Wanderlust Dust

St. Gallen

A Naive Travelogue

I arrived alone at the little Swiss town of St.Gallen. Loaded with a suitcase that weighed as much as I did, and armed with a laptop as well as a couple of handbags, I stood blinking in the scarce yet warm May sun outside the railway station, gleefully soaking in the success of arriving. I remember feeling like this was how all beginnings should feel - exciting, unfamiliar, and waiting to be conquered.

Not completely oblivious to the extreme German atmosphere around me - faces, signs, phrases, even the coughs and sneezes - I looked around trying to figure out how to get a ride to my new address. I managed to get a cab (which I was to discover overnight was the most expensive way of getting around) and was driven to what was to be my home for the following month. After a detour to the university so I could register myself and collect my keys, I tumbled out of the cab onto the pavement at 44, Roschacherstrasse.

In a pile of limbs and luggage and a puff of smoke and dust, I stood looking up at the five storey building as my friendly non-English speaking lady cab driver zoomed off, leaving me with a slight pit in my stomach. This building had no lifts, and I had to get up 125 stairs, rounding a corner at every 25 stairs, with a landing at every 50. It took me a couple of minutes to realize that looking at my luggage then at the building over and over was not going to get me anywhere. So I grinned at myself as convincingly as I could, and launched myself at the building door.

It was much warmer inside. I barely managed to slip my mammoth 4 foot by 5 foot by 4 foot suitcase in when the door slammed behind me. And then, I began what I still recall as the one of the most excruciating climb upwards on stairs. It was like carrying a second human being - another me - up the stairs, and I weighed 50 kgs. It took me 45 minutes to get all my stuff up. I sat outside the door, panting, heaving, feeling like all the contents of my chest would spill out of my body and go tumbling down 5 storeys. Not wanting to climb down again to retrieve them, I sat balled up, trying to catch my breath. My rasping echoed unashamedly throughout the corridors. It slowed down after about five minutes, and finally stopped. With one more deep breath and my heart still pounding, I went into the apartment.

It was huge. There were 7 large bedrooms, a kitchen, a hall, two washrooms, and a laundry area. I went into the first room, and I was in love. It was furnished, but that wasn't the basis for my shallow love - the view was breathtaking. I could see green meadows on hills, the roofs of old buildings and homes, the clock towers of a couple of churches, and the never ending sky. I sat, tired, happy, probably jet lagged, and connected to the internet to inform my family that I was safe.

St. Gallen

Then I began exploring. Barefoot, I peered into nooks and crannies, cleaned, rearranged,

mused, re-rearranged. My body had adjusted to the temperature by then and I realized it was colder than I thought. It was also 2pm, which meant stores would all be shut within three hours. I began setting up my room, admiring and frowning and holding at arm's length the relics left behind by the previous tenants, all the while glancing whimsically at the orange curtains that filtered tilted sunlight into my room.

The floor rumbled. I paused, then continued setting up. It rumbled again. The third time, I realized that the buses passing on the road were causing the rumbling in the very foundation of the building. This feeling of the floor vibrating momentarily was to become a familiar sensation that I began to associate with the warmth and comfort of that apartment, rather than something scary and tremulous.

I decided to step out and get some food. I didn't want to wait for the others to arrive because it could be pretty late by the time they did, and I was too hungry anyway. With keys, some cash and a cell phone, I stepped out of the building without a map. It was far easier going down all those stairs. But as I did, I wondered at myself and how I managed to drag all that weight up. These stairs were ultimately a majority of the exercise I did whilst sampling all the breads and cheeses ever made on earth.

Out in the chill, I began walking aimlessly. Aimlessness is delightful. I knew my address, and I didn't want to know any more - I was eager to lose myself in this new place. And so I walked, and walked, and walked until I was certain I was quite lost. I wandered into a grocery store - Coop - and picked up bread, milk, cheese, yogurt; the other grocery store was Migros, which was a lot cheaper, and I eventually shopped there. Here, I befriended a nice Italian shopkeeper who helped me choose the best basil leaves from the selection. And then, at my 6th attempt at finding an electronic store, I discovered "M-Electronics" where I bought a converter plug to charge my laptop. I thought I was set.

I strolled through the streets, back streets, shops, lanes - and since I had gone through them once, my brain had absorbed as much as it could about the new environment. It was hard to stay lost once I had already landmarked familiar areas, although I didn't know it while I was doing it.

Marktplatz, or Marketplace, is situated more or less at the heart of St.Gallen. It is an arrangement of chocolateries, bakeries, wine and cheese stores, cafes and homemade on-the-go baked food stalls. Then there are a couple of large malls too, with branded goods, electronics, organic fruits and vegetables, flower shops, and the usual. Scattered among these are restaurants - ranging from bratwurst stalls to authentic Mexican, American, Turkish Italian restaurants, and combinations of the three. I walked through it, back to 44 Roschacherstrasse, feeling that lovely combination of air-chill and warm-rays on my skin. It tingled happily.

I fumbled with the keys and pushed through the glass door that had slammed loudly behind me a few hours ago. I carried my grocery bags up those 125 stairs, beginning to like the familiar smell of basil and tomatoes that came from the house on the third floor. I'd always linger on that landing a moment longer before climbing further. It was like a milestone, and a pleasant (and much needed) resting stop. I went into the apartment and locked it from the inside. After setting my grocery bags on the kitchen table, I went to my room, stood in front of the mirror, and looked myself square in the eye. I was tired, but satisfied - no, happily satisfied. It was 8pm, and the sun was just beginning its journey down.

There is a particular angle of the sun's rays, and it invites a pensive bird call - a chirp that sounds decidedly uttered towards a single, specific direction. When this angle of the sun's rays falls in my vicinity, then no matter where I am, I feel like I know everything there is to know. And this was one of those moments. I laughed at my naïveté then, and I laugh at it now. All I had achieved so far was a few pine cones from my long walk and a vague Italian shopkeeper-friend. Yet I was invincible even against myself and there was so much more to see, to learn, to do, before I could consider myself a contributor in any way to the world we live in.

I distinctly remember feeling, knowing - in that small moment, in a small city, being a small person, that I could do anything.

Interlaken

I'm a Tourist in my City

This time, I don't feel like I owe my reader an apology for using a cliché in my title. Because clichés are good at expressing a collective repetitive feeling and they deserve credit for never holding a grudge for being used, overused or misused.

I can't count how many times in the past three years I have passed a tourist - denim shorts, branded shades, big backpack, camera, wisps of hair left to the mercy of wind or heat, and partially scrunched up eyebrows. And of course, the quintessential big map blowing in the wind, hastily folded and unfolded and stuffed into a back pocket over a hundred times. When they stop to ask me for directions, I realize two things - one, I look like I belong to this strange place and am approachable for this reason when directions are needed; and two, I almost always know exactly what path they need to take to reach their destination. Then we smile and wave goodbye, and I continue walking in the real world, while they explore the island excitedly for a few more days, and then go home to some other country, far away.

I can't count how many times in the past three years I have passed a tourist and wished I was him or her, without a real-world care, here only long enough to fall in love with the good side of Singapore and appreciate it's beauty - but not long enough to find out the things they hate, the things that are ugly and just as real.

Even though things have changed for me on this tropical island, and even though I now like leaving my wisps of hair for the wind to blow or sweat to cling to, I'm only just starting to call it home. Because there's a sense of freedom, choices, responsibilities - all the things that a tourist is limited to by virtue of the amount of time he or she can spend here.

But the last time I flew home and had to fill out an immigration card, my pen lingered just a moment longer than usual over the words "Country of Residence". They seemed to be raising an eyebrow at me, not mocking, but half-curious, waiting for me to write an answer so they could be stamped by an Immigrations officer and filed away forever.

Of course I still wrote India.

An Undaunted City

The city rages on, undaunted by last night's furious rain.

That rain pelted on my windows last night like countless tiny fists begging for sanctuary.

Those fists are tired now, they are pelting lightly on the same window panes, only rapping lightly with weak knuckles.

I nearly opened my window just to let them in and rest.

But that would have meant welcoming the howling wind inside as well.

And the wind was just a haunting menace that wouldn't let me sleep.

So I left half the window open and some grateful drops sprayed in, while the rest tumbled towards the ground and ended their miserable fall.

As I look out at the city, it rages on, nothing is changing on the ground as everything is changing in the sky.

Majulah Singapura! - Haiku (An Attempt)

I cheer silently.
Majulah Singapura!
It's my freedom too.

Desk Job

4.37pm

Eyes ageing.

Head throbbing.

Mouths yawning.

Nuerons dulling.

Phone ringing.

Hello?

Paper rustling.

Stapler stapling.

Pencil tapping.

Mouse clicking.

Ink spilling.

Oops.

Voices fading.

Chair creaking.

Door squealing.

Fan whirring.

Clock ticking.

Sighs.

Boss calling.

Ready?

No.

I'm not answerable

To anyone.

4.39pm

Calm After the Storm

Sometimes things go on and on, one after another, like the effect of a fallen bicycle on the entire bicycle stand, like dominoes. 


Things are loud, moving too much and too fast, bright, and annoying. People are in and out, money flows fast, disappointments and missed appointments are somewhat inevitable.

But the storm passes.You're only handed as much as you can handle, and things will stretch only till you can take it. 

There is comfort in the certainty that this is nature's way.

Wrong Side

I've grown up following the rules. Stayed on the right track as a child, in school, wanted to be approved by those I looked up to, those I studied under, and as I progressed, those I worked under. It's natural to seek approval from people around you - or so I thought. 


What I have realized on a day when I'm feeling the lows is that if you don't have your own approval, nothing you're doing means anything.

If you think you knew that already, think again. If your efforts seemed right to you when someone else blew them off, can you continue to believe your efforts were right?

Today, I woke up to rain, a dark room, stomach cramps, and an e-mail saying that I had disappointed someone. When they hit you all at one go, no matter how small the nails are, they make a sharp dent. 


You can't help thinking that your God woke up on the wrong side of His and Her bed. It can't be me getting out of the wrong side of my bed because it's up against a wall and only has one side; and if this is the wrong side then I'm getting down from it every day unless I move my bed to the middle of the room. 


And that's probably against Feng Shui principles.

Zeh ya'avor.

The Goddamn Movies

They can ruin you. The movies can ruin you because they romanticize everything - be it poverty, terrorism, the US presidential elections, diamonds, or sex - of which only the last two can be romanticized albeit marginally so, because you could be talking about blood diamonds and loveless sex, or rape.

Our minds are impressionable. Impressions are made far more easily than they are broken, and they are made on everyone. Impressions are like clay moulds that keep denting and reshaping themselves.

In an era where the ill effects of pornography are visible on the ogling faces of 13 year old boys, we've begun to think about our lives like movies, with our sorry selves being the protagonists and all the important people in our lives playing supporting roles (don't forget to include them in the credits). 


We make believe to feel better, which is an old strategy, but applied differently today: in the older days, make-believing meant fantasizing your hopes, and drawing them towards yourself by as much strength as your mind could muster. Today, it means conjuring up obstacles and breaking them down, and making tiny little things out to be so huge that unless there's a hero to slay the dragon, the helpless lady in the tower can hardly climb out.

It's easier to live in a romanticized world because it makes things seem less drastic and life-threatening. Perhaps that is a good thing to the extent that we don't go berserk and dysfunctional at every tragedy that hits; in fact, this romanticizing can actually be helpful in such cases. But as with most things, the curve dips at some point, and the benefits decrease as the cost grows - romanticizing important issues is wrong.

Take a chill pill, you'd think; movies are just for entertainment. I agree. I love watching them. I laugh, cry, criticize and roll my eyes to my heart's content. But I try hard to make sure I don't forget that they are stories. There are a lot of people out there who do.

Good movies, in my opinion, are those that leave a lasting message. Movies that convey a point, or remind you of reality, or that just stay in your head because you could relate to them so well. There are as many happy endings as sad ones, but not in the movies - in the movies, there are only (I concede, mostly) happy endings, and this can be a misrepresentation of real life.

And if our lives are indeed like the movies, then we need to know who to finally credit, when not to pull a trigger, when to wipe off hidden tears so that they don't show when the lights come on, and when to laugh at ourselves in the short lived saga that is this life.

'I...live my life as I would like it to be...like a novel.' - Isabel Allende

Things I Can't Write In My CV

My professor stopped me after I opened the door for her and asked me what my name was, and memorized the spelling. I smiled for an entire minute.

I gave $10 to an ex-convict and bought two key chains - one was rubber 8-ball and the other a big yellow smiley face.

My instinct about how my grandparents are feeling, even when I'm in another country, is always right.

My hands have a healing touch. It's not my fault. They can calm hysterical sisters and hysterical children down, and those are the two categories of people that get very hysterical.

I have clarity about how I feel.

Small things upset me far more than big things ever could.

I'm very good at moving furniture around to optimize space in a room.

I'm compulsive about cleanliness and organization.

I agree with Holden Caulfield when he says that movies can ruin you. They really can.

My sister is the most precious person in the whole world.

My decisions might be arbit, but I always follow them through, and they always lead to something good.

I've cheated and I've lied. Never meant to harm anyone, but still done it.

My Karma is unbelievably on the mark. Always.

I know Yoga.

I forget stuff pretty easily.

I can get along with anyone.

I'm kinky.

I will never steal office stationery even though stationery is my single biggest weakness. But I might overuse it.

I have a jealous side that never defeats my practical side.

I never put on weight on my legs.

I think size matters.

Hampi

It's a funny name for a place, but it sounds all right to an Indian.

This is not about Hampi- you can find out everything you want on the internet. This is about that odd experience which isn't odd per se, but makes you think. Anyone who loves to travel knows what I mean.

I met a strange woman in my travel to this alfresco museum of the world, this natural heritage site of everyone's most careful preservation - she was from Rajasthan, which is way up north of Hampi. She was a gypsy, trying to sell anklets for 800 bucks to passers by, especially the white (and mostly stoned) ones. I went closer and picked one up (it was lovely - with shells and beads running along its length) and I asked her how much. She said 30 bucks. I exclaimed, you were just yelling 800! And she said, you are from where I am, you see right through me.

And there began again the old introspection of life and how we're better or worse off though we all rise from the same ashes. Do we really? How has a lady from the deserts of Rajasthan, which is fast gaining its repute as a tourist destination, found her way to a little heritage village in South India, and made a living from rings and bells? Her childhood was spent in the scorching sun, learning to spin and sew and count money before she could write her name (if she could write at all); and mine was in the shelter of a home and school where the most menial task I ever performed was setting the table, grudgingly so.

And no, I was never out in the sun for longer than necessary - if I had, I'd have gone as brown as this wrinkled old woman...who was by now, tying a third anklet on me and saying how lovely it looked on my fair skin - something that must have been demanded of her by society that she couldn't give. North India's prejudice for fair people is so deep-rooted that it reflects even in my family, which claims to hold the torch of liberalism. It does, in so many ways, but not all. The ones who are actually liberal don't make a fuss about it because their actions speak louder.

I thought more than I saw in Hampi, and fell in love with Paulo Coelho again. Reading his book just added to the romance of this forgotten kingdom.

I bought 7 pairs of anklets from her.