We/Us

She and I left home in our teens.                      She left to work. I left to study
She and I started school.                                 She didn't finish.
She and I miss our parents.                          
She and I had to learn a new culture and a new language.
She is seven years younger to me and married.

She and I were sitting in the same room and laughing and chatting. I asked her a thousand questions.

I've had a really long, lonely day, and I'm so glad she was here when I got back. 

Mystic Music

It's been quite a month. I went to Goa for the first time, I had money stolen from my wallet, I facilitated a four-day national consultation with 70 young people from 16 states, and oh, did I mention I had to clear out of my house on 24 hours notice? That too. Talk about context.

I've realised I do alot of ranting in this space- partly because for me, I write when I'm at a point where I feel I have no other outlet. I write when this life makes me want to sit on the side of the road and burst into tears. I wrote today on a napkin with the waiter's pen, at the restaurant where I watched the superficial Dilli  mall world go by. I breathed out all my feelings through the nib of the pen. But today, I won't rant (though I'm highly inclined to do so, re: context).

Today, I'll recount a couple of hours spent listening to some music. Played by some pretty amazing people. 

This week, we brought together young people from all over India across 4 days of consultations, in a sleepy little corner of Delhi. Since it was an intense four days, an evening of entertainment was on the cards. We had met a couple of months ago, a group of young musicians- the product of an amazing little youth space in the heart of a posh Delhi market. We invited them to come across for an hour in the evening, and they agreed. 

I was exhausted when they arrived. I was kind of just looking forward to getting into bed and passing out. They set up, and the expectant wide-eyed crowd from eight states looked on. I hoped that it would go well- I had talked so much about them to our group.  I can't explain really how I felt over the next hour. They sang  some lovely little folk numbers, some melodies and some simple harmonies. My heart became so full. My eyes filled up. It had been a while since I had heard plain and simple live music- from voices that were honest and joyful. 

I looked across at the band- there were about 5 girls and 4 boys, all in their early twenties. These are the hearts and minds and voices and the dreams of young Dilli. They sang for what seemed like about five minutes, packed up, laughed and went home. But everything just felt right when they finished. It helped me to stay sane, and I was reminded how it's those little moments that matter so much. I tend to forget that these days, when everything seems so daunting and so difficult.

As we disbanded to go home, one member of the band was being picked up by her brother. The rest of the band ran over and were introduced to him one by one. They waved goodbye to all of us, laughing and joking, piled into an auto and left. As that family left me with my family of young people, I realised how we all share this city, this space. How every day, we fight and love and hate this city. And sometimes we find it hard, but then we meet each other and sing and laugh and talk. 

And then most things are alright. 

Sometimes..

..there are moments when it's all just overwhelming.

Deep.

Breath.

Drama Queen.

mood:free

I don't have much, but I have my words, my friend.

I have my words that flow from my soul so deeply and easily. These words may not mean much to anyone, not anyone at all. These words just get me through the days. But I'd like to give them to you. Because you are truly amazing and beautiful and strong. That's reason enough. So just hold on to them.


I don't have much, but I have my words.

I look over at you, and my eyes well up. The music washes over me and it is just so beautiful. And in those moments, I feel small and I feel humbled. And I listen to the memories that are not mine, but I feel as though I am there, partaking in a life that is not mine. And I am reminded what this world is all about it and what happens in it.


And though you may feel that you're falling, I'll keep catching. And you better do the same ok, because we're friends like that. Old Monk promise.

Remembering to remember

About eleven months ago, I was home, in the middle of another transition. My degree complete, hunting for a job was my new preoccupation. In between however, I got an opportunity to dive into the lives of my old friends, which I really appreciated. Having left home so many years ago, I had never really had this opportunity on my short trips home.

On one such occasion, I accompanied my friend on a unique evening— he was reading a Christmas story at a pantomime-fundraiser put up by young kids at a local primary school. The venue was idyllic, and the energy, palpable.  I wrote the words below at the back of a supermarket receipt on that evening- December 16^th, 2010, without striking out a single word- my pen didn’t leave the paper, even for an instant. I write them here merely to save them and hold on to them. Sitting amongst these kids and their excited parents. Sitting amongst red bricks and a cool Chennai sea breeze. I wrote like it didn’t matter.  

  I sometimes regret not discovering this city as a young adventurous person, on my own. I might have discovered so many hidden secrets like this. But isn’t home where you are mostly protected and shielded from the adventures you want to be on? Well that was my home. Maybe that’s why, till now Chennai has been a     box       - a place of no escape.  A place of no independent thought or action. A place of sedentary life and unimaginative thinking. Or is this something that I have imagined up? Was my life in London or Brighton or Chirag really any more inspiring? Actually- YES! Because the moment I arrived, I was switched on. I was ready for things that would be hurled at me.

Anyway, back to my point. I find it odd to be sitting here amongst young parents of Chennai- remembering those days when Amma used to be one of these women (but her look of course was more regal Indian than Western chic). It takes me back to days of cycling around the CMC campus, arguing with Minu about riding bikes and swinging on the Vidyalayam swing set. I have to keep reminding myself that if I ever have children, I want them to have memories in spaces and places like these. Is that something that might be possible? In fifteen years’ time, will this safe haven be transformed into a ten-storey apartment building with sea views? I really hope not.

I realise I have so much to look forward to, to experience. It’s all too much. I feel so overwhelmed— like I’ve experimented more than enough for a few lifetimes. But looking around me, I realise there is hopefully much to come. It’s scary to think that these little people are growing and learning and absorbing just like I did. I’m really grateful that I have this not-so-normal opportunity to step into another world of Chennai— one that throws me way out of my comfort zone, but keeps me smiling the whole time.

I can’t ever forget that balmy evening in Chennai. It meant so much to me in ways that are completely inexplicable. Almost a year later, sitting in a beautiful, but strangely unfamiliar place, having added Dilli to the list of places I’ve transitioned into, I’m humbled. By the opportunities, the love, the relationships, the people and an amalgamation of it all— the memories.