Jala-ism

She (II)

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Mon, 02 Oct 2017 18:11:00 +0000

She closes her eyes to see what is done,

Another hole to dig her soul in,

She takes a deep breath it has only begun,

Selling her soul was her biggest sin.

She opens them wide to see where she was,

Blank screens and the ghost of her laughter.

Why was it so hard to do what she trusts?

Time ran thin, hanging her from a rafter.

She needed to breath, feel air in her lungs,

To fling her arms wide and free,

She was trapped in a world both stung and young

Where they couldn’t see what she could be.

So she picked up her guts and packed her bags

Bidding farewell to her table and walls,

They had supported her well through the song and the storm,

However big or small.

A tear trickled down as she brushed it away,

Sighing at what she had just done,

She knew in her heart, ignoring the mind play,

Her life had just begun.

A Rant

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Sat, 13 Jun 2015 20:26:00 +0000

Sometimes life can be funny. Not the hilarious peals of laughter type of funny, but rather the “I better laugh than cry” kind of eccentricity. We humans are emotional beings, interested in dissecting our mental state (whatever it might be at that current moment) in hope of understanding what lays beneath our fossilized layers of brain activity. Many have tried to conceptualize how far this is possible through deep research and studies which extend across psychology, psychiatry, neuroscience, anthropology, biology, sociology, literature and philosophy. Arguments galore surround the topic, some delving into the fathomless ocean of feelings, and others claiming that the matter is too heterogeneous for systematic study. Any such introduction to human emotions without a generous helping of opinionated perspective turns out to be dull and largely incomprehensible. So I shall stop with this gibberish attempt of hoping to convey a sufficient image for you to think productively- as it is of copious complexity, and there is so little time.

Metamorphosis

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Tue, 26 May 2015 13:47:00 +0000

She takes a moment for herself, slightly exhaling, as she applies black liner with a shaky hand. Sweeping her brush upwards over one lid, she stops, to study her far from meticulous work. Dissatisfied again, she re-dips her instrument into the dark kohl, this time determined to perfectly pull upwards, to get that wide-eyed, cat-eye - a look she seems to be partial to these days. " Next time..." she sighs through the mascara wand balancing precariously between her teeth. Accepting defeat wasn't her forte.

She often missed the feel of her long silky locks brushing against her breast. It had always given her a peculiar and irrational rush of confidence. Now a messy mop of dark silk crowned her head, with the occasional rebellious strands that strayed a while, seduced by her slender, mocha neck. She flicked back the strays, clicking her tongue in annoyance, as she painted her perfect pout scarlet. She definitely hadn't lived or loved much, however one thing she was absolutely certain about was her love for red. She grinned consciously at her reflection, accepting the simple fact, the colour made her pop.

She waited, staring blankly into her small pool of expresso, that rippled slightly, in rhythm to her monotonous breathing. Distracted by the sudden distortion she caused, she placed the cup on the table in front of her. The air was thick, wrapped in a suffocating duvet of humidity. She absentmindedly wiped a pearl of sweat that leisurely trickled down the curve of her high cheek bone. It had long passed the peppered freckles by her right eye, and was making its way down to join the slightly darker mole by her lips. Obviously the mission had now been severely compromised.

She shook her head, discouraging these silly thoughts that constantly made her think. She thought too much. Thinking was her speciality. She majored in it at the tender age of ten, way back then,when her eyes were still genuinely bright. The voices would whisper little nothings into her ear, which would rush hungrily through it's deep cavities and tunnels, finally arriving at her brain. The warmth of young, innocent blood pumping in various chambers of developing grey cells was too tempting for them to leave. It was from that moment onward her smooth, petit forehead learned to crumple and fold. They needed to be fed, and she had been brought up to always be the perfect host.

It was now pitch dark. Some like to quote that "Time and tide wait for no man", but she hadn't even noticed when the pale, fluffy sky had morphed into it's inky depths. A few conspicuous stars blinked back at her, as if in consolation of her dazed state. A tungsten bulb flickered on in the distance, as she grimaced at her untouched beverage. Pushing it away, she slowly stood up, brushing down imaginary crumbs from her cotton top, a distinctive habit of hers. The atmosphere had thinned down considerably, as she stretched her arms into it, breathing in its toxic medley into her lungs. She needed the thin rush of oxygen to gush into her system, and clear the stale fog that clouded her mind. Air -- she literally needed to come up for air.

She shook her dense mane, exhaling to what sounded like a low growl that rumbled in her throat. Her once honey eyes now loomed grey and murky with the growing silence. She had never enjoyed packing up anything, be it clothes, cartons, or even little boxes- the monotony of the very action repelled her very core. Nonetheless, reason had bottled up all instinct letting it layer and grow with time, leaving petrified impressions in what had now become a collection of fossilized emotions. She didn't like to admit it, but by default she was an expert. No intelligent being would debate these skills, as proof clearly showed she was a professional packer.

Picking up her lead limbs, she dragged herself out of the dying cafe. Hours had passed since she had nervously powdered her face, and sprayed on his favourite fragrance. With time she had grown to like it too- a splash of sweet vanilla blended with feisty hibiscus- she smelled warm and delicious. The soft street lights beckoned her forward, motivating her every step. Free motivation was never to be denied, even she knew that, so she strolled on in trance, graciously accepting whatever she had been served.

After what seemed like forever, she finally reached her destination. Tall monoliths, a mish-mash of architectural styles swallowed her. Their sudden appearance snapped her out of her daze, making way for frustration, as she automatically fished into her purse for keys.

"Hmmm...my favourite.." he smiled, opening the door before she had the chance to try.

She smiled back mechanically, accepting the peck that was directed to her sulky cheek.

"Where did you go? I missed you.." he said in a voice that sounded miles apart.

She felt cold inside, despite the thick layer of dampness that was slowly suffocating the general atmosphere. At this level, she thought aimlessly, her night brought in temperatures cool enough to bring the snow.

She shuddered slightly as she sank back onto the mattress, pulling her knees to her chest. Eyes closed, she ran her tapering fingers over the smooth dome of her head, as though that might calm the the cyclone of thoughts raging within. Everything felt wrong, including the beautiful man that lay calm in sleep besides her. She envied his regular purring breaths, as she imagined him care-free and frolicking in a complete parallel sphere of dreams. It wasn't fair, but she had grown to repulse this same simplicity that had once drawn, and charmed her completely in. Everyone around her would blame it on nerves, or the stress of daily life; so she would nod and lie to herself to embrace the dished-out logic . However deep down she knew something more. She knew that whatever was sprouting, swelling, and developing within her was wrong. When the lights were out, and she just lay there, she would convince herself otherwise, comforted by the velvety darkness. But in the clear light of day, when the sun's rays viciously tickled her skin, she knew. There was something cold growing inside her. She knew. She could feel it.

Unbroken

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Tue, 10 Mar 2015 20:25:00 +0000

She blinked at her reflection, and stared harder. The dark mole on her right cheek looked the same as it always did- almost a perfect dot on her pale skin. Her faded freckles were darkening with the recent bouts of sunshine in the daily weather, now a generous sprinkle on her angular nose. Coal brows sat over almond shaped eyes that were so dark at times, that she wondered if they were actually black. Her lips were thick and full, curving nicely whenever she flashed a smile. A long finger traced the slight dimple that revealed on her left cheek as she practiced smiling, the way children do when asked to smile for a photograph, close-mouthed and strained.

She drifted to the open window framed by pale blue drapes that slightly swayed in the afternoon breeze. Tall buildings glared back at her through their grilled balconies, peeking through the sparse green leaves that were now slowly turning brown. She leaned forward, balancing all her weight on her toes, making little noise on the white marble floor. In the room there was only the faint hum of traffic filtered through the squabbling of frisky pigeons. A stray strand fell across her neck, as she thought of glossy waves and golden sands in a world not so far away. She had always loved to dream.

For a brief moment a dog barked, off in the distance, but quickly faded back from wherever it had come from. She was snapped back to reality with a jarring suddenness, instinctively jerking backwards. Her fingers slid into the smooth, steel sill and she yanked it towards her. A sharp sting made her hiss and pull her hand away, as she muttered a curse under her breath. A strip of crimson marked her thumb. The throb of her cut finger drew her attention, so she quickly raised it into her mouth.

Blood- the copper scent of it disturbed her. She looked away, out of the window again. The long afternoon had gradually been closing in, and it was almost twilight. A purple haze stained the clear sky, predicting the birth of a beryl horizon. She tilted her head back as she breathed in deeply, inhaling what she believed to be the scent of fresh cut grass in a rain storm; a whiff of freedom. She sighed hard, swallowing back the tears that threatened to gush forth. Stupid, stupid tears that were always calling the shots, appearing anywhere on her face, rolling, unchallenged, streaking damp trails, and ruining her mask.

Weakness was something she had been told to fight- but she was finally sick of fighting. There was nothing left, no energy,no breath. She had always reasoned that everyone was struggling, trying to fight a losing war, but it had gotten stronger, gathering power and feeding off her misery, waiting to launch at her.These constant blows were a pain that she had gotten accustomed too, but now even a slight wind tossed her around like a scrap tissue in a whirlwind. She had finally given up. She had no fight left in her.

She turned the record on and glanced out of the window again. The moon peeked back at her, hiding stealthily behind a pair of dirty clouds. Even the stars had come to watch, cheekily winking bright in what was now a dark night's sky. Somewhere an owl hooted in a whisper, as a cars' headlights lit up a once invisible road. The music she could hardly hear before had suddenly got louder. Like a cat it jumped up out of nowhere inside her, arching her back, and stretching her long limbs.

She felt herself purring, as her tumbling hair swayed from her scalp as she spun around in electric motion. She let the beat flow from the top of her head, down to her spine to the tip of her toes. Squeezing her eyes close, she shut out everything, and just focused on her body moving circles around itself. She no longer dared to open her eyes. She was safe here.

High up,she swung by the crook of one leg, throwing her arms in the air with an unabashed ferocity.The once drained blood had rushed to her chalky face flooding it with a burning flush. A drop of sweat trickled down her hairline and followed the faded scar on her neck, slipping on to her heaving chest. Twirling her bare feet on the floor, she pushed away the hair sticking to her glistening face. She pressed a clammy hand against the thumping in her chest. Her head spun dangerously and stars blinked behind her eyes, but she just couldn't stop dancing. She was too busy spinning, dreaming, and hoping. She didn't know which way was up, but now that she was there, she wasn't sure if she ever wanted to come down.

Sun Kissed

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Fri, 11 Apr 2014 09:31:00 +0000

The sun beat down relentlessly, transforming my pale skin into a delicious tan. My feet were snug between layers of sparkling fairy dust, those magical particles we commonly dismiss as “sand”. And the bipolar ocean roared and murmured special somethings into my ear, making me sigh at every breath I took. I was lost...somewhere where I didn’t want to be found, for a very long time.

Puri, a famous city and headquarters of the charming state of Odisha, India, soaks deep in art and culture, being the land of ancient temples and graceful dancers . For a couple years now, it has been almost a ritual for us to escape after the hustle of the Holi festival, and let ourselves sink along the high and low tides of Puri’s coast. We weren’t renowned for being the best planners, and baring the weighty title of “The Queen of Procrastination”, I was no motivation to our chill group of seven to be more organised. However, as usual, it worked out for the best (as I always like taking the credit for, even if the majority claim it to be way off my appreciation quota).

We arrived before sunrise, dragging stuffed bags, and groggy kids. The huge clock struck forcefully announcing we were thirty minutes late (All hail to the Indian Railway system!). We waited , and waited, till the colourful and persistent coolies nodded their heads in pity at our hopeful claim that we had people picking us up. We did...didn’t we?

“Lets start walking towards the entrance”, I suggested as cheerily as possible at the God forsaken hour. My lids were fighting to snap shut, and I needed some movement to shake me up ( yes I usually always have an ulterior motive). So off we trudged with our wobbly wheels, as the girls loudly cursed their significant others,who still hadn’t shown up.
“We got lost” they grinned, fifteen minutes after we set up camp along with the sleeping homeless at the station’s entrance. There was some profanities exchanged, and a lot of eye rolling in response to their very sheepish confession, but lets focus on the abundance of love and hugs that followed after that.

Colour crept into the fading sky, streaking it pink, as we zoomed past rows of closed shutters, in our rather spacey, and comfortable auto rickshaw. Puri was slowly waking up, stretching and yawning to the sound of gushing waves brimming at its gritty shores. Once checked into our friendly hotel, we dumped our belongings in our respective rooms, showering in world record speed, to go out and explore the numerous breakfast options listed out for us. We settled for Krishna Resorts, a few hay thatched huts that served us steaming plates of ultimate, greasy deliciousness. Bellies full, and the enthusiastic sun now forcing us wide awake, we walked towards the beckoning waters.

It was love at first sight. The playful waves lapped meekly at my feet, as a gentle breeze teased my lose wavy locks into beachy curls. I peeled down my cotton T-shirt, allowing the morning rays to warm up my peeking shoulders. The vast blue depths shimmered silver, stretching out lazily as the now burning sun reflected in the foam of the crashing tides. The kids had already stripped down to nothing, giggling in delight at the scurrying crabs playing hide and seek in the damp sand.

Days flew by, and so did we. Shells of every shape, size and colour were collected into massive heaps of stashed treasure. We were hard to lose as we left trails of glittering sand wherever we roamed. Our pallid skin went through an awakening, turning shades we would have never given ourselves credit for before now. We swam, laughed, lazed, ate, and even occasionally almost drowned. We built dams, dug holes, found rivers, had picnics, and always fell asleep to the soothing song of the ocean. Free of nagging thoughts, and to-do lists, we were soaking in the moments so close to perfection. We were free for now, bare footed and golden, ready to plunge into paradise.

One Night

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Wed, 29 Jan 2014 03:00:00 +0000

Moving quickly, he slammed his fist into her face. Blood splattered everywhere, on both of them.

Sometimes she felt so full of emotion, she could feel it brim at her very edge, it’s colossal weight nearly buckling her knees. Defiance would pounce forth shielding her, taunting innocent passersby, provoking them in hope that they may react, and unleash the accumulated resentment tugging at her heart.

Rationality was a foreign word as her burning eyes whipped their damp lashes against her flushed cheeks. She anticipated the rage to accelerate, hard and fast- a catalyst to a potential tantrum; but it sat spineless, fizzling out, almost cold, as she desperately waited for something to happen.

Nothing happened. The anger began to dissipate, now focusing on a calm, eerie, wave of misery. It washed right through her, chipping little pieces of her raw heart in the ebb and flow of its high tide. She ached. She felt lost. Panic made her chest thump and quake at every thought that pranced through her fleeting mind.She had stopped crying long ago. There was no one to hear her, and even given the remote possibility that there had been, she had run out of tears a long time ago.

She stiffened and shuddered at the pain which seemed to grip her whole body. She tried to focus, but it was as if she was wandering through a dark tunnel with no way out. There was no light in this gloomy pit where answers seemed nonexistent. Soaked in pools of her own despair, she rubbed her face against the gritty wall, and the shock of pain as she hoped, made her stop frightening her self for a split second. She had always believed, that the reality of pain wasn’t as bad as the morbid fear of it.

She stopped for a moment, and breathed in the cold air which stabbed her sharp in her heaving lungs. A prisoner in the vast valleys of her loneliness, she was tired of travelling in circles through mental labyrinths. She had lost all confidence,and convinced herself into believing that her cutting wounds were gaping crevices. Consumed by pure agony, her body had now contracted itself into a giant ball of concentrated grief. Barely conscious, her voice broke into a high pitch as a sob caught in her throat.

Swallowing a whimper, she stumbled a couple steps forward, her brain racing with possibilities. He punched her again, looking down at her broken face with his black eyes. Tears blurred her vision, stinging hard, as her toes curled in fury, and her pale fingers tightened into fists. She could taste something metal mingle with the saliva that travelled down her throbbing throat. Trying not to choke on her own blood swarming around in her mouth, she burrowed deeper, gathering the ripped material that hung off her battered hips.

He closed the door behind him, a wicked smile slowly creeping onto his coarse face. Instinctively she crossed her arms over her chest, but her eyes were now looking down. She felt too terrified to think, and too desperate to calm her self down. Her shaking arms dropped dead to their sides, as her feet rushed back in little, fumbled steps. He was much larger than her, but that did not matter now. Still smiling, his face now appeared frozen and humourless as he moved closer. She was petrified, but refused to panic.

He grabbed her hair as she reached out for the latch. With a loud crash, her head met the floor, streaking it crimson. Dazed and in a stupor, she felt his mouth pressed hard against her ear, as he kneeled over her, pressing all his weight against her. Rough hands cruelly prodded her like meat, poking, grasping, and punishing. With one hand around her neck, he effortlessly turned her limp body towards him, to stop her from slumping to the floor. She used her hands to push his shoulders, trying to shove him off, but he just thrust forward, killing her fight, right at the bud.

Her mouth was dry as cotton, and her tongue felt as if it were swollen. She begged her body to relax, laying as still as possible while warm tears silently slid from beneath her swollen lids. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t smell- she had slammed her mind’s door shut on the depraved images that kept flashing in front of her. She focused on listening to her breathing, in and out, trying to thwart the hysteria that fogged her brain. She needed to stop feeling, turn off the pain, and anesthetize.

He panted like an animal into her face, as she screwed her eyes tight, shut, trying to block reality out. She took another breath, slow and steady, wanting it all to stop, and everything to just blackout. She ignored the twinges of pain that clawed her gut, and the fading screams that racked her tiny frame. She opened her eyes slowly to see the moon shining abnormally large in the sky, as it crept over the horizon, peeking into a cloudy window. “Soon” she whispered to herself, “It will soon be over”.

Her Tears

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Sat, 21 Dec 2013 16:35:00 +0000

When she was just a wee little girl she had so many dreams, so many plans, so much of everything in that big head of hers. Now she is older, taller, and probably wiser, and her fantastic imagination has grown up with her. She had always wanted to dance in sapphire,mustard fields, with delicate fairies, and discover lonesome mermaids on jagged rocks amongst countless other things; but now she had downsized her great list- she only wanted to be happy.

All she ever wanted was to be happy. She would smile in the mirror everyday, practicing how to laugh, and flash her pearly whites, as her face pulled muscles from many different angles. But her cheeks never heaved in rosy mounds, her eye brows never dipped with genuine pleasure, and her eyes never creased with unadulterated laughter. She smiled not by sensation, but by practice.

Her heart felt heavy, lonely, and was suddenly yearning. Her emotions dangled fragilely beneath her welling eyes, which occasionally got lost, staring widely into foggy space. She felt raw, almost naked in front of her own reflection. A stranger gazed back at her, ashen, gently melting away, dripping ivory onto the tiled floor. She was a sad girl cloaked in an empty shell of what once was.

When panic would creep in and begin to bite her brain, she would shut her mind- down completely. All the anguish would disappear. And for the first time she would feel nothing,only a distinctive hollowness. It was a narcotic, her drug, and she knew she was starved for oxygen as she would welcome the deep slumber that followed.

With a mighty noise the walls would come crashing down, and the room would be filled with giddy sparks. She would wake up, lying flat on her back, hysterical tears drowning her contorted face. Her eyes automatically snapped shut- an instinctive reaction to escape the throbbing torture harvesting her chest. Consciousness had hurled a roaring avalanche at her, as her memory would come back, gushing, and cutting.

“Oh, God! Oh God!” she would cry, now on her knees, covering her ears with her fists, rocking back and forth, moaning and sobbing. Tears pushed and shoved forth her eyes, painting her pale cheeks with stained streaks of sorrow. She was sinking, she felt herself cracking. She was so sad , she did not know what to do. “Oh God!” she would whisper,

“I can’t make it stop! My heart is breaking, and I don’t know why.....”.

SHE

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Sun, 24 Nov 2013 14:12:00 +0000

She talked the talk like you could never imagine. Visiting exotic corners of the world, acting in artsy theaters, shooting professional portfolios…you name it, and she dreamt it. The nitty-gritty details such as the sounds, smells, and colours morphed to her ever changing moods, but she always finished her visions with the tumultuous sound of a standing ovation.

Morning Blues

“I’m scared this is it,” she sighed to me, one sunny morning.

“What is what?” I frowned, trying to make light of her sudden need to confess amidst our ginger-chai ritual.

“Ufff - forget it!” she growled, clenching her white fists, obviously irritated at my lack of concentration (seemingly not too shy of punching it right back into me).

“Anger management professional,” I teased, as she pulled and twisted her amber curls around her shapely fingers.

“Shut up!” she barked, a little too quickly in retort, distorting her voice to an almost shriek-like pitch.

A gurgle of mirth burst forth from her sullen face as she desperately tried to swallow it back, as if to prove a point to me by remaining miserable. But her intrinsic love for laughter burst through, drowning her sulking performance in peals of infectious, happy noise.

Feisty Times

We liked to think we never fought. But the one time we did, it took the form of a somewhat awkward, alien situation where neither of us knew how to react- more terrible then impromptu actors with a poor script.

“Don’t walk away from me… stop and come back…JUST COME BACK!” she frothed, zapping me with sizzling beams shooting from her dark hazel eyes.

Who the heck would run after me a whole kilometer, to say that, after I’d dramatically stormed from the scene? I was taken by surprise, and became a tad confused on how to react in the current high pressure situation. So I just stared back into those burning eyes that stared right back at me.

We stood there like that for a few minutes, and then got bored of being mad. Crinkles of amusement crept onto our stony faces, speedily escalating into snorts of hysterical amusement.

“Let’s get an ice- cream,” she chuckled wiping a tear from her eye.

And that’s what we did, swinging our arms, hand in hand, recalling our first fight with each other, as if we had never been present when it actually happened.

Broken Hearts

“I’m running away with him,” she announced wearily on the phone one night. “It’s the only way…my parents hate him.”

“No. No. No. No you can’t,” was all I could retort given the sudden nature of the announcement.

“But I love him!” she snapped back hurriedly, annoyed at my unsupportive reaction.
“Anyway you don’t understand these things,” she spat in my ear, causing a static pop through the telephone line.

“Hello, helloooooo, you still there?” she asked taking a breath from her defensive rant.

“Yeah,” I grumbled, wanting to have something wiser to say, just about right now.

“I love him….” she trailed wearily through what sounded identical to a broken sob.

“No you don’t,” I said evenly, into the now weeping receiver.

What happened next was a blur. But what was important was that I was right. It wasn't love. And she did not run anywhere, with anyone- thank God!

Unspoken Words

“She is so happy you’re going to be there with her. I’m so glad you’re here for her,” her mother gushed, hugging me tight like she always did when I arrived back home.

The next morning I went to see her. She was huge, and her eyes looked like those of a giant panda.

“Hey,” she said smiling, leaning forward to grab me tight.

We stood like that for a split moment, and then she was back.

“I mean you don’t have to be there if you’re scared you know,” she mumbled, raising her swollen calves onto the wooden stool.

“Of course I’ll be there,” I replied, rolling my eyes at her eight month pregnant, all pervasive belly.

This was probably the millionth time we were having this same conversation.

“I’m just saying you know….no pressure…I really don’t mind,"she went on, squinting into the sun, as I massaged her swollen limbs.

“Just relax,” I said patting her head in desperate need to change the subject.
I was terrible at this emotional/consoling business, but it worked for us, since she was too.

Re-Birth

“Push! Push! Push!” were the only words directed towards her as she lay in a pool of her own perspiration.

“It’s okay,” I said squeezing her hand (the way the midwife told me to). “Just breathe.”

I had no clue what I was saying or doing, but it didn't matter as long I played my part to perfection.

“Write down all of her contractions, and when they occur. We need the time and length of each one,” a voice yelled at me.

“Sure. Yes. I’m on it,” I said, grabbing a pen and a piece of paper before rushing back to her side.

She was outside on the balcony, taking a break from her false labour.

“Babies eh?” she smiled weakly, as I approached.
“Yes babies!” I grinned reaching out for the other chair.

“They better be cute,” she frowned rubbing her belly with intense concentration.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll still pretend they are.”

“I’m serious,” she giggled, flashing me her pearly whites.
“Me too,” I replied in mock horror, grabbing her hand to help pull up her massive weight.

“Thank you,” she groaned, now on her feet.
“Thank you,” she confided into the shadows, her voice catching a little.

To my relief the sun had set a long time ago, so she could not see my face, nor I hers… or that’s at least how I tell this story.

Cupidity

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Tue, 19 Nov 2013 14:18:00 +0000

She giggled into her glass, brushing away the strand of hair that fell over her right eye. Her drink was over, and the ice clinked nosily as she walked towards the booming speakers. She turned the dark knob up on the stereo,swaying her hips in rhythm to the blasting music, singing loudly, but slightly off tune to her favourite song. “Turn it a bit down!” someone said, so she did, smiling all the time, and moving to every beat.

The ice had almost melted, and she frowned at her empty cup. “ More!” she yelled, raising it up in the air, pushing her way through the room of warm, busy bodies. Someone grabbed her hand, and an arm magically held her waist, swirling her to a rhythm that she immediately recognized. She forgot her wanting drink, and raised her arms in the air, shimmying to a drum solo that just about started.Her eyes shone bright, as she licked off the lip-gloss from her smiling lips, then wiping away the plastered hair, from her glistening face. The music faded out for a minute, right before the next track started. “I’ll be back” she said to her new friends on their make-shift dance floor, reaching out to open the closed door.

A gust of laughter hit her face, as she waved and greeted alternate faces in the tight crowd. A hazy smoke drifted lazily in the air, as more glowing wands lit up the room. "A light please?" she asked, leaning forward towards him, her arched eyebrows quizzical, and her red lips pursed tight. "Your wish is my command, my lady " he said, lighting her up, as she brushed aside a few stray locks. She inhaled deeply, holding her breath for a few seconds before letting it out with a soft sigh. She felt good, as if she were walking on air, her head almost giddy from the sudden rush. She squeezed her eyes shut, licking her lips, before opening them wide to him see him blatantly studying her. She held his raw gaze for a minute, as his amber eyes burned right into her, intense and naked with desire. Flustered and slightly embarrassed, she looked away, trying to find someone, or something else to occupy her now blushing attention.

“Another?” he asked, breaking her away from her desperate attempt towards distraction. She stared blankly, trying to string sense into what was being asked. “Huh?” she grunted instinctively, forcing him to flash a set of shiny pearls. “Another drink?” he smirked pointing at her lonesome glass, which now lay sadly by her bare feet. “Oh yes!” she said, a little too high pitched, hugging her arms, and then stretching them high,fingers pointing to the ceiling. His laugh trembled baritone, vibrating through the thick air, as he took a long stride towards her. She stood still,crashing into his hard chest, breathing in his musky smell. She looked up slowly, her chocolate eyes rotating clockwise, almost as if procrastinating the inevitable. Their eyes met. He dropped his hands to his belt, making his muscles ripple a smooth stony sweep across his chest- "like granite"- she thought, letting her gaze trickle down, over his tanned skin, solid shoulders and shapely biceps, up to his chiseled jawline and mane of chestnut hair. His eyebrows were chestnut too, and one was raised in silent question.

She licked her lips, and felt a hungry grin spread across her flushed face. Her heels were long forgotten, kicked off in the other room, so she hooked her arm around his strong neck, letting her full weight press against him,as she tip-toed to touch his lips, pressing further into him as she did so. He stood still, unresponsive, wearing her like a beautiful coat across his chiseled front. Heaving a sigh of disappointment, she stepped back, his lack of participation dampening her mood. Gliding herself off him,she stood still, head dipping low, as she tied her raven hair away from her pale face. A hint of a smile touched his golden eyes, as he gently pushed her back against the kitchen wall, slipping his hand behind, to the small of her back, dragging her towards him like an irrevocable force of gravity. His teeth suddenly caught her lower lip, tugging on it gently, and she curved her back in instant response. He nibbled on her lips, now stroking her back, kissing away the confusion that clouded her mind. A bronzed arm snaked around her waist, jerking her closer, while the other rubbed up her back, loosening her hair pins, one by one, freeing her curls to shower down upon them.

Swallys Beach Shack: Baga Beach Goa

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Tue, 14 May 2013 15:31:00 +0000

It was noon when we arrived, and immediately we lay splayed flat under thatched umbrellas in front of what would become our favourite Beach Shack: Swallys, in Khobravaddo (behind Villa Goesa – a Baga Beach resort). This Baga Beach shack, though just a hut with red plastic tables, was perfect. We sat back, played footsie with the sea, and flipped through an endless menu that offered almost every cuisine under the sun. I ordered fresh-squeezed pineapple juice and Kim, my partner in crime, chose tandoori paneer (marinated cheese baked in a clay oven), which Biltoo, our server, recommended. It was cheese heaven! After filling our bellies (a little more than necessary), we headed to Swally’s private beach, settled into lounge chairs, and began soaking up the sun.

Raintree Cafe & Boutique: Windsor Manor Bangalore

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Thu, 09 May 2013 15:16:00 +0000

India is great. Over a billion people, and 28 states, yet Karnataka is one of my favourites...which brings me to its capital - Bangalore. Unlike other bustling metros, an exclusive calm prevails over everything else in the city. Don’t get me wrong, honking yellow autos, determined scruffy beggars, and random floating garbage are still prominent features of the scene. However within all this chaos, shiny buildings and busybodies, there’s an unidentifiable romanticism that fills the air. I visited one place, called Rain Tree Cafe, that proved my escapist theories of this green and flowering city to be more than a mere fantasy.

Keep reading more at http://sambawalker.com/places/rain-tree-cafe-bangalore

Mayapur Eco Foods: A slice of Italy in Mayapur India

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Fri, 03 May 2013 15:52:00 +0000

The coal glowed red as I stared into the tunnel of flames dancing in front of me. I wasn’t contemplating life & death but impatiently waiting for my loaf of organic, wood-oven bread! The smell lingered despite the strong breeze, teasing my already smitten senses with wafts of freshly baked goodness. I cut a slice of steaming-hot bread, smothered it with slabs of fresh mozzarella, and let the dark sapphire olive oil dribble down my chin.

Continue reading at http://sambawalker.com/places/mayapur-eco-foods

To Feel...

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 09:32:00 +0000

I want to inhale that feeling that makes me want to swoon and soar at the same time;that feeling that makes me want to smile, and whistle all day.

I want to hold on to those intoxicated butterflies, fluttering through my chest, before they settle at the very core of my pit; their wings shuddering in unknown anticipation.

I want to softly sway to that loud music which plays in my head, joining the chorus of sweet harmony that never stops . The rhythm is pumped up to full bass, humming in unison with my thumping heart.

I want to release those unshed tears, freeing them from their caged prison, thus relieving myself of hoarded emotions. The guilt doesn’t die as easy, but the torrential downpour helps wash away the pain.

I want to laugh time away, my body quivering in spasms of delicious joy that can be experienced in no other way. My head rolls deliriously drunk on pure exhilaration, soon to be accompanied by an aching jaw.

I want to sing at the top of my lungs, and bellow every note till they reach their highest key, before tumbling down in a heap of broken tunes. I will then sweep them up , and start again, gluing chipped pieces together to form a whole new song.

I want to look at where I am, and remember how I started out; not as empty as I am now, but just as that little girl I once was. I would clap my hands and climb the highest trees-so happy I could die!

I want so much,and know exactly what I want, every shining detail glittering gold, studded with chiseled diamonds. I am still young, a little too bright, and just complex enough in design. to get it all right .

I want to feel all these feelings, unadulterated by the said possibilities, and threats of their apparent consequences.Though many fail too see through my rose tinted aspirations, I was in desperate want of repair; for I was broken.

However reality is cruel, and waits for none. An expert in exposing ones greatest fears, it’s stench had already settled deep, crushing my hopeful spirit, and flooding my brain with dark uncertainty. Logic was long infected by doubt, and this is when the voices started cackling hysterically, repeatedly saying, “For what are the use of big dreams girl, if you’re too afraid to feel?”

Once upon a time...

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 10:11:00 +0000

Once upon a time, so very long ago, there lived a beautiful princess, who wept her heart dry. Crystal tears of sorrow forever stained her lovely face, collecting in a glossy pool by her little, cringing toes. She had tried everything to make them stop, but they took no heed to her painstaking efforts, gushing forth to kiss her rosy cheeks again and again. Damp and glistening, she subdued to their torrential pour, blinking away blurry visions of something different, somewhere far, far away.

She whimpered a mute sound into the ether, curling into ball of pain, her once luscious locks limply splayed on the dank dirt, merging with their dull, singed colours. Her once shining eyes were faded to a pale vision, and her pearly skin had withered a thousand years. Her every limb ached, as she unfurled gently, splaying her boney fingers, only to bring them back in clenched fists. The tenderness she had once lovingly nurtured grew no more. Stunted with shock, parched, and wilted, it had been weeded cruelly by its roots, not one trace left to remember it by.

Is this the rightful end for a princess, who knew not the pleasures of seducing laughter, and pretty little things? Was it fair that she embraced a life of torture, rather than delightful songs? Where was her prince in shining armour, when she wept herself to decay? These queries stabbed her repeatedly, sharp and jagged, as she bled alive. She feebly begged to be released from this wicked game that she was caught up in, gasping for air through muffled pleas...but sweet escape coldly shunned her , yet again.

Drowning only deeper by the second, she cried out in vain, her voice choked in woe, her heart blue with damage. But not a sound was heard beneath the layers of smothering distress that disguised her soul. She stopped trying soon after this; grating frustration had now turned old and grey. Hope had fizzled away like a scorned lover, too scared to ask for a second chance.

She is now but a distant memory; her quaking suffering merely a sad story. People now just sigh in her memory as they walk away, shaking their heads with false pity, as they whisper to one another, “Once upon a time, so very long ago, there lived a beautiful princess...”.

Diet of Despair

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Sun, 24 Mar 2013 16:36:00 +0000

I lie in a pool of my own sweat. It’s clammy dew plasters strands of brown hair on my pale cheek. I am striped, marked, and drowning in self-despair.

I fought hard at first, my face painted for battle, as I bellowed with a newfound miraculous determination to defeat all ills; After all effort is needed for stunning results. I surged towards the enemy, my claws cutting, and my lips pursed, I was ready to take all by storm...and I did.

Glorious is the past.

Now I have retired here, as my desire doesn’t even put up a good fight before fading away as a sad, distant memory. I can’t move, I can’t think, I can’t breath...I am trapped within my own mind. It clings possessively to my brain, grabbing my heart with both hands, and squeezing me dry.Dehydrated of ambition, I long to feel it’s hungering metallic taste trickle through my heavy sighs, onto my lifeless tongue. I bite hard, but feel nothing. My ashen lips are now washed crimson, but my skin is yet lifeless in waste. Deprived of all sparks, I gleam in moist desperation... hoping, and praying that tomorrow I will be better ready for war.

Lonesome

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 12:34:00 +0000

I lie awake in an empty room

As traffic roars outside,

A need to vanquish this growing gloom,

In need to confide

I'm surrounded by familiar faces

But no one says a word

A million thoughts ,my mind races

To corners more absurd

The heavy silence drags a pause

As the wind heaves a sigh

My face is blank, I'm at a loss,

I've lost the urge to try

Buried deep, beneath my core

I gasp for living air,

The strain of facing another day

Drowns me in despair

I blink twice and hold my breath,

my eyes beg to close,

Yet too alive to wish for death,

My misery only grows

A little voice whispers weak,

A secret in my ear,

The peace I crave and deeply seek

Is shrouded by my fear

A lonesome tear fights the urge

To pour in dark defeat,

Fighting hard to embrace the surge

In hope of something sweet.

Castles and Waffles

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Sun, 20 Jan 2013 10:53:00 +0000

I winced and rubbed as the nippy air bit a raw chunk off my cheek. Three layers wrapped me tight in their warm embrace as I wobbled down the grey paths like a penguin in heat. I was literally standing in the smallest township on Earth, Durbuy. If excitement equaled warmth, I would be on fire right now!

Thick with trees and gaping travelers, this fairy-tale Walloon (distinctive community within Belgium) city sits smugly enchanting, 31 kilometers south of Liege, in the Belgian province of Luxembourg. My inundated senses struggle hard towards recovery, stunned by the virtual labyrinth of medieval fantasy that beckoned it forward.

Cobbled lanes shyly wound their ashen bodies through the majestic forest of towering cathedrals, belfries, and citadels, bashfully jumping over arches, canals, and stone bridges, leading me to their most private courts and secret gardens. Gladly seduced by every tiny gap discovered between these looming historic castles, I walked deeper into buttressed passages that silently promised hidden treasures (Disclaimer: multitasking starry-eyed daydreams whilst keeping a balance on steep, crooked European streets, proved harder than imagined).

Every nook and cranny dangled colourful baskets of flowers that brightly popped through cavernous cracks in their vine-laced walls. Tucked within these spirited gullies lay a quaint scatter of cottage Pubs; their fires crackling loudly, as their walls rumbled deafeningly with contagious laughter that only bounced back to create further merry. I was hypnotized to invite myself in.

Blondes, ambers, pale lagers, fruity lambics and Flemish reds smiled down at me from their lofty shelves and frothy taps, sweetly beckoning me with their foamy tops. Justly famous for its brewing tradition, this cozy country has more than 100 breweries producing hundreds more in variety of brews. Needless to say, with so many choices, I was a tad worried on finding my favourite. The attraction was undeniably magnetic. I picked the vibrant kriek - its tart cherry flavour still alive in my fondest memories- it was, irrefutably, love at first sip.

Outside the sky was almost purple, streaked with a defiant orange beam peeking through the silver-lined clouds. Its warm red glow caressed my arm, painting me flushed with the shadow of its light. As I stepped out, a delicious waft tickled my resolve. I quickened my idle steps towards the gushing canals that flowed past the monumental square backed with perfect gingerbread houses. Rows of noisy stalls suddenly appeared, and along with them hoards of hungry people.

Refusing to feel left out I greedily ordered. One mountain of crispy frites (the original “french-fries”) generously topped with a customary peak of creamy mayonnaise; a delicious grid of fluffy waffles cooked to perfection, oozing smooth nutella (chocolate-hazelnut pâté) onto my drooling palate; and an assortment of chocolate armoured pralines with silky fondant hearts made up an extravagant feast.
I hid between the rows of tempting chocolateries, next to the chiming clock tower, stabbing my pink plastic fork into the ambrosia spread in front of me. A few dainty bites later, and then I gave in. With a shifty look here, and a mortified blush there, I viciously dug into the caramel gooeyness, decorum long snatched by a passing breeze.

Darkness crept in, as a dim congregation of lights winked cheerily into its gloom. A striped canvas flag whipped soundlessly to the drifting strums of a random guitar. Floating paper lanterns flickered to life, fighting for space with the leftover tinsel decorations. The wind whistled its shrill tune into my frosty ears, as I hummed in harmonious unison, perfectly content midst these intimate nooks filled with people toasting Durbuys’ beauty.

Stuck in Traffic

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 16:55:00 +0000

The salty air kissed her clammy skin as she inched past the winding line of colorful cars. She was riding a rented black scooter with frontal mirrors that sorely stuck out like large ugly ears. Cheap silver 3D stickers covered the vehicle, reflecting the impatient flashing of headlights from the fuming traffic jam she was trying to pass. She dragged her cherry-red sandals on the dirt road raising a cloud of dust, as she desperately tried balancing her weight along with that of the chunky bike, and its limp passenger.

The passenger’s upper body curled into her back, as if a prop support.

“Sit up Kim!” she spoke urgently to her back “I told you not to drink so much!”

The figure gradually unfurled, wobbling like jelly with the occasional snorts and sporadic giggles. It was a girl, not more than five foot five. Her long sooty locks were that kind of effortless wavy that happens when the beach meets hair. Her skin glowed mocha under the crooked tungsten street lamp.

Calling the device a “street lamp” was a definite generosity. The cracked beige bamboo pole bent precariously, dangling what was a small yellow bulb under the layers of buzzing bugs that swarmed towards its deathly rays. “Zap” was the fatal sound that predicted a shower of lifeless insects on whoever was waiting below.

The scooter now spluttered and coughed as its breathless rider manually attempted to push it in between two jaundice yellow ambassador taxis.

“Arrreee Madam…Kya karte ho?(What are you doing?)”, annoyed voices yelled at her, through the thick blare of what sounded like horn wars.

The air was getting thicker, spiced up by the irritation that spread thick through the traffic. A sudden shrill shriek of a police whistle made her jerk her head up. Drops of perspiration jeweled her brow as she licked her lips nervously, poking a drooping Kim into erection.

“Whaaaaat?” Kim said, irritated to be interrupted by the sharp jabbing of bony ringed fingers.

“Sit up!” she said, trying to wave away the sour stench of body odour that was rising in concentration by every minute.

But the driver of the monster orange lorry ahead of her had succumbed to the situation. He generously contributed to the ambiance by raising his damp patched khaki armpits, airing them out while humming along to a deafening radio tune.

An aggressive Maruti 800 that was working towards escape blazed its neon headlights on full beam, blinding her momentarily. She instinctively pressed the back break clutch, jolting the pudgy tires into submission.

“Tu paagal hai?! (Are you crazy?) ” she said waving and punching her one fist violently at the navy car that had almost knocked her over.

“Arrreee Madam…Kya karte ho?” it’s driver said, turning off his roaring engine, and beckoning to the portable tea stall that had magically appeared to profit from the chaos. It was as if the scheming chai-wallah (tea maker) could psychically sense the mere thought of someone needing a fresh cup of tea- he was always near. She exhaled loudly squeezing her glassy eyes shut, opening them only to be hypnotized by the stylish preparation and presentation of the tan coloured beverage that sustained and nurtured the very masses that kept India running.

The pot bellied, russet skinned chai-wallah let the creamy liquid boil up until that very urgent instant, before it was going to spill over and stain the dull metal sides. Then with skilful agility, he started swirling the aluminum pot an inch over the hungry flames, suspending it in an almost-boiling-over state before removing it from the heat, only to repeat the trick again. He then blended the chai by pouring it back and forth between two pots at two arm-lengths apart. 

“ Chai? (Tea?),” asked a face that had more lines than a road map.

A terracotta cup was deftly shoved under her nose while its cardamom flavoured steam immediately hit her face, breaking her from her trance.

“No!” she said shaking her brown head so ferociously that she spattered sweat blobs on her bar-end mirrors.

Ignoring everything else she tried hard to re-focus on getting out of the mess she was stuck in. She pressed the clutch (which is like a bicycle brake), turning the left throttle and putting her machine in gear, ready for action, while still pressing her tired foot on the bottom brakes. But nothing happened. Nothing moved. The traffic stood still midst the enterprising activities that were now contagiously erupting.

The latest addition was a cobalt blue trampoline cover which was being propped up over several scattered, foldable, rusted chairs. The chai-wallah’s grinning competition-a snack vendor-was doing a great job at enticing frustrated drivers into his lair of delicious greasy promises.

Her taut muscles screamed in pain while blissful mosquitoes freely feasted on her numb feet. With smells and sounds which were now stronger than scores of the most potent Epsom salts, she was now fighting the urge to drop her heavy burden, Kim and all. She drummed her fingers on her stationary speedometer trying to listen to the news from the neighboring car’s radio.

The car had been white once but, like its driver’s teeth, had gone prematurely yellow with neglect. The rare patches of original color only served as a reminder of better days.

“Police have stopped all traffic over the Bardoman bypass,” his radio companion said. “We have received several eye witness reports of the cow that is blocking the road.”

The driver accusingly glared at his good-luck charm of chilies and lemons dangling inches away from his nose. Snarling at the driver reading a newspaper to his left, he groaned at his fake Rolex wristwatch. He was probably going to be late again.

The disembodied voice of the RJ continued. “If you haven’t left home yet, get back in bed! There’s no telling how long this will take to clear up.”

“Fantastic advice you moron,” her back spoke through gritted teeth. Kim was finally functional, or trying hard to be through what seemed like the worst hangover.

“Coming up next we’ve got Priya with Long line of cars to ease -” the RJ was cut off by the driver slamming his fist into the on/off button on the stereo. He flinched in reflex. His knuckles ached but he was too proud to let it show, even to his empty car.

She felt his pain. Needing to do something, anything, she turned off the bike’s rattling engine, ordered a dazed Kim to get off, and finally stood up - this time accepting the clammy embrace of the soggy summer air and, as life would have it, her inevitable fate of being stuck with no quick-fix way out.

Of Bengal, porpoises and boat cruises on the Ganges!

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Thu, 25 Oct 2012 10:35:00 +0000

Leaving behind the quaint and gully strewn island town of Navadwip, I stepped onto the massive Teak wood boat that swayed lazily over the forceful Ganges currents. I could spot my fuzzy destination far across the river, its plane banks camouflaged within tall coconut palms, and wild green shrubbery. A tug of rope here, with a spluttering motor there, and we were finally on our way to Mayapur. District Nadia, West Bengal.

Keep reading at We Are Holidays

The Village of Mayapur

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 12:02:00 +0000

The green fields were greener than green, speckled with countless mustard blossoms. They were so brilliant, as bright as a golden canary. I was tempted to run through these yellow dappled fields; my hair blowing in the air, as I sprinted like a weightless fairy to some catchy Bollywood tune that played in my head. However a single toe into the slushy compost that kissed their roots changed my mind. I could definitely be content with just looking, and no touching - natures eye candy per se.

I walked at a safe distant, inhaling the slightly fresher air that was getting bolder with the change of seasons. West Bengal’s humid summer was lazily giving way to its cooler counterpart. Mayapur is a small village- town of the vibrant Nadia district, sandwiched prettily between the Ganges and Jalangi rivers. One hundred and thirty kilometers north of Kolkata, Mayapur remains unadulterated with its village culture and mentality still running strong through its veins.

Of course the contagion of modernity should never be underestimated. I never failed to snort with laughter whenever I passed outsized brand endorsement posters swallowing thatched chai (tea) stalls. Mayapur’s favourite by far had to be Pepsi, with their dashing celebrities swigging stylishly on their dark colas, a mysterious twinkle in their eyes. Hell, even I felt like buying one, just to confirm that twinkle wasn’t guaranteed. As I always like to say, “…the proof is in the pudding my friends,” or more specifically in this case NOT in the bubbly drink. Engrossed with such nonsensical logic procured by my entertaining mind, I walked further down the dirt beaten road.

The burning sun had now mellowed out; it’s once lashing rays muted by the nippy evening breeze. October was the season of festivities, and I found myself smack in the middle of Bengal’s biggest one! Durga Puja is the most important festival for Bengalis, and celebrates the home-coming of the Goddess Durga and her four children. Not only does the celebration mark the victory of the Goddess over the buffalo shaped demon Mahishasura, it epitomizes the victory of Good over Evil. A ten day celebration, the puja peaks as the most significant socio-cultural event in Bengali society.

So it was no surprise that the residents of Mayapur went all out (all puns intended). Wrapped in their finest, they strutted along the fancily lit streets, every piece of jewelry they owned flashing boldly with their every movement. Puja was their time to shine- literally as well!

“You’re dressed like my maid” Soma said.

She disapprovingly looked over at my pink stripped kurta-top which was paired with baggy black cotton pants. I disagreed. I had specifically made the effort to brush my hair into a neat bun, rather than the messy mass that usually adorned my crown. I even stuck a big black bindi sticker on my forehead to appear more festive. She ignored my responsive shrug, nervously adjusting her sparkling accessorized hair. I was suddenly surrounded by masses of diamond encrusted chiffon saris, shimmery eye-shadow, dangling earrings, and glossy gleaming lipstick. Maybe I was slightly underdressed.

It was only 6pm, but the sky was very close to charcoal. I smiled back at the staring pilgrims that gathered around us- they strangely found me very amusing. Famous for nurturing the roots of Gaudiya Vaisnavism (a religious movement founded by Chaitanya Mahaprabhu in 16th century India ) Mayapur’s holy temple bells rang loud and clear into the early night. Cymbals and drums soon joined the bells, as the clear voiced, sweet chanting of worshiping monks filled the air. It was extraordinarily calming, and I greedily soaked it all in.

The pandals (creatively handmade and decorated structures of bamboo and cloth- famous in Bengal) stood proudly beautiful as we entered to pay our respects to Goddess Durga. Crafted laboriously with Ganges clay and dry straw, the goddess’s gorgeously painted eyes glared down at the speared demon that lay splayed by her rosy feet. Every year the Bengali locals competed to outdo each other by coming up with the most elaborate and innovative pandal themes; their healthy competitive spirit was definitely visually spoiling me for one. Can you imagine a pandal made of nails or rice? Well I didn’t have too…I had solid visual proof. Anyone in their right sense of mind would be in awe at the immense talent and hard work that most definitely went into recreating these fabulous scenes. It’s a real pity that they would be dismantled after a few days.

I took another moment to gaze, but my attention was snatched by a group of dancing worshipers, who were busy shaking, their every body part, like there was no tomorrow. Six powerful boom boxes blasted the most popular tunes as arms and legs flung out enthusiastically to various rhythms and beats. Bengalis definitely knew how to have a good time, regardless of the temporary deafness they will have to suffer at the end of it all.

So I sat down on a comfortable rock, the contagious excitement bubbling inside, as I munched messily on the piping hot jalebi (traditional sweet) Soma handed me. The sugar syrup dripped down my wrists, pooling by my feet- but I didn’t care. I was in rural heaven, and nothing could tame me (or that’s what I thought at least before a colony of red ants viciously attacked my feet).

Adventure’s Beginnings

noreply@blogger.com (Jalasaya Federoff) — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 11:51:00 +0000

I wiggled my looming backpack, adjusting and tightening the hip buckles. I had never packed like this before. Precisely calculated clothes were piled, then rolled, and squashed in all possible angles into the rucksack.

“Here take it with you, just in-case... it’s not heavy,” said my kind and very insistent landlord.

Why would I want to carry a water purifier gadget on my back for the next three weeks was beyond me? I was raised in West Bengal where roadside opaque nimbupani (lemonade) and tangy juicy puchkas (pani-puri ) were everyday essentials. So in all fairness I actually held that a sprinkle of bacteria here and there was rather quite delicious!

Puchkas

However, here I was contemplating on refusing this over-enthusiastic little man that had done so much for me in my time living in the intense city of Hong Kong.
So choking down the “No thank you, I’ll pass” that was itching to spill off my lips, I grinned awkwardly and graciously served an “Errrrm…Thanks?” instead.

He smiled wider, clearly pleased, ferociously scribbling last minute changes on the Mandarin translation cards he was making for me.

“Little sacrifices, little sacrifices,” I mumbled silently, almost trying to convince my self that it was all towards the greater good (and yes in-case you were wondering, dramatics is my God-gifted talent).
All was packed. I was ready.

In my case, procrastination was definitely NOT genetic; but nonetheless, I have been cursed with the habit. So bow to me if you’d like, for I am the self-proclaimed Queen of Procrastination. As if to mock me, here was Hong Kong - crisp and precise. People stood in lines without pushing and were always on time. At first I suffered a minute case of culture shock, but soon enough adapted like a dutiful human being; that is to the lines and expected decorum, but strangely never to punctuality!

There was literally five minutes for my over night train to Beijing, and I was still sitting clumsily in a red cab, luggage strapped and my jittery legs ready to leap and run the minute we arrived. However that minute took many more minutes to come.

I raced, and puffed and dragged my body, flustered, frustrated, and slightly swearing at myself for lingering on that extra 30 minutes on the Central Island. I felt like pushing innocent travelers who were walking at a sane pace, totally envying the extra, sweet time they were obviously relishing.

“Beijing train, train Beijing” I shouted, bursting dramatically through the station doors, shooting crazy eyes and desperate pleas to anyone that would listen…of course no one did. It was much easier to ignore the crazed, sweat patched laowai (quasi-derogatory term for a uncivilized foreigner) than pay her any attention at all.

“Great! JUST GREAT!” I yelled aiming my tiring irritation at anyone, and everyone that heard me. I had missed my train, and was in that dangerous territory of possibly attracting the wrong kind of attention if I didn’t shut up. So with recognition of my fast vanishing determination to avoid a temper tantrum, I graciously, though more hastily, decided to take my walk of defeat a little further ahead.

A long, winding line snaked around the opposite end of the station, as security nonchalantly checked passports for essential stamps. My anger had faded fast, and now I was wallowing in self-pity. I must have looked quite the mess, as Chinese tourists giggled at my frowning face. I looked down and saw a smudge of dirt on my legs. Too dejected to give a damn, I rolled my eyes at their apparent childishness, urgently pushing my million loose strands into the messy bun plopped on the top of my head. “Who cares anyways…” was my train of thought at that precise moment.

A gentle tap made me jump, bag and all, causing quite the thump as I landed.

“Beijing? Beijing Train?” the woman asked as I attempted to collect my shattered wits once again.

“Huh?” I said, utterly confused at what was happening. Was she mocking me? Or did she miss her train too? I honestly, and seriously did NOT care too much to tell you the truth. She definitely was the wiry, insistent type…a female Bruce Lee…I had to giggle mentally.

I took a deep breath. I had to snap out of my self-absorbed trance to make sense of what was going on.

“This is the train to Beijing. You Beijing no?” she said pointing to the twisted queue.

“Oh my God! My train!” I shrieked, grabbing the stunned woman into a forced hug.

She nodded dazed but polite. I beamed a thousand watts, almost skipping and tripping in delight. Apparently the train had got delayed much to my joy.

My grin now most definitely chocolaty still hadn't faded. Bored with waiting, I nibbled on my foil wrapped brownies meant for the journey (I have always been bad with moderation). The immigration eyed me warily as I smiled away to glory, (in retrospect it probably had something to do with my overwhelming happiness paired with half a tray of packed brownies) but I didn't care, I was finally off to Beijing!