consulate is to help foreigners adjust to life in Bombay. What does that entail, you ask? “You know, most people come here to find themselves, seek out spirituality, all that.” I laughed because it was funny and because it was true. I was that person, I told myself. Her man-friend who also worked as a Consulate advisor for a country far more interesting than Canada later entered and I in turn exited to find my friend. END OF INSERT].

I didn’t want the feeling of everything being easy-breezy, plain, almost boring. The India I held onto and always brought back with me to America was becoming something of the past and New India was steadily approaching. This New India (or New Bombay, rather) where I would live and work just didn’t feel as special. It felt serious and dull. It wasn’t only the environment that felt routine to me but I found myself becoming inherently ‘more Indian’. Street beggars tapping at my car window no longer fazed me. I would stare straight ahead and disengage. I treated people differently than I did before; I always on the defense. I began to question everything and everyone around me. Part of my journey in carving out a space for myself here in Bombay clearly came with a large side of paranoia. Eventually I came to recognize it as such and stopped the craziness. I allowed myself to be comfortable with being comfortable here. I guess its safe to say I really started living in Bombay once I let that happen.

Home Front/Cold Front

‘I never thought I would have to readjust to an American lifestyle’.–This is what I told myself 3 years ago upon returning to NJ after living in Pune for 10 months. I had a serious case of wtf?! moments–no geysers, people obeying traffic rules, privacy, no masses on the streets….you get the picture.

After traveling back and fourth to India many times over, the adjustment becomes easier, the aftershock, less. This time around the overwhelming feeling I had when I arrived home was a peaceful one.’IT IS SO QUIET”. I slept earplug-free for the first time in months. Mind you, I’ve been a troubled sleeper for awhile now, but going from 3 months living on the towns loudest street corner to pin-drop silence will make a sleeper out of you. Trust.

Note: NONE of this is to say that America is better than India, or vice versa. I used to play this game but I’ve come to learn the plus and minuses of both; wonderful and destructive countries in their own ways.

One of the challenges I’m facing right now is the extreme cold front the northeastern US is experiencing. To go from 100 degree weather to 32 degrees is just TOO extreme, for anyone- abled or disabled. But even though I’ve done the trip to and fro India many times over now, one thing remains the same– there is an energy about where I live (NY/NJ) that leaves one feeling unsatisfied; maybe it’s a go-getter attitude or the constant desire to be better than the next person, but I hate it. With dissatisfaction comes guilt, and with guilt comes too many unnecessary emotions. I’ve decided in the time I am here I want to live guilt-free. Does this mean I will go on a murderous rampage or throw temper tantrums at any given stranger? Absolutely-friggin-not (welcome to Jersey). It simply means I will no longer allow myself to give in to the guilt that surrounds me. My battle with guilt began long before my diagnosis with Muscular Dystrophy, but time’s a changing. In the words of Michael J. Fox (and the Twelve-Step Program):

‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’

Now, I finally know the difference.