Black Ice and Cows

Just a couple of days ago, I almost bumped into the car ahead of me due to icy road conditions - "black ice". We had a snowstorm and since I had decided to go to work anyway, I boldly took my car out and joined the streaming but crawling cars on the highway. I diligently remembered my "driving in winter:101" lessons from the past, and maintained sufficient distance, and what not, but I still ended up in that tough spot. Thankfully, it was still an "almost" only situation and in the last minute I swerved to the shoulder on the right and managed to come to a stop in a big pile of snow.

And despite the few seconds of surrendering to the inevitable, my heart wasn't racing too much. I barely chuckled as it reminded me of driving in India, which I was doing not so long ago. To any one who has traveled there and experienced the traffic it is quite a revelation at many levels.

It can be best described as something in between a dance choreographed by thousands of folks who come together with no rehearsal and somehow figure it out extempore - and organized chaos. It is also usually quite eventful and colorful what with the myriad of vehicles, and rules made up just in time, pedestrians who have become so used to traffic they walk around it ignoring it and the occasional cows that are taking a nap in the middle of a busy road nonchalantly, and the stray dogs that can pounce out of the side streets any second.. I can go on and on..

It is also not unusual to see very many emotional, but mostly irate drivers. They are also quite animated, and often demonstrating that the sign language for traffic participants in India is quite evolved. It can be a total mind-body experience with not just the sights but the various honking sound-effects - a spectacle indeed!

If you think high-speed car racing is mind boggling to you, you should see the bikers in the India roads amidst heavy traffic. Statistics show they are responsible for majority of traffic accidents in India, and not surprisingly. I particularly used to dread the "weave maneuver". This is where the biker is trying to make progress in small increments in between the larger vehicles waiting at the light or stuck in a jam.  I have sat in a pillion or two, always wondering where my knee is going to bump into or what will jab my ribs. I kid you not - you come that close to other vehicles, to sometimes even end up locking eyes with a complete stranger sitting inside a car or an auto-rickshaw. They have the "you idiot" condescending look written all over their faces, and of course it is directed at the ones who are riding the bikes or innocent back-seaters like me who are considered the accomplices.

Oh - and you should hear about the "side-walk stunt". This is where the bikers are actually riding on the sidewalk which are mostly non-existent to begin with, and with an intent to save (their) time, end up causing more deadlocks. Not only do they need to face off with the pedestrians who are on an adventurous hike themselves, but also need to manage the occasional good citizen who tries to object.

My favorite is the "staring contest" that happens as the norm - in turns that are not protected. It is tacit that the drivers are in a race that is to be won in a matter of microseconds. Each driver wishes until the very end that the other one will give up, but the final winner isn't declared until that very end where the loser comes to a screeching halt, and the winner triumphantly makes the turn.

And although I was personally driving an auto transmission, it still baffles me how you could even possibly drive a manual. It is yet another variable in the mix - changing gears I mean. We need to declare a special Nobel category for drivers who also have their cell phones in one hand and conversing while they are in amidst this circus.

So as I fill my car with the de-icing windshield wiper fluid, I ponder the somewhat predictable challenges of winter driving. And I say to myself, "Black ice? Bring it on!" and simply grin.

Soul mates...

Shooting stars are fascinating. Perhaps due to the rare and momentary joy they bring to those who happen to witness them, in a sheer twist of destiny.

Some people are like shooting stars, and they walk into our life with the same suddenness. Can it be real, I ask myself. “No” said my conscious, “Absolutely” said my sub-conscious. How can there be this overpowering tornado of emotions that can swell up at the sight of someone? “Impossible” said my conscious; “Beautiful” said my sub-conscious.

The smiles are not just that, they often veil something more in the eyes. A subtle message and a soul-searching look. As I try to read the tacit communication, I am distracted by a different conflict – “the eyes; are they just black or is there a hint of brown somewhere?” I can see myself spending the eternity trying to determine just that.

Our lives go on as we continue to waltz together, but without actually holding each other. I see apparitions filling the space around me perpetually, so completely and utterly. We run into each other in the most unexpected places as if communicating telepathically. I see many signs all around me, all chanting the same mantra. It consumes me to the core, as I try to pull back from the transience of it all.

I find myself often swimming in a golden quicksand and it totally incapacitates me. But I enjoy the sensation as I see stars glittering all around me for the first time. I’ve never seen anything like this before and it is indeed beautiful.

Moments continue to be precious and occasionally shared, as we stand on either side of a glass wall. Then one day I put my palm on the glass. As another palm appears on the other side, it aligns perfectly and I’m stunned by the symmetry of it all. Time stands still as the warmth of the touch spreads to the soul. At that very moment, the glass almost shatters.

But in the next, I am holding water in the cups of my palms. I try to keep it full in vain, as it continues to drip through my fingers. I drink the last few drops in desperation to forever mix it with my blood. Tears trickle down my face as the world spins faster and the stars disappear. And as I look up the sky, so has the shooting star. However, it has left behind a streak of brightness that I will forever cherish.

Yes, some people are like shooting stars, and they brighten the dark skies for the briefest period. “Ephemeral” says my conscious; “Indelible” says my sub-conscious.

May be one day I will learn how to fly and go looking for it, as it may be something more permanent in my cosmos. But for now, I turn away and continue to walk down my destined path.

Pedicures and such...

Pedicures are an essential part of a well-groomed person's agenda. And needless to say I have been serviced over the last many years in various salons, and I can say with conviction that I got my best one from Sutini, a Balinese woman in Kuala Lumpur as I was vacationing there.

For the pedicure illiterate, it becomes important to highlight the various steps in obtaining one. First comes the color picking, where an array of nail colors are presented to you and one needs to make the ultimate decision of "the color of the month". You usually do this as you are killing time in the reception area of the salon. While choosing colors, variety is of essence, as you can't be a "pinkish" for a while, or choose the more conservative whites or beige's all the time. If you go all hot colors one month, it's probably a good idea to go silver gray next just to break it up a bit..But of course the "pre-vacation" pedicures demand special attention, and I must confess that I have exceeded limits what with rhinestones and design patterns in atypical colors.

Once you get the "call" the hot water foot tub is ready for you bubbling with soapy water. Soaking your feet can tingle your senses and the journey begins. This is the time you typically connect with your pedicurist. The chit-chat, and queries on nationalities and other personal information are exchanged to create that rapport and "I'm going to spend the next 45 minutes with you" feeling of comfort. The color of choice is discussed, and commented upon viz-a-viz the skin tone. Once the conversation ends, it's almost time for the feet to come out of the water in phases while she works her magic.

The next important decision in a pedicure is the shape of the nail. Personally I've been baffled by it as I've not seen a big difference between the "round" or "square"? I just generally go "round please" and grab the latest Vogue(or Femina if in India) magazine next to me. It is the moment of realization that "my" contribution to the pedicure is over at this time, until the bill comes anyway.

The salons of greater Manhattan and suburban NJ have a thing or two in common after all. They are typically run by immigrants who are usually conflicted about whether to relate to clients who are also immigrants from other countries. So it ends up being an attitude of general indifference sprinkled with some nice snippets of conversation about things in common. But other than that it's mostly the switching of the feet as the pedicure goes on, in a sharp accented "Swittcch".. and a tap on the feet that needs to come out of water, and you simply co-operate. Of course, the average salon in India challenges the germaphobe in you significantly and teaches you tolerance in a twisted way. It can be quite an adventurous experience as you are wondering throughout if the equipment was sterilized and the foot tub washed.

Once the nail-shaping is over with, the cuticles and skin smoothing routines take place as you are drooling over the latest fashion from magazines that you usually don't subscribe by yourself. I can vouch that the most favorite part for any pedicure enthusiast in the whole experience is the massage. It's usually an affair that includes the feet and the lower legs in quite an elaborate fashion.

The coloring and the topcoat then sums it all up. Oh yeah, so let me tell you about the best pedicure.

I have to give it to Sutini for her approach and attitude to her work. In the Tamil language spoken in Southern India, there is a proverb that roughly translates to "In our work we see God" and she exemplified that. She greeted me warmly and sat on the floor in front of the pedicure seat. And then she attacked my feet with all the passion and vigor of an artist in front of an empty canvas. She handled my feet like it's made of feather, so delicately. A little too delicately that the impatient side of me almost wanted to say "Err.. you know that I have to walk on those feet again anyways, right?"

After the usual routines described above which she did with so much care and attention, I felt completely captured. I also realized at that moment that I was not reading anything in my usual style, but rather had bent over keenly watching the pedicure and enjoying it at the same time. I was totally in the present moment, succumbing to the pampering that she was offering me unconditionally. I must mention at this juncture that she is a trained masseuse particularly in Balinese massage and Reflexology, the most desirable skills one can ask for in a pedicurist. So I leave it to your imagination how my legs must have felt that day.

When it came to coloring my nails, I'm not sure even Hussein spent so much time with his brush strokes. She took forever and it almost tested my patience again. But at the end of it, my feet were glowing, my nails perfectly painted, and my legs were in "pedicure nirvana". What more can one ask for? Do you reckon?

Rainy memories...1994

It has been raining incessantly for the past 3 days. I must say it has taken me by surprise, having just come from India two months before. I guess somehow I had not associated rain with this country. It has been nothing but a hindrance to my busy schedule at school and the part-time internship I was doing to survive economically.

Not that I don’t love the rain. In fact, it holds several precious memories over a number of years. The memory that comes to the forefront in my nostalgia is the smell of the earth when the first drops touch the ground. I’m not referring to the well-laid roads that you find in America, but the actual mud roads that have this special earthen quality. A hot summer rain has always prompted me to run outside and get soaked. I don’t ever recall anyone trying to stop me as I engage in paper boat races with the other kids, in the rivulets on the road sides.

There is something sweetly innocent about playing in the rain and feeling the freedom wash over you along with the water drops. I still remember the sense of euphoria engulfing me as I look up and see only sheets of water falling from infinity. Even if it is a downpour, there is a paradoxical tranquility that settles inside you.

Then there are the other days – the lazy ones. You just want to watch the rain through the bedroom window. A day of contemplation and coziness, coupled with a warm blanket and amma’s home-made hot snacks. I still recall the myriad of thoughts swirling in my head as I stared into the mercury rain, while I absent-mindedly empty the snack plate.

So what has changed? I have been cursing the rain since it started. Was it because the fall temperature had somehow made it more cold and alien in a new country? Or perhaps it is because there is no one to share it with? There is a perpetual humidity and mustiness in the small apartment I’ve rented out near school. My Norwegian roommate doesn’t seem to be that bothered. Well, she is hardly home anyway.

Just that morning, I got off the university bus to make it to my 7am class. The professor is one of the oldest people I’ve seen in my life. He looks fragile and wrinkled, but his voice is that of a 30 year old. It booms across the auditorium size classroom, which is usually full. Anyway, as I walk admiring the drainage holes on the side of the roads here, (in India this kind of torrential rains would’ve caused water stagnation), I hear a snap. As I look down, I see that my poor overused sandals had breathed their last and are therefore now beyond salvaging. Afraid of being judged a student who couldn’t even afford shoes, I hastily take the next bus back home, cursing the rain yet another time.

That’s how all this started - the intensity of the thoughts and the tempest of ideas as my eyes try to penetrate the rain through the window. I can feel tears stinging my eyes, as all this weighs heavily down my heart. Suddenly a movement catches my eye. It was a small plant by the window sill, which sat there in the rain glistening green. I have been noticing it for the past few weeks. It had always seemed dry and feeble, drooping its head like a humble servant. Now the rains seem to have given it the elixir of life and it has started to bloom. I could even count a few yellow buds amongst the tiny leaves.

A sense of happiness erupted for the first time from my heart and culminated in a smile, which didn’t go away for many days.

A Sweet Beginning...

I love vanilla ice cream. It is my strong belief that the majority of the ice cream consuming population would say that, and that it would be universal beyond all national and religious boundaries. 

It is always the first spoonful. As it touches your tongue, your brain registers the sweet taste and the flavor as your eyes close in reflex. And then the sensation touches your heart and soul, and spreads to something more deep inside you. It is very close to a spiritual experience, kind of like reaching nirvana.

The subsequent ones are more relaxed and more secure like the love-making of a couple who’ve been together for a long time. As you empty the cup, a sense of regret along with temptation sneaks into you asking for more.

I still remember my childhood days when ice cream was a rarity and nothing more than vanilla flavored milk, put in the freezer the day before by my grandmother. I also recall how it promptly used to melt in the bowl even as I get into my second spoonful, unlike the Haagen Daaz’s which stay creamy and smooth and linger in your mouth. But the vanilla flavor imprinted in my mind remains the same. 

One of my convictions is that vanilla is akin to what the color yellow is to painters. It may not make an impression all by itself, except to the simple souls like me. To the connoisseur who demands the Van Gogh’s spiral impressions with a brush, or a banana split sundae decorated with all kinds of adornments for that matter, it may not be much. But the vanilla ice cream does fulfill its role there too, by being a team player, just like the way yellow blends with other colors beautifully. It humbly hides inside the many toppings and other scoops waiting to be consumed and appreciated. There is no denying once you get past the flashy strawberry and the bold chocolate, you are almost ready for simple bliss that the vanilla provides.

And what about the innumerable other desserts where it co-operates nicely? Like the warm bread pudding topped with vanilla ice cream, or the molten chocolate cake with vanilla on the side? It even blends perfectly with the Oreo cookies that are from a different race altogether. Not to mention the crossing of national boundaries by pairing with the flamboyant gulab jamuns from home.

I almost feel sorry for the few souls who order “caramel mocha” or “mint chocolate chip” at the ice cream counter. May be they don’t know what they are missing - the pristine taste and the childlike sensation that comes from the simplicity of vanilla. Or may be they are tired of the “plain vanilla”, which by itself is an oxymoron in my mind.

I beg to differ, as I think it is anything but plain. And oh, did I mention I love vanilla ice cream?