“Good morning, baby.” My groggy eyes slowly opened to see a middle-aged Indian man carrying a tray of hot masala chai, waking me up in his personal sing-song Indian accent. “Time to wake up, baby.” Rubbing my eyes, I moaned a response. “Tea, baby? Very hot. You take,” he coaxed in his broken English.
Every morning, Rakesh would wake me in this same way. He was my host-dad as I spent the three weeks in India to volunteer at a slum school teaching English. And every morning, me and the other volunteers would eat delicious meals of ciapatti bread and potatoes. Justin, another volunteer, was vegetarian so our host family cooked all of us vegetarian meals. Who could complain? Authentic Indian food cooked by an Indian family is like going to paradise each time you take a bite. So simple and yet so refreshing. So heavenly divine.
That was the first time I tried a vegetarian diet and I found myself not missing meat. When Justin left, as volunteers continually come and go, Rakesh cooked us a special meal with chicken. Chicken is my favorite meat but even tasting this feast seemed anti-climatic. I didn’t miss it and I didn’t have to. I yearned for more vegetables. Peas. Cauliflower. Carrots. All made in a wonderful concoction of spices and curries. I yearned for coconuts and mangoes and local fruits and masala tea. I yearned for chocolate. I didn’t yearn for meat.
“Are you vegetarian because of your religion?” I asked Justin one day. He was a practicing Buddhist, with the diligence to meditate every morning. He wore his malas on his wrist and taught me about om mani padme om.
“No, it’s mostly out of compassion,” he said, after a thoughtful pause. I smiled. Nodded. Almost smirked. Compassion and Buddhism go hand in hand. There’s nothing the Dalai Lama stands for that doesn’t also involve compassion. Was this some sort of cheesy, canned, Buddhist joke?
Two months later, I found myself entering a Chinese Buddhist monastery retreat in Bacolod, Philippines. After declaring “I’m not Buddhist enough” I wanted a respite from my wandering mind. Anxieties about my uncertain future and wondering when love would happen and I knew I needed to find my center and balance my life again. Balance me.
“We are like family.” The old master said. “You’re welcome. Ask question. Do not fear.”
I had just arrived the monastery and was greeted with a warm bowl of soup and equally warm smiles. Biting into a bright baby carrot, I nodded back and felt my tongue burning hot and the sensation spreading down my throat. The baby carrot turned out to be a red pepper! First lesson: mindfulness.
We were taught how to eat. There’s a whole art to it, in Chinese Buddhist tradition. Back straight. Hands cupped to a “C” to hold the rice bowl “like open mouth of dragon”. Chopsticks delicately picked up in complete silence. No speaking. No food going to waste. Not even one grain of rice left on the plate. This was the start of eating meditation. Each bite with intention, mindfulness, and thoughtful consideration of the causes and conditions–the server to serve the food, the kitchen staff to cook the food, the vehicles to transport the food, the farmers to grow the food–that got our vegetarian meals to our plates.
When you eat in silence and complete concentration, something changes. The food becomes medicine. Nourishment. Nutrition. The food becomes reverent. Holy. Sacred. For the first time in my life, I understood the meaning of prayer and “giving thanks”. My skeptic shell of Atheism, already growing softer before the retreat, had completely disappeared.
But something else changed too. I couldn’t look at meat the same way. My taste for vegetables grew stronger since having left India. The “causes and conditions” of packaged meat–the helpless animals being commodified as if they were mere objects, the excess consumption-driven meat factories polluting our environment, the unnatural hormones pumped into beef, and the careless mistreatment of the food chain–became more apparent as I learned about thoughtful eating, slowly chewing each bite with intention. Meat wasn’t just meat any longer and I couldn’t ignore the process.
I finally understood how vegetarianism is a choice of compassion, and not of religion. Vegetarianism meets you when you’re ready to go to that level, just as religion (or no religion) meets you at the level you’re comfortable with, and God (or no God) meets you whether you’re a Bible thumping homophobic, or an open-minded bisexual.
In four months, I changed. I became more compassionate by the bite.
“Good morning, baby,” Raj would say bringing a tray with masala chai tea to my bed. He had this way of talking like we were all brothers and sisters and his terms of endearment extended to us like family. “Time to wake up.” In a groggy mess, I’d accept the tea and place it on the headboard of the bed while I allowed myself a few more minutes to fully wake up. Shannon, another volunteer that shared the bed with me did the same–neither one of us “morning people”–while the two male volunteers sipped their teas in the other room.
This was our morning ritual.
The house would wake up. Our host family would prepare our breakfast. An egg omelet sandwich or chapati bread with potatoes. A second helping of masala tea. Benji, their six year-old son, would prepare for school. Subha, the mother, would bring him to school while Raj, the three other volunteers and I would walk the ten minutes to the local slums.
It’s so hard to formulate thoughts into sentences sometimes. Especially with something as complex and chaotic as India. You can’t escape the dirt there. Travel guide books show colorful pictures of pristine streets and happy people. Don’t believe it. India is dirty. Garbage littered everywhere. Dirt and dust from undeveloped sidewalks. Wearing flip-flops, as I did, you’re bound to get your feet covered in dirt and your toenails lined with black grit. Yet for all of the mixed feelings; as varied as the mixed smells, I do love it. There’s something quite magical and intangible about India that pulls me back. That remains a part of me. That lets me know India has my heart.
Embracing our dirtyness.
As we approach the dirt mounds that line the entrance of the slums, kids play cricket and bathe outside. Poverty greets me left and right as most of the kids staring back at us do not have shoes. Tiny huts made of dirt or mud or brick come at me left and right, as I walk one foot after the other on the dirt path. Of course, they don’t really come at me but that is how it feels like when you’re just concentrating on looking straight ahead, trying to block your mind from thoughts going overdrive to an environment Western eyes do not usually see. Trying not to become emotional. Putting your game face on and your mind on automatic. Step left, step right…
When we reach the slum school the kids are already seated and cheerfully greet us with smiles.
“Good morning, mam! Good morning, sir!”
It is like there is an invisible wall where the school is. Conducted entirely outside, some village bystanders watch “outside” of the school parameters. Donated desks–most falling apart–are what the children use as some cram two to three to a seat. The class is divided into two groups. Small kids, ranging from aged 5 to 7 and big kids, from 8 to 10. I handle the little kids and teach them English one desk at a time. They all cram towards me holding their notebooks out to show me their homework. With no teaching experience, babysitting experience, or much kid experience at all, it is exhausting to have them flock towards me.
Kids are kids no matter what part of the world you’re in. There are always going to be your typical troublemakers at the back of the class or the teacher’s pet working diligently on her studies. Despite the poverty, and their constantly runny noses visibly dripping snot, they seemed genuinely happy, especially when involved in playtime. With the simplicities of life in the slums, kids still find a way to shine through their resilient spirits.
Recently, I realized that I’m essentially going on a Pilgrimage of sorts this year.
At least, that’s where life seems to be taking me.
Pilgrimage: In religion and spirituality, a pilgrimage is a long journey or search of great moral significance.
What started out as a year of personal freedom, growth and opportunity has lead me to thinking about things bigger than myself.
It Started in India
In January, I worked at a “slum school” teaching kids English. The funding was so poor for the school that they did not even have walls. This makeshift school was conducted completely outside, within the cooler morning air, and the elements. Half of the kids didn’t even have shoes to wear, or lunch to eat. A typical house looked like it was made of mud and dirt, with tattered tarp roofs made of plastic and rubber tires. Despite the poor conditions, I was told this was the “nicer” slums. Families had TVs, or a communal TV that villagers would share.
I wish I could say this was some sort of transformative experience that gave my life new meaning. But it wasn’t. It was just four hours a day of teaching kids their ABCs, assigning them letters to write in repetition, pointing out random letters to see if they knew what they were, going through the alphabet together. It was just four hours of putting my work in and then exploring the Indian streets every night to ride rickshaws, look at the street shops, and refrain from buying anything because I didn’t want to haggle and I didn’t want to get scammed.
Sometimes, transformation happens slowly. In gradual steps, rather than a rush or sudden epiphany. I’ve got this idea in my head that I’m supposed to help young girls inspire and empower them to do great things, despite being dealt bad cards. I don’t know where this idea came from and I’m not even sure how to do it, or how to start something so huge. I’m not even sure I’m the one to do it. I mean, who IS this humanitarian chick anyway!? Where did she come from? Is that even…me?
(Oh, and she hates to admit it but she’s getting a little God-y too.)
Ideas need time to bubble. Maybe this is a calling, because the idea won’t shut up. It’s simmering, for now, just waiting until the day when it’s ready to come out. Not all ideas make it that far, of course. Most don’t see the light of day, but I’ve got a feeling about this idea, and it’s worth holding on to. I’m not sure how it will turn out, or if it’ll see the light of day, but I have to try. I have to let it sizzle.
I don’t know where this year will take me, or what I’ll learn at the monastery, but I’m betting this is part of the process. Am I crazy or delusional? I mean, really? I don’t know know what the heck is going ON with me lately.
Suddenly, I’m thinking of my life like the book Eat, Pray, Love. One divorced woman’s journey to find herself, and achieve balance through prayer (spiritual), love (sexual) and good food while traversing the world. So I don’t have a Brazilian lover, like she did, but I don’t want to be fucking Mother Theresa really either (um, I didn’t mean that literally). As much as I hate having a plan, I’d like to think I could envision myself with someone in five years. And still with [whomever that] someone [is] in ten. I don’t want to be Mother Theresa. I know right now I can’t dedicate my whole life to a cause. I want balance. I want to be able to fuck when I want to. But I also want to be part of something bigger than myself, whether that means starting a family, or starting a revolution. I want to [help] change the world.
This year, I am on a Pilgrimage. Wondering where my transformation will take me, and what lays around the bend.
I am part of Matt Chevy’s Life Without Pants project, The Epiphany Moment! Check out the other videos on his website.
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I recorded this video 5 months ago and it’s funny what can happen in nearly half a year:
I got fired from a job that I hated. I was planning to quit anyway, due to my travel plans, but they fired me a month before I had planned to throw in the towel. I have never gone into detail of this moment in my life because I didn’t want to write about my work life in a negative manner. The situation is far enough removed from my life now that I feel I can elaborate more. As a graphic designer, my career path has been shaky. I felt that I wasn’t utilizing my degree and wasting away in a dead-end job worst than Kinkos. It’s a bit like designing the Yellow Pages, except I was “designing” hospital forms. In addition, I was managing a one-woman print shop for a good portion of a year before the company hired on an assistant. I learned administrative duties, bookkeeping and customer service; I did it all, but as a graphic designer, I felt I was severely lacking on portfolio building work. In retrospect, I am glad to have had the experience because as often is the case in the corporate world, it helped set me up for my next stage in life as I attempt self-employment.
I made a (more or less) career switch. I am now self-employed, and loving it! I am a social media writer/blogger updating Twitter and Facebook accounts and blogging for company accounts. I don’t consider myself “successful”, in the traditional sense of the word. I make enough to sustain myself in Asia but less than half the amount I made at my previous job. I see myself less as an “entrepreneur” and more as a “hustler” at this stage of my career but as soon as I can get more clients things may change. I’d love to tie this all back with my design skills somehow, but right now, I’m enjoying my time as a writer.
I moved to Asia. I didn’t end up volunteering in the Himalayas of India like I had mentioned on the video. Last minute organization changes with my volunteer program had me placed in and around New Delhi, India, but I have loved every second of it. I currently live with my family in Cebu, Philippines. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to get out of this whole experience, specifically, but that’s the fun in the journey. I hope to travel to other Asian countries during this year, but have no formalized plans. I hope to live a sustainable, location independent freelance career by the end of the year, and have enough money/income by the time I return to the states to move to San Francisco (ish), California!
If you can follow your heart, you can do anything, and I am proof of that. Dream big, and live the life you want, right now!
The following story is my contribution to LiLu’s TMI Thursdays. This happened during my trip to India at the beginning of this month.
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A gentle knock was heard on our hotel door. My two roomies who had been with me on my India journey were fixing eachother’s hair. Michael, a dynamic gay boy from North Carolina with idealist heart and big ideas, placed the hair straightener down and opened the door. It was the hotel manager, wondering when my flight was so he could arrange a taxicab pick-up three hours in advance.
“How are you?” Michael said, enthusiastically. He has a way with Indian men. Their eyes light up every time he speaks, like he was a famous Bollywood celebrity. “Come in!”
We could tell this was a different country when Michael chats it up with the hotel manager and he’s invited in to our room. Colloquial conversations were exchanged and Michael mentioned how he just wanted to find a place that could do a good massage.
“I do massage,” the hotel manager said. “For you good people, I can do it for free.”
Michael went first and the Indian man placed his fingers on his thighs and legs, pressing and squeezing up and down. It seemed like he only spent all of two minutes when he finished and went on to massage Sharon, a beautiful Laotian girl from California. This time, it seemed he took a bit more time, massaging up and down her thighs, the small of her back and waist, and her buttocks. Concentrating idly on her buttocks, he asked in a soft, husky voice “is this OK?”
Ten minutes later, it was my turn. By this time, I realized he favored Sharon over Michael, and her buttocks over anything else and was a bit hesitant. Was this guy really a masseuse in training or just a bit horny? As I lay down on the bed for my turn, he hovered over me and started to massage my legs. His long nails pinched against my skin as he grabbed my thighs. His breathing became heavier, huskier.
“Is this OK?” I tried to nod yes. But in actuality, I’ve had better massages.
He circled my buttocks again and again. His breathing still laborious. Was it the physical activity and exertion or something else? The situation was rather amusing as he continued to massage my butt, still breathing hard, as he grabbed each check in circular motions.
Michael, bless his heart, noticed what was going on and motioned that we were about to leave. “We kinda have to go now…” The hotel manager, realizing this was his cue that he had exhausted his welcome, slapped my waist and then slapped my butt for good measure. I had my free massage and he had his free grope sesh with foreigners.
Smiling from ear to ear, he thanked us for our time. Sharon mentioned her thanks for a great massage. “Anything for you beautiful women,” he replied.
As he walked out the door, the three of us looked at each other and started laughing. “What just happened?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know but this is going on my blog!” I replied.
“I figured it was fine as long as he didn’t start fingering me,” Sharon joked.
Do you ever meet people and just know that they’ll be life-long friends? The kind that you’ll actually keep in touch with? Being thrown into a new environment with a hand full of random people kind of does that to you. With new environments comes shared new experiences and lots of bonding for a short amount of time. By the end of India, I felt I had known my friends for months, and not just three weeks. Soon, the question of “why are YOU in India?” became a round table sharing exercise, as we began to get a sense for eachother’s stories.
We found ourselves in India, and with nothing to hold on to but our experiences and eachother, we became tight by the end of the trip. Each of us on our own journeys and our own time lines. Some staying longer than others.
Naturally, we, the Americans seemed to bond better while the Australians and Europeans seemed to form their own cliques. By the end of my stay, my new found friends planned a weekend going away/party trip to Delhi. We went to an upper-class bar for dinner and drinks followed by a night of dancing. The venue looked so westernized, with its random mix of Indians donning westernized clothing, or fancy saris. The place was a complete 180 to the face of poverty that I was familiar with on the Indian streets. Working with the slum school kids and just walking around India in general, there is no hiding the developing world’s poverty. It almost made me feel guilty for indulging when others could not. It felt wrong, backwards, a little self-serving. In any event, it was an eye-opening look at the “other side” of India. The side with money and style, that even I felt a little out of place and out of my league.
Despite the bonding, my one fear is that we don’t keep in touch, because keeping in touch is hard. Because the magic of India doesn’t last when you’re back in your old environments. Because the only thing that binded us together was India, and without the crazy world of shared new experiences, we’ll be strangers on the street once again. Still, I know that I have made some lasting bonds with a couple of other volunteers. By the time I’m done with my year in Asia, they all want to have a get together in Las Vegas where we can find good Las Vegas deals. And they’re willing to wait a year until I come back to do so. Truly, I feel blessed to have met such wonderful people.
There’s really no other way to write it. Dozens of half starts, half thoughts and half remembrances. Halfway through this early morning. They say you find yourself in India. They say, wherever you go, there you are. You can’t push your problems aside. You can’t run away. At the end of the day, you’ll always have yourself. That’s the short version.
Travel is a road to self-discovery. Of pushing your boundaries and identifying your strengths and weaknesses. This cultural musical chairs is designed to keep us aware of the only thing we know best when everything else is so foreign; ourselves. Amidst the language barriers, in a country where hardly anyone speaks English, there I was. I found myself in India. The thought blew my mind even as I walked the ground, breathed in the shifting smells of dirt and garbage and smog, and felt the dust grind between my toe nails.
“I’m in INDIA!” The thought gathered in unison as my fellow travel peers and I bonded over first experiences. Time loses its grasp in this strange land. A day feels like a week and then a week starts to feel like a couple days. Three weeks wasn’t enough, but I know I’ll be back.
Navigating my emotional landscapes, I know that I am finally myself for the first time in a long time. This is what drives me to push forward, to keep on going. I feel stronger now, more independent. I feel like I’m being reborn and taking steps for the very first time. I feel like I have finally found myself. Old remnants of him no longer matter. The past is a bore that I don’t care to replay. The present is all that I ever have here, anywhere. Each new day is a new adventure. It always is, but travel makes it even more apparent. Look for the beauty in each day and you’ll find yourself there.
Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death. – Anais Nin
Anais Nin helped me in my process of becoming. My epiphany moment happened at a time after reading a simple quote. “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Just like that, I knew I had to change my life and live it the way I wanted to, needed to. For myself this time, and not some lover.
I’m proud to be collaborating with Matt from Life Without Pants. Since the recording of my video, before going to India and then moving to the Philippines, I have had a few more epiphanies, so to say.
While working with the slum school kids in India, I had a rush of feeling and emotion come over me. It’s been over a week since I last graced that land and I still haven’t found the words to describe it. How do I even begin to approach such a topic and do it justice? Even as a writer, it’s hard to find the words.
India was the first time I experienced a moment of clarity while teaching. I felt like I could truly be a mother someday, and that I want to be. It was an indescribable feeling of awe in myself and my faith, and I just knew. The same way I knew I would see Metallica and that I would travel the Philippines alone. With that quiet determinism that I have once I make up my mind on something, I just knew.
While the topic of being a mother has always spinned my mind, especially as I get older, I’ve always been either/or on it up until now. I never felt so strongly about it until I worked with the slum kids. Yet, the thought of settling still makes me anxious. When my friends in the Philippines get envious of my lifestyle of “travel and adventure”, but then ask me where I’d like to live, and they mean where I’d like to settle down in, I have absolutely no clue. Even other fellow travelers I’ve met in India have told me they want to settle down and all I can think of is that that’s the death of me. Yet, somewhere in my being, I must want the same if I want to raise kids? The concept is backwards to me.
Before going out in complete panic, I remind myself that I’m here, now, in the present and I should stay here because the future does not exist. It is merely a concept to fill our heads with worry and anxiety. With quiet determinism, I know I will raise a kid and I know that it might not be the most traditional way (because lets face it, I am far from traditional), but it will work.
These moments of clarity are worth living for, and I hope to have more throughout my year, and my life.
The following post is my entry to win a free two-week all expenses paid trip to Costa Rica. Sponsored by Nomadic Matt and Gap Adventures. Click here to enter or read the details.
Why do you want this trip, and what do you hope to get out of it?
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The cacophonous sounds of horn honks greet me as we navigate through the streets of Jaipur by tuk tuk, a three-wheeled auto rickshaw. They speak to each other with machinery. The intersections jam together with cars, motorcycles and rickshaws all trying to cross at once, in this tunnel vision of mufflers and wheels. I hold my breathe as the driver navigates his way across.
So this is India.
The gateway to my travels.
With its hustle and bustle and street haggling tricks, India is no doubt a cultural challenge for even the most seasoned traveler. Yet India is my first major travel adventure and my gateway to Asia. India, with its rich history and cultural treasures. India, with its poverty and caste systems that I witnessed through volunteering at a slum school. India, one of those things you can’t really describe, but just have to experience for yourself.
I’m here in Asia, now residing in the Philippines with my family, in hopes of traveling to other Asian countries. In hopes of (re)learning Filipino. In hopes of finding a direction for my life and career.
I’ve got the travel bug and the only thing I wonder is why hasn’t this happened sooner?
Six years ago, I told my tita (aunt) that I wanted to travel by myself next time I visit the Philippines and here I am. In college, during my Indian art history course, I told myself it’d be the first country I’d visit (outside of the Philippines, which doesn’t count since I was born here) and there I was. In high school, I told myself I would see a Metallica concert at least once in my life and a year later, I dated someone who happened to be obsessed with them and there we were, making out amidst the hordes of people in the crowd while over-the-top pyrotechnics lit up the stage.
I’m no prophet, but without even meaning to, I get what I want. Things work out. I had long since forgotten my comment to tita until she brought it up recently. A simple awe and wish to see India as a college student came true in only 5 years after graduation. And this calm assurance that I will see Metallica happened after randomly meeting someone who would soon become my lover.
A trip to Costa Rica would be exactly what I want at this exact time in my life. Sometimes, I feel like I’m cool for traveling and living in my home country for a year, and other times, I feel like a loser. It’s this ruse of put togetherness that I don’t feel I quite have. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with my life, and no one to call my love, so here I am. Single and living life to my fullest.
Blogging through Costa Rica, in essence, travel blogging and photography, are exactly what I want to get into based on my fused interests and the skills I offer. If India is the gateway to my travels, Costa Rica would be the gateway to what the hell I’m going to do with my life. A great portfolio piece. And a proud face for environmental and sustainable tourism.
Deeptesh instantly dazzled me with his poetry blog. Reading them made me think he was much older than I, but as it turns out, he isn’t even 20 yet! Deeptesh has the unique perspective of being an English poet in Kolkata, India. Born and raised there, his command of the English language and literature is simply brilliant! He deserves all of the accolades and future accolades that he receives. Written in story form, here is Deeptesh’s romantic take on his identity:
Two Worlds in a Mirror
There was an extra-ordinary lull in Oxford Street as I walked forward with measured steps. The neon-lit shop windows and the traffic flickered past in a trance almost as if it were a dream sequence. Lila stood in the doorway softly reclining against the advertisement boards in the corner. Her short hair rustled against her blue dress and her face shaded from the gaslight was a perfect interplay of light and shadows. Our eyes met across the street and at once the peaceful composition of her facade changed into a smile. Her eyes were shinning as she held my hand….her touch was magic. She could see me shivering in the cold….”It always snows here in December” she said. Her sentence hung loosely in the silence like a quiet reflection. It had been a long time and through the derelict tunnel of memories the dusty door of which has been suddenly opened by her fragmented words, I found myself travelling back to those sultry evenings in Kolkata.
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The monster in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein had demanded a female for the gratification of his sexual desires. Victor, the scientist however aborted the female monster as he was scared of giving sexual freedom to a female in this male dominated society. The mad honking of cars outside forced me to put aside the book….the motorbus had been stuck in a traffic jam at Park Street for almost over half an hour. “Damn it!” I exclaimed, “I’ll be late for classes again!” Some political party which apparently didn’t have anything better to do early in the morning was in a procession demonstrating against hiked up prices of goods. The peddlers ferried their wares up to the windows of stagnant vehicles and were making easy money. A huge Bollywood poster of actress Kareena Kapoor was on the hoardings ~there was a big hole in the place of her left eye. I remembered seeing such a poster right next to my school gate. I would scowl at the picture everyday when I walked in…..that beautiful archway with a statue of the Christ above…all that seemed a long time now.
In the summer of 2008 when I had just entered high school after my board exams, I was a shy, hesitant teenager and was known by very few of my juniors even after twelve years of school life. In my academic circle, I wasn’t doing too well in the science stream. The forces that govern this Newtonian universe or the titrate value of NaCl were not my cup of tea. Ever since I had an open heart surgery when I was two and a half years old, my parents had loved me more than a normal child. My performance was also enviable as I was often among the prize winners for general proficiency. But all that had changed as I found myself plummeting to the bottom in high school….I was somewhere near the bottom in my form and considering my decision of having not gone for the Arts Stream a serious mistake. Of course I was still very much the topper when it came to English and Lila was still somewhat ‘more than just a friend’ to me.
It was back in the seventh standard~ when I was in middle school~ as rumor spread that I love Lila. The situation, needless to describe, became too embarrassing for words as the entire class started talking about it. What made things worse was that the so-called rumor wasn’t a rumor after all ~ it was the truth. It was the ultimate truth in my life from which I kept running away as I knew Lila would never love me and we’re so much better off being at least ‘friends’. Even Lila asked me the truth a few times but I blankly denied it.
But we were still “friends” in high school even though I secretly wept everyday when she would not talk to me. Those were the days….I would wait for everyone to leave the class to go to the lab for experiments and wait to be one on one with Lila to speak a little~ after the scandal we seldom talked in public as we were scared of further ramifications~ and she would walk out with her friends leaving me alone. I would cry my heart out in class and then run to the wash-basin to throw up. “Life sucks and I’m going fucking crazy. It’s total shit”, I thought. Ours wasn’t a normal friendship. We would avoid each other for days and then talk a lot again. We would often exchange words ‘friends’ didn’t talk about. And recently my love poems had led her to nag me about the ‘girl’ I wrote about. “Who is the girl? Tell me”..this soon became her obsession.
One sultry afternoon when I was busy with my lab experiment, I received word that our school principal had sent for me. Terrified and not knowing what to expect, I walked into his office through the doors I had always dreaded as a child. In middle school, I often fantasized about that door and what lay beyond~ as if it were an entrance to some other hallucinatory world. It was the house of the jury that gave orders against high school miscreants. Walking in, I was relieved to find the bulky man in his cosy armchair beaming at me. On his table lay ‘The Teachers’ day lyrics’ I had written and he was all praise about it. The next day he took my notebook home and read all my recent poems. He was elated to read them but also added “You have some secret pain in your heart…psychic striptease for therapeutic purpose may be?” I only knew too well what that “secret pain” was but nevertheless I was happy to have entered the principal’s room and gotten his praise…it was to me like transcending the ultimate physical boundary within my narrow insular world of existence. The lyrics was composed by our school band and after the performance on Teachers’ Day, our principal congratulated me declaring me as a ‘poet’ in front of the entire school.
For the last couple of years of my school life, the spotlight never shifted for me as the school poet. That was a personal re-definition of myself and I was still beginning to tackle the escalating fame. For the next three inter-school fests that year I won prizes for creative writings competing against other schools in Kolkata and my script on a satirized version of modern eastern mythology won the Best Script Award in The Vibes organized by The Statesman (Indian paper). And my personal life was taking care of itself in its strange mysterious way. When Lila’s nagging got unbearable one day, I wrote down her name in a piece of paper saying “This is whom I love”. Strangely she seemed happy to read it but called me a ‘coward’ for having lied to her. A month later, I asked her at last, “Lila, do u consider me to be anything more than a friend?” It was anything but a proposal but her reply was simple. “I love you”. I froze in tears as she pleaded with me, “Oh Deeptesh, why didn’t you propose before? I always loved you since I first saw you in the fifth standard. Do you know how much I cried when u denied me? A girl will never tell…I waited for you to tell me all these years”. That was like a flash in a dream…those ephemeral moments of eternity we all hold onto as long as we live even when despair had sucked the heart dry.
In the last year of my school life I started my own poetry blog deepteshpoetry which has been a success and got a few of my poems published outside. Lila’s love was a huge turning point in my life and had re-shaped my identity. It was sad to leave school after fourteen years of school life and the expectations were high when we sat for our board exams. But my result was quite poor in science~ I had already decided to pursue a career in English literature~ but it was difficult to get admitted anywhere as all the colleges were demanding a colossal overall percentage. I knew Jadavpur University in Kolkata had the best English department in Asia but then again, I had to crack a difficult admission test to get in for a BA in English . There were 38 seats against 2500 candidates. Imagine my joy when I came 3rd in the test and got in!!
My cellphone beeped to interrupt my train of thoughts. I was dazed to find a text from our school interact club inviting me to be the judge of an extempore event in the inter-school fest. The bus meanwhile was taking the turn at Golpark beside RKM. What stretched in front of us was the long span of Dhakuria bridge. It was like the pathway to my career. Discussions on romantics like Wordsworth…..TS Eliot’s treatment of time in ‘The Wasteland’… guest lectures by Oxford professors… seminars on Renaissance…heated discussions on cold winter mornings……it was the world of words I had delved into. Our university had a great environment and I was not ‘studying’ anymore…I was living life, researching in the world of literature. “What do u wanna be when u grow up?” irks me at times. I’m an escapist….living in this tapestry of words, ideologies, and ‘isms’. I would smile, “ I want to do a Phd from Oxford”.
* * * *
Lila hugged me tightly…”It’s been a long time”..I felt her body softly against mine. The neon-lit boards screamed “Happy New Year 2019”. Cloistered in the walls of a kiss, I felt the those tiny snippets coming back to me in reverie~ the scandal in seventh standard, the day when our principal appreciated me, the day I proposed her….my getting into the University…idle evenings at the Victoria or a whispered confession at a coffee house…or are those reveries the real reality? How real is what we see….is there real meaning to be found somewhere out there in the frozen moment of a guitar string, a single poetic imagery, the orgasmic moment of sexual union or snow frozen on clock hands…..I didn’t know if the kiss was real or my snippets in this looking-glass world……but I knew this was my personal identity, this was my life, this was ME. Lila let go and softly said “No…not here my luv. Let’s go.” And hand in hand, (like in Milton’s “Paradise Lost”), we walked down Oxford Street.
(The girl’s name has been changed. The last part was futuristic but in reality she is now doing a BSc in Physics and I’m doing a BA in English. Thanks to Floreta for allowing me to guest blog for The Solitary Panda. I’ve always had a tremendous respect for her blog and writings and we remain great friends.)
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
Deeptesh instantly dazzled me with his 
