Live again. Love again.

I heard his raspy breathing as the last of life ebbed out of him. He was gone. You had loved and now you had lost.
You were strong for him through all of it, strong enough for the both of you. Fielding off all the negativity, saving up every ounce of your strength to spend it on him. It's anyone's guess where or how you recharged your rapidly drained out cells. In the privacy of your pain. And then he was gone.

It's been a long painful journey, two years. You traveled it. You have arrived.

Last night I celebrated your Birthday with you. Your rebirth, in a way. I watched you laugh, dance. The spark in your eyes has returned, you are more beautiful because of it. We had waaaaaay too much to drink, there was so much to celebrate.

Happy Birthday my dearest friend, I am so proud of you. You live again, you will love again.

Ticket, please!

Standing across the tram tracks on the opposite side, was a rather odd group of four. They were discussing most intently, something that seemed to be of deep common interest. Two portly, middle aged Bavarian men, a young attractive lady and a little girl of about four, riding impatiently in circles around the trio.
I had just got off work. I drop my pen when the clock strikes four to head to my kids, the race with time follows. I welcomed what promised to be a wee bit of entertainment in transit.
She was reassuring them, smilingly 'The ticket must be here somewhere, It can't just disappear. We just have to search everything thoroughly'. The men, obviously the ticket controllers, equally good-naturedly ushered her to the metal seats at the stop and held on to her belongings while she poured the contents out from her purse, scouring through each bit of paper chaos. She kept insisting, amid the increasing pile on her lap, most calmly that all the older tickets were right there, the current must be in there too, somewhere. One of the men watched over the little girl calling out to her not to ride too close to the tracks or too far off from her mother. At one point he even reached out for her little pink fairy rucksack and went through all the trinket trailing zippers, making sure the ticket wasn't mistakenly put in there.

I'm sure anyone who has lived in the proximity of a city has commuted by public transport, and is well aware that commuters are frequently, and randomly checked by ticket controllers. It's one of those things, depending on how well or badly your wallet or handbag is organised, could result in a minor stress situation. Invariably I'm fumbling through the contents of mine when I'm caught, as much to avoid the embarrassment of getting pulled up as the €40 fine attached to it.

Here unfolding before me was the similar situation between 3 total strangers and a child, yet neither authority nor stress seemed to be playing a part. Was it because the lady was so pleasant and not to mention lovely and attractive? Even so, there truly is no dearth of attractive, easily flustered, nasty women. She did remain monumentally unfazed and cheerful through out, and maybe because of it, drew the same reactions from what would have been her oppressors (ok, couldn't resist that exaggeration). I have certainly never come across a nice ticket controller. I seem to infuriate them with each extended second I may need to locate my ticket, while I get that condescending 'Give up the act' look!
She, seemed to be bringing out the best in them. I wonder how she does that?! I would have liked to learn, just then my tram rolled in. The race with time followed.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

It's finally starting to settle, the ash and the dust. The European skies are gradually starting  to open up again to the much missed giant metal birds. Their assumed might, so easily undermined by something as unassuming as ash. After a six day long flight ban that brought all air travel, sans exceptions, to a grinding halt, airlines can only barely begin to clear the backlog.
I myself transitioned into a single working parent indefinitely, not sure when the other parent would finally make it back home from the other end of the world, by whatever uncertain means. Through all the chaos and disruption and immense frustration of hundreds of thousands of passengers, I couldn't help but smile. Not out of schadenfreude. I am, I admit, amused at the matchless power of nature and our utter helplessness towards it.

Earthquakes and Tsunami's and yes, even Volcanic eruptions itself are forces that can wipe out huge areas almost instantaneously, causing equally huge losses. Them, one reckons with. Ash on the other hand, seems rather harmless, don't you think? Airlines are looking at losses of up to $2 Billion for a six day ban. How did we get here? When did it become normal to actually commute to work by air? Commute by air I say, the chronic idiocy of it!! How many of us live so far away from our workplace that we would need a plane to get to work and back. Or travel across the globe for one meeting, rather than pick up the phone? Or holiday in exotic locations thousands of miles away, before discovering our own territories? Why people??

I'm at a loss for answers. Have a good flight my friends!

So, what's the score?

It can't be changed, that's just the way it is. The ones we love the most, are the ones we hurt the most. What brings about this almost naturally schizophrenic behaviour? Maybe it is nature's rule and we just don't know it. That would explain a lot.

So what are we measuring here? Endurance? Depth? Density? Intensity? And what do our results tell us? How are our caring suckers scoring? The ones that do pass our tests are sadly the ones that will continue to be grueled so long, till they finally succumb and get flung onto the pile of other victims. The remains of the people who have loved us.

So how big is your pile? What's your score?

Happy Easter, heathen.

It's turned into a kind of Easter tradition now. We pack our things, kids and all, and drive down to this quaint apartment in the town of Lindau with our favorite friends. The good thing about Easter as opposed to Christmas is, that there's less hype, less pressure attached to it. A more 'humble' festival, if you may. Much less is expected of Easter, and it seems to be quite content in being merely second most favorite holiday. Quite like the quiet resignation of the middle child. You are special, just not the most special. Unwittingly however, we for one, do seem to have a much more relaxingly happy time with each other, than we do on any other holiday. This may have a lot to do with our expectations not being set to the moon. (Why not make a note of this wisdom?)

Anyway, the tradition does go further and the kinky part about it, actually started quite by chance. I was brought up to be a god fearing Catholic. In India, belonging to a religion is like being one or the other sex, you must belong to one and you must know which one it is. Then you practice it with fervor, so as not to be left out. Being in Europe for so long has dulled that Indian effect some, but by no means diminished it. I am a god fearing something now, for want of a better option, that something is a half-baked Catholic.

So, come Christian festival, I seek the contact to the church and mass. Our first Easter in Lindau, no one took me seriously. I was in the company of 3 (+2) other Germans. They were confused, if anything, by the mention of mass at Easter. I earned their worried looks, like I would need help if I continued to show these symptoms. So I gathered that I'd have to figure out the organisational details on my own, and yet never got around to doing it! On Easter morning, I wake up with a start, realizing I still hadn't figured out my Easter service and for all I know, it might be being performed while I'm busy startling here. So I jump out of bed in a rush, pat my hair down, throw on a spaghetti-strapped summer dress (they're the quickest to put on when in a hurry!), forget to change my flip-flops, jump into the car, forget my coat (it was 4°C that morning), stop at the first steeple, charge out, get hold of the first nice old lady with church bag in hand and interrogate her, between chattering teeth, about the service timings. I realize only then, by the look on her face what a sight I must have been. The perfect deranged destitute, an Indian one at that, looking for a church! My purpose was served nevertheless. I had about a half hour to wake, dress and motivate my 3 year old twins and self to Easter service. Which I do, also managing to quickly prepare my Easter basket with my decapitated Easter lamb cake (traditions, traditions!), an assortment of the Easter eggs that we had coloured the previous night, to get blessed by the priest atEaster mass. The proper Catholic way.

We get there just in time, and stroll in with ease, feigning a no-sweat-getting-here-on-time stance. We walk down the center isle. I notice the old lady from before in one the pews and smile gushingly. I seat my kids in the pew ahead of her, staying close to a familiar face, while I proudly continue to the altar with my Easter basket in hand. Wait a minute, there are no other baskets at the altar, is everyone with a basket late for mass? I place my lone basket insistingly, confidently at the altar and return to the kids.

Yes, something seemed very wrong, because something was. It was an Evangelical church, an Evangelical community and of course an Evangelical service. They don't have the heathen Easter basket tradition. After the service when the priest wished me and my children on the way out, he looked sympathetically, deep into my eyes, clutching my hand and basket handle tight between both of his, and said to me 'I wish you all the best, the very best'.

The experience was so special and unique that every Easter, I go back there. To that very same church and attend the very same service. Never forgetting my Easter basket, the only one at the altar always. It will never get blessed.

Listen to your heart.

This will be a brief excursion into the past.
It's been five months since I've been in Munich. I'm giving Germany another go. It's September, and I'm wondering what the winters' will be like while I shiver right through this so-called summer. It will get colder, they promise, nodding at my hopelessness. How could my imagination be stretched that far? Cold, as I knew it, was 25°C. My mind or body knew nothing of what was to come.

Our first few encounters were casual, were there any give away signs of the turn ahead? We talked a lot, laughed, then laughed some more. The laughing, that was special. Something was happening here, undeniably. That's my strength though, denying the undeniable. So I denied it. It was easier this way than to untangle all the tangled strings attached ahead, attached to accepting. A German-Indian association of this kind can only spell trouble. How would you begin tackling the whole rigmarole of who's going to sacrifice what, in which country/home, for whom? Would you and Germany be a package deal? The more I think of it, the more I'm convinced, denial is a good strategy.

We liked to climb, indoor rock climbing was our favorite alibi activity to do something together without having to define it as a date. One does possibly build up an appetite after such activity, a detail we may have overlooked. So we end one such rock climbing evening, dining together. Having been longing for sea food, all those months away from home, I order something with shrimps. Did I reckon with this lone shrimp eating experience to be so defining of the rest of my adult life to date? You tell me?? What are the chances? I reacted brutally and aggressively to the shrimps that night, my first allergic reaction to shrimps in all of my shrimp-eating life! I had to leave the restaurant as my stomach started to churn and my face started to sprout into the kind of over sized swellings that would make Gollum squirm! By the time you came to check on me, suspicious by my delay, I was ashen and ready to drop. And drop, I did. Right into your arms, not quite the way you imagined it I'm sure!

Later at the emergency room and through the night I spent being sick, under your caring (horrified) watch. There was no denial possible anymore. Not even for me. The first winter of my life was warmed with young love. Listen to your heart.

-Nauseous(ly) yours!

Ja, mei!

Exactly 10 years since I've known you. The image of this 27 year old, very unusual, young man that has come to be my friend, is still vivid. How refreshingly idealistic you were, in your attitude towards the environment most of all. Way ahead of me and my times in your respect and regard for it. Still remember wondering how crazed you must be to never use the elevator or an escalator. Bounding up every flight of stairs, still getting to the top before I did, one crazy German! The possibility of ever owning anything as wasteful as a car seemed as distant to you as the end of the world through global warming seemed to me.

10 years later, are you older and wiser now? And does maturity manifest itself as indifference?

Several years ago I read (what was to ignorant me) a shocking article about the Atlantic bluefish tuna. Since commercial fishing habits began in the 1950's, its population has dropped by up to 97%. In 12 years it could be extinct. 12 years. It takes 30 years for one of these fish to reach its maximum size and weight of 450 kg. They could be extinct in less than half of that. I'm sure at this point anyone would spontaneously point out that the fate of the Tuna is not any different to that of countless other endangered creatures and other dwindling natural resources. So another one will bite the dust. So what? At least the rest of them don't end up in a can!

Well, in my small insignificant way as a consumer, I vowed never to let my lips touch another delicious piece of Tuna again. Will there be less tuna cans in the store, stocked up high, lest they run out? Maybe not, nevertheless I'll do my bit.

My beloved matured, converted environmentalist, what did you bring home for dinner last night? A Tuna fish pizza. "Why Tuna fish?" I asked. "We don't eat Tuna any more!"
"Ja, mei!" was your response!

Live to fight another day?

'He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.'
One can never be entirely sure how sayings and proverbs came into being or how they are really meant. In any case, what we can be certain about is that they aren't meant for selective application. More and more we have conveniently turned this one into 'He who runs away, lives to fight another day', thereby distorting the fundamental message within. Reflecting the self centered, egotistical folk we have turned out to be. Most of us that is, with the exception of a (very) select few.

It was late, very late. Well past 1:00 in the night. Munich is known to be an extremely safe city, I believed that, feeling very safe indeed as I walked to the sub-way. A young couple walked in front of me on the same dimly lit street. The man a slightly built, moderately tall person, his companion similarly slight in built, of course in a more feminine way. But for our footsteps, not another sound was heard. Suddenly, breaking the peace of night, were thumping footsteps and loud cries from male voices. Black silhouettes whizzed past barely 5 meters from the couple, from all of us. Were there 2, more? The first thought that came to my mind is, naturally, one of self preservation. There was a definite exchange of punches, more yowling. Someone was in pain. Drunk teenagers on the loose, I tried to tell myself. An explanation nicely agreeable with my conscience. Dismissing the probability of someone being in trouble, maybe even in dire need of help.
Whilst I was negotiating my behavior with my conscience, the young man in front of me exchanges a few quick words with his companion and sprints off to the group calling back to his companion that more help may be needed (or something to that effect). There was not another soul around, should the situation go really foul. As he reaches the group, in the hope of singlehandedly helping, the police (thankfully) come rushing to the scene as well. It became quickly apparent that they weren't drunk teenagers, a serious situation after all. Phew, close call for him! Folly or bravado? Must we put a label on it? Let it then be 'Hero', for selfless, and yes, irrational compassion towards a stranger.

So Hero, I salute you!

My dad is a dancing God!

Jokes aside, my dad is a dancing God. Every child admires and worships their parents with some fluctuating intensity as they grow. There are innumerable ways we ape them, simultaneously trying to filter out the less appealing traits of course. I was no exception, much the contrary. Beside wanting to measure up intellectually, spiritually and all other possibly vitreous ways there could be, I wanted as badly to dance like him one day. To dance with him. My father a successful corporate executive, somewhat ill-humored, who despite his humble origins pushed himself through the layers with sheer drive and grit, playing fairly and teaching us the value of merit and integrity, is a god on the dance floor! I seek today, after all that he has already taught me, the lesson that is still pending.

Having pointedly involved myself with the matter of dance off late, I am slowly starting to realize what it might mean to him, to people like him who derive so much from rhythm and music. 'Is it just a good workout?', I was once asked. Is dance hot because it's erotic? I would say neither of these quite fit. It is happiness, first and foremost, and rating it any less would be such a shame. The act of expressing your feelings through your body is thrillingly liberating, exhilarating. To dance like my dad is to shed your inhibitions (which God knows he could barely do elsewhere) and submit to this simple, effective form of therapy. What you feel is what you dance and what you dance is what you feel.

Yesterday at dance class, I got spun around upside down. My friends looked for me on the dance floor and found feet in the place of where my head should have been. Needless to say, a fair measure of trust must exist towards your dance partner, especially if you're planning to defy the laws of gravity and such.
So people, try and give the evaluating, analyzing area of your brain a break every once in while. Let your feet connect with the rhythm of music every once in a while. You'd be surprised, once you let it work, how damn good it feels.

n Numbers

We live in a new age of technology, advanced beyond telephones and fax machines to a digital society and internet friends. But i'm not going to attempt tackling the bigger challenge. What I wonder about, is the effective availability of a person in the end.
I recently requested a contact number from a friend, to call him, should need be. Five phones numbers and six e-mail addresses later I still wasn't quite sure how to reach him. In case of any eventuality, I was told, I should have all the options. Fax numbers, phone numbers - at work, business mobile, private mobile, at home, all-purpose mobile etc.. All this for one of me to reach one of him?

Are the numbers of ways and means to access a person (lets call this 'n') directly proportional to their availability? A wise friend pointed out, the number of communication gadgets one owns, is in fact inversely proportional to ones availability. Logically, the amount of time spent on gadget management is that much lost in every other activity, socializing included. So 'n' can't be either infinite, in which case you're one lonely, tech savvy soul, nor can 'n' be 0, in which case you're inaccessible and end up lonely as well. So what is the optimal n? Any answers anyone?

What would you do without hands?

Last night I saw a man without hands.
I had had a lousy day yesterday. A long, exasperating day at work. My partner and I were out at dinner in the city, chatting about being glad that the work day had come to an end, then went on to argue about something mundane. That's when I saw him, the man without hands. I asked my partner what he would do without hands. Prompt came a thoughtless 'I don't know'.

Both sleeves hanging loosely, swaying with the evening breeze. Otherwise, no different from any other passer by. Talking amicably with his companion. Stopping at shops and gazing through windows, yes smiling. Even laughing. Yet, how different he is to every other passer by. He has no hands. No touch. No feel. How does he dress himself? How does he eat? Do anything??
Consider the first 5 things you do when you wake up in the morning. Head for the bathroom, open the bathroom cabinet, get your brush out, squeeze toothpaste onto it, brush your teeth. How fortunate I am. How fortunate we with hands are.

I had a bad day at work, I was grouchy. Tomorrow is another day, that doesn't help my mood today. This man has no hands, he's still smiling. He will have no hands tomorrow, or ever. He's still smiling now.
Why is it we are only as happy as there are other people that are more miserable. If I was, by comparison, the most unfortunate person around, how would that affect my attitude? Would I also be the most unhappy person? Or would it still be someone who has hands, but had a bad day at work?

Tolerance towards smokers over kids?

Sunday evening out in Munich at a cozy restaurant. The kind that one takes the trouble to reserve a table at, and confirm, before hand. On arriving, I make a bee line to the bright, inviting tables set in the winter garden area. Before I settle down the waiter points out that its a smokers only area of the restaurant (that incidentally isn't sealed off from the rest of the place).
We, being non-smokers, grudgingly move back to the less privileged areas, punished for not smoking. We settle for another table, felling all but second best.

Meanwhile, a bunch of kids frolic around playfully. It only being early evening yet, most of the place is vacant and the 4 year olds choose an isle with unoccupied tables on either side.
No sooner had they started than they promptly got frowned upon, and eventually told off by the waiter and staff. Surely their parents must know that it is disturbing to the other diners to have a bunch of noisy 4 year olds goof around.

Clearly not as disturbing as having diners breathe in passive smoke with their dinner. Isn't that obvious?

First German Assignment

Spring is absconding. More wickedly, it seems to be teasing us.
So anyway, to get this narrative going, let’s travel back 10 years to the beginning.
Imagine you would be an ex-Stasi official in your mid 40’s, now living in the middle of what you believed to be the wrong side. Contributing towards your continual process of disillusionment, is an early twenty something Indian engineer of the ‘weaker’ sex, presented as a competent, qualified, consultant? Seriously?? Granted, whilst not entirely ugly and not entirely unpleasant. Still, seriously, a consultant??
Would you allow yourself to trust in something more than you have been programmed for? Would you shed your inhibitions towards the unknown or seemingly strange? I think not.
Turns out that the collaboration evolves into an entirely ugly and an entirely unpleasant experience. Wrought by a twisted play of ownership by the client over what was perceived to be the hired-hand, and a sick evaluation of price versus commodity (which in this case was the consultant. And oh yeah, no points for guessing that the consultant in question was me.)
The equation results in Mr. ex-Stasi feeling cheated for receiving less that his money’s worth, if only by the virtue of age. To express his discontent, among other things, I was also asked several times a day to confirm my age. As if the hours in the day would help in some way to add to the missing years. I was allowed to arrive and leave from my place of work only with my ex-Stasi boss as an escort…in the end I received 1/9th of what my company earned on me. So, it was at least (not)worth it.
If I may sound bitter through any of this, it doesn't reflect my state of mind. I’m Simply not sugar coating a memory that wasn’t sweet.
Well, before I confirm the popular notion of the hostile Germans, I gave this a few more shots. Any theory remains unproven until repetitive pattern occurrences make it a fact.

Let bygones be bygones?

I herewith go public with my experiences, that range from novel to bizarre to downright absurd, as a native English speaking Indian in Germany (one must note, that in Germany this combination is akin to a fish on a bicycle – just WRONG!) and more.

Ten years down the line, having finally got my act together, how far in back in time am I allowed to go to narrate? Given the entertainment potential, conventional rules may be relaxed.

While I cheer and revere and grunt and groan about the German culture, I can’t help but note subtle ways in which I have unwittingly adapted to be more German than I would care to admit. Which is why my sentences are now so loooooong and winding, why I take forever to get to the point!