Tag: travel

Trodden and Untrodden

What a year it’s been. 2016 was difficult and, yet, unforgettable for so many different reasons. This year I explored a variety of paths. Some were adventurous, some were tiring, but almost all were fun.

This year, I saw snow for the first time.

This year, I walked through forests a lot of times.

This year, I went high above sea level, looking down at massive land mass.

I’ve had cold breeze gushing behind my ears, the blinding sun warming my spine, and cooling greenery chilling my soul.

It’s been a good year.

I don’t know which path I will head off to in 2017, but I hope it’s as good as the ones in 2016.

Or better, that’s fine too.

paths

That Bus Ride

As I leaned back on my seat, trees flew past and humans became a blur. The driver had a slow and late start. He sounded short-tempered and even the slightest sign of a hold-up triggered his irritation. He even snapped at the cashiers in every toll booth.

We were running behind schedule and he had the obligation to make up for lost time with speed. He stomped on the accelerator like he’d done so many times before and the bus shot forward, covering miles in minutes.

Next to me sat a young woman with distress in her eyes. She hit the redial button on her phone for what felt like the fourth time in five minutes. Every time the call went through, the person on the other line disconnected the call. My inherent sleuth recognised a strained relationship. My intuition, however, warned me to shut up.

Feeling a sudden jolt, I returned my eyes to the whizzing greenery. We cruised by, a marred Volvo along a tarred road. I heard the driver’s annoyance again as his swearing at the other vehicles carried through to the end of the bus.

My hearing impaired for a couple of minutes because the horn had gone on for a couple of seconds. Through the window, I watched: in one quick motion, we swerved away from the road as another bus rushed toward us. Before I could draw a shuddering breath, we had swerved back on track having avoided the collision. We sailed again, and I smiled to myself. Lucky for me, almost all drivers are experts in navigating the troubling Indian roads, living to laugh about it.

A mile behind us, another driver swerved. He was no expert.

Crossed Arms and Teary Goodbyes

I went to bed last night knowing that in less than 9 hours, I would bid farewell to my close friend.

Crossed Arms and Teary Goodbyes.jpg

My parents thought I’d wet my pillow with my tears. They were ready with tissues and shoulders in case I needed someone to console me. They stood by me ever supportive as I stood with my arms across my chest waiting for my friend to leave.

It was around 7 am, and I had had just dragged myself out of bed. I had slept well. So well for someone whose friend was going away to another country altogether.

I wasn’t worried. It was just another time zone. Besides, my friend and I only message each other a lot, and a five and half hours in between wouldn’t change anything much.

Not everyone else saw it the same way.

For my friend’s parents, he was going away for good. It was like he was abandoning them, running away without leaving a note.

As the previous day waned and the time for departure drew near, the father grew quieter and quieter. His voice grew smaller, his face duller, and his tension a little higher.

The mother, on the other hand, was panicking within. It was obvious, but she tried her best to cover it up by sweating in the kitchen instead. She cooked all his favourite foods; from fried chicken and sautéed fish, to stir-fried crabs, she wanted to make sure her son ate everything he could before he left the nest.

Ever since he booked his flight ticket, things had shaky at home. He had to mask his excitement so that his parents wouldn’t feel bad. For an outsider, it was all funny.

But on the inside, the family had broken down. Nothing was as big as the child leaving home to work in an alien country. That’s how parents are. They’re annoying, meddling, and saying things that we don’t like, and saying the right things almost all the time, which we don’t like even more. But they’re parents. At the end of a long day, they’re the ones who stay up all night wondering if the son has boarded the aircraft, and they’re the ones losing sleep because one plane crashed twenty years ago.

And there I was, my arms across my chest waiting for him to leave. I, the friend, didn’t even pretend to wipe away an absent tear. Well, what can I say, I not into public display.

Well, what can I say, I not into public display.

Respecting the Maker

Craft is a wonderful thing. The crinkled eyebrows, the watchful eyes, and the delicate fingers all make a craft what it is: a magnificent and complex piece of art. It demands the maker’s energy and time and unlike any other physical activity. It’s one of those things that drain you just even if you’re just sitting in one place with your head bent low.

To an observer, the craftsman is a scientist; a microbiologist. One who’s got eyes for nothing and no one around them. And that’s the beauty of a handmade object. It’s a part of a human’s life that they give away to someone else.

I saw a craftsman in Pondicherry a while ago. He was a shoe and footwear maker. He, along with the owner of the shop, makes and delivers custom footwear for customers about an hour or two after they place an order. But they also have a gallery of ready-made designs to can choose from.

handmade-footwear

While the owner was busy showing us around his little shop, the craftsman huddled with his tools near the pillar outside the shop. His eyes moved in tandem with his hands that stitched together leather and leather.

While his skin exploded with sweat, inside, the quaint shop exploded with colour. Yellow, red, and green straps crisscrossed with brown, black, and grey soles. I saw straight straps on one shelf and curled straps on the other, plain ones lying about and fancy ones folded up neat. The costs varied, too, from a few hundreds to a few more hundreds.

handmade-footwear-2

My friend raised eyebrows at the prices. It was a sad sight. Because there never is a fair price for the labour of human hands.

It’s human to first look at the product and then flip over the tag to check the price. Whether it’s a shirt or a shoe, we consider the price and weigh its worth.

It’s an instinct, yes. Still, when it comes to handmade crafts, what we think is high is never too high. Though we drool at a craftsman work, every time we roll our eyes at the price, we undermine the maker’s efforts. We need to realise: In this age of our lazy bones and sitting on our asses, it’s taxing to work through hundreds of needles and stitches every day.

craftsman

That’s why we should learn to respect the ones who do, because, in a few years, no one will have the patience to dedicate the scrutiny involved in making handmade pieces.

At Peace

Whether it had been a long day at work or a longer day with no work, there’s one thing that always calms my nerves. It’s coffee, of course.

But when you’re at the Lé Café in Pondicherry, the coffee arrives just as the sun begins to rise. Now that’s more than relaxing. It’s divine peace.

relax