Holi

“Bas bas bas”

The rickshaw pulled up to the domestic terminal. I was on my way out of Mumbai – via Air India – to Delhi. The small puttering of the rick slowed down as we approached the terminal. The meter showed Rs. 83, in the same red digital analog readout I was used to seeing in alarm clocks. I pulled out a Rs. 100 bill and handed it over to the driver.

“Change na-hin,” I said, conscious of the fact that we hit some pretty heavy traffic, and appreciative of the fact that he never requested more.

I lugged my duffle bag out of the bench seat. The Cornell duffle and I had been on quite a few adventures, and dirt from the corners of the earth was nestled in the zippers somewhere. As I threw it over my shoulder, I waved goodbye to the rick. He waved back with a toothless smile, and leaned forward with a broken back as he merged into the incessant flow of east Bandra.

As I approached the terminal, several more drivers approached me before I entered the building. One man, clad entirely in a loose tan uniform, came closer than the rest.

He flicked his head, “What flight sir?”

“Air India”

“Air India…” he smiled and looked towards his friends. Some Hindi, then, “Flight. Flight number?”

“Uh I don’t know.”
“Dili? Fly to Dili?”

“I don’t know. I think this is the right place.”

“No. No sir. Terminal 2. Terminal 2.”

I decided to consult my ticket before taking a leisurely stroll across town to the International terminals. Sure enough, printed in small letter in the top corner of the ticket, was a warning:

AIR INDIA FLIGHT 111 DEPARTS FROM TERMINAL 2

I had traveled to the wrong terminal.

God damn it, I thought, of course this would happen.

“Okay,” I shrugged, still uneasy that 8 guys were pushing me to get into another rick.

“Hurry, hurry”

I lifted my duffle into my lap, and took a seat. The driver promptly pulled away with a roar. I looked at the meter, which was lifeless and without the beautiful red digital numbers. I should have asked to go by meter, but I remained silent, still in frustration of my mistake.

We passed by the entrance to the domestic airport, and the driver pointed at the Cool Cabs (the pre-paid AC taxis).

“980 rates for taxi,” he said over the whine of the engine.

“What?” I replied, unsure that I heard him right.

“980 for taxi. Too expensive. I’m cheaper,” he patted his chest and smiled.

“That’s not right,” I laughed, “it’s not that expensive.”

He didn’t reply, and I was confused. For that rate, I could nearly to Pune, the next suburban area far outside the sprawling borders of Mumbai. I shrugged it off for the time being. This guy was crazy, I thought.

Should I have connected the dots at this point? Yes. Did I? No.

He turned down a dark side road. A thousand red flags began to wave.

“Where are you going?”

“Shortcut sir. You won’t be late for flight!” He patted his chest his again, and lowered his head for a moment. A gesture of sincerity.

Ok, I conceded in exasperation. At the end of the dark road there was light, so I figured we’d be okay.

The light turned out to be the life of a million people, and our little side road exploded into a microcosm of humanity. We had entered a slum. Unlike Dharavi, a 1 square kilometer slum packing in a million people, this was unnamed, and was just an area in Bandra East. It’s pretty incredible the difference between east and west of the tracks, especially in Bandra’s case.

The road was narrow, rough, and covered in uneven bricks. There were people everywhere, and driving through these crowds was like reverse Frogger; here, the vehicles have to avoid the pedestrians.

The amount of energy and bustle going on in the slum is difficult to understand. A few children in dirty clothes were playing cricket across the road, and we had to skid to a stop to avoid one particularly ambitious girl who went for a diving catch.

A few men on the side of the road, talking over a London Pilsner, yelled something at the girl . “Areyyyy! ” They raised their hands up and motioned a slap.

The girl put her hands together in front of her, and twisted back and forth as she smiled and stuck her tongue to the side. She was embarrassed, and knew she had done wrong. It’s the same expression I remember seeing on my sister. Long ago, when she stole my Star Wars action figures.

“Awww,” I chuckled as we drove past.

The driver looked back but didn’t smile. “Ahh,” he said as he raised a hand in the air, palm facing him.

A couple of women walked down the road, laughing and yelling quickly in a high pitch. Their saris were as colorful as their expressions. Gold dangled from their ears, and their eyes were lit with a fire.

An old man with a large beer belly sat with his hands on his legs, staring into space. His white shirt was stained brown and yellow, and his glasses were large and cracked.

A man was walking with a lungi, folded up a little high, so most of his legs here exposed. I looked away from the hairy mess. He held his head high. Good for him.

A small child was sucking on a sweet of some kind. His eyes were wide, and focused on the treat.

A smaller girl was wondering by him, exposed from the waist down, wearing a tattered red shirt.

A shop owner threw a bucket of water over the chipped concrete outside his entrance.

Two men were buying paan, and a third was chewing and spitting. The forth was smiling and showing his red and destroyed teeth.

The smell of pakora and vada pav floated around, fighting with the smell of human waste.

Neon lights.

Yellow lights.

White lights.

Yelling.

Laughing.

Engine roar.

Music.

Spices.

Shit.

All of this happened within the first minute driving on the road, and we had a much longer journey through the slum. I tried to take in as much as I could, but I couldn’t process enough nor fast enough to fully understand what this system was. How it exists and thrives. It was like stepping into a unicellular organism, and being bombarded with thousands of simultaneous processes, working in harmony and antagonistically at the same time.

Somehow, we made it out of the narrow streets with houses teetering overhead in an uneasy lean. We merged onto a larger road, and picked up speed.

Within a few minutes, we were at the entrance to the new International Terminal. The driver stopped well before the entrance.

“What are you doing?”

“Entrance up there,” he pointed.

“Yeah so go there.”

“Here sir,” he flashed a sympathetic look.

Apathetic and a fan of walking, I went along with it. “Okay, how much?” I asked.

“850”

I laughed, “No.” I thought it was a joke, but his look remained stoic.

“850”

“What? No. That’s insane. It was a 10 minute ride.”
“No sir, flat rate. 850.”
“What the hell?” my temper rose quickly, “That’s not the flat rate. That’s an exorbitantly high rate.”

“No sir,” he pointed ahead, “government tax.”

“That’s not true. There’s no fucking government tax on this.” By this point, my temper had flashed to Hulk mode.

“Parking fee sir.”

“That’s a fucking joke!”

“Sir, 850.”

“I’ll pay you 100, and even that’s too much.”

“100?! No sir, I got you here. You won’t miss flight!”

“I have plenty of fucking time. I could have walked here and not missed the godamn flight.”

“800 sir.”

“You asshole! I’m paying you 100.”

“800 sir,” he motioned for my wallet, like the deal was done.

“Do you think I’m a fucking idiot? I live in Bandra you jackass. I know what’s going on here.”

“Sir.”

“Is it because of this?” I pointed to my skin. “Huh? Because I’m white?”

He gave a fed up look. “600 sir” and flicked his hand.

“No. Alright, drive me up to the entrance. Drive me to a cop. We’ll discuss with him.”

“No sir.”

“Take me to the fucking police. I’ll ask him about this ‘tax’”

“How much? How much sir?”

“100. You can take it or leave it. You get 100 or 0. Your choice.”

“Sir, no. Too little sir,” he said with a disgusted look on his face.

I had enough, and turned to walk to the terminal.

“Wait! Sir, you must pay!” he yelled, getting out of his rickshaw for the first time.

“Do you want 100? Do you? It’s this,” I held a crumpled bill in front of his face, “or nothing. Your choice, bud.”

“Sir, too little.”

“God damn it!” I turned to walk, but he began to protest again. I spun for the last time on my heels, pushed the bill into his hands, and looked into his eyes without saying anything.

He made no more advances, since the police near the entrance to the terminal heard the commotion and began to walk towards us. I had, unfortunately, become used to people trying to rip me off in the maximum city. It was just a reality of being a foreigner. However, my southern blood burned hotter than most at such an occurrence. I didn’t know it at the time, but those kinds of outbursts were hardening a part of my personality, and my eventual return to American society would be rough because of that.

Eventually, the Air India flight landed in Delhi, and after a late evening ride to Visant Vihar, I was able to greet Buddy: the world’s greatest black lab. I fell into a heavy sleep that night, utterly exhausted, relieved, and relaxed.

I would need the sleep, since the next day was Holi.

--

“Do you want chappals?”

“No, these shoes will be just fine,” I laughed. I gave the 300 rupee shoes a glance: they were brown and tattered.

She gave an apprehensive look. “Okay,” she shrugged, “but they’re going to get ruined.”

It was mid-morning, and I had just had a round of sweets and tea to tie me over until lunch. Mr. Bansal was driving Mrs. Bansal, Aishani, and I across Vasant Vihar to celebrate with the family. In the car, I watched people fly by. Everyone’s face was streaked in vibrant colors of red, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink, and everything in between. They had turned into multi-colored beings, and had left their original skin deep below their new facades. Suddenly, in the midst of a rainbow of color, a brilliant white smile would emerge, and shifting eyes would dart about. Then, a water balloon would burst, and the colors would streak down in small rivers.

I had become anxious as we arrived and stepped out of the car. When we did, I looked around, expecting an impending doom of paint. One of Aishani’s aunts was waiting with a thali of paint. It was a large silver platter, with a few small bowls of powder arranged around. What looked like red, yellow, and green flour awaited, and as I approached, she grabbed some in her fingers, and wiped it down the side of my face.

“Happy Holi,” she said with a smile.

I grabbed some paint and reciprocated the act, and a little meekly replied, “Happy Holi.”

A scream erupted. Above, in an elevated park, standing on the top of a wall, Dhruv held a water balloon above his head. He was smiling from ear to ear; he had planned this maneuver. He had the high ground, and his dad had us cornered with a water gun. The gun was cold, and was mixed with paint. Dhruv let out another yell, and in a burst of happiness, let slip the dogs of war.

The balloon hit the ground between us, but the miss offered no solace. We could hear the whistle of more bombs as they approached. Another splash hit the concrete. The arsenal was a bucket above us, and kids weren’t letting up on the barrage. Soon enough, one flew and busted on my leg. There was a shock of cold, while the water gun pierced my back again, and another hand swiped my face with paint.

More kids ran by, so caked in paint their skin was a blackish brown. The concoction highlighted the white of their smiles and eyes. A small breeze brought a fresh gust of air, and loosened the yellow leaves of the tree above. They fell to the ground slowly, twisting and turning. Even they seemed to be dancing in the color and water, unwilling to reach the ground. Everything was suspended for a moment, and pure bliss ensued before another water balloon crashed on my stomach.

I looked up to see a wild-eyed child laughing.

“Oh, you’re gonna get it now!” I said as I gritted my teeth into a smile. However, I stopped short, suddenly aware of my lack of weaponry. He laughed again, also aware of my powerlessness. The maniacal nature of his laughter concerned me a little. Another balloon flew towards me, and I cradled it as it came into me, preventing it from exploding.

I was armed.

His laughter stopped, he took in a sharp breath of air, and shot off running in the opposite direction. I threw it up in a big arc, wanting to hit him from above. Alas, he was too quick, and my throw too weak. My single shot, fell short and lifeless. But my assailant was still running, so I counted it as a victory. 

Vuvi, though much younger, was no less aggressive. Her weapon of choice was a bubble gun. In her mind though, it was a .50 caliber machine gun, mounted on a UH-80 Blackhawk Helicopter. It even had a split second delay as the mechanism primed up, before the bubble bullets started raining.  She came up to me, high-stepping with excitement. Her short curly hair bounced up and down, and she was giggling. When she got close, she fired the gun, and bubbles went everywhere.

As they hit me, my body twitched with impact. She thought the gun was powerful, so I played along. Well, at least as long as I could, before her incessant barrage killed me. I was lifeless on the ground, with a six year old laughing in victory, still peppering my dead body with bubble bullets.

No mercy on Holi.

After a long and hard-fought battle, the Bansal family retired upstairs to eat and talk. Puri bhaji, dahi vada, and a host of other warm food was waiting. The puri bhaji was warm and spicy, but was cooled off with a bite of dahi vada with some tamarind sauce.

With every new person I met, I would get a new coat of paint. My beard was green, my cheeks were yellow with a line of red and blue. My forehead was mostly green, but some purple was mixed in the ridges. My skin color was gone, and perhaps for the first time since coming to India, I was in a room of people who looked exactly like me. We were all united in color, and that unification extended out beyond the room we were all eating in.

It extended across all of Vasant Vihar, across Delhi. Indeed, all of India was connected. From the hot rice fields of Tamil Nadu, to the cotton fields of Gujarat, the tea plantations of Assam, the orchards of Himanchal Pradesh, the slums of Mumbai, the embassies of Delhi, to the beaches of Goa, people everywhere were drenched in color. It was essentially Indian: in diversity there was unity.

“Happy Holi,” India said warmly, as she gently painted my face.          

The Hermit Heart

I keep my heart in the dusty southwest corner of my room. It’s the corner I rarely use: the one with wispy cobwebs and the line of dirt I couldn’t pick up with the dustpan. The heart still beats, but the gathering dust makes the labor increasingly difficult. Each time it beats outward, it exposes a new crack of flesh, where dust and ants flock to cover and disrupt the smooth twitching of the muscle. It’s at least safe there, in the corner. The world doesn’t see it, and I certainly don’t pack it into my bag or staple it to my lapel.

Upon seeing its absence, some women have asked where it is, but I never tell them. I send them on futile searches to throw off the scent.

“It’s in that box on my shelf.”

“I don’t see it in here,” they say after unhinging the maple lid.

“Well yeah it’s really small.”

“How small?” they peer.

“Pretty small.”
They quickly grow tired of the exercise and pursue the beats of other, easier to find men. I meanwhile gently replace the box, give it a quick dust, and glance to the southwest corner. It’s still safe, and thumping quietly in the dirt.

Of course, I take it out from time to time. I buckle it into the passenger seat of my car, and we soar down two lane roads chasing the Texas sunset. The heart, foolish as it is, always thinks we can catch the setting star, and find some kind of nirvana in the process. My feet know otherwise, but oblige the heart’s fancies, and push the gas pedal hard into the thick air. On the road, the dust flies off the sticky heart, and it begins to remember.

It remembers the dirt road to the family farm, when it was first allowed to drive before my feet could reach the pedals. My father would operate the speed while my tiny hands griped the leather wheel of the Ford pickup.

It remembers Highway 170: my road. It’s the long way home, but my heart knows the curves of that road better than the curves of a woman’s body, and enjoys them much more.

It remembers the ridge road of Ithaca. Beating excitedly, my heart would egg on my feet and hands. After hitting 60 and popping up on three wheels, we all decided to take it easy: only 50 from now on.

It remembers the forest road of Cayuga Heights, and the house nestled there. My heart pangs at this memory, but clutches to it like the squeeze of a mother’s hug.

It remembers the nameless roads of Bombay, and the constant danger. It remembers driving her along the sea road in Bandra, nervously gripping my sweaty body.

It remembers Highway 23, and the climb to Newton County where it had made so many revelations.

As I speed westward on the farm roads of Texas, I look over to my protected heart. It beats fast on the road, excited like a child.

Go faster, it demands.

Okay, my body agrees.

Upon our return to the house, I place the heart back in the corner, where it rolls around in the comfortable dust.

On some nights, I drag the heart into the shower, give it a good scrub, and take it to dinner. I place it on the table, nervously defending the imperfections and lying about its confidence. The eyes at the other side of the table have seduced me, and my heart and I always hope that some morning, those eyes could be the first things we see. However, we are often fooled by those eyes. Hidden behind them are various surprises that confine my heart to its corner. Most of the time, it’s an emptiness. The eyes are usually painted glass, and in the cavity behind them a wooden ball rolls around in paralyzing plainness. Upon finding these eyes, my heart and I return to the house, and I apologize for hurting it again.

It’s okay, my heart always says. But it is foolish and doesn’t remember well.

I’m nervous that we have already missed our home someway along the way, but there’s no way to tell until the end. For now, I keep my heart alive on the open road. It’s a comfortable, controlled life.

I should probably get a dog.

A Rose in Houston

The dirty underbelly of Houston exhaled, the hot breath pulsing out from the concrete tunnels like a sleeping dragon. The normal entrance to the Wortham parking garage had closed hours before, so the only option was a deserted tunnel that snaked under the boulevard. I waited for a car to pass, its headlights beaming through the humid air, and jogged to the entrance of the tunnel.

Just before I entered the abyss, a woman turned the corner of the building, on a similar mission to find her parked car. In front of me, she paused a moment, hesitant to enter. The fear quickly passed, and she bowed her head as she began to walk downward.

I had noticed her at intermission. I bought an overpriced whiskey, perhaps an attempt to blend into the scene of crisp jackets and long dresses. As I took the first sip, my eyes glanced at her just over the crystal rim. Her legs were the most striking; they were wrapped in socks or leggings with white concentric circles spaced up the length of her calf. Elegant, bold, and a defiant departure from the drab muted tones of everyone else’s legs.

Her skirt was tight around her waist, but frayed out in carefully folded creases. It angled outward on all sides, but wasn’t so dramatic as to create a triangle or pyramid; it was curiously in-between and without definition. The soft blue sheen shifted in color with each motion of her leg, as the lights bounced off in a chaotic dance.

The air in the tunnel was thick and hot, and moved in ghostly waves. The yellow lights dimly lit the slick concrete, and it extended a hundred yards to the white light of the garage. The only sounds were our steps, and the distant sounds of horns that may have been bouncing around for hours.

As I passed by her, I smiled, and for the first time noticed her age. The wrinkles on the top of her cheekbones and corners of her jaw revealed the five or six decades she had seen.

Now in front of me, I could see the beauty of her outfit matched in her face. Her eyes were a deep brown, so deep that the pupils had sunk into the darkness. In that moment, I wanted to comb her iris forever, in constant expedition of the black center I was sure would be there. Its astounding absence was a perfect reflection of her beauty; subtly humble and quietly magnificent. Her lips were thin and brown, but somehow grew with her smile. The corners turned up, but the tips turned down as she spoke her first words to me:

“The doors are closed, right?”

I had to gulp to moisturize my suddenly dry mouth. “Yeah, they are,” I responded, and immediately regretted everything. Yeah? Why not ‘yes mam’? At least ‘yes’. God damn it Michael, act appropriately.

“Why do they close so early?” her words were coated in some foreign accent, but I had never tasted it.

“I don’t know, it’s a little ridiculous,” my stumbling over words continued. I was seeing her in intimidated fear, and she was seeing me as yet another young man impatient for words.

She smiled once more, and we walked further into the tunnel, the only sound her heels striking the smooth concrete in a confident tap. My hands shifted uneasily over my jacket, and I was careful to keep the label hidden. My sleeves were rolled up, one arm – as always – looser than the other.

Her smile flashed at me again. “Did you enjoy it?”

“The Little…”

“Yes, the Little Prince,” she quickly clarified. The Nutcracker had also played that evening, and opera-goers were careful to distinguish themselves from the more blasé ballet.

“I thought it was wonderful,” I said with a smile, slowly working sophistication into my words.

“Did you read the book?”

“Yes, long ago. As a child.”

She said ‘child’ as I did, and my heart leapt. She either approved of the word (as opposed to ‘kid’, ‘youngin’, or some other American slang of which she clearly wasn’t fond of), or she too experienced it as or through the eyes of a child.

“It was great to see all of those characters…” I paused and waved my hands, rolling through words in my head like outfits. “…visualized.”

She smiled again, corners up, tips down. “Oh yes, it was wonderful.”

We walked several steps forward in silence, while the opera played in our heads once more.

“I’m glad someone’s accompanying me down here,” she said as she glanced down the tunnel.

“Yeah, it’s a little spooky down here.”

“Yes it is.”

Her serves were strong, her volleys precise. It was as if the leather stitching from her luxury handbag had leaked into her soul, straightened her spine, and kept her internal thoughts organized into clean folders. Again we walked in silence, as she looked through her files for conversation starters, and I obsessed over my conversational failures.

“So what made you choose the opera tonight?”

“Well, I stumbled across it this afternoon, and made an impulsive decision,” I replied.

“Good.”

“I’m a graduate student at Texas A&M, and also needed a break from what seems like a constant work load.”

“Oh good” she smiled, “And what do you study?”

“I’m getting a PhD in Agricultural Economics.”

“So then, what did you think of the rose?” she asked coyly.

I laughed, “I think that was one of the best parts. Not because of anything to do with agriculture, but because he’s deriving importance from something only because of the time he invested in it.”

“Yes,” she responded shortly, but her eyes hid some deeper response I wish I could have heard.

“In a way,” I continued, “roses in general are meaningless. We just have to create importance for something to be important, and I like that.”

Her eyes scanned the ground in front of us. She didn’t say anything, and I feared I had stuck a sensitive chord. The truth is, I didn’t like the thought at all. In fact, I hated it. It simply a novel thought, a perspective that hadn’t entered my head before, and like a child I necessarily shook with excitement because it was simply new. With only 24 years of words tucked away in a tuft of my brain, ‘like’ was the only way I could describe it to someone I had just met. I wish I could have said more.

“This is my car here,” she said as her taping came to a stop at the entrance of the stairs.

“Okay, great.”

“Thank you for your service, sir,” corners up, tips down.

“No problem. You have a good evening.”

“You too.”

She tilted her head slightly to the left with her smile, closed her eyes, and curtsied. I turned to go back down the stairs, but walked softly enough to hear her heels fade away.

I never got her name, nor gave her mine. I don’t know where she’s from, or exactly how old she was. She drove somewhere, I drove somewhere else, and our paths will likely never cross again.

I’ve planted roses in the soil of my family’s greenhouses, the snow of Ithaca hills, the grime of Bombay streets, and the dust in the Texas air. Some sprout, some grow, some die. I look to each one in fascination, in childish hope it will root into my skinny arms and frizzy hair.

Someone had cared for that rose growing in the underbelly of Houston. As I pulled onto the deserted highway stretching away from the city, I hoped that one day I could watch such a beautiful rose grow.

You’re wrong, Little Prince, I thought, the beauty of a rose has never been measured in time.

Unfinished Tales from Arkansas

-One-

My face glowed intermittently; with each puff, an orange glow grew and disappeared in the dark woods. Without the sun or clouds for a blanket of warmth, cold rained from the heavens down onto my little Arkansas cabin. I was sitting under a maple, though you couldn’t tell. The leaves had long since migrated south, and the bark was blacker than the night sky. Only a memory of the tree allowed me to know it.

The English tobacco tasted like peat, and the old pipe burned hot in my hands. Across the valley, lights dotted the mountain. Yellow dots meant warm houses, while the white incandescent lights marked the industrial chicken houses. In this part of the country, you see a lot more white lights. On top of the mountain, a yellow light reigned king, peeking through the valley. 

I leaned back in my chair and looked at the stars. The last time I had done that was in Hampi, and I could feel that warm stone again, rough against my back. They looked the same then as they do now: like glitter strewn across the inside of a black bowl. The devilish fingers of the maple clawed at the sky, and broke apart the constellations. I couldn’t recognize anything until the sky rotated just enough around the branches, and revealed Orion. I flashed to a place very far away from my hermitage in the woods.

Sometimes memories can be too painful, so I was glad when the maple took the belt away again.

I looked around for other familiar faces in the sky, when a plane crested over the roofline of the house. It blinked red and white, and floated away towards a distant city. It moved without sound at first, but then seconds later a low rumble ran across the valley, like the tail-end of a thunder clap.

The sound was interrupted by the barking of a dog.

“Ehh,” I mumbled through the smoke. It was probably Kevin; the neighbor’s dog was a menace of sound, barking loudly into dead nights. I didn’t actually know his name, but Kevin seemed to fit pretty well.

The leaves rustled in the distance behind me. I knew that’s what the dog had been barking at, but now could only wait to see what the darkness would bring. Was it a squirrel? A raccoon? An escaped convict with a penchant for cold-blooded murder? My mind raced as I peered into the forest.

The rustling approached. Slowly, a shadow took shape. It was taller than I expected, ruling out rodents. As the shadow left the tree line and entered the grass behind me, the intruder became clear: a sleek and silent doe had joined me.

As I remained motionless, the deer didn’t notice me as it ventured forward out into the field, and eventually the moonlit valley. I suppose we respected each other’s night of solace and contemplation. 

-Two-

My lips were falling deeper into the amber ale, and it was slowly disappearing. The brown bubbles had to travel a shorter path with each sip. The glass was thick and cool. I bought this one with three dollars, and left a couple more for the eyes behind the counter.

When I returned to my godforsaken table, she was saying something about what she planned to do with her psychology degree. I had stopped listening after her rant on homework.

“I seriously just hate school!”

Her tirade began and my attention stopped.

As her words fell on top of me, her eyes darted around the room, and her hair bounced with a calculated bob. She wasn’t there for me, I wasn’t there for her, and maybe we both knew it.

I scratched my thumb over the table. It was the same table in every college-town bar in America. It was small, deep brown, and coated with a veneer that behaved like a wax. As my thumbnail ran across it, it clumped and accumulated under my nail.

Great, I thought, I get to keep a part of this shit bar with me.

“I mean, right?” Her lips curled around the blue straw, and her eyes waited for my response. The crudely mixed vodka and cranberry travelled up into her word machine, and her eyes began a smile that her newly cooled mouth completed.

“Ha,” I laughed, “yeah I guess that’s true.”

She jumped back into her vain monologue.

I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be in that bar, in that city, or in that country. As I sat there and pretended to be interested in a dead conversation, my mind was still racing through the Mumbai streets. She flashed her eyes, but I saw her eyes. The beer was a local Arkansas craft, but all I could taste was Kingfisher.

In my car across the street, leather gloves sat in the passenger seat. They were crusty and stiff, dried out from the wet ditch I had dug earlier in the day. The front windshield was cracked, but I didn’t have the money to fix it. I just let the frost crawl inside on cold mornings. The floor mats were covered in dirt; Arkansas clay that had finally dropped from my boots.

Inside, at the beginning of the evening, I had tried to convince her that I was helping run the family business. But the reality of my car and thrice worn shirt showed otherwise. I was a young Ivy League graduate who had failed to take on the world, and now I sat in a bar with a crusty blue collar in mid-America.

Just a few months ago, I was on a rooftop bar in the urban heart of the frontier land. I was where my home was nothing more than a whisper on my own lips, and on no one else’s mind. With an old fashioned in my hand and a Banana Republic tie around my Chanel flavored neck, I was explaining how I could seduce a leading Bollywood actress. The lights of a city growing at a breakneck pace dotted the space between my colleagues’ heads, and a sea breeze from the Indian Ocean cooled the sweat forming over my body.

Now, I held a craft beer in my blistered hands. I wasn’t talking, and was listening to a girl complain about the price of salmon at Sam’s Club. Around us there were countless conversations, none of which went deeper than that, nor further away. India was less than a whisper on someone’s lips, because I was too sad to say it. The world outside the bar ended at the state line of Arkansas.

“So I was thinking that I’ll be a human resources person when I graduate.” She waited for my impressed approval.

“Oh yeah? That’s awesome. I think you’d be good at that. You can certainly talk to people.”

“Aww thanks! Yeah I don’t know, talking makes me happy.” She twisted her head and curled around the blue straw again. I think it was supposed to be cute.

Where was I? 

An Ode to Fishing in the Dark

On late summer nights, stretching long into the forbidden September doldrums, Lake Somerville removes itself from time. The black skyline outlined by a yellowing moon sits like a prop on a cosmic stage, and the creak of the marina slips out sound like the tuning of an orchestra. Once set, the curtains part, and the play begins:

An Ode to Fishing in the Dark.

We walked down the steep plank-way leading to the marina store, rods and reels in hand, along with a six pack of Shiner Blonde. The woman at the front of the park, sitting under yellow light swating bugs away from her purple mascara, had told us:

“There’s a ten dollar fee for fishing in the campground, hun.”

She didn’t look up from her long nails clicking away at a small phone, her words navigating their way around the gum she had been chewing for hours. We were instructed by the bored and tired woman to find the marina store to pay the fee.

The store was a floating structure near the shallow eastern end of the lake. The lights outside buzzed, partly from the tired chemicals depleted after years of use inside the bulbs, and partly from the armies of gnats and moths bravely burning on the hot glass. Signs were plastered on the outside walls, earnest attempts at fishing puns that fell flat on inexperienced eyes.

Inside, the store bulged with a dusty inventory that had waited patiently for years to be touched by the hands of guests. Lures, artificial worms, candy bars, maps, knives, hats, extra-large t-shirts, and beef jerky filled the beige metal shelves. The entire family of the operation sat behind the counter, eager for interaction. Engrossed by the scene, I didn’t notice my tall pole approach the hanging pole light-bulb, and it hit with a violent metal clang.

“Oh oh, I’m sorry,” I said apologetically.

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” the apparent proprietor said. He was wearing a teal t-shirt that hugged his bulging belly, and a hat with the brim tilted just slightly off center. His glasses were thick and hung low on the bridge of his nose, so that part of the frame hid his eyes and highlighted the top of his cheekbones.

“Well, here.” I leaned the poles up against an adjacent counter, to continue the conversation sans the light-bulb offender.

“Alright,” I looked back to him, “Hi!”

“Howdy,” he said with a smile.

“So I was told to come to the marina to pay to fish off the dock. Is that alright?”

“Yup yup, it’ll be five dollars a person,” he said, somehow squeezing the word ‘eye’ into ‘five’

“Alright.”

His wife was sitting at the register, aged more, but with deeper wrinkles where smiles lived.

“Do you go to A&M?” she said, looking at the logo on my shirt.

“Yup, I do. Just started grad school.”

“Oh good!” she smiled, “Did you get to go to the game today?”

“No, but I might be okay with that. Seemed like a hot day to be sitting in a stadium.”
“Oh yeah! That’s true, too hot for a game.”

“So what was the final score? Forty-something to twenty…”

“Yeah it was something like that,” the husband interjected, “Wasn’t really a game.”

“Well have we really played any games this year?” I said, conscious of the fact that I had referred to the team as ‘we’ for the first time.

The husband and wife both chuckled, and the husband slipped the ten dollars in the register.

“So,” I continued, assuming their concurrence on my last comment, “we can fish anywhere off the dock?”

“Yeah,” the husband replied, suddenly serious, “You can fish anywhere on the dock, and over on this end is the crappie house where they’re really bittin’.”

Nelson and I left the shop, and found a dark side of the dock near the gas pump. The wood planks under our feet shifted within the rusting metal frame, and sent occasional cockroaches up to the surface to inspect the disturbance. The spot we settled on was just outside the ring of light cast in a cone on the edge of the dock. Here, we were safe from the bugs.

Had it been a year since we had last seen each other, from the comfort of our little yellow Sabita? Or, had it only been a year? We talked once of the possibility of meeting in Texas, if I ever made it there, but the thought was as brief as fresh Bandra air. And yet here we were, talking again of life and its absurdity.

The worms we had purchased at Walmart sensed their oncoming doom, and when I opened the top of the thin plastic container, they dove into the clumpy black dirt, desperate to survive. I moved one clump to the side, and pinched a pulsating body. It flung about as I threaded it onto the needle, green ooze seeping out of its body. I don’t ever say it out loud, but I feel bad for the poor worms. Yet the regret is never enough to dissuade me; the promise of fish is far greater.

The first cast felt perfect. The pole started behind me, and as I flicked it forward and released the line, the catapult motion of the arch coupled with the snap of the pole and sent the pink hook soaring into the blackness of night. For a brief moment, it all disappeared, and I waited for its return to earth. Finally, with a plop 30 feet in front of me, the worm began its first free dive.

Across the lake, two headlights were bouncing along a dirt road. High energy country music bounced across the lake, and my ears strained to catch the song. The creak of the dock and the lapping of the waves were determined to keep the song from me, and so it remained a muffled clump of notes.

Between casts and sips of Shiner, we tried to fill the gaps left by a year of distance. We cast hooks and words out into the distance, and reeled in what we hoped would be success.

There’s a calming peace about fishing in the dark. The task becomes more abstract, and your eyes, desperate for something to look at, point to the stars. The same stars that fought through Bombay smog were now raining on our weary shoulders, on the side of a quiet lake in Texas. There were no rickshaws, no vada pav, and no traffic jams here. Just a couple of guys who held those memories, and spoke of them into the night. For the first time, Lake Somerville heard of the far away mystical town of Bandra, and the adventures we had there.

Maybe the fish were mystified too, because they didn’t bite.

Buffalo: Part Two

When I woke, I found my body entangled in a web of uneasiness. It was invisible, but I clutched at the nothingness, hoping to remove the hollow feel.

The earth exhaled from somewhere north, and the trees swelled like lungs. The leaves in my chest quivered in ecstasy as the cool air blew in. I took from the bounty of nature, but it gave no concern to me. I was nothing more than anything else, and that equity set me free. A voiceless observer, content in nonexistence.

It was a cold morning on the side of the river, and my clothes hung wet on the clothesline. The wetsuit and t-shirt I had in the sleeping bag with me had dried next to my warm skin, and I slipped them on while still in the cocoon. I scratched the sleep out of my eyes as the cooking stove warmed my oatmeal mixed with instant coffee; a Gulmarg special of sustenance and caffeine. It tasted awful.

There was no activity as I pushed off onto the grey river. Humans seemed to be a memory in this place, and even the birds were wary of song.

The river surface was still on a cosmic level. With only five miles to travel over five hours, I decided not to paddle. The river would take me along at the right pace. As I looked off the sides of the boat, water bubbles and suspended particles of dirt and twigs floated in unison. Without the reference points of shore, the river stopped; all objects were travelling at the relative speed of nothing. Nothing moved at a difference pace than anything else, so everything stood still on the surface.

The southern river took a characteristic slow bend, and my kayak toured the lazy outside curve. Along the banks, bright ferns and moss clung to tree roots and rocks, eager to drink from the water. The black of the soil and the luminance of the leaves clashed in a battle I was glad to witness. As I came to the point of the bend furthest from the upcoming rapids, I placed my paddle into the pool for the first time. I wanted to stay in this place for a little longer.

A creek joined the Buffalo at this point, and a clearing in the forest revealed the vein as it snaked back into the body of the Ozarks. Small rounded rocks and boulders were rhythmically massaging the small stream as it flowed downward, clear and free.

It was a memory for the river. Water that had once fallen on the leaf of a quivering cottonwood dripped down into the brook, where it was beat upon the rocks. From there it grew and lived, until the solitary drop joined the mighty river at the tip of my kayak. The Buffalo had thousands of memories like these, and millions more as individual drops oozed out of rock faces and saturated soil. The river itself didn’t exist. It was an infinite collection of water from far away, coalesced into a body that collectively existed, here, as one.

I waved a mosquito away from my stiff rain jacket, as the mist picked up to a drizzle.

Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport was sparsely populated as I approached the gate. Each footstep leapt through time, and clawed at me on the river. Like deep notes on a piano chord, they marked the incessant passage of time, and my departure from the maximum city. I was inching away from everything that I had built and destroyed over the past year, but more importantly, I was walking away from the foundation of a new life.

I had established something great in India. Men yelling in the streets woke me up in the morning. Strange tastes grew into my tongue, and burrowed themselves in like groundhogs. My work was respected, and my opinion sought after. I learned to understand conversations without knowing any words. I grew into a negotiator. I grew into a lawbreaker. My heart turned cold, but burned hotter than ever before.

My last view of India was Juhu beach, glowing bright along the black ocean. I watched as the clouds slowly took the light away, relegating the city to the limits of my memory.

The day’s first rapid was quick and narrow, and a tantalizing flat rock face sat inches above the cold water. I paddled hard into the ‘v’ formed at the top of the rapid, picking up speed to ram into the rock face and bounce up onto the surface. The plan worked, and as the front of my kayak bellied up to the rock, the rapids pushed the back side forward. The combination of the forces spun the kayak in place, and soon I was teetering on the gnarled boulder.

Without hesitation I jumped out and dragged my vessel further onto the outcropping. Once safely away from the water, I looked up to the shy sun.

The next photon to hit my cornea sent my soul spinning into tops of the southern pines. In an instant, my mind was hurdling through time as my body anchored itself on the Buffalo rocks.

One moment I was young again, just a child, floating on a raft with Dad, Becca, Uncle Jeffery and Aunt Vale. My head was more golden then, before the darkness set in. Becca and I struggled with paddles twice the size of our bodies. Yet somehow we were filled with a pure, unapologetic desire to go. I looked into my little blue eyes: they were scowled and determined. I wish I could warn them of the rapids to come, and maybe catch those inevitable tears.

The next moment I was becoming a man. Sinewy arms flailed underneath the moldy lifejacket we had forgotten to take off the boat, long ago the previous fall. My golden hair had begun its descent into brown, but was frayed and frizzed like the small claws of a wool blanket. Pimples bulged out from my face, oil production in overdrive, slowly planning their escape from my body. But my eyes continued their scowling, peering down the river in apprehension and hope. The poor creature in front of me had fought with valiance through the fraying of his family, and the cleaving of his home. I was proud of those blue eyes and skinny arms; there was strength in his vulnerability.

The current of time wrapped around my calf and shoulder, and spun me in a cold whir into the next frame of life. Arms still skinny, my face had shielded itself with a beard, and the lifejacket was no longer moldy. Incessantly behind me, in a separate kayak, was my father. He sent words of wisdom to my crumpled left ear, and they danced in the ridges. Some remained there until they became inaudible, while others dove into my head and burrowed themselves into my heart. I’m proud of you. The words tattooed themselves onto my right ventricle. There they will remain, stretching and shrinking until the faded ink is forever lost with the last beat.

A new moment approached with a wave of distortion. Subtle wrinkles had begun to carve themselves into the side of my face. I was alone again, and paddling slower. My eyes were still set upon the river, emotionless in concentration. Yet somehow they flashed grey in a way I didn’t recognize; like peering into the eyes of an old sea captain, I was aged by longing for something. The image was frightening, and I was glad when the flow of time drowned my body again.

I stayed under for longer before the next moment came, perhaps reminiscent of the long desert-like stretch of the middle-ages of a man’s life. When I finally bobbed up, I had aged greatly. For the first time, I was not in the front. My body was stationed at the back of a canoe, my hair returning to the golden color of yore; streaks of grey peppering the brown into a brighter hue. In the front of the canoe was a bright red shadow. It was something, someone. A high-pitched voice and laughter emitted from the aura, my graying eyes glowing blue in response. This time I spoke low and softly to the front, my words becoming ink for new ideas. My eyes were no longer focused solely on the river ahead. Instead they peered into the canoe, and scanned the horizon for trouble.

Powerless against the flow of time, again I was pulled away. The next moment was the last. My arms were frail again, and my skin hung loosely from my bones like a featherless chicken. My head bobbed rhythmically as I struggled to keep it up. My paddles were labored and slow, always seconds behind the action of the river. There were hazy apparitions all around me, spinning around the canoe like an ancient rain dance once common to these woods. The ghosts were encouraging, and even though my body was broken and old, a smile shot from my lips like a deadly cannon. It was, finally, happiness.

A boom sounded upon the river, as my happiness sprung into the spirits and left my body motionless in the canoe. My eyes were no longer visible, but the blue continued on into the haze, destined to forever float upon the river. My lucky body was merely a momentary vessel in its infinite journey.

Upon my return to the present, May of 2015, I found myself lying upon the warm rock face. A soft cloud blew through the canopy of the Ozarks behind me, and the perfume of pine rolled over the stagnant wetsuit and kayak.

“Howdy!”

I blinked through the fog left by my journey to find an old man sitting upright in a silver canoe assaulted by dents.

“Hey there. How’s it going?” I said with an influenced twang.

“Well,” he began, “it’s a nice day for a good paddle, I reckon.”

“Yeah,” I nodded slowly and smiled deeply.

As he passed by with a wave, I spoke softly to my own ears, “It sure is.”

The Buffalo is a giver. The surrounding woods and bluffs emanate sounds and smells that gently tug at your heart, until they turn your head and you say, “Oh yeah, that’s right. That’s who I am.”

Who am I?

I’m Arkansas, I’m New York, I’m India, I’m an oak, I’m a golden retriever, I’m an architect, I’m a digger, I’m coffee, I’m old wood, I’m a truck, I’m a car, I’m a watermelon on a deck, I’m summer heat and winter cold, I’m Carl Sagan, I’m a river.

I am nothing that I could ever write, and something I may never know. But dear reader, my time in India (and perhaps more importantly the reflection time afterwards) has forced me to confront myself in ways I never have before. We are all momentary, but we are immortal through memories and smiles. We must go fast and far through the world, dusting ourselves into the memories of others so we may live without end.

Maybe the rose and peanut farmer in Indapur will tell his children about the day a white guy from America visited his farm. Maybe they will in turn joke about the idiot who once visited their father’s farm. So I will again exist upon their lips and laughter, and again romp through the Maharashtrian sugarcane.

My journey east was not geographic. It has been a directional journey into an unexplored recess of my psyche, and I’m so glad I discovered this place.

Now, dear reader, it’s time to go south in the incessant exploration of life.

Texas, who am I?

Buffalo: Part One

Whispers of his voice travelled up the river. They slid through the dense Arkansas forest, like ghosts or deer, and drifted into my head.

You know, this is really big.

What do you mean?

The move to India. I don’t like it son!

Ah, it’ll be okay.

A pause in the river, my memory, and his voice. Then: It really is exciting. You’re going to change from all this.

Yeah, probably so. But I don’t think in a bad way.

No, but the rest of your life will be affected by your experiences in Mumbai.

As I broke the surface of the Buffalo with my paddle, I watched the front of my boat turn slightly to the left. The sun beat down on my exposed neck, and cradled my body in a blanket of heat. Crickets sung in a chorus, whining in accordance with the sizzling of the rock faces towering over the still water.

Another voice came from around the bend.

I’m scared.

Me too, but it’s alright. It’s all going to be okay.

The assurance, I knew as I paddled through my memories, was premature and wrong. It was not alright, nor had it been since. A mosquito dive-bombed into my ear, and I slapped both the bug and voices away. I just needed to make it to the rapids, then everything would be okay.

My paddle, oared on both sides, slipped into the water like a knife through warm butter. No sound was made on entry. Gripping the black pole interspersed with water and sand, I pulled it back to my body. I had altered the still surface, and two small whirlpools formed on either side of the paddle. As I pulled it out of the water, a small but forced splash broke the silence. That side of the paddle continued to rise out of the water, high into the air, dripping crystals of clear water that exploded in the sun. The whole process repeated for the other side, and in alternation, my boat swayed slightly from side to side as it floated downriver.

The day was warm, one of the first of the spring, and swarms of antsy adventurers descended upon the protected river. Particularly annoyed at one bend, and with a stomach panging for food, I pulled sharply to the right in the middle of a rapid. The bow of the kayak slid up upon the rocks, and I jumped to pull it onto shore before the back end was taken away by the current. A creek joined the river, and there at the confluence stood a tall and solitary boulder.

Dude, this is a sick face.

Francisco’s voice and memories of Hampi hit me like a wave, and my body involuntarily jumped onto the rock, eager to return to the climb.

Once scaled, I unpacked my small backpack for lunch. I had carefully prepared a sealed back of pita bread, but my ration for lunch was only two pieces. Two protein bars, half a bag of beef jerky, and an apple completed the meal; it was fit for a river king. As I calmed my angry stomach, I gazed down upon the river rats.

An old couple went by in a canoe. The wife sat in the front, paddle in tight grip, fiercely moving from side to side, deciding on the plan of attack for these rapids. Right? Left? She made the decisions, but gave no verbal indication to her bemused husband. He sat with a paddle dragging in the water, motionless and emotionless. Her lips were pursed so tight that vertical ridges had formed, and his were so lax that air slipped into his mouth, as obscenities quietly slipped out.

A group of Boy Scouts followed. They all donned life-jackets too large for their scrawny bodies, but none of them cared. Some boys were serious or scared, and shouted simple and ambiguous commands.

“Left!”

“Paddle left?!”

“No go left!”

“Paddle right?!”

“No left!”

A few canoes went by like this, with furious and redundant paddling. Several more went by in silence, partners in sync with each other’s actions. Brining up the rear of the convoy was a chubby boy and his annoyed partner. The larger boy had lost his paddle along the way. He grabbed the sides of the canoe and was shaking back and forth.

“Earthquake!” he yelled, “Woaaahhhh!!!”

The bowman was not amused: he threw his paddle down into the boat, and the pair floated down the rapids backwards.

A minute later, drunk college kids came by. They were spread in four canoes, presumably by couple. They hardly paddled, and were letting the water take them downstream. The men were shirtless, and had hats cocked slightly up and to the side: brim direction is often a good test of sobriety. The women were clad in bikinis, but with an oversized tank on top. The group laughed and drank warm beer. The rapids were of no concern to them, and to their credit of observation, they were one of the few people that saw me perched on the rock. One woman stopped paddling to give a big wave, and said “Well hey there!” through a deep smile.

As I finished my small lunch, a father and son floated into view. I stopped chewing. My throat had refused to work for a moment. The dad was saying something to his son, but it was deep and low. The kind of thing meant for his son’s ears and future memories. The son sat in the front of the canoe, his paddle resting on top, followed by his arm, then finally his head: he was deep in thought. Perhaps he was bored by the float, but his open and bright eyes indicated otherwise. As the father guided them through the rough patch, the son saw me. He raised his head and sat up. We made eye contact, but neither one of us waived or said anything. We locked eyes until they went around the bend.

I packed everything back into the kayak, pulled it into the river, and with a push-off I slipped back into the current.

He was right. Mumbai had changed me, and it frustrated me that I couldn’t quantify how. I still felt like Michael, but somehow the definition of Michael had changed. The new definition had been inscribed in Hindi, and was foreign to the people here. Even I couldn’t read it, but at least I could feel it. I knew what it felt like to ride a motorcycle through the dust of a frontier city. I knew what it smelt like along Marine Drive. I knew what a vada pav tasted like. I knew what a rickshaw sounded like, as the two stroke engine struggled through traffic. I knew the sight of raw human endeavor and failure, and the honesty in cheating. But I couldn’t read these things. I couldn’t pick up these memories and read them to the ones who loved me. It’s a lonely feeling not being able to define yourself to those around you.

On a deep part of the river, an algae covered log rose from the depths and scratched the bottom of the kayak. It came from nowhere, and it scared me. A swarm of ghosts jumped from the embankment, and swam up to my boat.

I’m going to miss you son.

I know. I’m going to miss you too.

You have to jump before it stops. It’s the only way to ride the Bombay local.

You’re fucking crazy.

What do we do now?

We make it work.

Money? Payment sir?

We don’t use your god damn services! Stop asking!

England? From England?

No, USA.

USA! Skinny American!

Mr. Black, your tests have come back, and unfortunately you have tested positive for Dengue fever sir.

Are you serious?

I love you.

They had finally gotten to me. I balanced the paddle across the boat, and sat still. I put my head up, in hopes that the tears would fall back into my skull. They didn’t, and my eyes recolored themselves to red. I was unhappy with where I was in the river. Bound by my resume and gut, I was stuck between a scary future and a bright past. It was so easy to look upstream, and let those memories drown me. I didn’t want to be too concerned with downstream, because it inevitably leads to the take-out spot. Each paddle is a step closer to that.

Some people paddle hard, prepare for rapids, and navigate the obstacles easily. What’s the point, though, if everyone eventually leaves the river? Why paddle at all if the relentless and never-ending current takes us all away? The purpose has to be the journey, not the destination, because otherwise there would be no differentiation between anybody. All people die, but only you can live by your paddle.

As the sun sank low over the tops of the Ozarks, spilling golden rays over the tops of newborn leaves, I pulled my kayak out of the river for the night. The wetbag had failed, and it was difficult to pull my wet clothes apart from my sleeping bag. I set up the tent, and cowered over my cooking stove. The beans and tuna were good, but fell uneven on my broken stomach.

That night, I fell asleep under the Milky Way, unaware that a cosmic shift was occurring. Electricity pulsed through my sleeping brain like a thunderstorm, and knocked loose a trapped memory. One mile downstream, in the still darkness, an epiphany was waiting to reveal it.