Category Archives: Vancouver

Shaam ho chali hai – a sunset on this chapter of life

Haan yeh zaroori nahin
Jo paas hai, woh saath hai.
Na ye zaroori hai ki
Jo saath hai, woh paas hai.

This is a passage that I’ve always found to be remarkable and meaningful. It’s a beautiful lyric from a mediocre song which was written for a forgettable movie called Radio. It essentially means that whatever is close to you may not be with you, and that whatever is with you or beside you, is not necessarily close to you or at the top of your mind. It’s obviously more beautiful in Hindi than in English, but reflects many of my feelings on the transition between Mumbai and Vancouver.

There are experiences, people and places in our lives that will never be as close to us as we might have held them once, but may continue to keep an irreplaceable part of our hearts with them. Shreya Goshal’s syrupy voice in this lyric describes how a momentary interaction can be more influential than a lifetime of steeping, like a teabag, in the atmosphere of the place we were born into. Who we have always known doesn’t define who we’ve always been. Regardless of place, time or circumstance, we create our own stories by choosing what is of beauty and meaning in our lives. I would like to believe that there is no interaction that we have for no reason. I’m grateful for every person, situation and circumstance that created the ocean of meaning that surrounded me over more than two years in Mumbai and more than three years in India.

In Bombay, I was writing at www.littlebirdbombay.comI’ve been back in Canada for two very full months now, walking a tightrope between remembering and longing for my life in Bombay and trying to create something new and wonderful here. I will continue to write and post photos at my new little nook in the vast space of the internet, and I hope you visit me there:

I want to say a heartfelt, heart-full thank you to each and every person who has read, followed, written to me, or felt something from my writing and experiences over the history of this blog. You are the reason I’ve shared so much. Thank you engaging with me and encouraging me: you are so appreciated. Here is to continuing to seek, to learn, and to find beauty and meaning in every experience.


How to obtain an Indian visa in the most honest manner possible within an impossibly corrupt system

In Bombay, the most likely place to find foreigners (after places like Bagel Shop in Bandra or Blue Frog in Lower Parel) is the Foreigner Regional Registration office.

In the same way, in the last little while, after my neighbourhood cafe… the Indian Consulate was the most likely place you could find me in Vancouver.

After much stress, I obtained a visa. Gaining an Indian visa is hardly a subject I know anything about, as I was declined more than once before finally getting through. However, I believe that abiding by the following guidelines will increase likelihood of results.

  • Go to the consulate first just to get the information about which visa you require. Even information I had printed directly off of the Indian Consulate of Vancouver official website was declined and said to be false when I asked about it in person at the visa office. Go to the counter, say what you want to do, and create a checklist right then and there of the documents you have to collect.
  • Take note of WHO you talk to at the counter, so that you can say, for example, ‘Gurpreet had given me this information when I was here previously’, when you come for your second, fourth, or seventeenth visit.
  • When you arrive at the counter, do NOT volunteer information. Answer only the questions that are asked.Also, present your documents as they are requested, one by one. This is reassuring for the person at the counter. If you had a pile of candies for a toddler, you would not give them all to him at once! In the same way, give your papers one by one.
  • Be overly polite, and act overly naive about the visa rules. You should, however, know the rules inside and out! My opinion is that only those who know the rules of visas either much better, or much worse than the counter staff at the consulate will be able to obtain a visa.
  • Whatever documents you plan to present (be they real or false documents) should look as official as possible. Stamps, signatures, paperclips, staples, business cards, letterhead, etc. Be also sure to stick to the story of what your documents say.
  • If you can get whatever you want to do in India (working in Bollywood, selling drugs, studying a language, laundering money, any other criminal activity, volunteering in slums or hospitals, etc) done within 6 months, do not think twice: apply for a nice tourist visa. You will be granted the visa, and no-one will ask any questions aside from what sites you would like to see in India. Simple!
    **This applies especially for those going to volunteer. For some reason, a visa for an educated person wanting to do charitable work in India, for free, is the most difficult to get. It appears as though volunteers are considered the most dangerous of all terrorists who are struggling to go to India. If at all possible, get a tourist visa and then do whatever you want once inside the country.**
  • When all else fails, if you detect a bit of sensitivity in whoever you are dealing with, cry a little bit. This is particularly effective when you are dealing with the uppermost rank of visa official: the type who actually decides whether you get a visa or not. In my most recent conversation with a visa wala of the highest rank, he went from telling me You have no option. We cannot issue you a visa on any basis.” to… If you can provide a letter from your university on thursday {the next day} then we can issue you the student visa on that day itself, and you can take your flight on sunday.” …in only four minutes! This happened after I cried and told him that of all ways I could go to India, I was doing everything in the most honest and best way, and still he would not let me go? Sniff.
  • In dealings with consulate walas, I believe honey works better than vinegar. So: Do NOT bark at the doorman or at the counter person that this is your seventh time coming, that you’ve had to wait for two and a half hours. They know very well, they face people like you every day!Be sweet with them, tell them how much you appreciate their work, how many difficult people you imagine they have to put up with. At the end of the day, they hold all the cards and all the power. So speak softly, and say things like ‘I know that you are busy/you have many things to do.’Appreciate the work they do for you. Even though it may be your life’s single most frustrating experience, at the end of the day when you receive a visa, it is because they granted it to you. Say thank you.
  • It is likely easier for someone who doesn’t care whether they go to India or not than someone (like myself) who feels that they MUST go. The more you want or need to go, the harder it will be for you! Haha.If you are emotionally invested in any small or big way in India, do not let this show at the consulate. The only time to be honest about this is at the last minute, as a last resort. Part of this can include an honest or fabricated sob story, as well as a bit of crying, as previously outlined.
  • Above all, be prepared to bite your tongue instead of speaking, and to summon as much patience as is humanely possible, and then a little more.

How I would love to tell you that these guidelines may be of help to you in obtaining your own visa! But unfortunately, they will not.

People from the exact same places, going for the exact same reasons, have all been granted different visas, or been denied for different reasons. It is according to the taste of the person in charge, on that particular day, at that particular moment. Perhaps it depends on what his wife packed in his tiffin for lunch. Perhaps his daughter failed an exam and he is experiencing stress. Whatever it is, you actually only play a small part in it!

Submit your documents properly, and follow the procedure, and hope for the best. Because when you come right down to it… the results are as arbitrary as the day of the week of the colour of your shirt. Good luck!

in between

An Indian consulate is a fascinating place. It’s like a circus without animals and without a master of ceremonies. Everyone is performing, something, but they don’t know why, and they don’t know who they are following.

At the Indian consulate, I received my visa on a friday, on my third visit to the consulate that day. At first, I did not go at the right time. Then, there were too many people, whole Punjabi families, and I had another appointment. I was advised to come back in the evening by the doorman who i have gotten to know so well.

Is baar mujhe MIL JAEGA ye visa!’ I joked with him, laughing instead of crying with anxiety.In the evening, the crowd had not diminished in the least. I waited, waited, and picked up my visa at the counter after a woman rifled through the filing box, after a man could not find it.

A little girl, waiting with her family for their PIO cards, ate a syrupy jamun from a sweetbox and tasted honey on her tongue.

At home, I woke up and slept without a plan. For today, for tomorrow. Sun came through snow-covered branches, through my window, and fell on my bed where I was.

Tentative friends asked me to come to this event or party, or even just to come over for tea, on whatever day. Tentative, I agreed, because it’s not like I had any other plan planned. But I shouldn’t have said I’d be there, because those days my moods couldn’t be counted on. My desires and energy levels couldn’t be depended on. I should have known that I could not be depended on, should have stopped saying that I may come here or there when it may happen that I stay home.

Days assumed a structure. I woke with parents to eat breakfast. Then, they run off to work, or, on the weekends, outside for yard work. It was saturday morning at 8:45, and dad went out to shovel snow off the walkway. I was up by 7:30, rushing out of bed for no reason.

So my dad shovels the snow, and I am languid on the couch. In repose. Having nothing pressing to do, I am not pressed. My same body that was once so active, frantic in its obsession to keep moving, is now content to rest against cushions, or roll around on beautiful heated hardwood floor.

In Bombay, I’d have left the house in the morning while everyone was asleep, and then have come back at night when everyone was asleep, slipping my flats off at the door and tiptoeing to my room. I ran around then, and lie around now.

How rich and at ease am I.

On a sunday in the pre-departure area, people were waiting to go to Hong Kong. Wealthy Punjabis and Chinese were nursing their infants and eating A&W french fries and starbucks lattes.

All of the airport-waiting people are addressed over the loudspeaker in English and Mandarin. Everyone speaks in a hum, hmm, the flight is delayed. Hmm, what does it mean for our connecting flights.

The Punjabi men looked smart and prepared. Shined shoes, trousers, sweater vests under sports coats, neatly-wrapped turbans. Some of the women already wore beautiful Indian finery, with heavy cardigans and wool shawls on top, chiffon dupattas draped over their greying braids. Some will change later, shimmying out of their tracksuits in the tiny airplane bathroom to change into beautiful salwar kameez, to greet their families once they reach Delhi or Amritsar or whatever their final destination is.

One man was becoming fed up. Others had left their bags in the seats across from him, and then went off to buy skittles and a magazine. So then, the man was half-heartedly defending these people from otherswho wanted those seats; it is crowded; this is unfair.

The man was anxious, when would they come back? Where does his loyalty lie? After all, he doesn’t know any of these people!

Getting ready for Christmas?” smiles a tentative acquaintance when we notice one another in a cafe.

Yes, I am! And you?” I trill, not feeling to explain that I won’t be here for Christmas, where I am going, for me, Christmas will not really happen. Why won’t Christmas really happen? Because. Why don’t I feel to explain? Because.

I may have tentative plans for the day that involve a long walk, many errands, writing a letter or an article, and end up spending the day in a cafe simply sitting and watching life. Or watching life from an even safer perch, through the window in the front room.

I may have tentative plans to recline all day and dream, and then get up and run six kilometres, and then come home and empty the dishwasher and prepare an elaborate dinner, just because.

Because of this incongruency between plans and outcomes, I do not make so many plans and just allow a natural deroulement of events.

Every fifteen seconds, someone enters the cafe, cracking the door and bringing a breeze. Everyone inside wears their coats and scarves, and their fingers, tapping on keyboards, are ice cold.

I am the richest person in the world in Bombay.

I had forgotten how beautiful this place is. In the way the light falls, the cars rock back and forth as they inch forward and avoid hitting the people, rushing between vehicles like fish in different currents.

I have never in my life seen such a will to live, not only live, but thrive and continue and love, against all odds.

There was one woman in the street who was only flesh and bone. She maybe weighed all of eighty eight pounds, but she carried a load of fifty pounds. Maybe for hours. When she puts down that load, she will pick up another: that of caring for her full family.

My relationship towards life has never been so tumultuous. I have never loved the world so much, never felt so angry towards it, so worried, inspired, or so cared for. I have never been as beautiful, as ugly as I have been here. There is no other place in the world where there is so much faith, and so much faith misplaced.

On cambie street bridge, I savour tidbits of conversation with strangers, as they feel like whole meals. The only sustenance I have in terms of understanding, of recognition. With a stranger, you cannot take as much, but you also do not owe as much. Yet. While neither here or there or anywhere, what a relief to talk to someone new : who doesn’t know you, doesn’t expect anything from you. You don’t have to explain life or circumstances to a stranger : thank goodness, because you might not understand any of it yourself!

In the plane, it was dark and everyone watched movies. Someone opened a window and the light came in from outside the plane, a shock of whiteness, brightness.

When the power for the Tvs failed, everyone was struck by not being able to know had many hours had elapsed, how many hours were left. In the flight, or in life.

A dad told his little boy,

If you could run as fast as the plane goes before it takes off, you would be able to fly, too.”

The babies that were crying have settled. The toddlers that were running up and down light-studded aisles are asleep, tousled hair falling on their mother’s shoulders as they lean. Everyone slept and the creases in their faces were softened by the gentle yellow light. Everyone appeared younger and more tired than they really were.

Vishal is Maharashtrian, an HSBC information security manager, and a community centre cardio classes afficionado. He told me,

‘Only the people who have dreams can go to Bombay.’

‘There is a lot waiting for me there,’ I confided in him, ‘And now… I am coming.’

anything could be happening at once

This day was over for me before it began for you, he says, addressing a girl through a computer screen.

She talks with him, someone far away that she cares for, because it brings a sense of hope and wonder. He talks with her, someone far away that he cares for, because it brings a sense of calm and security. Then, he wishes her a good day, and she him a good night. Then, he goes off into deep sleep (into his good night) and she goes off reassured, but hesitating to have her good day.

Anything could be happening at once. Everything could be happening at once, and it is. All over the world, people do different things for the same reasons, and the same things for different reasons. It just depends.

In Vancouver, kids attend a jumpstart preschool program at a community centre in their neighbourhood. They sit watching a Baby Einstein video, sucking on their fingers. They have popular names like Ava and Madison.

In Mumbai, toddlers sit in a circle in a preschool built by an NGO on the construction site they live on. A teacher enlists one boy to help her distribute stainless steel bowls, a healthy snack of chana and curry leaves. Repeating in English ‘one bowl, one friend.’ The kids smile as they receive their snacks, and wait for prayer before they eat. They have Sanskrit names like Pragati, progress, and Mayuri, peacock.

In New York, students might trek through the snow in winter to get to a coffeeshop. Inside, more people sit at a row of tables. Each has a laptop: if the lights went out, you would only see a row of lit-up apples. They also have some cell phone, some mp3 player, some sort of coffee. Having felt like they are a part of this community, they sit down to get work done.

On Panama’s west coast, lean-muscled fishermen haul boats out of the north pacific ocean and separate their catch into different pails depending on the size of fish. Then they sit on logs and smoke cheap cigarettes and laugh. Having gotten work done, they now feel they are part of a community.

Someone might speak, and another might avoid speaking, to exactly the same end. It would depend.

A man might shout and it would be for threat or warning.

A child might shout and it would be for anguish or uncertainty.

A woman might shout and it would be for a song.

It would depend.

In Canada, an Indian girl might dance sexy in a nightclub because it is her perogative, it is fun, and she feels like it. In these moments she loves her life the most.

In India, a Russian girl might dance sexy in a nightclub because she is being paid to do so. In these moments, she doesn’t feel much. It’s not fun, but not bad, but not good either. It’s nothing, it’s just a job.

In Paris, two lovers might might come to know each other without words. Through their two month relationship, they have mostly known one another through physical closeness. The young man wants more than this arrangement. What an assumption to make, he considers, that because you came close to someone’s body you had come to know something about them.

In Varanasi, two lovers might come to know each other without touch. Throughout the length of their nearly three years together, they have only been able to steal six kisses. The young woman wants more than this arrangement, but is anguish over these feelings. How can she assume to know him having never known this other part of him? She wishes to feel that this should be enough, but doesn’t actually feel that way.

The French lovers come close to one another because in that way, they love each other.

The Indian lovers stay distant from one another, rather than risking all that they have built, because in that way, they love each other.

Someone might touch, and another might not, to achieve the same result. It would depend.

In Delhi, a man in a suit stays in a glass building all day on the phone, because in this way, he earns money. He thinks this about money: aaj hai, kal nahi, phir a jaega do din ke baad.

In Jakarta, a man in a sand-stained shirt and shorts toils in the sun all day on the reconstruction of a Mosque. Because in this way, he earns money. He doesn’t think about money so much.

A man has moved across the United States from one city to another. He came to this new place by choice, encouraged by his family to go. He might be falling asleep in an enormous bed, in an enormous room. With one leg falling over a pillow, and thrashing searching arms, it is obvious that he is unused to sleeping alone. He speaks into silence, asking his god why.

A girl has moved across India from a village to a big city. She came to this new place by force, stolen from her family. She might be falling asleep on a lumpy mattress on the second floor of a brothel in Mumbai’s red light district. She speaks into a cacaphony of car horns and fuzzy old love songs, thanking her god that tonight she is sleeping alone.


On November second, I am still in Vancouver and not Mumbai. Kya baat hai. As much as I can think that things are going wrong though, they can never really go wrong.

Today it’s sunny and beautiful and 14 degrees outside. Some leaves lie crunchy on sidewalks, others (that had fallen a longer time ago) are reduced to paste mixed with rain. Ground into cement by shoes and the elements, like a paste of cilantro, green chillies and garlic ground into a board by a woman’s marble rolling pin.

The person whose shoes helped crush the leaves into the sidewalk could have been walking his dog on a foggy morning, tugging at the leash as the dog sprang to chase squirrels who were roaming through dew-laden grass. He could have gone home and wiped his dog’s muddy paws on an old towel on the porch before going inside to have a bagel and read the newspaper.

The person who made the cilantro paste to be thrown into hot oil could be the wife of any man in India. She might have tucked her long sari pallu into her petticoat at her waist and squatted to grind spices between marble and wood. Afterwards, she might have mixed atta with water for chapati, and then gone outside to pull the clothes off the clothesline.

Even on the nicest day, people in Vancouver are inside shopping malls, looking incessantly for something they’ve been convinced that they need. I know, because I am also there in a rush to get everything I need before I leave. Where the rush is, I don’t know, because as of now I’m not staying here or going there or anything.

In Mumbai, people are pushed by the same mentality to buy different things.

Anyone and everyone can be found in a mall in Vancouver: Vietnamese teen girls, whole Arabic families (veiled wives pushing strollers with dark-haired sons) hipsters, hippies.

Those shopping might very well be daughters in a lower-income family, spending the day at the mall because it is fun for free. They might have text messaged friends to come and meet them there. They could have tried on clothes made in China from the sale rack in a shop, and taken pouting pictures of themselves in the changeroom’s mirror.

Those in Mumbai could be upper class ladies, shopping for saris at a shop near Crawford market. They may have sat drinking tea while the salesboy wrapped himself in zardozi-embroidered saris to model them. One sari is worth more than the salary he receives in two years. The women might have fluttered their hands in discussion over which draping style and jewellery would be most appropriate for the upcoming event before leaving the shop and enjoying dahi puri in the street.

Since leaving the hospital after the typhoid bacteria to left my body, I’ve been walking and running around the city, and eating avocado sushi and sprouted bread, and so regaining strength. At night I sleep more deeply than I ever did in Mumbai, sleep re-wrapping the unravelled ball of wool that is my health.

In Mumbai, a labourer would also sleep as deeply, because he has worked so hard during the day. He could as easily be a family man with four children as he could be a bachelor. As a bachelor, he might sleep on the edge of an eight foot wall lining the road, underneath an overpass. He has two feet of wall width on which he can toss and turn, so doesn’t move so much in his slumber. As dawn curls its rose fingers underneath the overpass, he scratches his stomach and keeps his eyes shut even as he is awake, savouring the last moment of rest for the next sixteen hours.

The person sleeping so deeply in the night is me. In the safety and warmth of my family home, I have my own room. The whole house is heated uniformly, through the floors. The blinds on the windows are specially designed to block out all light: no rose-coloured dawn fingers curling around them.

The labourer labours because he has no option. I run and swim to expend my energy and build my muscles because I am rich enough to have the time and energy to do so. I can do anything I want; who else can I say that for.

As much as I feel I would love to run back to Mumbai, maybe, just maybe, things are as they are because it is how they must be.

(One would think that I should have learned this by now, but like most people, I have a tendency to avoid learning the things that allow more wellness and less worry into life)

Maybe I need this time: to learn to live with uncertainty and realise that while things could always be more perfect, they will never be bad. To remember that I have been born into a life is so beautiful that every place I go will welcome me: that wherever I run, and whenever I have to pause, I will be relentlessly pursued by blessings of all kinds.

the neighbourhood cafe

In a Starbucks on Cambie, a moms meeting is happening. The moms, weary and disheveled, work on knitting projects or breastfeed their infants and talk about neighbourhood issues. One has something deeper on her mind, her husband recently started taking longer hours at the office. She’s anxious. He is not so demonstrative as he’s always been, a little tighter-lipped. She is sure that she used to know him but is not so sure now, what to do.

Their kids, equally disheveled but more energetic, wear brighter clothes and rubber boots. They shout and romp around the indoor playground of the cafe. One boy has an older brother who is at home less and less. The little boy feels something from this, but doesn’t know how to consider where his feelings are from. As he grows older, he will come to know that the world is both more beautiful and more ugly than he thought before.This is a sad thing, and a happy thing, depending on your opinion.

One of the more assertive young people working behind the counter requests that the kids don’t climb on the furniture. Wiping a counter with a grey cloth, she thinks about what she’ll do after this job: go back to school or get another? The rent she pays is too high to quit before finding another job, so she is a little bit stuck.

It’s raining outside and everyone leaves their umbrellas at the door and drapes their wet coats over the backs of chairs.

Students come in the morning to settle in for the day, in skirts, tights, big sweaters. Hair wrapped in messy buns with strays falling out. They occupy space, spreading textbooks and notes and ipods and blackberries over multiple table surfaces. They allow themselves to be interrupted by constant text messages. One girl flirts with a stranger on her facebook page, enjoying the distraction from her term paper but unsure about the guy. She likes him liking her, his attention for her, but why? Does he even really like her?

Some corporate people are also meeting here, arriving within a few minutes of one another and joking about office politics. One man is distracted today, had a hard time dragging himself from his bed to this meeting even though he doesn’t live far. It’s been a few months since he moved to take this job, and he worries about being away from his young family.

They all drink different drinks: some ladies have re-committed themselves to their diets and are having skinny lattes, while others have re-committed to pleasure in life and are having whole milk mochas. One of them recently read an article in a free magazine from a health food store that said what you THINK about the food you eat is more important than the food you eat. So she thinks, life is short, and anyways real women enjoy their food. So she slurps her mocha. Mmm.

Others are people who would like to be as alone as I am, and so are sitting at tables with their computers or listening to music,everything except for being involved with what else is going on in the cafe. I am only apparently uninvolved, but only actually half involved. Only observing and thinking about my neighbour as opposed to interacting with him or her.

The odd Philipino nanny with infinite patience comes in with the double stroller ferrying caucasian kids. She hushes the little ones in her care and picks up a kilo of ground coffee for the household she works for. Older couples clad in gore-tex come in to pick up lattes and continue on their walk under a wide umbrella.

A couple of young men sit at the window, watching girls that walk by. A couple of girls walk by and look into the window, to see if there’s anyone of interest. Both young women and men (who may be just coming into the cafe to see who might be inside) come inside. Their eyes fall on each person at each table, and sometimes linger if there’s a response. The people attached to the eyes that met will then follow one anothers’ actions and exchange a couple more glances while one waits around for the coffee. Once your coffee is ready though, if you aren’t going to sit down, then what other business do you have in a coffee shop? So they will exchange a last glance before the one who came in helplessly walks out. Maybe he or she will go home and post a missed connection in the local online personals, in hopes of connecting there instead of in person.

One man with a broad back sits looking out the window and aching with all of himself, missing someone that he hasn’t met yet.

An elderly woman fills in her daily crossword puzzle and only looks up and through the window occasionally. As though just to check if everything in her world is the same as she left it when she looked down to focus on the words.

One of the kid clan that is there with their moms, a little girl, presses her wet nose against the same window further down. Just to watch the rain outside.

on hold

I left Aunty’s bandstand apartment before noon on september 30th, had stayed up late the night before, folding and packing things. Alone as I generally am when I am moving in or out of any place. I felt angrier and angrier with allowing her to take advantage of me with her demands for money. She is crazy, and it is not her fault, but I could have left earlier, should have, but didn’t.

Leaving the house the next morning, I almost started to cry. Even if something isn’t the best for you, if it’s something you’re used to, you’ll miss it until you have something else.

Then I straightened my back and threw my pieces of luggage into the rickshaw while the men of my building watched me and didn’t offer to help. And whistled past bandstand where I lived for the whole while.

In Canada there is a different kind of beauty. Where in Mumbai, the edges of air are muddled, in Canada they are sharp, crisp, clean. Thrashing my limbs in a hospital bed, I had noticed the quietness around me. I couldn’t hear anything, even if I strained and fought to hear something, there was no sound. And outside the window, there were only a few people. You’d think there would be more people in such a beautiful place.

On the bus downtown, a boy dressed like Justin Bieber ate a piece of sprouted bread toast while he read one of the free newspapers. Every girl walking on Granville strip was dressed to the nines, but was frowning into her phone or ipod or both.

I remember spending time with women in Dharavi, loving them because they don’t have such complicated, wrecked, messy minds. They are simple and clean and beautiful. Their problems are more and their worries are fewer.

I had no phone or ipod to distract me, and shone out the window at the people in the streets.

I left India on a friday morning, sick as a dog. Mary Ellen came to Hayley’s Juhu apartment where I was sleeping, pushed me the bathroom where I took a sitting down shower. She packed my bags and fed me while I was lying down. Then Viren showed up, and practically carried me downstairs with all of my bags. He dropped me off at the international airport and then I was on my own, to take two flights and carry typhoid across two borders before arriving home, delirious with a fever of one hundred and five.

Your hair is falling out so much,” remarks my little sister. I shrug and pull my fingers through my hair, taking along a few strands.

On the plane, I remembered sleeping beauty in Bandra. How sleepy Carter Road is in the morning, before it wakes up. Many of the people you can see in the day there are also there in the night. Collapsed. Finished, and resting, for as long as their economic situation allows them.

In Vancouver, I sat in a cafe where it looked like every couple was meeting for the first time. On blind dates, organized through the internet, so they already had lots of background information about one another. In one sense, each knows what to expect, and in another sense, each is misled about the other by thinking that they know something about them in advance. Having only lived in the era in which I do, I wondered about the time where you could not know anything about a person before personally meeting them.

I checked into VGH on my second day home. I had not planned to have typhoid fever or stay in the hospital for eight days, but what could I do? I slept for four days while taking two liters of salt water per day into my body through IV, as well as antibiotics.

At the Indian Consulate downtown, the very same sardarji doorman welcomed me.

”Aapko yaad hoga, mere bare me, na?’ I joked with him. You remember me, right? There were only two other foreigners in the Punjabi-filled office, and they were definitely of the tourist variety.

‘Aray haanji, haanji!’ Of course! he spoke with me in Punjabi-tinged Hindi which I could only just understand, and the rest of the waiting room was curious. Naturally there were some complications with my request for a visa.

So I wandered through downtown like a lost dog. I realised again, but for the first time in many months, that I will always be a foreigner in India, and will always require permission from a higher authority before I can spend time there.

In theory, moving every few months is a great idea: how much exposure, how many experiences, how much knowledge gained from having to figure everything out for yourself in a new place, every time. But what if you are emotional? If you need people to love and to love you wherever you go? Who can those people be, how quickly can all of that be set up and be real?

My lips and hands are dry. My legs, the very same that have jumped so high on the trampoline, that have pushed me to so many heights, that have carried me to every place, feel flaccid and finished.

The late afternoon sun filters through the big windows in my parents’ enormous new home and falls on me. My arm hair stands up, my feet are cold, my body has forgotten how to behave.

Downtown, chic office people roam around with lattes in their hands, talking together. The homeless or crazy or addicted, or all three, sit on heating vents and wait for something to happen that will make a change in their lives. Maybe some loose change.

Robson street and granville strip are evolving. Little restaurants are being beaten down to make space for big chain restaurants, or Japadog.

My current on hold, waiting state is not conducive to doing anything: to writing, to deep thinking, to working, to relaxing. It’s only fit for being anxious. So I am anxious all day and don’t do so much.

Still, here the street is clean and people walk everywhere. And everyone does what they like. If you want to wear these clothes, you can. If you want to kiss someone of the same sex publicly, why not. If you want to chat with others, that can be a little tricky, because people would rather keep to their own business. If, like most everyone, you want to keep to yourself, that is the best, you are most welcome.

The sun was not warm, but it shone in my eyes and I welcomed it. I loved it as much as it loved me, and that was enough.

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