Hats

Once Upon Time Far Out West

I can hardly wear any more accessories than absolutely required; my German arm-band is the only exception. Precisely the reason why I have never worn hats, rings, chains and what have you.

Living in California, I have repeatedly debated adding a Hat to that exception list. No Luck yet.

Walking around at the Union Square, I found myself in a Hat shop, looking at a couple standing next to me try hats on. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

He would put a hat on and look at her and the mirror. She would tilt her head sideways and then straighten it, pout her lips and then nod. So it went on until he ran out of hats to try on and they left.

That incident was enough for me to picture my little romantic hat shopping escapade. Simple things about settling down, going shopping together, valuing other person’s opinion, normally buying more expensive items than you otherwise would, attaching a story or an incident …essentially a memory to most of the pieces of clothes you pick up. All of it just seemed too romantic to ignore.

Ever since that day, I have worn that foolish romantic hat that has driven me to live that hat shopping experience. The other day, walking down on Height, I couldn’t resist the temptation to walk right into the shop and try a few hats on.

It may be extremely insignificant and fade away in the avalanche of new experiences, but

When you pointed at the pink hat and asked me to try it. Then you adjusted the black hat I was trying on and nodded. Looked at me as I tried a few more and smiled.

I just lived that one moment; I had been looking for all along.

I believe the life hardly ever sets up a dinner table for you with a neat clean white table cloth, pristine silverware, dinner plates and wine glasses. You have to assemble one single item at a time by yourself for that dinner with someone. As aware and cognizant I am of this reality, it won’t stop me from a being a die-hard romantic.

And if nothing else, I would have had almost bought that hat with you.

Neo

Midnight In Paris

An average evening, in fact a below average one - with an initial misunderstanding about tasty Indian food in a crummy little Indian restaurant versus a fancy mediterranean place on the waterfront. Not hard to imagine we ended up at a crummy little Indian joint. Then a fumbling walk by trapped sea water in Foster City and eventually by the bay in San Mateo. A little later, while I sat down staring at the bay and she preferred to sit in car, the evening wasn’t looking up either.

But then we roll into this desserts place which sells super high calorie sweets but absolutely delicious if I may add. This place is just by the movie hall and I say, “So do you want to catch a movie.” One thing to the other and we end up at the movie hall. Midnight in Paris is the only one we can watch. Woody Allen and set in Paris, I think twice and then she buys the tickets. Least I could do was to get the popcorns. (They are extremely high priced but I refrained from commenting and am glad that I did. Because I know, perhaps you do too, where that would have gone)

Walk into a completely empty movie hall as if it were a personal screening. I can’t decided if I am happy that a few more folks walked in before the movie started or I would rather have it other way round.

This is a movie set in Paris, where a successful Hollywood script writer begins to search for his inspiration to complete his novel while he is out freeloading with her fiancée’s family. .The family is there on a business visit. He has a poetic aspiration of living in a French attic with sunlight glazing through the roof top and she wants a Malibu mansion.

Every night the protagonist (Own Wilson) slips into his illusional golden era of Paris, where he spends time with Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Picasso. He meets a woman in his figments of imagination – Adriana, who one day travels to even older Paris… one that existed in 1890’s. In search of a more surreal, and poetically beautiful Paris.

That is where perhaps I realized, Romanticism flirts with the denial. At times in my mind, denial always takes my romanticism to the bed. Only to wake up next morning for that walk of shame….some times just until the door, sometimes until that phone call, a blog post or a long hard stare at the horizon.

Sitting in this tiny little, ill ventilated studio of mine, in one of the vibrant cities in the world, I think of my time in Paris and my depreciating capital of memories…. And I wonder

Oh well. This is life. It is a bit dissatisfying and probably because it is now and it is a present. My Present, a choice that I make or perhaps made…

I don’t want to look back on my time too quick too soon

Neo

Got to Love The Swiss

8:13am : Colin drops me off at the Mountain View caltrain station

8:16am : I briskly walk towards the ticket vending machine

8:16am : I am interrupted by this graceful old man, wearing a hat, overcoat and gold-rim glasses, with a big suitcase on his left and his wife to his right.

“Exkhuse me, can I buy tickets for the airport from this machine?”

He asked a question, and I heard

“Oh, you look like one of them. Locals! Who spend half their life either waiting for the caltrain or on the caltrain. Maybe you know something about this overpriced Californian public transport system.”

On your day-5 in a fairly new place, being asked for help as if you were a local (although, I see how he could mistake me for a local – there a ton of Indians in the bay, a bit too much for me as well), is like an honor, is like a certification. I felt a sense a obligation and pride to help the man out. Emm and also, the fact that he was old and was with his wife and spoke in a strange language with her.

So, I tried helping them, the machine won’t accept the bills.

(cutting all the mundane details out > we move to a different vending machine) The train is expected at 8:23am

8:20am : I am third in the row to get my tickets. Old man doesn’t seem in a hurry at all. I wonder when his flight is leaving.

8:21am: Old man taps me on my back and shows me a woman trying to buy ticket from the same machine. Makes his point very clear that he wasn’t wasting anyone’s time, the machine is actually at fault. I calmly node in agreement

8:22am: We (myself, old man and wife) get our tickets and now we wait for the train.

“What language did you converse in earlier on?”

“French” …. “But we are NOT French”

“Oh, so you are Canadians ehh”

“Oh, no no, not at all. We are Swiss.”

It is that oh my God, I am so sorry moment. I can’t do much but just deflect my embarrassment by asking some other question…one of my favorite … “So you must know German as well”

“Man nodes, in pride. Naturlisch, Ich kann ja Deutwesch” (Offcourse, I speak German)

“Na ja, schweiz Deutch oder Hoch”(oh well, Swiss German or High-German)

He looks at me surprised and amused and leans back a little and proudly say “Bidas” (Both)

He mentions how he speaks a lot languages, how he is headed to Vegas for the weekend and so on.

8:23am

Train approaches and I ask, “Soll ich mit dem gepack hilfen?” (Should I help you with the bags)

Perhaps I should have said “Darf Ich?” (May I) or “Lass mich hilfen” (allow me to help you)

Anyways, he respectfully denies help. And as the train approaches, puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers

“Wir sind schon Alt aber noch nicht so alt” and Laughs, while tapping my back

“We are already old but not so old”

Neo

Recycle

Up until a century ago, the word didn’t even exist. Even if it did, I wonder how many were aware of its meaning. And then slowly it gained momentum. Earlier on it was a fad, crazy hippies and poets believed in recycling and rest just made fun of them. And now, let us just say masses are taking it seriously or at least trying to.

The whole concept of Recycling is based off of a fact that resources are limited and they will run out sooner rather than later. Therefore, recycle used articles in order to conserve the restricted natural resources.

I say why not apply the fundamental to our emotions. Let us recycle. Let us recycle those emotions for more than their worth to make the best out of what life has thrown at us. If in some strange philosophical way it is true that each heart has a certain number of beats assigned to it before it stops, what is to stop us from concluding that human mind is programmed only to feel a certain kind and number of emotions. Say n and then..what happens after that…

How often have you felt betrayed, cheated, annoyed, helpless, frustrated, scared, worried, beat….. and how often have you felt victorious, thrilled, charged, excited, motivated, doubtless, satisfied, contend, happy. Why not recycle our emotions for more than what they are worth. I know you can’t make a premium bond paper out of a trash of newspaper material. However, shouldn’t it be possible to go from frustration to calm, from neutral to contend and from emptiness to a smile?

Why don’t we recycle? Why can’t we recycle?

Neo

In Retrospect ...

“Dude, I learned Corp Finance in retrospect. Straining my brains to recollect what Professor Shockley said or what gestures did he use to elaborate this.”

“Yup, it used to be great back when I was working for you guys.”

“It was just the last week; we sat out here on the cool breeze starring at the Pacific.”

There are hundred more of such sentences that I’ve said and perhaps thousand more that I haven’t in the past few days. Sometimes I get a feeling that my life might be going from best to worse as I only tend to come across things that aren’t wee bit less desirable than the ones I passed.

Or, my life is at a pace where I only tend to truly appreciate things in the rear-view mirror and while I’m at it, new things are just passing me by.

Or, I guess my life is just same old plain vanilla and only when I relive it through selective memories, I pep it up with some chocolate sauce, orange flavored wafer-sticks laid out on silverware

Or, something wrong with my wiring up in my head. Wherein, I’m addicted, every now and then to escape from my present I stray off into wishful past where I can manipulate things a little or maybe more.

A perceptive friend brought it to my attention that I need to stop feeling too sorry for myself, suck it up and get a move on. I quickly swallowed rest of my wishful memories and stories, quickly agreed with my friend and thanked my friend for the advice.

I truly appreciate the advice…..in retrospect.

But I really want to fix (if something is wrong), won’t I need to go back in the past to find the root of it?

Neo

Sprinklers

These tiny little nozzles that spring out of the ground at their preset times and circle around sprinkling water to maintain the greens, continue to amuse me.

I’ve passed them on the side of the walkway while running in the morning and enjoyed whatever little cool sprinkling of water-drops they had to offer. There have been times where I’ve walked out well dressed for an occasion and dodged them to keep my clothes dry.

At night or early morning, depending on how you perceive it – I’ve stumbled on them. Just the other night walking back from some place, wobbly, tipsy, floating through the walkway as I was making it back home, I just stood and starred at them in the background of tiny night-lamps that lid my way back home.

How I perceived these sprinklers just like the ones in my mind, sprinkling controlled drops of memories every now and then in my head. How those sprinkles had different impact on myself. Sometimes I enjoyed and embraced them, how sometimes I dodged the bitter memories and how I just stood there amused caressing some beautiful letdowns, how I cherished those butterflies in my stomach.

Except for those sprinklers have a schedule and ones in my mind, I’ve no control over.

Neo

Story So Far …

It wasn’t the long goodbye as I arrived at the Mumbai International Airport, only to find out that a bunch of Gujjus (and I meant at least a few hundreds) have come to see their five friends off. Gate ‘C’ of the international airport was more crowded than Dadar station platform (A local-train station in Mumbai) in the anticipation of Virar local.

Mom, dad, brother and my brother’s closest friend made their way to the airport and I didn’t have space, time or the peace of mind to talk to them before getting on the flight. I couldn’t help but remember the last time I left India for Germany, when my mom’s eyes were moist as I hugged her, dad with his ‘take care of yourself Son’ pat on the back and brother overjoyed as there will be no Big Brother around… at least I had the time to soak all of this in. This time around was the most hurried and stressful Goodbye. And I fear it will be some time before I see them again…

Silver-lining was that all my baggage got through without any additional charged and I came out see my folks for one more time. My joy and peace somehow reflected in their smiles as well. And once those glass doors automatically shut, I turned around and doubled up towards immigration counters.

After all the formalities, I found myself sitting in the cramped window seat of the Air France flight to Paris, the same one I must have taken a few years back to reach Germany. I tried but I couldn’t be as psyched as I would have liked to be.


..Morning touchdown at Charles D’Gaule Airport and I didn’t find myself stunned with the magnitude of the airport or amused by the French beauty. I walked around all over the airport while waiting for my connection to Boston. I realized that until Europe it was a familiar territory, beyond this point every inch of the space, ground and society was alien, was foreign. As my flight to Boston took off, the blinker started showing flight route over the Atlantic Ocean and my mind wondered in the exact opposite direction… Berlin, Blackforest, Mumbai, Hyderabad, B’lore, New Delhi.
It was a long and boring flight but eventually we saw the Boston skyline. I felt excited for a second as we descended over the by towards Logan international airport.
I had pictured this very moment in many different ways in my mind. I had thought of making it to the land of opportunities, making something out of myself, starting afresh, making it big and so on. However, all of these thoughts and feelings of excitement had abandoned me and all I was concerned was get my luggage, clear the customs and make it to the last connection. A week later I still think about it and feel, it is one of those brief moments in life that offer you more thrill as you wait behind the curtains rather than being at the front line of it.

After three flights, two bus rides and a cab ride, I finally made it to Z-1, Fountain Park – my new home.

Scattered furniture, stinking house, two strangers occupying it as stop gap arrangement, dusty and dirty room, toilet dirtier than public facilities greeted me with door flung open. Aakarsh walking up in his bermudas, with a widest smile on his face, promise of beer in his smile and joy of meeting a friend saved the day for me at the end of 35 hours journey.

Neo