It's a Funny Feeling...

It's been about a week since I landed in India. I spent sometime in London and Istanbul, on my way here. I've been looking forward to India more than the other two destinations, perhaps, because I havent been back to India in 7 years, while have had the chance to be in the other two more often and more recently.

The roads have improved a little, foreign cars ply the roads, people flaunt designer clothing (or shabby counterfiets) with bourgeoisie arrogance. There are still poor people, very many of them, hidden behind the new multiplexes, malls and restaurants that have cropped up everywhere. I'm happy that I can down a Maharaja Mac after a movie at PVR. But at the same time, all the hoo-hah about India's growth is hard for me to digest. Mostly because the benefactors of this growth are the elite and the upper middle class. The poor sections of society still get a raw deal. Newspapers carry stories of suicides due to crop failures, farmers inability to pay agricultural loans, land grab by politicians and corporates, bribery, corruption and scandal. But not in the frontpages. The media too has learnt that no one wants to hear about this, and so on page 8 or 12 you'll find a 200 word blurb that talks about the inequity that still exists in this country. And our growth rate this year is slated to be 11-12%, compared to the 2% that the United States will see.

My friends from high school, all uber-rich kids or those with powerful parents, talk about how exciting a time this is for India. How their businesses are making money at volumes their parents would have thought impossible at their time. For them, I am a "chootiah," who picked the wrong time to work abroad. One of my friends was kind enough to include me in this project his dad has him working on. It's probably going to be the second largest retail chain in India after the Bharti-Walmart combine. "We'll have a great time, yaar. You'll be one of the youngest executives in the retail sector. Think of all the fun you could have with the cute gals we'll hire at our outlets. Big time masti dude!" I spent 2 days with him to explore what was on offer. I think that I'm better off where I am. The wheeling-and-dealing, the subtle incentivisation of government officials to give priority to your paper work, the paying off of unions to not protest foreign retail chains, the recommendations from politicians and bureaucrats to appoint their kin within the company. Two days of shadowing, and I knew this couldnt be my career. To someone who knew India intimately well in the 1980s, the India of today is just the same, only much more sophisticated and where the brashness of the past has been replaced with a touch of finesse. It has the same underbelly.

The economics and inequality aside, I'm having a great time here. This place is so much fun. You can party every night and there are so many different kinds. Bhangra parties, themed parties, college parties, yuppie parties, embassy parties, art-folk parties. Parties here and parties there. I was at a party recently, and was put on Page 3, with a friend and his cute companion. I am not one for partying, but somehow I connect with the party scene here. And every party I have been to lately, has been fun. I've met very interesting (and cute) people. Made some new friends. And I have realised one thing. And I say this at the cost of being called a MCP; the Indian gals who come to parties here are just so f**king hot, that they leave our Ameriki desi gals behind by leagues. They may be a bit poor, but way more cute, way easier to talk to and much much more down to earth. "This is reason enough for you to come back to the matri-bhoomi," an old girlfriend remarked when we went out to an art display at the habitat center.

This place I knew so intimately well has changed so much. But not so much at all. I feel a part of this place more than the India that I knew when I was young. But I dont want to be a part of it at all. I'm having such a great time here; the food, the faces and the fame. But it doesnt seem real. It's a funny feeling, being in India after 7 years.

Sinking In This Silence

This week has been fantastic. Awesome results at work, people who I've been working with came up to me and congratulated me. I got a bunch of kudo email from customers. In both the cities that I've been to this week, I've meet random, but wonderful people.

Last night, I ordered room service and a couple of minutes later someone knocked my door. I thought it'd be my food. Instead there was a squad of female basket ball players. 15 of them. On my door. They were obviously looking for someone else, but I enticed them to a picture with me in return for access to the concierge level (read free food/alcohol.) Two of those gals came back with me and we watched Pirates of the Caribbean. I had a good time, plus made some new friends. They have a party going on in a room tonight. I want to go, but am just too spent.

But right when everything is going well. I mean, you feel like you've finally ironed out all the glitches and finally begun to work and play hard, something has to go wrong. There's this job, a great job, that I really really want. I interviewed for it, have verbal assurances from some of the interviewers that I'd land the job, but got an email today telling me that they'd like to talk to more candidates. They need more time to decide. Now this could mean that they just want to talk to more poeple to demonstrate to HR that they did their due diligence or, or, or I complete misread/misinterpreted/fooled myself into believing that I had hit a sweet spot with the interviewers.

Whatever it is, I am on vacation beginning next week. Will visit this when I get back. I need to vacate my mind of all such non consequential woes that emanate from this world of maya. Need silence.

It felt for a moment though like I am running, chasing something and dont know where I'm going. And perhaps I am heading for a very high peak, with a very high fall. And right when I get there, on the precipice of that cliff, I'm so tired of the journey that got me there that I jump. Watch the video.

Heaven holds a sense of wonder
and I wanted to believe
that I'd get caught up
when the rage in me subsides

In this white wave
I am sinking
in this silence
in this white wave
in this silence
I believe.

Kiska Chehra

Shayad aapko is kalam ka ek bhi lafz samajh mein na aaye. Lekin, agar aap ka dil es ghazal ke tarannum se paseej jata hai, to shayad Khuda ne aapko ek zinda dil insaan banaya hai, jo mohobbat aur pyaar me yakeen karta hai.

Dua hai ki aapki zindagi aabadi aur mohabbat se paaenda ho.

Aap jaise log hi is duniya ko jeene layak banate hain.

INTJ

I took a couple of days off. To recuperate and decompress from all the travel I have been doing lately. And I found myself with a lot of time on my hands between hanging out with friends, cooking for and/with friends, eating, sleeping and the daily workout. I had to put it to good use, my apartment needed some tidying, so that's what I did. Out with the papers, clothes, expired food and mementos that serve as distractions.

While doing this though, I came across my Myers-Briggs personality test report. When I started working over 2 years ago, my company administered that to determine how well (or not) I play with others. Reading the report and looking at the situations, decisions and mistakes that I have been a part of, I was aghast how one human being could create an accurate formula to predict another's behaviour. Given that each of us believes that we're unique and different from another human being by leagues and miles.

I also did some shopping and packing. Come December and I will take off for India. I havent been home in about 7-8 years. Its going to be interesting. Meeting with old friends who may have changed greatly and not be the people I knew. Some may have matured, some may still be the same, but I hope that there still exists something; a pleasant memory, or just a happy imprint of enjoying time with one another that will serve as a connection.

On certain nights, I get these flashbacks, they're brief, they make my heart race, they make me remember important things; the friend I trusted more than myself, the first time I asked someone out to a date, the first kiss, the first time I really felt like God had made me for something significant, the first time I smoked a cigarette, the first time I realised how much my parents loved me and why (and many more firsts).

My entire life compacted into little drops, falling on my mind parched for a sensation of something meaningful. I was reading this book the other day, by Pamuk, the same guy who won the Nobel prize for literature (he's brilliant btw.) In one of his books he talks about how the Istanbul of his childhood changed and he found it hard to reconcile with what it became. I may feel the same way. Feel the same way, because in a certain way, it means that my memories are only preserved between my two ears. I cant ever bring anyone, those significant in my life, to share and understand the places and circumstances that me who I am. This feeling is certainly not original, many people in the past and the future will undergo similar sentiments.

But as I prepare for my trip, I also remember that I have to begin living in the present. I cant always look to the past for happiness and meaning. Its very hard to fathom how life became so different. How high school and college happened so fast. How I find myself in a place, where I feel like a part of this well oiled machine. A wheel that turns every 24 hours to do the same thing. Sometimes I tell myself I need to find another job. Sometimes my friends tell me that I need to get into a relationship and offer to "hook" me up. Sometimes my education tells me that I'll figure it out eventually. Sometimes my grand parents tell me that I should just get married. Sometimes the homeless guy around the corner who gets a lot of food from me tells me that I should just smoke a couple of joints. Sometimes I awake to nightmares of Buddha telling me that my entire life is going to be like this, always searching for answers. And then, sometimes my inner conscience tells me that I'm trying too hard.

I've eaten 275 calories worth of olives. I need to get back to the cleaning. And prepare for thanksgiving. Cajun friend turkey. That's whats on the menu.

My my Baby Blue.

As I burn down the highway skyline in utter disregard for motor vehicle speeding regulations, Eminem plays on XM in my Cadillac DTS rental car. The perks of hitting the road week after week.

I like Eminem's music. Its not about women with big assets, that shake what their momma's gave them and like to go to the candy shop. His music is real, chaotic and relates to life's frustrations. He's a critic of culture, someone who tells his story, admits his mistakes and seeks absolution from his music. And in a strange way, is conveying to other folks like him who are fighting for their dreams to fight on, because, in his words: "Success is the only motherfuckin' option."

In other news, I am going to New York in a couple of weeks. I will spend sometime with my friend Rachel who works for a top financial firm in the city. Rachel is inspired by ebonics, very much so. To give you an example, when we were talking about what we might want to do when I go to New York, she says "We should go clubbing. Everybody knows when I step in the club, bankers see me and want to show me love. Plus, you'll get to conversate with Wall Street playas, you can move in for the capture. " Except recognising that she lifted some of FrankieJ's lyrics, my response was "Whaaaaat? What does that mean?"

Rachel has always been an interesting person. She's not social, you wont find her on myspace or facebook. She's always had pretty mind boggling relationships; she's dating a MD (no, not the doctor kind) who's 38. She is 25. She tells me that I'm the only friend she's not gotten tired of (narcissistic bitch.) Her folks are loaded, but she hates them for substituting affection with money.

But to her credit, she is one of the few women you can actually have a conversation with, sans any stupid, lame or airheaded jibber jabber. Many times when I was at SC, when I needed someone to lean on, Rachel and I would go to Santa Monica pier late at night, listen to the waves crashing on the beach. She would be there as long as it took. She would listen, without judging or thinking anything. And she would always help when she could; when I was hospitalised in my Junior year (details withheld =P), she totally went into big sister mode and brought me food, took care of my prescriptions and hung out with me. Ashok was probably the only other guy who bothered to check-in.

We tried to date in college. After two dates, we decided to remain friends. I was too normal for her, she was too crazy/weird for me. And I think we realised that we were too valuable to each other to complicate matters. Relationships always do. We were poeple that matter to each other. She is one of the few real/good things in my life.

So when I go to New York, I'm going to join Rach and Bjarje (her Italian MD beau) and we'll fly to some place in the Caribbean. Bjarje is going to spend time there to finish off some huge real estate deal(s). Rach and I are just going to be extra luggage on his private jet and will hang with the locals, while he works. See, there's a reason to like her.

Once, a long time ago. Over a milkshake at Johnny Rockets, she told me; You have a hole in your soul. While that reminded me of the Aerosmith video and I vehemently protested being characterised as the mad scientist, she had touched a raw nerve. In a way, I find that people tend to disappoint me. It wasnt always this way, but as a loss alleviation strategy, I have become very reticent since my sophmore year (reasons undisclosed.) And she totally picked up on it. I told myself then that I have to concentrate on school, now I tell myself that I dont have time outside of work. Her theory is that I'm waiting to be rescued by Supergirl. This after I've learnt that I date women that are damaged and need rescuing, and found that nothing good comes out of it.

There's so much that I can be written about us, but for now, I'm happy in knowing that I'll see my baby blue in 2 weeks.

This is notoriouS signing off. Trying to save myself from cupid's automatic. Trying to build a bridge across the stream of my consciousness, that always seems to be flowing..

Stranger Than Life

Order No 4695084. That's what the credit card receipt on which Elena gave me her number . (310) 920-XXXX. I'm looking at this piece of paper and wondering if I should ask her to lunch on Sunday afternoon.

Someone I asked last minute had already made plans for that afternoon, or was it a polite way of declining. No need for speculation.

I can always do a solo run to Katana. Finding company for sushi is never hard. As my good friend Mr. R puts it, "Poor, hungry college women and sushi. It's always worked for me."

Personally, I dont like to mix sushi and tuna. =)

I'm Pathetic. Tonight...

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-344455927726880581&q=three+doors+down

That's probably what I deserve for breaking up with a girl to whom none others have compared in beauty, intellect or in the magnitude of my affection for her. Breaking up on Valentine's Day '02. I was foolish, arrogant and immature.

She got hitched in Chicago on Nov 3. I was there, for work, couldnt muster the courage to go. Sent flowers by proxy. Warm regards to you Ms. Habib.

And we thought this would be our song ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PigXAWHmI8Q

When I Was Young...

You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful girl to
To save you from your old ways
You play forgiveness
Watch it now
Here she comes

...

They say the devil's water
It ain't so sweet
You dont have to drink right now
But you can dip your feet
Every once in a little while.


( Dipped my feet, and have the scars to prove it.)

The Birth of Tragedy?

One of the people that I loved immensely at a point in my life referred to me as “my Nietzsche.” I thought too much about things, she said. Like a lot, y’know.

I got a ticket this Thursday, and for about 30 minutes, when I was actually speeding to express my anger and defiance for a ticket that was given despite my conformity to the law, I felt free. A strange high.

I was talking to a friend of mine this morning that was on her way to go rock climbing who told me of a ticket she got in May. We started exchanging info on what might be the best way for me to wiggle out of this one. As fate has it, this gal’s name is right before the person in my cell phone book who addressed me as her Nietzsche. And I started thinking…

In his work, the birth of tragedy, FN talks about how in every human, society and the world in general, there exists, a dichotomy. He uses examples from Greek philosophy to explain. There is a Dionysian side and an Apollonian side to our personalities; the individual versus the whole. One that wants to be hedonistic, see naked gals wrestle in vegetable oil, walk bare on the street, have sweaty loud sex in the middle of Sunday mass. Do everything that is pleasurable and looked down on by society. The other, that makes you follow rules and due process, makes you follow procedure and law, be it divine or manmade. It makes you believe that there are consequences for non compliance and rewards for orderly conduct. Obey and conform.

And on this Sunday morning, after burning a couple of free minutes with my good friends, I have come to wonder, why I felt the need to break free. Do you have a morning when you question everything you’ve ever done in life? From choosing the profession that you’re in to why you broke up with that one perfect gal you dated in college, who is now someone else’s fiancé. Will what you’re doing now, help you become the person you dreamed you would be as a young man, full of optimism and hope. Will things work out? Will your heart and soul be at peace someday? Will you be one of the lucky few to get VIP access to those 72 virgins in heaven =)?

Performance anxiety. Existential angst. A state of anomie. Call it what you will…

Something that makes you wonder where your life is heading, and more importantly if you have some control over it. Do you as an individual ever feel that there is a significant discrepancy between what you learnt about hard work, opportunity and advancement in your youth and what is actually achievable in real life. Are you built for something less banal that the daily routine of work, work-out, sleep and the occasional night out with some friends? Probably not a day goes by when something I see, hear or experience doesn’t impregnate my mind with this quandary. A spark that ignites all my insecurities, which I just have to swallow up; through a fake smile, a quick count to 10 or a drink of water.

I am sure that I’m not alone. What I’d like to discover is how exactly do other folks cope with it? When do you figure out your mission, your raison d’être in life? And more importantly HOW?

In the 24 years of my existence, I have been fortunate enough to present this question to several individuals that by societal standards would be deemed successful in the respective trades. Few answers I’ve received bring a fresh perspective. They vary from person to person and depend on where they are in life and how they got there. There isn’t a one-size-fits-all solution to this one.

But what about people my age? I’ve rarely been able to have a candid and serious discussion with someone my age. Most people are very uncomfortable on being broached about this topic. A large percentage are judgmental and are quick to reconstruct the pertinacious, go getter impression that one first delivered to one, that is, lets say, less than positive.

This subject is a taboo in the community of career oriented younglings. It strikes a raw nerve. Each one of us wants to be successful and each one nurtures insecurities around this aim at the same time deriving strength from a deep conviction that assures us that some day we will be successful, only if we continue to plough through life, one day at a time. And no one is allowed to talk about or discover this holy grail of personal validation.

But how do you quantify success? What are the metrics, if any? Or is it just a general sense of satisfaction and resultant bliss? Does the meaning of success change as you grow up, or are you forced to recalibrate your expectations by ground realities? It’s like quicksand. It gets in your nostrils and mouth and if you even fall into this quandary perchance, there's no easy way out.

If only the answer divined upon us without such mental agitation. Only if there was a sage or mahatma who could crack the code for us. This year, I was in Dallas for my birthday. I had dinner with a co-worker and had kulfi in an earthen cup (which he calls Indian flower pot ice cream.) And just let it out (which I rarely do.) Licking on some mango ice cream he answered.

“Sharjeel, some things in life need time to make sense. Heck, I haven’t figured it out yet myself. But if it’s any consolation, you’re asking the right questions. The answers will come, in time. Until then, don’t let life get the better of you.”

That was April. And then I got a ticket, that sent my mind in a spiral. Anyways, shower, shave, movie, iftar and prime rib. That’s what I’m getting out of life today.What's your plan?

Thanksgiving in Baja California

It's funny how most great ideas pop into your head when youre in the company of friends, hanging over a drink and talking about things that make no sense. Being as un-PC you can possibly be, bashing politicians, bitching about unsuccessful forays with senoritas and things that happened at work.

This weekend, my buddies Ashok and Dennis, sat down over a couple of drinks before we were to watch the Idi Amin movie (excellent flick.) And somehow someone quipped, what are you doing during thanksgiving? And from there on, a vacation idea of unparalleled brilliance was born.

We'll go to Baja, fry turkeys, surf, swim, see dolphins, partay it up with the fun loving people of Mexico and invite some of our co-workers to go with us. I thought I'd broaden the scope of this invitation (ugh, corp-speak) and invite you folks too.

And if you haven't figured out what you're doing over thanksgiving, give your buddy a holler peoples! Now to go find a beach bungalow that I can rent.

Take yer Ticket, And Shove It.

I got a ticket tonight driving to the airport. I was doing 85 in 70 mile zone. That’s what the officer said. I was bummed because I was on cruise control and on 70 mph. Didn’t want to argue with the fella.

But as I took the ticket from him and drove away. I let the rubber hit the road hard. 95 mph and I was at the airport in 30 minutes. Sometimes it’s just so good to break away from convention, procedure, rules, expectations, courtesy, civility and let go. Be free. Dont you too?

Any lawyers out there who can help me contest this ticket. Now would be the time…

Up for a Sandwich? I meant Seafood Mornay?

A couple of months ago, my good friend Ashok and I were talking about outsourcing. Ashok had just been asked if he thought that outsourcing was a fair practice, especially since it meant more work and less pay for our brethern back in India. I had quipped, purely wanton and to solicit a laugh, that they'd probably work for a sandwich. This week I flew up to Oregon for work. I spent Monday in Portland, catching up with some co-workers and friends. We got dinner later that night. Portland has the largest number of restaurants per capita, more than any other city in the US. That means there's a lot of great great food around, waiting to be tried. John Mackey, the CEO of whole foods, once said, that of the many pleasures that human beings seek and enjoy, great food probably made up for most of it. (Unless you're oversexed and underfed.)

We had dinner at a great place. And then I drove to Eugene, where I was to wake up at the crack of dawn an get to work. Work went by fast and I was out by 6pm. I wanted to go to a place called Electric Station, a former train station that's become a super-pop restaurant. I decided to walk and unfortunately, without a map. It took about 20 minutes of walking around random streets that I realised that I was lost. At first walking around in a strange place was refreshing, but as darkness began to set in, I wanted nothing more but a bite to eat.

I saw this one gal walking on the same deserted street I was on. And she was cute, so I mustered some courage and asked her if she could tell me where the restaurant. "What's in it for me?" was the response. Fiesty little thing, I thought. The 5 seconds that I took to smile at her while I contemplated a comeback seemed pretty long.

My mind was running at warp speed. Usually this is the time my head starts talking to itself.

What do I say? What do I say?
Am I looking stupid?
(Offcourse I am.)
Damn it! Say something.
Tell her that she's a good gal for showing a man her way.

No NO NO!!!

Does she want a sandwich?
(She's not homeless..)

Seriously.. SERIOUSLY @#**!
Ah!!! I've got it.

There's a good meal and some tolerable company for you, if you walk with me to the restaurant, I said. This brunette looked at me weird for a moment. Or you could just tell me where to go and continue with your evening and followed by an evil grin. =)

She did give me directions, and I thanked her and started walking to the restaurant. She "had plans." As I was walking I wondered why I had just invited her to dinner? I mean, why did I do it? Was I being social or I that I just didnt want to eat alone that one night. As I did, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Anitra (she had a badge), the gal who I was talking to me 5 minutes ago.

In a blushing, shy and seemingly feeling awkward tone she asked me if the offer of dinner was still standing. I smiled with my shiny 32 on display. No, it isnt. But you can earn your meal by telling me about what there is to know about Eugene. And we were on our way.

As we walked, Anitra, who preferred to be called Andrea (beats me) told me that Eugene was settle in the late 1800s and was primarily a lumbering town, but now it was into wine, technology, outdoor tourism and all kinds of cool stuff. There was a university that she attended and studied physical sciences there. She was most definitely looked the part. She wanted to be a sports physician and work for the US soccer team. And then from Eugene, our conversation became more focussed on Andrea.

Over the next 90 minutes we ate, I told her what I did and why I came to Eugene. I told her how sometimes having dinner with a stranger is the most welcome thing that could happen and that I was really happy that she could join me. She ordered the Seafood Mornay, with wine and took some of it to go.

After dinner, she offered to walk me back to my hotel and I thought it was nice of her. About 10 minutes later, we were at the Hilton on 6th Street. So, we're here, she said. Yes, we indeed were. There was this glow in her eyes, my head telling me that here was an opportunity to capitalise on. I liked her, it was a perfect evening, but for some reason I wanted to leave it at that. Yeah, I have an early morning tomorrow, but thank you for being so good to a complete stranger, I'm sure it'll come back around.

She looked at me. Her grey eyes were gleaming beautifully under the sodium lamp. She hugged me, kissed my cheek and told me that she had a great time. Then wrote her number on the receipt (because we didnt have any paper) and asked to give her a call if I needed directions again.

So off I went into the hotel, took the elevator, changed and popped into bed. As the lights went out and I looked out to the window, with the city overlayed on a moonlight horizon, there was this feeling of calm satisfaction that put a smile on my face as I began to count sheep.

Ein Anderer Samstag

I woke up this morning and realised that I have a bunch of things to catch up on. Bills, bills and more bills. Recieving mail has lost its charm. When I was 6, I had a pen pal in Russia. Her name was Lyuba. I would recieve a letter from her every week and I'd come back from school every day, check my mailbox in anticipation of her letter. It would always be 4 pages, in pencil, and English that took a lot of work to understand. My mom always helped explain a lot of things Lyuba would write about. We stayed in touch until I was 8 and then it got sort of old, and the letters stopped coming, slowly. Now, the only mail I really look forward to is the birthday card that I get from Southwest Airlines every year, without fail. Ugh.

I wonder what happened to Lyuba. She wanted to become a vet and help animals. I hope she did.

I also recieved my first report from this credit protection agency that I'm paying to monitor my credit. This February someone managed to get a 20K credit card on my social and went crazy with it. It was a big mess. I had to call the credit card companies, put a fraud alert, file a police report. The police asked me if I suspected anyone. For a moment I felt like giving up this one gal that I went out on a date with and somehow I joked about her credit history being too sucky for her to use an Ultima card (equivalent to Amex Black/Centurion) that her Dad got her. Needless to say I never saw her again. Pretentious little arabian princess.

Here's something that happened lately. I added this gal on facebook as a friend. She runs this mentor organization that I've been trying to get involved with, but I've never been matched with a mentee. So she does add me, I notice it on my facebook feed and then, she puts me on a limited profile. Awkward.

On Monday I'll be in Oregon. I love Oregon. Time for me to take care of these bills, wash me clothes and catch up on my prayers. And watch Flyboys. Need to be a little risque right now. Ramadhan's made me boring.

Hate Me Today... Hate Me Tomorrow!

Blue October rules. Awesome-ness personified!

Check it out: http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-4220852541259479056&q=blue+october

Salang Pass

Last evening after work Aaron, Jayitha and I went to Salang Pass for dinner. For me it was iftar time and the opportunity to get some fine Afghani food before I got on a plane to Los Angeles. Salang Pass, like a lot of Muslim eateries during Ramadhan, had an iftar buffet going. And where there's a buffet, there's bound to be a lot of hungry people.

Aaron and Jayitha had reached the restaurant before me and found a place very close to this group of young Afghanans, 8 of them, who were busy eating and discussing plans for the evening and the week.

As we played catch-up on our table, I could simultaneously overhear what these gals were talking about. They were giggling away, discussing movies, places they wanted to go shopping and boys. The content of their conversation was banal, but from this group a warmth emanated that really seemed to make the place more welcoming and refreshing in a strange way.

I told Aaron about what my Dad was doing in Afghanistan with the United Nations. How I was so proud of the fact that he didnt flinch at leaving stately comforts in New Delhi to go help build the Independent Election Commission of Afghanistan. How his compound had been attacked several times by terrorists. His account of a day spent in a bomb bunker. His report of the people and the country. (I'm so happy to be his son and if I was even an iota of what he is today, I'd be satisfied human being.)

I told Aaron about the twenty odd books I had read on Afghanistan since my Dad had been there. And how I wanted to visit the country sometime soon. I even told him how I had once contemplated quitting my job and becoming a UN Volunteer in Afghanistan, but decided against it. Afghanistan for me has became Coleridge's Xanadu. Someday..

Aaron told me that he got into swimming and Spanish classes, while I sipped away my Aush (Afghani noodle soup.) That Google's been treating him quite well. He'd been to London lately. That a erstwhile common friend who we both despised for his womanising habits had finally packed up his bags and left the US for good. And then he gesticulated with an oblique movement of the head towards the Afghanans. Or so I thought and looked over his shoulder.

Two of them were staring at me with their heads frequently turning only with brief intermissions of conversation, which I am presume referred to Aaron and I. I couldnt discern if they pitied me because my father was in Afghanistan, or if they were a little taken aback from the accounts that I had been yapping about for the past few minutes. I became keenly aware that sometimes I talk loud enough for the whole world to hear. I smiled politely and looked away. I was hungry, my food was before me and I had company. There was no need to be distracted.

We finished our meals, my flight was at 9 and the clock was ticking way to signal that it was nearly 8pm. I knew I'd have to go stand-by on the next one. So in a hurry, I took care of the check, walked both of them out and ran to my car.

As I buckled up, I reminded myself to make sure that I hadnt forgotten my credit card at the restaurant. I have a nasty habit of forgetting things in strange places. I actually had. So quickly, I walked back into the restaurant and asked the hostess if she had my card. There was a silence.

I looked at her and explained that I had just eaten here and pointed to my table and reiterated that I had left my card behind. More silence. Irritation began to set in, when suddenly she said in a mish-mashed accent that sounded Iranian to me; "Youre the guy talking about your father in Afghanistan?" News did travel fast in the subcontinent, but I was flustered that she knew. "Here's your c(o)rd. Sharjeel, that sounds like a Persian name." I really had no time for small talk, I took my card, told her that it was Hebrew, that the food was good, and said my goodbyes. She gave me a small plastic snack pack which had cookies and dates, complimentary, for folks to break their fasts. I bowed and rushed out.

Driving like a madman on the 880 to get to the airport on time, I tried to make sense of why I got a cookie pack, eventhough I had clearly fed myself enough to put Takeru Kobayashi to shame. I pulled into the rental car facility and quickly grabbed the bag of cookies. It had a note. An Afghan fortune cookie.

It read:

You ask me about that country whose details now escape me,

I don't remember its geography, nothing of its history.

And should I visit it in memory,

It would be as I would a past lover,

After years, for a night, no longer restless with passion,With no fear of regret.

I have reached that age when one visits the heart merely as a courtesy.

It was then I realised that , like that hostess, I dont have a place to call home anymore. India, the country of my birth, UK the country of my childhood, Singapore the country of my youth and the US the country of my future, but neither a country I could can home. And that I had become a glorified vagrant, an entity in the modern economy. Period.

Intimate Stranger

It happens to everyone, or so I’m told. And if I am to be of the persuasion that authors who have toiled to reassure themselves that their feelings of estrangement towards erstwhile loved ones aren’t unfounded I surely would be betraying originality, wouldn’t I?

I would be. But life has a strange way of making one realise that everything that transpires in one's lifetime, has already been experienced, analysed and brought bliss or sorrow to countless individuals before us. It is only once the novelty of any such incident has worn off that one begins to compare their feelings and emotions with those described by others. Perhaps, knowing that we arent alone in our happiness, sorrow or disappointment helps us pull ourselves together and move on.

Today, I am writing about one such instance. A couple of months ago, I met this wonderful gal; she is smart, driven, doing really well at work and sports an hourglass figure too. Perfect Situation. Over the past couple of months I hung out with her and we were an instant click. We'd hang out after work, several days a week. Spent a lot of time on the phone when I was travelling.

One day she told me that she loves surprises. That she's always hoped that someone would send her flowers and letters anonymously. And I thought gals thought such stalker-like activities were creepy and non-kosher. So what did I do next?

What is a simple thinking man like me to do? Like a complete dumb-ass I sent Gauhar flowers, anonymously. I followed up with letters, anonymously. With full knowledge of the compliments that she would respond to, I made those letters a tinderbox for the self concious, attention-seeking gal I knew G to be.

Within a few weeks of doing this, I saw a change in her. She was irritable, often mentioning how the two of us didn't have as much fun as we used to. Temper tantrums, mood swings - I was being domestically abused for no plausible reason. So one day, I took it upon myself to tell G like a man, that I wasnt having anymore of her whims. She'd better get back control of her emotions or we would call it quits.

When I delivered this ultimatum G was honest enough to admit that she was receiving communications from an anonymous person, and after much research she had narrowed it down to this one guy who lived in her building; Martin. And it was time for her to tell Martin that she had a crush on him too.

When I heard this, I was amused and annoyed at the same time. While I felt like laughing out loud at G and telling her how she'd had fooled herself, I was disappointed and felt that I was a victim of infidelity. This called for payback...

That night as I drove back from her apartment at Park La Brea, I told myself that I must never again talk to G again. Unfortunately, she had infiltrated my group of friends, and this was going to be hard. Its been six weeks since.

As coincidence would have it, I saw her last night at LAX when getting on my flight. The customary hug and exchange of pleasantries. There were 20 minutes on the clock, and I needed caffiene, so we went to Starbucks in Terminal 5 and got our drinks. A almond soy latte for her and a blackberry green tea frap for me.

She had finally figured it out. She felt violated, but thought it was cute at the same time. She wanted to give "us" another shot. Those were the highlights. I had 10 minutes to board and so off I went.

But, when I saw her at the airport, there was this strange feeling. Sitting before her, looking at her eyes and beautiful hair. Her shadow under the lighting. Here was this very familiar gal who seemed to have donned a stranger's face. Last night I had flashback of her from a time when we hung out, but she had no face, no head, just a torso. It was eerie, irksome and plain weird.

I have been thinking about what I my next move should be. I've consulted my inner circle of PUAs and girlfriends for an opinion. I've asked God to lend me a hand here. Afterall its Ramadhan, I'm doing the 5 daily prostrations and keeping myself hungry and thirsty.

Gauhar, we walk different paths. Sorry sweetheart!