Thanksgiving and trying times

It is grey and dripping outside, like I feel. Or I don't know what I feel. The world is crazy this week and we struggle for normalcy and meaning.

Bombay is under fire, on fire. We refresh our browsers compulsively, glued to the up-to-the-minute reports on the attacks of Shining India's most shining city. 195 dead when the shooting stopped and no more sense for 3 days of watching, reading and talking about it.

Chennai is under water. Chennai's skies are not falling, but are leaking all the tears of Bombay this week, drowning our streets and homes in a rising tide of sewage-tinged stagnation, unhealthy and floating with everything that littered the streets the days before. Traffic grinds to a sputtering halt, harshly represented by the dozens of stranded motorcyclists pushing their choked and flooded bikes through water past their knees. Offices close and we closet inside, not wanting to wade out.


Bangkok is under protest, both airports closed. We've been following it closely, for our own selfish reasons, and I've got my fingers crossed it will simmer down and the airport re-opens before our upcoming Christmas plans.

The world seems in chaos, panicked. We ignore the financial crisis back home in North America and its echoes here for more immediate issues and needs. Everyone has their stories. Friends miss their flight stuck in traffic and waste deep water seeping into the car for 4 hours trying to get to the airport. Commuters literally see people swimming - swimming! - outside their car, making batter time than they are. The whole southern suburbs are completely submerged. People are sick. I've got a cough that won't seem to fully go away. Worried phone calls flood in and swirl like the rain: are we in Bombay? Are we all accounted for? Are the Thai airports going to be open for Christmas? Our laundry just won't dry. The auto prices have jacked 100%, assuming you can get one at all. The power's out and now what do we do. Oh good, there, it's back.

It all is enough to paralyze and hide under the covers. And for a day or 2, we mostly do.

But then we carry on. We wade to the store to get much needed groceries. We mix cocktails of numbness, fatalism and stubbornness, and go to dinner at hotel chains the world witnessed on fire this week. Foregners were targets in Bombay. But we are not in Bombay. We need to live too. And then we turn even those off for a few precious hours and sit down as friends for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner - turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce (the trickiest to get), the works. We celebrate cherished friends leaving and new ones arriving. We laugh and drink foreign liquor we've squirreled away from duty-free runs. We eat home-made pumpkin pie even though our stomachs are already full of turkey and our blood already 1/4 gravy.

And we find our own magic moments in the situation. We wade home through rivers that were once streets at the peaceful and haze-softened midnight hours. We dance on the rooftop in the deluge. We call our loved ones on the phone or Skype and write lots of letters and posts. We hold tightly to each other. We watch bad movies, which will always be wonderfully, consistently kitch no matter how the world spins. We make a meal, 7 people in the kitchen, and it's damn good. We shrink the world to the personal, the viceral, the understandable.

And the world spins. Today Chennai is safe and not under threat. It is drying out and coming back to life. Bombay is finally quiet, able to grieve and rebuild. Thailand gets worse, but rumours are whispered of it being over by the King's birthday on the 5th. And me, my days are largely unaffected. The office re-open tomorrow, friends come and go in a maddening cycle and I don't know what I feel. I feel inspired and lonely both. Not sure if any of the week's events heightens that or just uncovers.

Life in Chennai #20: Jumbled Thoughts & Experiences

I am not sleeping well. My room is stuffy and thick, the heat of the afternoon still trapped in its walls, the fan just swirling warmth onto my face. I get up and do a pooja of sorts on my bed, vigorously shaking droplets of poured water out of my cupped hand onto my sheets, floor and pillow and lie back down. Momentarily cooled, I drift back to troubled dreams and sweat once more.

But I have so many thoughts jumbled and swirling in my head that I cannot sleep.

Crowded bus rides through humid air. I love that. Not having a plan. The friendliness and helpfulness of Indians. Feeling the local expert. Laughing at how far off that is. Girls. New friends and old. Reconnections. Walking darkened streets. Quitting my job for good reasons. The excitement, fear, relief and anxiety of that decision. The poetry of my friends, in person and in print. The joys of Indian food, but also of Domino’s pizza. A bar called Pirates. India beats Pakistan in the Twenty20 match. The annoyance 2 nights of power outages in the last 4. Being seriously sleep deprived. Dancing. Monsoon thunderstorms. Fitting in. The smiles and laughs of bright-eyed children. Never taking enough pictures. New ideas. Home? Home. Girls. Unexpected changes. People I care for. Frustrated tears. Giving up. Trying again. Yoga and Swimming and Motorcycles (not at the same time). Ganesh Jayanthi in clay and blinking neon. The Mylapore Temple. Hare Krishnas. Having 6 missed calls on a Saturday evening. Meeting friends randomly in the street. Beginnings. Endings. Transitions. Possibilities.

Life in Chennai #5: The anatomy of a weekend

So much of what I think and experience is mundane and most certainly uninteresting to anyone, however since it is so much of a part of life and since I’m filling pages of it in my journal, I thought I might as well share a little segment of memorable experiences and thoughts over a weekend. It is Saturday and I’m at work as usual, so the thought appeals to me. This is a test of sorts: can I spin a tale that is interesting and engaging to read despite being about nothing really interesting or insightful? Editing it myself, I’m thinking the answer is no, no I can’t. And you know, that’s OK. But it’s written now. So enjoy. And if you’re disgruntled at the end, well here’s an IOU from me for 10 minutes of your life back: put down that donut, coffee or cigarette! There, now we’re square again. ;-)

Saturday morning
It is a day of contradictions. On one hand I am feeling energized, passionate and excited, on the other, I feel loss and disappointment – a funny pair to combine. The entire office has convened today to talk and brainstorm about sustainable development, corporate social responsibility and the future of the non-profit arm of our little team and my little world and work, the Institute for Sustainable Development and Research. I like visioning. I like thinking about what development and sustainability means and really like the chance to play with the many ideas I’ve been rolling around in my head in the past couple months, mostly in isolation. I like that Pooja, the other valiant non-profit employee, and I share and support each other’s views on what sustainable development and CSR are and aren’t, their potentials and their realities. But I don’t like that my CEO does not share similar views, or rather, we don’t share his. I had given thought that there might be a place for me here with this agency after my contract. The idea of taking an organisation that is still mostly virtual and a glimmer of hope into a real agency of bricks and people and programs really appeals to me. But it is not here. It became clear over the course of the day, really for the first time, where my CEO wants to take the organisation and that he has a different vision and a different approach to how to get there. He views development and CSR through a different lens. It is not that one is right and one wrong, but the two are irreconcilable. It is my CEO’s dream and passion to start this organisation and take it this direction. And I have my own dreams I am following. I cannot let mine down to join his. In the long run, that is of course OK. This step will lead to another and it was never meant to be an end. But today I am disappointed there is no Easter Bunny.

Saturday afternoon
It is a day of contradictions. On one hand I am feeling the most distance to my boss. On the other, I feel the closest bond with the other staff. Most of us have convened impromptu in the adjoining lunch room for coffee and it has turned into a frank discussion. I understand better than ever before, the motivations and perspectives of my colleagues about the company, its strengths and weaknesses, about who they are and where they come from, about what they want and where they want to go. It is good. They are good people. I wish they were all staying. I wish I was. We’re not. Oh well, there is always email and people to visit next time I pass through.

Saturday evening
I’m heading out and I put my socks back on. I hate socks. I’ve come to realise this. I have to wear nice shoes to work. And even on Saturdays when I feel justified in dressing down and coming in flip flops, I still can't because if I want to meet friends at a restaurant or clubs right from work, they require close-toed shoes. So I end up having to wear socks most all the time. It is a funny thing to develop an aversion to I know – it is not like I didn’t wear socks every day for most of the year every year since running around barefoot as a kid – but there it is. I feel like it is completely unfair that I’ve come 12,000 km to a tropical country where most people go open-toed or even barefoot and I still have to put on damn socks. And I’m volunteering, which is of course completely irrelevant to any issue of sock waering and I know that, but I childishly use it anyway to comfort myself in my silent tirade. I also know the hatred of socks pins me into the hippie, Birkenstock-wearing camp, so don’t say it. Let me have my little rant. India with socks. What is world coming to? Thankfully women can still get away with those cute flip flops and strappy heels. ;-)

Saturday night
I’ve just stepped into another world. It is still Chennai, the sometimes-cheesy mix of Bollywood pop hits in the rotation proves that, but where did all these white people come from? My friend Preiya has invited me to join her and her colleagues out for drinks and dancing, but I had no idea how many of them there were. All Canadians, many are apparently here for training with a few like Preiya here on long-term contracts. There are like 20 of them! I haven’t seen so many foreigners in one space in months. It turns into a great night, which is good because after the day, I need to blow off some steam and clear my head. I find solace in a group that is amazing open, welcoming and unpretentious, confirming my faith in the niceness of Canadians. I find momentary transcendence taking Eminem’s advice and losing myself in the music (see previous post). I find smiles and rejuvenation, drinks, dancing and laughs.

Saturday night, late
I am lazily ensconced in a hotel room with the remnants of the night’s revellers. I am happy with the way the night is drifting on. I am quite happy with the treat of a Canadian Rye and coke, a liquor one cannot get here. But I realise that my French sucks. Those remaining are mostly French Canadian or bilingual and the conversation has switched completely to French. I am sad to discover how much I’ve lost. I’m only following about half. But oh well, that’s OK, it is also 5am and I’ll admit I’m quite fuzzy so in my defence, I’m not following any language particularly well. But being content and comfortable, I most tune out and chill with them until dawn. I’ve always enjoyed greeting the sun sitting around with a group of friends, some tunes and conversation. That I can’t follow all of this one is immaterial. Time to go home though and sweet sleep. And at least by waiting until morning, I’ve missed the auto driver’s exploitive “night time” fare hikes.

Sunday afternoon
I’m up and moving. I’m down the street picking up a Pepsi and a bar of chocolate. It’s that kind of day. As I wander down, my auto wallah guys on the corner wave. I wave back and then realise that that means I’ve just walked right past the shop I was heading for. Oh, it really is that kind of day. Since I’m going this way anyway now (and now feel slightly sheepish), I continue for awhile, enjoying the movement and back lost in thought, before circling back to the desired purveyor of sugary consolations. Actually, truth be told, it is really Coke and chocolate that I crave, but the shop doesn’t have Coke, so I’m forced to compromise on my choice of salve. He doesn’t give me trouble for taking home the glass bottle, if I promise to return it. I’m grateful as I only have limited compromises in me today. I wander back home. The neighbour boys are watching football on our TV and look at me a bit perplexed over how long I was gone to simply drop down to the shops. Good thing they hadn’t wanted anything. I shrug and don’t explain. These things happen. OK, well they happen to me at any rate. Time is a very gossamer commodity and I don’t know what I do with it half the time. I really wish it was like sands through the hourglass (spot the reference) that you could hold and count although perhaps that wouldn’t help any more than my watch. Some have called me a dreamer. They’re being really nice. And you’re being really nice for reading this which has to be one of the most frenetic and random posts yet. Of course bars are meant to be topped, so stay tuned… ;-)

Musing #5: Transcendence

There is good music playing, a hard, fluid beat. I have a rare moment when I’ve got enough space to move, to really move. Down at the floor, the lights play a seductive, repetitive pattern. I can feel the music starting to gel to something tactile and the people to fade to mist. I breathe the music in, draw it down, I smile a small private smile and allow myself to let go, to lose myself in it. I draw in all my senses to within a circle I can reach with my outstretched hands and touch between my feet and head, DaVinci’s man. Everything else goes away. There is no sense of place, of time, of crowd, no thought, no love or hate, just me, the music and gravity holding me to the floor. It is just movement, pure movement. What defines these moments is that every sense is hooked directly to body without the intervening filtering, processing and worry of our over-busy brains. I am no longer thinking of moving, just moving because that is where my body is supposed to be next. It is a reminder that we are built to move, we are made to dance, to know the intimate thoughts of our fingertips and sinew. I love these moments, these rare glimpses of transcendence. People go to a lot of trouble and do a lot of drugs to experience this. I smile at the flit of thought before it too gets forced to the edge of the bubble. Some feel this narrowing in a sport, in meditation or in sex. Me, it’s easiest when I dance. I know that it is not a state I can remain in for long. These experiences are oh so short. Soon enough, 2, 3 minutes max, and the world will again intrude – a change of music, a bump from someone, a stray thought, a blinking loss of faith that flying is possible – and break this fragile state. I will come back to reality a quarter second out of sync and will rejoin my friends back on Earth, in this club, in this room in space and time. But for a blissful moment I am connected to everything and to nothing.

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Kick. Step. Kick. Step. Ice Axe. Breathe. Kick. Step. Kick. Step. Ice Axe. Breathe.

Behind me trails a long chain of symmetrical boot-holes trails for 200m below, above only steep unbroken white. A single orange line reminds me that I am attached to three others repeating my motions below. The strong wind drowns out all but the sound of my own breath and the crunch of snow beneath my boots. I know there is a view to make one weep behind over my shoulder, but for the moment climbing is taking my total attention, every sense connected to my motions. There are no worries about pending office emails, of things I need to pick from the supermarket, of war or peace. There is nothing else, but ensuring each foot in the snow holds, the strong coalition of muscle and blood, and of a sharp, personal understanding of gravity and friction better than any physicist. I know the exact state of my muscles, blood circulation in my fingers and oxygen levels in my lungs. It feels like in this foreign world, we are so loosely bound that the 4 of us might float away like astronauts if we do not concentrate on holding ourselves to the surface. Here too in those moments of nothing and everything is transcendence and one of the reasons I keep coming back to climb in these vast temples.

Life in Chennai #4: Getting antsy

I have had a serious lack of activity since being here, a combination of being busy and adapting to a new environment. I don’t really have a good excuse as I could run, join a gym or yoga – before work – but I simply hate mornings with a passion usually reserved only for people who kick puppies and steal candy from kids (those guilty only one of the two getting a stern disapproving glare). So I’ve been very sedative other than the occasional evening dancing. Hence I have been starting to go a bit stir-crazy, starting to climb the proverbial walls as it were...except that that is a very dangerous state for me to be in because well, I am a climber. Have climbing gear, have walls, am bored...

So we’re sitting around last Sunday, shooting the shit in the afternoon, me, my housemate Sonia, her in-laws and our neighbour David. David it turns out is locked out of his house. A few hours go by and he is still locked out. He drops into the kitchen, checking the balcony to see about getting out to his balcony next door as the door is open. He doesn’t go for it. But of course the idea intrigues me. “I’ll go”, I say. I’ve got the gear sitting here, gathering dust, why the hell not. Which is how 10 minutes later, geared up, I’m on belay clambering across the outside of the building. Truth be told, it was neither a long nor particularly challenging traverse: the hardest part was fighting to move aside the surprisingly firm palm tree in the middle and the belay and harness was definitely overkill, but since it was the 4th floor safety first! It was a great joy just to be moving again. Can’t just stop there – I’ve got the shoes on after all – so I do a second short climb up to the roof, again very basic, but a nice little stem for 3 moves before calling it quits. Anything more ambitious would require a full rope, peaking in people’s windows and the high likelihood of someone calling the police.

It turned into a nice diversion for a Sunday afternoon and amused the whole group for a bit. I really do need to find a more constructive outlet, but in the meantime, it has got me thinking and there are so many interesting buildings around… ;-D

Culture #3: A Bit of Civilization

We are sitting around the table enjoying a leisurely Sunday evening (yes, I know the posting date is not Sunday, but this is a narrative so don’t bother with such minor details). Three of the boys next door are over. We’re drinking a bit of Grey Goose vodka, watching football on mute and shooting the shit. We’re talking about girls, of course. Us boys are comparing notes and Sonya is providing advice to their love lives (I stay quite, wanting to avoid said advising). One is the boys is letting Sonya SMS a girl he is seeing. I think he is very brave or perhaps naive. My laptop is providing background, set on random. On the TV Chelsea is playing Arsenal. One of the boys vocally prefers Arsenal. John (jokingly, but only semi) revokes his drink and asks him to leave. :-) I am taught the Kerala way of drinking vodka: you take a finger of South Indian pickle (a very spicy, sweet pickled something, quite excellent) with each sip of your vodka cut with water. Ironically, I have to report that the pickle addition is great, but I don’t fancy the water. I really don’t have a taste for alcohol without mix. The boys drop home and come back producing sprite and orange soda for me and themselves, which vastly improves things. I feel slightly bad as Grey Goose is excellent vodka, but other than a little sip to confirm its smoothness, neat is not for me. Sorry to all the connoisseurs! The game is 1-1 when I go to bed. The boys are mad about football. I should diverge here to clarify that Indians are not necessarily crazy about everything as it may seem from my reports, but my housemate Sonya often peppers her descriptions of people with the adjective “mad” and I appear to have picked up the habit… ;-) So Indians aren’t mad. And they are. If you want to know for sure, you’ll just have to come and see for yourself...