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

Oh, This Is Pizza!

Pizza—that gourmet Italian food that the world goes crazy for.

I never enjoyed pizza.

That’s so because Pizza Hut and Dominos ruined pizza for me. And I realised this only a couple of weeks ago.

When it comes to food, I like mine with a lot of spice. I cherish the steam that the heat invokes in my tongue. I love it when my taste buds tingle and I have to curl my lips and inhale a whiff of air to cool down the heat. However, nothing of that sort happened when I tried pizza for the first time. Instead, a mass of ooey-gooey cheese burst into my mouth, thrusting through my teeth a mesh of coldness, milk that felt like jelly and tasted a bit sour. It was nothing to die for. And a couple of pieces later, I couldn’t get the rubbery, sticky sensation off my teeth.

Not to mention, the cheese sat on half cooked and flaky bread that tried so hard and failed to taste sour. It didn’t help that the bread was called fiery crust while it felt like a feathered crest.

And that’s why I hated pizza.

And then I went to a place called Cafe Xtasi in Pondicherry. The restaurant came with a high recommendation and a higher Zomato reputation. I didn’t feel too keen since it was famous for its wood-fired pizza and I—among myself—am famous for hating all things pizza. It didn’t mean much to me, because, well, it’s just bread and bland cheese. But I decided to give it a try anyway. At least to make a post on Zomato, my rational voice piped.

The first thing that admired me was the menu, not with variety but with creativity. I scrolled through a list of pasta dishes, when one, in particular, caught my eye: Bad Idea. It was the name of the pasta dish and below it read a small description, “Fresh garlic, garlic sauce, feta in white sauce.” Ha, bad idea indeed.

I wanted to try it. But a friend had already advised me against the pasta and told me to go for the pizzas, instead. They are better, he had said. And since it was my first time there, I took the expert’s advice.

cafe-xtasi-pondicherry

The pizza menu boasted names like Chukini, Lambretta, and Harem. I had my eye on Iron Pie, but when our waiter told me Shekchilli would be spicier, I chose that one. “Chicken, capsicum, onion, garlic, and chilli,” the description read. Yum.

The pizza arrived in about 10 minutes taking me by surprise. All the Dominos outlets I’ve been to take at least 20 minutes. And it was steamy, too. It remained warm for about 5 to 10 minutes in that air-conditioned hall—that’s a big deal. However, something else about the pizza caught my hungry eye more than my timekeeping mind: The crust was crusty. It was less than half of the thickness of every other pizza I’d had before, and what’s more, it even had a mild burnt edge to it.

When I picked up a piece and bit into the crust, I bit into a crust and not just a ball of cooked flour. I felt the crunch in my teeth, while spicy sauce seeped into my tongue through the holes in between my teeth. The chicken was tender, sauce splendour, and the cheese just right. The crunch and munch blended, bombing my mouth with tangy, garlicky, and a bunch of pungent flavours.

And that’s when I fell in love with pizza.

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