Yellow Points and the Fourth Dimension

Against the backdrop of the cosmos, the earth at night is nearly invisible. If a ship were to pass close to our chaotic orb at the moment when the earth would eclipse the sun behind it, the earth would be dark, lit only by the veins of light from the body of man. But those points of light are nothing special on the greater canvas of nothingness. We might recognize some cluster of lights as New York or Dar Es Salaam, but from some visitor’s perspective, it’s no different from Sagittarius or Betelgeuse.

Just a minute later, the earth would continue to rotate and revolve, and a sliver of blue would emerge. A thin semi-circle of sunlight passing through our razor-thin atmosphere, and spilling blue out into the black.

            It’s a small universe of its own; each point of light represents some lifeblood, where intelligent life may reside. One particular point, burning bright down and left from the circle of darkness we call the Gobi, is where I lived once. It’s where many of my friends still live. As I imagine it from space, I only see a point of yellow light. That’s enough for my mind to run, and my memories project out across the stars, playing a movie of pain and love for the universe to see. I see the little yellow light bend and contort, and form the yellow shape of Bombay. Then I focus on the string of yellow that is the Sealink, and follow the stream of yellow cabs and rickshaws up the yellow Linking Road, until my little yellow Sabita glows out, and the little yellow light that was once my room beams back at me.

            That faint light is like a ghost from the past.

            Maybe right now, Lukas is drinking an Old Monk and coke, laughing and arguing with the good ol boys down at Yacht. The smell of smoke, stale beer, and chili chicken would leap from the crumbling concrete walls and iron windows. Maybe Nelson is sitting in Starbucks, or Bru, reading and thinking about life. He would surely start up a conversation about what he wants in life, and the secret to living a good one. The heat would hit with a brutal reminder of reality as he stepped out of the AC coffee haven.

            Maybe Munah is finishing up dinner: fried chicken and some green beans. The kitchen would be sweltering, a molten combination of drier heat, stove heat, and no ventilation. He’d leave the meal with a plate turned over on it, to keep the bugs away. Then he’d slip his broken and worn sandals on his calloused feet, and call out, “I’m going, sir.”

            Maybe my motorcycle is downstairs, like a dog that has found its way home. It would be leaning on a cracked kickstand, with a small oil leak blotting the white tile of the downstairs garage. It’s surely just waiting to be kicked to life, and roar through the Bandra night air once again.

            Maybe Bandstand is covered in lovers. They would be hiding on the rocks, flirting with danger from parents and the ocean. Some might stop and get a roasted corn cob, and dodge the sparks as the wind carries the embers away.

            Maybe the Mumbai local is carrying an exhausted man home from a long day at work. He’d be staring out at the yellow lights of the night sky, thinking about nothing, and listening to music too loudly on his Rs. 20 headphones.

            Maybe the oil refinery at Wadala is shooting flames into the air.

            Maybe a rickshaw is crawling along the Western Express, obviously in one gear too low.

            Maybe Juhu beach is causing another traffic jam.

           

On the other side of our marble, I’m wasting the night away consumed by maybes. My little house is casting light out into the windy shadows of the night, photons bouncing over cracked maple leaves, dead grass and wet dirt. They shoot out across the river valley, eventually tying themselves together into one point of light, stuck to the eyeball of an observer from across the valley.

            From as little as a mile away, my current existence can be completely captured by a single yellow dot. From Jupiter, all of our existences, all that has ever happened to humans, can be summed up in a pale blue dot. Onward to infinity, everything eventually coalesces into a point.

           

            These points are key to understanding the forth dimension. As much as I’d like to understand what the forth dimension would be like, as much as any human would like to understand it, it’s impossible for us right now. Everything we know is completely defined and confined by three dimensions. We can’t even really comprehend the first or second dimensions.

            The first dimension is simply a line. There may be two or some infinite number of points, but they are all connected by a single, straight line; a single axis is the single dimension. Why can’t we imagine this? It seems simple enough. Well, go ahead and try to picture a straight line. What does it look like? You may see a black line, perhaps against a white backdrop. The problem is that the line you just imagined has a width to it. You see black, so there has to be some width to the line to make it visible. Once there is a width, it’s no longer the first dimension.

What’s worse is that you can’t even imagine it in the second dimension. The white background you see is another plane, upon which the line sits. If it’s drawn on a piece of paper, the ink or graphite is standing on top of the paper, giving the line not only width but height as well. Even on a computer screen, the line has the height of the thickness of the screen.

We are creatures of the third dimension, and for now we are completely relegated to it. But can we try to imagine the forth dimension? What would that be like?

The first dimension, as long as we can admit we can’t actually visualize it, is the x axis. The second dimension is the x and y axes, and the third dimension is the x, y, and z axes. Every time you step up in a dimension, one more axis gets added which is perpendicular to the existing axes. This is easy enough to imagine up to the third dimension, but the fourth is a lot more difficult. In fact, it’s impossible. Go ahead and try. Imagine a fourth axis which can be perpendicular to all the edges of a cube.

We can’t imagine where that axis would go, but some have postulated that the additional fourth dimensional axis is time. If that were true, and we were in the fourth dimension, we could travel through time as easy as we could jump or walk.

Now, imagine the earth from space again. We’re going to go on a four dimensional journey.

Find where you were born on the earth. Let your finger guide your squinted eye over the mountains and oceans, and rest upon where you first bloomed into existence. Now let your finger walk again to the furthest you’ve ever been from home. Focus again. Why were you ever in that place? Was it a vacation or something greater and more significant? As you look at this new place, let the lines of the earth re-tell your tales. Maybe you swam or dipped your toes in that nearest body of water.

I can’t tell you the exact images and memories you should have, but let your finger run around the earth like a whirring satellite, silently observing humanity in the dead of space. Don’t focus on borders or rivers or landscapes, but instead focus on the memories you have attached like flags to the various points on earth.

As you do this, imagine as well what those places are like right now, without you. Life is undoubtedly continuing on. There are people still being born, still dying, falling in love, hating work, getting stuck in traffic, burning pancakes, and all of it is happening right now.

You’ve done it. You’ve just taken a short journey through the fourth dimension. Your eyes darted around the three dimensional planet, but your consciousness travelled through time. You were in London in this moment, but your awareness was in London years ago.

Maps, our guide through the third dimension, may be the best way for us to imagine the fourth.

Tonight, if you are lucky enough to be blessed with a clear sky, look up at the stars. As you do, know that the little light from your home and city is casting itself out amongst the giants, and placing you as a point in space and time. Your beacon is lit and unique, and will never happen again like it’s happening now.

Nowhere

The pipe rolled a little under my foot. It scraped the rough concrete, until I found the perfect spot with the arch of my boot. Secured, I lowed the blade of the sawzall, and pulled the trigger. It leaped to life, biting into the pipe at several spots before I calmed down and pushed it through. It cut through easy enough, but near the end it switched direction, and the blade bent slightly to the left. One second more and it fell through, the black PVC landing on the gravel below.

Ugh, that was a rough cut, I thought.

It really was. Shavings were stuck to the rim of the pipe, and I reamed them out with my finger. The remaining lip was jagged and uneven; not a great fit for the coupling. Well, at least the other side looked pretty enough. I kneeled down in the gravel, and opened the cans of primer and glue. The purple primer brush was shaggy and mangy looking; a good indication of how often we used it. I ran the brush on the inside of the coupler, and on the outside of the pipe. Then I ran through the same motion with the glue. It was thick and deep blue, almost appetizing. With the glue on, I put the pipe into the coupler, gave it a quarter-turn, and applied pressure.

“Michael, what you making?” Herberto yelled from the other end of the greenhouse. He was looking up from the baseboards he was attaching to the outside walls.

I held the tube out and ran my finger down it. “It’s a column for the temperature sensor. This black part is supposed to warm the air and pull it through the white part for a more accurate reading.”

“Oh,” he said, and raised his eyebrows over the top of his safety sunglasses. He nodded and smiled, and went back to the baseboard work. He wasn’t a man of many words, but he said more than anyone else.

As I walked back to Greenhouse 6, I kicked the gravel under my boots. Less than a month ago, I was in Indian shoes, pushing down the gears on my motorcycle roaring through Bandra. Loose bricks shook under my feet then, and little bits of filth stuck into the ridges of my sole, and soul. Now those same feet were shifting over white gravel in Fayetteville.

When I first got back, I considered myself a failure. I left India before I was supposed to. I left my colleagues mid-projects, broke contract, and left hurt hearts mid-beat. I felt neither like myself, nor like a man. I went east with wide eyes, but returned west with my head down.

With my head down, I got closer to Greenhouse 6. I avoided a small puddle from the rain last night. My boots marched on, and the late afternoon sun beat down on my neck and the white of my forearms.

There was some humor in my brown feet scuffling over the rocks. With squinted eyes, it didn’t look too dissimilar to casual Fridays at Mahindra towers. I even wore the same jeans: Levi’s 501, 30/30s. Which version of me is better: the jeans and the Eccos, or the jeans and the Timberlands? Which me walked with confidence? Which one is the kind of person I can be proud of?

Success is unattainable until you stop and think about it. Its definition is fluid, and changes every day. Today you may want to change the world, and anything less would disappoint you. But tomorrow, you may think that all you want is to live in a house in the woods, with a good dog and a couple of kids. Then, anything less will disappoint you. The truth is you wake up a successful person everyday. By some definition you made some time ago, you are successful today. You may only have a car to your name. Or a cat. Or even just the ability to buy a new phone. But according to 10-year old you, you have become someone you once only dreamed about.

Success is some ideal we chase, like a carrot. It’s an endless chase, and as soon as we think we get close, we change the definition or our direction, and keep running forward. Every once in a while, it’s nice to stop, lean back, and let the dangling carrot fall into out mouths.

Crunch

I stepped on an old plastic pot on my way into Greenhouse 6. Inside, I pull out the flatblade screwdriver from my back pocket, and help my Dad wire a new thermostat system. We play around with the wires, trying different ports and staring at confusing diagrams.

“So Open 1 here goes to Open 1 there, and Close 1 to Close 1?” I asked

My dad looked down to a poorly printed diagram in a red paper packet. “Uh, yeah I think that’s right.”

It wasn’t. After we had plugged everything together, I touched the male plug, and 120 volts ran through my body. Not bad, just a little numbing shock. We looked at each other in disbelief. Neither one of us understood the physics of what was happening.

“Well what the hell.” My dad’s words were my thoughts.

“Um, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I guess…” he paused and looked at the curtains along the wall, “Let’s just re-wire the Vent Boss, and come back at it in the morning.”

More wires, more terminals, more head scratching.

The important thing to remember, I kept telling myself, is that the grass is always greener on the other side. In India, I yearned for American diners, real biscuits, and my old Chevy. Now back in the states I yearn for my Honda Hero motorcycle, pav bhaji, and the Sealink. There is always yearning, and the more we experience, the easier it is to yearn. We’ve done so much, and seen so many things, how can we ever be happy with what is right here and now?

It’s a tough task, but it’s all about the little things. As you read this, there is something that you have right now that will eventually turn into a warm memory of the ‘good ol days’. The things you hold in your hands today may bring tears to your eyes later in life. Learning to cherish the present is the best way keep the past and future at bay. They can both be scary things.

My car shook to life. The orange dials on the odometer and rev counter swept quickly to the right, then back down to the left. A CD sent electronic whispers through the speakers as it started to spin. Get ready, it seemed to say. It landed on a track, and as I turned onto Wedington Drive, high energy Indian music blasted from the car, leaping through the cracks of the windows, and landing on the Arkansas pavement below. It bounced around for a moment, before being smashed under the growl of a V8 Hemi passing by.

As I drove down Broyles, and eventually Highway 170, my eyes lifted from the road and grazed the trees. I took a deep breath of air, and the slight smell of smoke brought back a whiff of Carter road in Bandra. Shoddy concrete buildings suddenly leapt up from the southern oaks. Little clotheslines climbed up the side, with bright reds and yellows of t-shirts, kurtis, and underwear. Black lines of cable between the buildings zig-zagged everywhere, replacing the white contrails of the Arkansas sky.

For a brief moment I was nowhere; exactly where I wanted to be.

Moments on a Sunday Morning

Karthik reaches down into the bucket, his hands cupped. He captures the cold water, and brings it up and unto his head and back with a quick and smooth arched movement. His sinewy muscles are tense over his bones, and his skin reflects back the Mumbai morning sun. His feet shift over the rough bricks as the local train whizzes past.

Arjun buttons up his tan shirt, matching his tan pants. He swishes some water in his mouth, then spits out the door as he steps out. Not far away, his rickshaw is waiting. He stops for a while to talk with fellow drivers, congregated over several cups of chai. Then he walks the rick out to the street, kicks his chappals off, and with one leg crossed underneath him, pulls the kickstart, and his livelihood rumbles into existence.

Shruti puts bright red lipstick on. It highlights her dark mascara, completing the 40 minute process of re-sculpting her face. Her cheeks, eyes, and lips were a messy canvas when she woke, but she has since created a masterpiece. Or so she hopes. She still doesn’t think so. She kisses her lips together as she turns to the side and looks at her body. The blue dress, as tight as it is, may be overkill, but she can’t risk it. Who knows who she’ll see at Starbucks?

Bharat is slapped awake. His mother is yelling something at him, but his ears haven’t quite woken up yet. His headache is splitting, and he still has a faint taste of foul beer in his breath. He groggily asks his mom to give him more time to sleep, but her barrage continues. He’s still wearing the black shirt and jeans he wore to the bar last night, and it’s obvious he drove home drunk. The mother leaves him to his stale odor.

Lola lights the stovetop. There is a single burner, with a simple line connected directly to a red and dented propane tank. The room is dark, even though the sun has risen. The light only reaches this part of the slum for a few moments at noon, when a skinny crack lets a stream of warmth in. Her children are sleeping close to her feet, so she’s careful not to drop anything hot. Her husband is snoring in the corner loudly. She puts a paratha on the skillet, and watches it rise slightly.

Nirali is sitting with her fish again. Her husband had caught them the day before, and she had them in a basket, sitting on ice. One leg is crossed underneath her, the other supporting her chin. She is staring out at the road, her wrinkled skin gathers sweat in the creases. Her blue saree and head cover are clean, but the fish odor can never be completely removed. A motorcycle drives by and covers the fish in a layer of exhaust. Nirali is un-phased.

Vaibhav looks down the tracks. He is holding a large sack of potatoes on his head. He doesn’t know how to read the electronic sign indicating how many minutes until the next train, and upon not seeing the train coming, he drops the potatoes on the platform and takes a seat. He picks at his teeth as he looks across the tracks at a girl wearing a t-shirt and jeans. She is laughing with friends. The train comes, obstructing his view. He heaves the potatoes up on his leg, and lifts them onto the moving train as he jumps on. Inside, he sits on the potatoes again, and watches the city go by.

No one knows his name, and no one cares. He is laying on the road near death. Flies gather around him, and circle his labored breaths. Coming here was a mistake, he thinks.

Balram fidgets with his iPad. The backseat of his Jaguar is still warm for his taste, at least in the Armani suit he is wearing. He tells the driver to turn the AC up, and re-enters the tablet. The fragrance of his cologne is too strong, but his nostrils are desensitized to it. Crumbling buildings and bent people are all around him, but he doesn’t like looking at all that.

The sun has risen over Mumbai. It’s a Sunday, and the city has begun.

Shruti hails Arjun, who nods when she requests “Starbucks Juhu?”. Lola realizes that she is missing potatoes, and goes outside to buy some from Vaibhav, who has just arrived from the station. Karthik walks down to the market, where he buys a fish from Nirali. He winks. He always thought she was beautiful in her blue sarees. Bharat stumbles outside, and sees Balram drive by in his black Jag. That’s all he wants in life: money and power. He drinks because of it. Balram pulls up to his office, and glances at a dying man on the sidewalk. He looks away in disgust.

Kashmir

“Y’all gonna miss Imtiyaz?”

Everyone rolled their eyes and laughed.

“Dude, something is seriously wrong with that guy.”

“He killed a guy. He has that look. He definitely killed a man.”

“I like you. I love you. I like your breasts.”

Another round of laughter.

“Jesus. The guy yesterday, the grey polo guy…”

“Ha, yeah”

“He definitely woke up and thought ‘why the hell did I drink so much?!’”

“He’s Russian. Probably not.”

“He was killing it!”

“HOTEL HILLTOP”

“Jesus, should have stayed at the Khyber.”

“We’d go broke man! Five hundred freaking rupees for a hot chocolate.”

“It’s a good thing we met Zeph—“

“Zepher. Sounded like Zepher I think.”

“Yeah dude he was the freaking bomb.”

Alex, Francisco, Lukas and I were standing in the cold at the ticket counter of the highest gondola in the world. We were in the Indian Himalayas, dangerously close to the Pakistan border. I use the word dangerously only because danger seemed imminent. Soldiers, Army trucks, and AK-47s were everywhere. We were just miles away from the LOC in Kashmir. This region has been disputed, claimed by both India and Pakistan, for years. Until 10 years ago, armed encounters and skirmishes weren’t abnormal. Those direct conflicts have died down in recent years. Now avalanches are the main killer. The week before, on the same mountain, a Swiss skier had been killed by an avalanche. But we had survived the weekend, despite the snow and guns.

This morning was clear, and we could see the top of Mt. Apharwat. For the last two days of skiing, we had encountered heavy and consistent snow. It blew in hard, and created near white-out conditions. As Alex and I skied down, following our guide, we had some scary moments. We could see about 15 feet in front of us, before everything went white. The one groomed trail was hard to follow, and our guide took us off-piste, through the woods down steep hills and untouched powder. It was beautiful and terrifying. Because of the conditions though, we only skied Phase I: about halfway up the mountain. Today, the weather was clear, and we had a small window of opportunity to go up to Phase II: the top. We had already turned in our skis, so we were simply visual wanderers. We sought the bounty of the Himalayas.

The one skier in front of us in line turned back.

“Where are you guys from?” he said, in a foreign accent. It looked like he was from Europe, but he wasn’t Russian. You can spot Russians from a mile away. But then again, you can spot Americans too.

“U.S.A.”

 He smiled, “Yeah—“

 “Yeah, we’re loud and annoying Americans.”

We all laughed. Couldn’t really argue this one. The four of us were being abnormally loud. Maybe we were excited. Maybe we just needed to talk and cuss to keep warm. In any case, we were fed up with the ticket line.

Soon enough, the ticket office had opened, and we got our tickets to go to the top: 1000 rupees each. It was about 9:15 in the morning, and the gondola had no line whatsoever. We went up the wooden stairs made with fresh 2x12s. No sanding or staining. The columns of the building were exposed I-beams, and heavily rusted. The windows had no glass, and there were piles of bricks everywhere. Some snow had fallen through the open holes in the roof. We piled into the gondola, and with a small swing, we were off on our ascent.

The ride took about 15 minutes. As we approached the top, the wind became noticeably stronger, as it shook the gondola car, and squeezed through the door and around our legs. It was cold. The snow on the top of the mountain hung over on one side, as the wind swept it over the top, and the cold froze it mid-crest. It looked like a wave about to crash. It was aggressive and intimidating. We got to the top, and ran out like school kids. The wind hit our exposed skin hard, and it was a painful hit.

We weren’t exactly at the top though, so we decided to trek just a little further and see what we could see. As we walked forward, we walked into the wind. My foot went down into the snow, and as it came back up, the snow blew around like loose sand. It flew behind me, far away. We only had tennis shoes and a pair of socks. Not exactly mountaineering gear. One step at a time, we made it to where we couldn’t really go any further. We were too cold, and there was a sign that said, ‘Do not go any further’. In this disputed territory, you should listen to those kinds of signs. We stopped and looked around.

Mountains surrounded us. They were bare on the top, brilliantly white. The snow was undisturbed, except for the wind that ran through it, carving wide rivers. Some rocks jutted from the top and steep faces, and created jetties of snow. The black of the rock fought hard with the piles of white. Further down, the tall pines added a splash of dark green. They continued down , and far at the base of these giants, the ground turned brown and grey. The colors were more vibrant up here. The peaks of the mountain scratched the sky, which was a deep and heavy blue. We were closer to the black of space up here, and the sky was dimmed. More clouds were below us than above us. Here, at 13,500 feet, we were among the world’s grandest mountains. We were in the crumple zone, where India has been slamming into the Asian continent. Up here, you could feel time at that tectonic scale.

Almost as soon as we saw the scene around us, the cold told us to turn back. We weren’t meant for this world. At least, not yet. So we four adventurers turned back, to descend eventually to sea level. Back to Mumbai.

When we got back to the bottom, the 4x4 taxi I ordered had been waiting for 45 minutes. He was not happy.

“Mr. Black?”

“Yes?”

He held out his phone, and pointed to the time. 10:15. I nodded, “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, we got held up. We’re going to the room to get our bags.”

“You’re late.”

“Yes I know. We’re not happy either. We’re hurrying.”
“Why are you so late?”

“We got held up! Now, we’re going. Okay?”

“You’re late.”

I was tired of this broken record machine. “Well what do you want me to do?! We’re going to get our bags right now!”

The owner of the hotel also decided to inform us on how late we were. My patience was a little thinner for him.

“Mr. Black?”

“What?” I snapped.

“You’re so late. The driver has been waiting for one hour!”

My mind raced for the proper response. Silence? Sarcasm? Aggression? Aggression.

“Yes,” I said slowly, and nodded my head in the same fashion, “I’m aware of that. Where does it look like I’m going now?”

I instantly felt bad. I’m sure he was just trying to help. But no time for an apology now.

We were late. Did you know?

About 10 minutes later, we were on the road with an impatient and angry driver. Not exactly the ideal combo on icy mountain roads. I looked over at him. He had a thick black beard, but fair skin. His eyes were brown, but lighter than most Indians you meet. He was undoubtedly Kashmiri. Soft but fierce words escaped his mouth as he zoomed down the icy road. Maybe he was cursing us, maybe he was cursing the road, but he was definitely not your neighborly taxi driver.

The mountain road was a terrifying combination of snow, ice, violent drops, blind corners, and speeding cars. Snow plows were nothing more than a whisper on the wind, and the hot rubber of the tires was the only melting agent. Passing 4x4s had created ruts in the snow, which acted as small toboggan runs, keeping us in line. The only problem was that to pass another car, you had to get out of the rut. Our driver was tired of waiting at one particular jam, and accelerated hard. He jerked the wheel hard right, and the front wheels jumped out of the rut. Then, he turned back to the left suddenly, quickly passing hand over hand on the wheel. The back tires followed out of the rut, but didn’t go so far as to fishtail. We passed the stopped bus with a roar, but hurtled towards a head-on collision with an on-coming jeep. Inches after we passed the bus, the driver jammed us back into the rut, as we missed the other jeep by just a hair.

Everyone hooped and hollered. We grabbed our hats, and hugged each other. Someone let out a ‘yeee-haw!’. The driver remained stoic as ever.

At Tangmarg, at the base of the mountain road, we switched to a van without snow chains. We paid the jeep driver, with a handsome tip, and said hello to our new driver. It was noon, and we had about an hour and a half drive in front of us. Our flight left at 2, so we were all a little on edge.

“Late,” said the driver, as he merged onto the road, and looked back at us through the rearview mirror.

We all rolled our eyes. “Yes,” I said, “we know. We got held up.”

He thankfully didn’t press further. Instead, he decided to press the accelerator pedal.

60.

70.

80.

90.

I didn’t know minivans could hit 90 mph. This one certainly could. We would approach a slower car, lay on the horn, and zig around. We were narrowly missing dogs, motorcycles, and even large trucks. We came up to a long military convoy, going about 50. We slowed down momentarily, but then caught some wind and blew past the massive troop carriers with a loud honk.

The rural areas of Kashmir in February are brown and dead. The dirt on the road doesn’t see water for months, and turns tan and sandy. The rice fields lie dead and fallow, dark brown and silent. People sit in front of shops, huddled around Khawa, a Kashmiri tea of saffron and almonds. As we flew by at 90, I wondered what they were thinking about. What did they talk about? Two men laughed in a particular blur. What was the joke?

DOG! We narrowly missed a sniffing dog, nose low to the ground. My heart jumped and told my head to stop worrying about what old men laugh about.

We were getting into the edge of Srinagar, and settlements began to grow and build. The houses were large, with steep tin roofs. In fact, all the houses had silver tin roofs, spattered with orange rust. Along the road, shops and food stalls lined and colored the curbs, and people wandered everywhere. It looked a little like Mumbai, but with less people and a whole lot less noise. Signs were in Kashmiri, not Hindi, and the letters looked much more Arabic. A small billboard had a picture of Ahmedinejad, the ex-PM of Iran. On the backside, as I stared in disbelief, was the ayatollah Khomeini of Iran. We weren’t in Kansas anymore.

“Did you see that?” asked Lukas, as he looked back at us.

“Yeah,” I replied, wide-eyed.

That was all that needed to be said. A call to prayer floated in the air. It was a very foreign moment. It wasn’t scary, it wasn’t intimidating. It was simply different.

As the crow flies, we were 60 miles from where Seal Team Six took out Osama bin Laden.

All these thoughts floated around as we came up to an intersection. As we were stopped, a man came up to my window. He nodded to the driver. In coordination, the driver rolled my window down. The lightly bearded man leaned into our car, and looked around for a moment.

“Who is Michael Black?”

My heart skipped a beat. A million questions ran through my mind. Who was this guy? What did he want? How did he know my name? Why does he know the driver?

“Uh, I am. Why?” I said, feigning some confidence.

“I’m with Travel Planner. You owe 6500 rupees for the taxi rides.”

“What? No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No I don’t. Look, we’ve already paid all the drivers.”

“No, you pay me.”

“No, we’ve been paying the drivers as they drive us around. They have your money. You can go get it from them,” the light turned green and cars began to pass around us. It was 1:15pm.

The man looked around. I guess he didn’t expect this answer.

“Look,” I said, “we have a plane to catch like right now. We don’t have time for this. I can call you back and settle this from Mumbai.”

He turned to the driver, and Kashmiri flowed back and forth. The man stepped away from the car, and I thought victory was imminent.

He walked to the back, and opened the door. He jumped up with our bags, and closed the door as the driver sped off.

“Woah!” said Alex, “What are you doing?!”

“You owe 6500 rupees.”

“Hey, first of all, no we don’t. We paid the driver directly. Secondly, that rate is too high. I was quoted 3000 rupees for the journey and back,” I said back to him.

“No sir.”

“Yes sir. That’s a ridiculous price!”

“No.”

“Who can I talk to? That’s not the correct quote.”

“Talk?”

“Yeah, is Usma there? I talked to Usma about the price.”

He put a finger up and nodded. He took out his phone, dialed a number, and stuck the phone out to me. “Usma,” he flicked his head.

“Hello, Usma?”

‘Hi?’

“Hi Usma, this is Michael Black I--”

‘Yes, Michael, how are you?’ she said in a friendly voice.

“Well not good Usma. We have some guy here saying we owe 6500 rupees, when you told me it was 3000, and we already have been paying the drivers.”

‘No it’s 6500 Michael.’

“No Usma, that’s not what you told me before. If you had, I would have looked elsewhere, because that is a crazy price!”

Suddenly she exploded, ‘You are a liar Michael! You are a liar!’

I didn’t really know how to respond. “Wh-what? Are you serious?”

‘You are lying Michael!’

“Usma, I’m not lying. What are you talking about?”

‘What the hell are you talking about Michael?!’

I didn’t know how to handle the situation. I stumbled through a few more volleys. I wasn’t used to calling customer service and getting accused of lying. But the stranger in the car, the yelling Usma, and the impending flight weighed heavy on my stressed head. I hung up on her mid-sentence.

“What did she say?” asked Lukas.

I shot him a look. “I don’t know. But look, let’s stop at an ATM. I’ll pay the amount, and we can settle it later. I think we should just get this guy out of the car.”

We pulled over at a State Bank of India ATM, and I begrudgingly pulled out 8,000. I gave it to the stranger as we continued on to the airport.

Eventually, we made it onto Indigo flight 6E 448. It was close, but thankfully it was delayed coming in, and we could buy more time. On the flight back, I tried to de-stress from the last three hours, and internalize all that just happened on our Kashmiri adventure.

“Excuse me sir, would you like a drink?” the air hostess asked over the noise of the plane.

“Yeah, can I have a coke please?”

“Yes sir,” she smiled.

“Can I also get some cashews?”

“What flavor sir?”

“What do you have?”

“BBQ, chili, mint, plain, and salted.”

“Can I get the salted please?”

“Yes sir.”

I opened up Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and took a sip of coke. The main character, at that point, was riding an old motorcycle up to the Rocky Mountains, and he was speeding down a mountain pass, musing about the “high country”. He painted a beautiful picture of the mountain, with the same vibrant colors, thin air, and deep blue sky that we saw in Gulmarg. He likened the physical high country to the philosophical high country, and put forth a theory:

The high country, whether physical or philosophical, is visited by few people. It is a realm of adventure and freedom, where you can romp and explore for the sake of exploration.

In other words, the philosophical high country is a metaphorical area of higher thought, where philosophers wander. Thoreau was there once, brought a relic down from the mountain, and gave us A Civil Disobedience.

I took another sip of coke, and ate a cashew as I mulled that point over.

The plane continued its path south, gliding over the rough thin air of the Himalayas.

Hampi

Francisco put the phone down a little incredulously. He laughed, “So the bus is skipping Bandra because they got stopped by the cops.”

We were confused. We still are. The point is, we took our tiny taxi to Sion, the next stop down the line, to catch the Volvo Sleeper bus down to Hampi: a 15 hour odyssey of the Indian road.

We boarded the bus, and settled into our beds. Yes, dear reader, you read that right. No seats on our journey south; we lived in the lap of luxury, and got beds. On a bus. Lukas and I got top bunks, which are not for the unbalanced. There are no bars holding you in, and a tight turn could transform comfort to free fall. Not to fear though, because there’s a plug to keep my phone charged, right?

No.

Alright, who needs technology anyways? At least I have a reading lamp so I can read my book.

Doesn’t work.

So began the 15 hours on a stiff bed, elevated on a bus, thundering through the world’s most dangerous roads. In complete darkness.

With bad things come good things, though, and my dismay quickly disappeared when I parted the blinds of my little window as we left Mumbai. We were on the Mumbai-Pune highway to begin, and that meant climbing up in elevation. It was dark outside, but the lights of the cars lit up the road as it snaked up the hills and wandered across the valleys. The veins of the city pulsed life out to the hills, and the light-blood glowed yellow as it snaked away. From the arteries of Navi Mumbai, to the veins of Pune, then finally the capillaries of Maharashtra, eventually we left the light behind us.

After about two hours on the road, we stopped for a late dinner. There was a small shack on the side of the road, with three large tour busses towering over it. Ours stopped, and all the men rushed out. They spread themselves on the side of the building, peeing en masse along the entire shack. After relieving those organs, we refilled others with food. The options were limited, but the three of us sat down in the middle of the small dining area. In silence, we dirtied our fingers with dal tadka, Szechuan rice, and veg mix. Old men stared, but continued to eat. All our eyes spoke of exhaustion: weary travelers, sitting in the dust on the side of the road. It was night in India, and the cool air fell roughly on our crusty eyes and shirts.

13 hours later, we reached Hospet, the bus stop. At least, we were pretty sure. The announcements for the stops were abrupt, and so were the stops. Hindi-only instructions made it more difficult, but thankfully we had Francisco as our local translator. We got off the bus around 8am, and the sun hadn’t risen to warm everything yet. A string of men were waiting outside, asking if we needed rides to Hampi. Partly because we were still waking up, and partly because we didn’t know exactly where we were or where we were going, we fumbled through negotiations.

“Rickshaw? Rickshaw?”

“Um.”

“Go to Hampi?”

“Yeah, but I think we need a taxi. Lukas, we need a car right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Car, no”

“Yeah, we need a car.”

“No, you’ll fit in rickshaw.”

“Uh”

“Yeah”

“Francisco?”

“Uh”

Hindi ensued, and soon we were headed to Hampi in two rickshaws. I was the ass, and rode with the bags.

To get to Hampi, we had to cross the river. The rickshaws dropped us off by the river, and we walked down ancient crumbling steps to get down to the ferry. Curiously unmotivated to cross, we sat on the steps and enjoyed the scene. A small family was bathing in the river, and others were playing in it. There were a surprising number of white people having some kind of life-changing revelation in the water. We struck up a conversation with our rickshaw drivers, Francisco played some guitar quietly, and Lukas fed a dog with leftover biscuits from the trip.

Eventually we made it across the river, and into Hampi. Straight up the hill, then the first right, then over the fence, and it’s a straight shot through the rice paddy to the Goan Corner: our temporary home. Everything looked perfect, but all the spiritual travelers seeking nirvana seemed to congregate here, and it felt more like Boulder, Colorado than India. All these foreigners, all in love with India.

But she’s my love, I thought. You can’t love her like I do.

“Yeah I hate Mumbai. It’s too much man,” they would say.

Of course you hate it. But that’s India, and much more real than this compound you’re living in. But one can’t say such thing to strangers.

We lazed around camp for a little bit, then hit the rocks to do some bouldering. Hampi is filled with a vast array of huge boulders, conglomerated in thousands of stacks. Giants must have once played here, throwing, tossing, and balancing rocks like kids in a sandbox. And we ants decided to climb their toys. Amit had joined, so there were four of us now. Donning climbing shoes and chalk, we started to ascend.

My forefingers curved inward to form a backward “c”, as the tips kissed a small jut of granite. My toes, already curled inside the climbing shoes, jumped up to stand on the side of the rock like a mountain goat. I was officially on the side of the rock, but the goal was to summit. This meant moving up, towards the heavens. First, a foot would move up, and find a higher piece of rock. With complete balance on my tip toe, I lifted up to grasp higher. The rock curved away, making a visual handhold difficult. My fingers had to feel around the rock, looking for an imperfection large enough to hold my entire weight. What a curious thing. I was stroking the side of a rock in India, with the unforgivingly simple goal of: climbing. Slowly, my body rose to the top, and on the ridge of the boulder, I stood victorious.

After the burning sun stained our skin red, we decided to come down from our rock castles, and hit the open dirt roads. We rented tiny little 50cc TVR Scooter/Mopeds. Francisco and Amit shared one, Lukas towered over another, and I scooted along nicely. We sought after the lake, so we could go cliff diving and cool off our sweaty climbing backs. We drove past field after field of rice, greener than heaven could paint, and by crumbling stone structures that looked like Greece had once invaded. A couple of wrong turns later, we climbed the hill to the top of the dam, and looked across the lake. It was beautifully still, and the red evening horizon skipped over the top, and glowed the surrounding rocks. Then, a rusty sign said, in a hand painted message,  “Warning: Crocodiles. Swim at Own Risk”

Our hopes of cool water were chased away by these hypothetical crocs, but we cooled off by traveling along the lake road, feeling the cool air as it left the water. Eventually, we made it back to our Goan Corner. A nice cold shower with the little soap I had brought did a nice job of washing the crust away, and we sat down to dinner cooled off and clean. We talked over some spoiled beer, then chai. We talked until later in the night, then transitioned to watching some climbing videos Francisco had. A little disappointed that our skills were novice compared to these monsters of climbing, we crashed in a shared room with more European nirvana seekers. Apparently our casa was their casa. Sharing is caring, man.

The next morning, the “little dude”, the 10-year old son of the owners of the Corner, wanted to play football. I told him where to hold the laces, and how to throw a spiral, and he was a natural. His first throw was a perfect 10. I graduated him from the basics, and we went straight into play calling. He ran a perfect slant route, then a perfect button-hook. He even did a fake step in, then bursted down for another slant. The perfect “F” play. Look out Manning and Brady. The little dude from India is a threat to be reckoned with.

It was the day before the Superbowl.

Later, Lukas and I took the scooters out again, but went further into the interior. We both wanted to escape the micro-Europe of the Goan Corner, and get out into the country. We passed through a few villages, and saw the tractors transition from mostly Massey Fergussons to mostly Mahindras. We even stopped to take a picture, much to the confusion of the woman of the property, who stared at us with a cautious eye. I would too. Who were these idiots taking a picture with my tractor? Eventually we reached a village 30 minutes or so outside Hampi, and stopped for a drink and to turn back. I got a Sprite and a bag of chips. The lady behind the counter smiled warmly, and spoke about her sister-in-law in London. She hopes to visit someday. A man came up to ask for a cigarette, and couldn’t believe Lukas only had one. A small boy walked casually by, then had a double-take of the ages, and stared with an open mouth at these two sunburnt white kids. Refreshed, we hopped back on the scooters and roared around lumbering trucks on the way back to Hampi, and our rocks.

For dinner that night, we had a grill-out. Two tiny little grills and about 10 pounds of coals, with a box of matches and a congregation of climbers. There were about 20 people standing around the “grill”, trying to light the coals. When, for want of lighter fluid, someone poured cooking oil on the charcoal to no protest, I decided it was time to leave the effort to its own devices. I wanted to help, but I figured the best thing to do for everyone’s sanity would be to get the heck out of Dodge. Upon my return half an hour later, the food was ready, and everyone was calm. I ate my chicken and veggies in relative silence, looking at the stars.

After dinner, we went back up to the rocks, in the dark of night. We crossed the small levees on the rice paddies, the dirt illuminated by our iPhones. We climbed up to the top of the outcropping, where there was a large flat stone face, and laid down to gaze upon the heavens. We identified Orion quickly, and shifted from star to star in our thoughts. We threw around questions like, “Are we alone?”, and despite the clichéd nature of the questions, our minds romped in the novelty of the answers. The moon was low on the horizon, and only a sliver was showing. It was yellow, and looked like the dirty toenail of God. The mosquitoes buzzed down amongst the rice, so the air around us was clean, cool, and fresh.

That night we slept outside, and the stars moved over us, rotating at a cosmically slow pace. We woke in the morning, and another cold shower wiped away the crust we had again built up. It was our last day in Hampi, and it was temple day. We crossed the river again. I had an orange juice while waiting. On the other side, we changed the pace and rented bicycles. They were pink, but we were proud. We hit temple after temple, and like a pinball, bounced around ancient history on a scale hard to comprehend. The last temple was the greatest.

There was a grand entrance, with carvings of gods and man covering every inch. There was a story here, but its narrative was lost on me. Only whispers remained: a cobra and a rabbit, a woman, a god. The courtyard was similarly massive, and in the center was a large vaulted room. We entered, and found it went deeper into darkness. Again equipped with our iPhones, we pushed forward. At first it was unimpressive, just an empty room.

Then we found a doorway. Off to the left and right, there was an opening as black as night. We directed the light, and saw steps that quickly descended down and to the right. We slowly entered the doorway, and illuminated the stairway. The stairs fell down so far our light couldn’t reach the end; it was swallowed by the darkness. I rotated the light up towards the ceiling, interested in how high it was. As I did, hundreds of bats suddenly appeared, hanging upside down and slightly twitching. My light had disturbed them. 

“Oh shit!”

“What?”

“Holy crap!”

And we ran back to the safety of the Hampi sun. Let Indiana Jones handle that temple of doom.

Our pink bikes led us back down the hill, back to the rickshaws. We rode back to Hospet, and after a two hour delay, re-boarded the sleeper bus back to Mumbai. 13 hours later, we had re-entered the arterial city.

The climbing shoes are now sitting on my floor as I’m writing this. I put them on just to feel my toes curl again. There’s something insatiable about climbing for the sake of climbing, driving for the sake of driving, and exploring for the sake of exploring. It’s adventure in its truest form. Why do we do it? Well, more than our stomachs get hungry, and every once in a while, it’s good to feed your eyes. Your nose. Your ears. Your fingers. Your body aches for something new, something else to remember. Go feed it.

A Motorcycle in Mahim

Let’s take a drive. It’s been a long day at work, and it’s time to head home from Mahindra Towers in Worli, back to Bandra. Like always, I’m taking my 2004 Honda Hero Splendor Plus motorcycle, and it’s quite the adventure.

First gear doesn’t last long on my bike. The revs climb up quickly, so that I top it out within a few seconds of taking off from an intersection. It’s then time to switch into second. I pull the throttle back until the last moment, so that I can use the high range to maximize my take-off speed, then drop it out, switch into second, and pick the acceleration up at a good cycle speed.

So, I’m at the top of first.

With my right hand, I let the throttle forward. Quickly enough to take the pressure off of the engine, but not so quick as to sink it down. A quick release of the throttle makes it all too jumpy. With my left hand, I pull in the clutch. This disengages the throttle from the gearbox, so I can select second. It’s also a wet clutch, so I can ride it unlike in a car. With the throttle off, and the clutch pulled in, I can switch. I use my left foot for that. Kind of like kicking a horse with the back of your boot, I push my heel down on the gearbox mechanism. The bike makes a perfect clunk sound, as the gear is selected. I feel the clunk with my foot, and it feels perfect. Now the process reverses itself. I slowly let the clutch out with my left hand, while I pull back on the throttle. As the clutch gets engaged again, the throttle should be revving the engine enough to that it all fits together perfectly. If the clutch is released too quickly, the motor will die. If I let it out too slowly, the revs get too high, and it gets jumpy again. It also sounds bad, and I lose speed so that when I finally enter second, I’m in the low range, and it takes time to get back up to speed. But, this time is perfect.

It all happens by the time you finish this sentence. My hands and feet work perfectly in synchrony. I let the engine moan louder and louder, until the rise in pitch stops. When it whines at a constant rate, I go up to the next gear, and the pitch drops. Then it slowly climbs back up. Deep mmmmm transforming into a high mmmmm. Pause. Then, another deep mmmmm climbing. I can make it sing, deep to high, deep to high, until we’re both roaring at top speed on top gear.

This is, of course, the ideal way to take off from an intersection. However, the ideal is rarely reached in India. Most of the time, there is another bike six inches in front of you, six inches behind you, and two to your sides, about six inches away. Without the absolute freedom to take off like you want, you’re regulated to the whims of your fellow bikers.

Green light

Okay, let’s go. About 20 bikes suddenly roar into motion, all taking off next to each other. I do as well, just behind a Bajaj Platina. My eyes are fixed on his taillight, ultimately aware of his speed. If he speeds up, so do I. I don’t want some other idiot to squeeze in between us. If he slows down, he’ll probably slam on his brakes. That’s how people do it here. So I have to be ready for a skidding stop at all times.

I’m barely paying attention to the motorcycles beside me. Hopefully they won’t lean into me. I hope we have that mutual understanding that I won’t steer into them if they don’t steer into me. As I’m fixed on the bike in front of me, I notice the bike to my right is backing off, slowing down. He’s wearing a pink shirt and shiny black slacks, and his black, crooked helmet is missing a visor.

What am I doing? Focus on the road, Michael.

He backs behind me, and he falls into the category of all vehicles behind me: they can kiss my tailpipe. The chaos in front of me is as much as I can handle. If you’re behind me, you can adapt to my speed and direction. Honk all you want.

Once he’s behind me, I veer off to the right, and pass the Bajaj. I get honked at by the crooked black helmet, which I expected. I also get honked at by the Bajaj guy. I don’t get that at all, but I keep going. There’s a little open ahead of me, and I prefer that to tailing someone. When you’re tailing someone, you can’t see the road in front of you. In Bombay, that’s very dangerous. There are holes in the road that are sometimes half a foot deep. Some potholes have been “fixed”, but are actually inverted potholes with a pile of asphalt on the road. The guy in front of you may see it coming, and veer away, but you’re left with two feet left, no room to turn, and you hit it hard. It can be very, very bad news. It’s important to be riding where you can see the road in front of you.

I get to fourth gear, with some open road, and some of the stress goes down. I have some room to avoid potholes and manhole covers. But unfortunately, the road is only half the danger on the ride back home.

The Red Buses Driven by Satan

These old iron monsters are huge boxes of death. Packed with about 300 people, with bars instead of windows, and no brake lights or turn signals, the Best Bus of Bombay is the Moby Dick of the roads. I ride up behind one, and come to the choice: pass to the left or right? For a moment, I think of Robert Frost, and two roads diverged in a yellow wood. But then I laugh, because that’s way too beautiful for this situation. If I go to the left, we may drive up on a bus stop, and the bus could squeeze me in between it and the curb. It would involve a quick stop, and I would run into a crowd of people waiting for the bus. Then I’d have to wait for the bus to take off again, and face the same choice. No, left is only for a last resort, with my back up against the wall.

The better choice is right, but that’s dangerous too. It involves going into the fast lane, where anxious yuppies are flooring their Golfs, Jettas, and Skodas. They honk, but they also don’t really care about you. They’ll probably bump you, or at least make things very dangerous. You have to pick your speed way up, and veer right, into the river of speed and frustration. With one eye closed, I make it into the slip stream of a taxi.

Then the goddamn bus turns into the stream. It turns right before diving back left!

What the hell?! I scream. But I’m screaming into my helmet, which hurts my ears. More frustration. I finally pass the Red Bus driven by Satan, relieved at the pure evil I’ve left in my wake.

Then, I come up on another.

Shit.

The Rickshaws, a.k.a. the Mosquitoes of the Road

These little two-stroke bastards are not very big, but somehow they manage to block out all vision of the upcoming road, and they make themselves three lanes wide, because of their constant change of direction. They are also so loud that you can’t hear your own engine. With a bike that doesn’t have a rev indicator, that makes gear changing decisions very difficult. The good news is that ricks aren’t allowed in South Bombay. The beginning of my road home is just cars, bikes, and the Satan buses. However, once I cross Mahim creek (and the putrid smell of human effluence rising from the black water), these little mosquitoes come out en masse. They have no brake lights, and no turn signals, and the black canopy roof is tall enough to make seeing over or around the vehicle impossible.

Remember, riding behind somebody is dangerous, and ricks are the most manipulative at this. I ride up behind one, but it’s going quick enough to make passing useless: I shouldn’t get up to those kinds of speeds in the ‘burbs. So I’m riding in the wake. Suddenly, it veers hard right. By the time I can formulate a “What are you doing?” thought, I see a pile of concrete dried appear between his back tires. I lean to the left, and brake hard, I get a little off-balance for the moment, but I stick my right leg a little out, lean back to the right, and wiggle back to an upright position.

More anger builds up, then transforms to passive aggressivism. I speed back up to the rickshaw, and despite the danger, speed around him. I honk so he knows I’m coming to his right. He pulls off to the left a little. Once I’m around him, I pull in front of him, and slow down while going to the left and right back and forth. He can’t whip around me, so he slows down too.

“Yeah, how you like that?” I ask into my helmet.

I almost feel gratified, but there are seven more ricks in front of me, all waiting to lure me into potholes and speed bumps. These bloodsucking, three-wheeled, two-stroke mosquitoes are annoying to say the least, and I dearly wish I could just shoo them all off.

The Maverick Pedestrians

People on the side of the road normally stick to the far left or right of the road, and stay out of traffic. However, every once in a while, you’ll run into a maverick: a coolly strutting pedestrian clearly walking in the way of traffic. Because the left hand side of the road is motorcycle territory, this means you’re constantly on the look out for these daredevils. I pass another motorcycle, and see one coming up.

He’s dressed in a striped yellow and brown shirt, with a collar so wide it only fits in the 1970s. His slacks are black and shiny, and he’s walking with a swag in his gait, head held high. I honk to let him know I’m coming up.

He doesn’t scoot to the side.

I honk again, this time a little longer. Still, no movement. I’m forced to slow down, while other motorcycles pass me to my right. At this point, I’m too slow to just go around him. Another bike will hit me. I have to slow down to a stop behind this guy, and I honk loudly. After a few seconds, he gives a look over his shoulder, and steps slightly to the side. As I brush past him, he hits my mirror. I don’t feel bad, I just feel frustrated that my mirror is crooked now. I look back to him with an evil eye, and he just keeps looking ahead, no concern.

He’s crazy, I think. Back in first gear, I have to do the climb back to fourth on the far side of the road, so I can jump back into traffic.

After about 45 minutes, I make it back home. I slide into my parking spot in the garage under the apartment building, switch the neutral, and silence the engine. I dismount, and take off my helmet. My hair is sweaty, and the cool air feels good with the slight breeze. I leave my red motorcycle until the next morning, where we’ll roar through the chaotic streets again.

Roads

This is a tale of two roads, a gnarled tree, and the edge.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I listen to my heartbeat. If you lie face up, and keep your head very still, you can hear your ears twitch slightly as your pulse sends buckets of blood through your body. They move almost without notice, but if you concentrate, you can hear them drag against the pillow. When this happens, it sounds like walking through leaves. In fact, before I identified the anatomical reason for this pulsing sound, I thought I was dreaming the sound, and let my imagination loose.

I always think of the same moment when I hear my ears twitch. I imagine the old dirt road leading to our family farm. It’s about half a country mile long, and it’s a tunnel of trees, light, dust, and underbrush. In summer, this tunnel turns green and gold, and in winter it’s a somber brown and grey. But a tunnel it remains throughout the year, and leads you lovingly to the waiting 80 acres of beautiful fields, and roaming cows. You’re almost home, it whispers. When my ears twitch at night, I hear my feet crunching the leaves of the road during fall. It’s a red and orange tunnel, with white gravel creeping behind the crispy ground. Step by step, my ears lead me home. But before I get there, I always fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.

However, my dear reader, times change. Today, at the end of that dirt road, the state of Arkansas owns most of that land, and some by John Roberts, a dairy farmer. John Roberts, a good man, has unfortunately replaced our old Simmental cows with Holsteins. No more beautiful red and golden haired beauties roam. It’s just black and white, and a little harsher.

Today, I live on 21^st Road in Bandra West in India. Don’t bother looking for it though, because there’s no road sign, and absolutely no indication that it even exists. Also, 16^th Road is an acceptable address for me, even though it’s actually one road over. I think.

21^st Road is a brick road, but it’s not yellow. The bricks are the same brown and grey color of an Arkansas winter. They are abnormal shapes, and fit together almost magically. However, many of them are loose, and jiggle as you walk over them. The road itself is a respectable two-lane road, but after cars decide to park on both sides, and traffic refuses to admit defeat, it becomes a four lane thoroughfare. The Skodas, VWs, BMWs, and Mercs might fool you into thinking this is some cosmopolitan neighborhood. But then the roaming cows and haphazard bamboo scaffolding on the new building remind you that, no, this is India.  

There are trees on my road, and pretty big ones too. The sun has trouble getting to the bricks below. The leaves spread out above, and provide a canopy that sometimes mimics my Arkansas tunnel. The trunks are old and big, and they come down to the bricks, and dive in without a splash. In most urban areas, you’ll find a grate, or some area around the tree to allow it to breath and drink. Here, the bricks choke the trunk, and some grout has even found its way up onto the bark. The roots are somewhere below, magically drinking some hidden source.

Stray dogs and cows like my road. The dogs patrol the street, acting as the unofficial guardians. They are obviously Indian guards, because they also sleep on the job quite a bit. There’s a black and white terrier next door, and she just gave birth to her first litter. They grow up so fast. The cows don’t care about the dogs in the least, and they go wherever the hell they want to. Sidewalks, in front of cars, in the middle of the road. They lumber and sleep, and give you a sideways look that says, I’m the boss here.

Still, this nonexistent chaotically peaceful road is home for now.

It’s a far cry from my dirt road. Peaceful silence has been replaced by honking and yelling. A wind rushing through the trees isn’t fresh anymore; it smells like rotting fish. And the freedom to open up 8 cylinders of my Chevy Silverado, roaring through humid air and watching the dust leap up behind me has been replaced by dip and diving around BMWs, with newly affluent jackasses who think honking is necessary to announce your arrival.

If reconciling the difference between my two worlds wasn’t difficult enough, another wrench has been thrown into the machine. My dirt road still leads to the farm, but it’s been mostly sold off. Now, we own a new property out in Newton County. From Prairie Grove, that means a two-hour drive across a few rivers, around a lot of hills, and through a couple little towns removed from time. Finally though, on top of a lonely hill, there is a house called Star’s Edge.

It was just after Christmas, and I had left 21^st road for want of my Arkansas tunnel. Instead of walking through my dreams again, we went to explore some of the new 220 acres. My family was all there, and we were tromping through the woods like monsters where the wild things are. Even though it was winter, leaves still were piled up everywhere, and crunched with a more vigorous sound. We were yelling and laughing, letting up a rowdy roar to the heavens. The Black family owns these woods, and our dreams for the future live here.

We eventually walked up to a gnarled tree, perched on the edge of a tall bluff. It was only about 9 feet tall, but its curved and contorted body prove that wisdom and wind from the valley have shaped it into a small but proud oak. Most of the leaves had fallen off, and even though it was the dead of winter, buds were beginning to form anticipating the coming spring. Its roots grasped the edge of the cliff like old fingers, wrinkled and stiff. Down about 100 feet below, the forest continued indefinitely across a valley.

It was a curious moment. A lonely tree perched between two worlds, completely exposed to the elements. My family in-between the old farm and these new woods. Me in-between Arkansas and India. Times are changing, and all at once a new age heralded itself in. Here we all were, on the edge, ready to jump into the future and our new, constantly changing identities.

Air India Flight 144 brought me back to Bombay. Back to my city, and back to my lost road in the chaotic land. And seamlessly, my feet adapted from the crunching of leaves, to the grinding of sandy bricks.

Last night, I put my head down on my pillow. I waited till my warm ears twitched with my restless heart. A curious thing happened. I heard my feet begin to walk, but the image that came to my head was a whirlwind of confused images. One step would be in the tunnel. The next would be in the woods of Newton County, the next would be on 21^st road. A gust of fresh farm air would circle around me, then rotten fish would swim about. Leaves, bricks, sunlight, shade, Jersey, Simmental, and Holstein cows.

They say home is where the heart is, but I disagree. When you go to sleep tonight, listen to your ears and heart.

Wherever they take you is home.