He trudged towards me
in too big a shoe and tee
he stopped next to my chair
and looked at my tinted hair.
It was in a spur of the moment
my character needed adornment
And with his black beetle eyes
and tiny lips still showing signs
of the meal he had a while ago
he frowned like it’s embargo.
Then with hands on his hips
and a stern look over specs
“Stop playing and go for dinner!”
ordered my four-year-old brother.
I had read fiction where the hero would lie on soft green moss after a long tired day of battle. I had even seen a lot of moss, sure. But I never thought them beautiful. How could something that grew in dark and damp clusters look nice?
But then I went to Thekkady, Kerala. I was roaming around in the Periyar Tiger Reserve when I saw the true beauty in moss. It was the first time I had seen a sheen of green I couldn’t look away from. I had to get a closer look. And a photo. Because I do that now.
Her gaze was as cavern black
so dark I could barely see
past those sockets.
It seemed hollow
cold,
echoing, unforgiving.
Her touch was as cubes of ice
sending bouts of shivers
down to my spine.
Transcending to me
vague,
chilly, and nothing.
Her smile was empty as a cup
that had lost all within
and its hope.
Her lips parted
forced,
small, and unfeeling.
Her heart was as ocean deep
going further than ever
to cherish her love.
Though none knew it,
hidden,
living, and pumping.
I just finished reading, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It’s an achievement, believe me. It took me almost 9 months to finish that book.
And it wasn’t because I read many other books at the same time. No, while I read this book, I read no other. And it still took me 9 months. I should say, though, I was also studying for my exams and, for about three to four months, I didn’t even touch Zen.
Still, it’s a long time to read a five hundred+ page book. An international best seller, at that.
I read slow, but even I’m not that slow. After all, Harry Potter, the Inheritance series, and Chronicles of Narnia are all about the same size and I’ve sat through all night glued to those books. Why then did this book take so long?
It’s the writing for the most part. It was complex, it was all over the place, with two different narratives that just kept throwing me off the original message.
But there were so many good parts in the book that just jumped out at me. The best thing that came out of spending 9 months on one book is that it seemed like a lifetime. And the book is about a man’s discoveries over a lifetime. In hindsight, it feels like I’ve learnt so many different things, at different stages of my own life.
The book transcends from Pirsig’s life, into my own; my learnings, and my own understanding of how the world works.
Disclaimer, though: I don’t mean to sound all enlightened and zen-like. There are so many parts of the book that I read without taking in a thing.
But these blank parts of the book that I read three months ago, make sense to me now. What I though I understood while reading a paragraph is so different from when I understand after finishing the book.
And I’m counting on the same thing happening with other complex topics in the book.
And I’m sure when I read it the second time, I’ll see more things I didn’t see this time. Or, maybe, when I’m in the shower worrying about my hair fall, I’ll realise I should let the future be.
It’s wrong, I know.
I shouldn’t be so addicted to one food in particular.
I mean momos.
I’ve been a fan ever since a friend shared her homemade momos with me. She’s from Tibet, the home of the momo. And she mentioned once that that was her favourite dish.
What’s so great about that, I had asked. My friend must’ve noticed my dismissive tone, for a few days later, she came back with fresh, crunchy-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside momos. In three varieties: beef, chicken, and vegetable.
After that day, everywhere I went, I began to hunt for momos. We went on a trip to Sikkim, where I found steamed momos. And unlike the fried ones my friend gave me, these had patterns in them. Frail and smooth curves hemmed the dumpling, sealing it to keep the stuffing stuffed.
They looked and squished like a familiar South Indian sweet, but inside the mouth, if felt nothing like that. It was soft, springy, and doughy. Something Joey would love.
I bit into a momo, and steam smacked my lips as sautéed onions and vegetables filled into my mouth.
I was hooked.
Even after I returned, I longed to hold another momo between my fingers. Lucky for me, I live near a big university, home to plenty of north Indian students. And it was easy to find hundreds of little authentic food shops in the area. I’ve made it a mission to find the best momo shop I could find.
One shop I went to with my team had a different pattern in their momos. These flaunted a less curvy sealing, but the taste lived up to my expectation. And when I bit into one of these momos, fresh chicken and cabbage surprised me.
As for the vegetarian momos, they had a different shape altogether. These were like little fish, with a more fold-like hemming than curves; they were smaller than the non-veg ones too.
A street vendor once gave me “twisted” momos. It seemed like he had shaped the dough around a stick to form its circular shape. But the onions and vegetables were the same, and as good as ever.
After looking at so many varieties, I’m confused as to what’s the right way to shape a momo. Or if there’s even one right way to do it.
I guess the only way to find out is to eat them all. One thing I know for sure, though, is that no matter the size or the shape, nothing beats momos.
And no, that’s not addiction. Momos are too beautiful to resist. Call it appreciation, instead.
I’m sharing this post on Our Growing Edge, a blogging event that connects food bloggers and inspires us to try new things. This month’s host is Sophie from Cooking Trips. Thanks for the invite, Genie.
The Chaos Within 