Pelicans, cormorants, gulls, precious plovers merrily alight where the beach isn’t manicured and the wrack prevails. Crabs shuttle sideways, silverfish dart back and forth, and thousands of mussels cling to rocks. Nowhere else have I witnessed this abundance of abundance. A haven that doesn’t favour one more than the other.

With the good fortune of warmer waters, usually calmer currents, Southern California beaches are perennially dotted w people sunbathing, people napping, people bumping volley-balls, people practicing yoga, people surfing, people picnicking, people modeling, people painting en plein air, and people like me, curled with books, gazing intently into a different world from the comfort of a cornucopia. Sea-creatures, sea-sprayed and rejoicing. Little kids smattered amidst the grown ups, lost in their own pirate adventures.

I love these folks. People who come hungry to the ocean. People who claim it back, demand a slice of it, to themselves. No matter what goes on in their lives, in the moments on the beach, the ocean is theirs, they are its rightful patrons and they position themselves as such.

I park my car in a garage at a nominal price of a dollar every 15mins.

Infrastructure comes at a cost. Arguably.

I walk along the promenade, book and coffee in hand, keys, sunscreen, sanitizer, pen, various credit cards and IDs in my cross-body bag. Dressed comfortably in high waisted, wide-leg linen pants and a crop top—trends I’m here for, fisherman sandals specifically for the beach, I take a stock of my surroundings, looking for a spot to settle in. There is a picnic blanket and beach paraphernalia in the car’s trunk — always in the car’s trunk, what with beach preparedness that comes with living here—but I’m solo and I don’t plan to go in the water. I just need a bench or the soft shade of a kind tree.

I’m near the piece of Laguna beach that’s called Treasure Island. Laguna beach has grown to become my favourite beach in California, probably in the world, because it’s home. I find on the cliff, a strip of promenade with empty metal benches. I pick one and settle on it, ready to immerse in my current read with a flat white from a local coffeeshop. Given the height, this is a fantastic vantage point. The azure sky reflects on the Pacific, cloaking it cerulean, icy blue at the tips where the waves break. A W-shaped formation of gulls is flying up from the South, a few of them break formation to scout for food, where they see picnickers. Thick vegetation adorns the entire length of the promenade so that when I sit, it’s right at my feet.

Normally, I appreciate wild growth a lot more than deliberate landscaping but this difference blurs in Laguna. West Coast has accepted species from all over the world and made them her own. The integration is seamless—you can’t tell the local apart from the foreign, and that’s not because they all look alike, it’s despite. They coexist in an explosion of colours, shapes, and textures, side by literal side. A beautiful symbiosis.

Bright brittlebush pop out as though a little kid cut the sun into bite-size pieces and glued them onto the plants. Orange poppies like a sea of fire. Gray-green aloe, agave clusters that look like starfish walked out of the sea and docked on the beach permanently. Prickly pears stand surefooted, subtle reminder that despite this coastline, despite the waves that threaten a tsunami, despite the strikingly lush plethora and diversity of the plant kingdom, not too far lies a brutal side of California, much less forgiving even if equally beautiful.

I’m a reveler of nature’s bounty. Say, trees. Trees evoke this mysterious reverence in me. Kind of homage to ancestors. Because they are our forebears, right? They are grandparent like in their affection and care, sibling like when their branches whip me unnecessarily, friend like when protecting me from the weather, sometimes even an angry lover blocking my path on a hike, although never not negotiable. I anthropomorphize excessively but the comparison stops right there. The truth is trees will always be better than us.

At the beach, it’s the palms. I have to be honest, the palms with their slender trunks and ornamental chandeliers of crowns don’t evoke the same feelings as do the thick trunked, wide-spanned oaks, but oh they are so emblematic and when I say something like this, I immediately want to track back worried that they will hear my thoughts and get offended! I love them all. Trees, bushes, grass, all the greens. What a mercy they are to us! Sitting on the bench, I’m aware that I’m surrounded by this spectacular beauty and I feel accomplished, most accomplished.

My mind inadvertently drifts to counting blessings. I never forget that this is what I was chasing. Freedom. For a girl who grew up in India, this simple joy was withheld, was conditional.

“Take your brother with you.”

“Make sure a male friend accompanies you.”

Freedom to walk without being honked at, without being catcalled, without being flashed at.

Freedom to equally enjoy the beauty of the world, without the fear of being damaged.

There is no shade intended here—merely stating of a fact that is relevant to me. Cultures grow at different times, rates, and in different directions. What culture A has gained in a particular sphere, culture B may be lagging behind in. But culture B might be way ahead in some other sphere. This is to say that India is not worse than America or vice versa. It just happens that growth has taken this part of this country (US) in a direction I came chasing many years ago. I did not come here for a career or money. I came here for that simple unadulterated freedom to enjoy what should be universal. (Precarity looms over freedom in almost all countries these days, America especially).

To her credit, my home country that nurtured me is fighting hard to create a safe space for the historically overlooked. For the millions that kowtow to those in power, there are thousands who rally against. Voices of dissent still ring out, trembling or not.

Between my first day in the US and now, a lot has changed within me too. Time does have a way of dulling the sharp edges, diluting the saltiness, as it did with me. I used to be unapologetically, unabashedly, vehemently vocal about my dissenting opinions verging extreme left. Things are calmer inside me now, like a quiet defeat. Moments of suffocating helplessness rear up every now and then, the mad world gives me many occasions. I still talk, but without the need to win every argument, without the want to bring in my fold those who disagree. Discourse for academic prowess is discourse for the sake of it, and it takes away heavily from the very urgent social, emotional, existential threats of its subjects. If we are not aligned on simple egalitarianism, then you and me are so different, it’s difficult to even begin, and I’m so tired about it.

The way this essay drifted is exactly how my mind drifts, on the waves the Pacific, along the opalescent cotton-ball clouds. It’s as if my mind views the boundless ocean and the boundless sky and sensing it as something to emulate, stretches itself towards that same boundlessness. I close my eyes. Grateful again, for the freedom, for these simple joys. I breathe in deep the liberating salinity, take a sip of coffee, dunk my head into the book I’m reading, affirming this way of life, the quietest luxury.

When I’m in this space, I love resorting to my little in-house collection, too little to be called a library, not so little as to be simply a collection. There must be a word for this intermediary!

I sit luxuriously in my curated room of books, on the floor, crowned by reading glasses. I’ve opened the large windows wide and the room is awash with light. If it’s dusk, it’s also slowly emulsified with the syrupy gold of the receding sunlight, the violets of the incoming twilight, and the glimmering ochre of our garden lights. If it’s cold, I turn the fireplace on, more for the illusion of warmth than anything. Occasionally I light a candle or two- always scented- always woody scents. My books are closer to the ground so I sit and sit, eyes in a slow staccato of left to right and back, pausing, I retrieve a book that catches my fancy, peruse it a bit, set it aside as a maybe. I do this back and forth until I have a small stack. Content, I shift to the couch, books by my side, pull the throw over my legs, take a sip of chai, and start going over the books I shortlisted, a bit more in detail now, giving each one perhaps a page or two.

30 minutes to an hour. The decision making process of picking the next book takes as much. It’s a ritual. It’s a whole revelry in itself. Tamanna, party of one!

In this small space is crammed a world of opportunities, promises, desires. It’s like you received an acceptance letter from all the universities you applied to and now have the privilege of picking one. It’s like you are ravenous with hunger and have all the cuisines and a private jet at your disposal. It’s like you broke up and moved on and are being courted by so many lovers and get to choose the one you desire. It’s like you are given a catalogue of trees and plants to choose from for the garden you finally have the means to landscape. It’s a tight knot of options, a plethora in an envelope with a scarlet wax seal—you know it will be intensely satisfying to break the smooth coin of a seal with the gentlest half-moon of your nail, but equally pleasurable to look at the sealed envelope sitting on the desk with the promise it holds.

Of course I romanticize everything in my life. Every moment a song, a drama, an explosion!

Ever so often this ritual is digitized. When I remember the many ebooks bought on a bit of a whim but mainly because they were heavily discounted on Kindle deals too good to miss out on. I pick up my Paperwhite and traverse its’ library, an amputated sensory affair. But the books have to be read!

Which book I pick is prominently guided by the DEI factor! If I finished reading an American novel, I look for a story from a different continent. If I finished reading a Black author, I look for a Russian white author. If I finished reading about civil war in Malaysia, I opt for climate fiction in Tasmania. If I finished a sci-fi laced with humanity, I opt for a non-fiction rooted in grim reality. Unfailingly interspersed through these books are the ones written by authors of Indian origin. I try to scout Indian publications, (Aleph book co., my favourite) and see if I can legitimately obtain one to begin the next reading journey. Mostly though, I end up reading something easily available in the States but that carries either a whiff or a whole bursting bouquet of India. It is like going back home after a long day! It’s hard to explain, for wistfulness and nostalgia for the country of my birth have never actively resided in me. I have never longed going back. I do not desire a return. But then how is it possible to long for something that you are filled to the brim with every single waking moment? India is me. And so I draw upon the books around India to empty a bit of my alluvion in them, feel lighter, perhaps refresh with new strands of understanding. It goes on.

I call upon a certain friend a lot, who joins me in this quasi quest with gusto—which book to read next?! have you read this one? What did you think? what are you reading now and why? Is this author scrupulous? Our exchanges quench and drench our souls. She has pointed me to many many resources from where I now gain insight about future reads.

Last two years have been great for reading. I have consciously pushed back from social media (WIP) and meticulously devoted time towards reading. But never too designed lest it sap the joy out of it. Never a compulsion, never imprisoned by a canon of directives. Life-changing, mind-bending books. I get the habit from mom, who gets it from both her parents but mainly from her father, my beloved grandfather.

Many decades ago, there was a little girl of 8 or 9, who experienced this ritual for the first time, in a small village in India, when her grandfather led her to a trunk full of books. Treasure trove it looked like, a bit rusted, patina resplendent, a big lock in the center where its arched lid sat flush on the cuboid base. He unlocked it, lifted the lid and with it the little girl’s fluttering heart; its contents somewhat dusty, but neatly stacked, and the little girl’s pupils dilated, her eyes dazzled with lustre, her heart boomed with exhilaration, sporadic pinpricks of electricity pervaded every neuron, as she realized the enormity of the moment that was upon her, the plushest space in the world, the freedom of picking a book from many…!

…brings a square of the outside in; the hibiscus radiating its limbs all over it, its’ orange flowers fluttering against the cream stucco patio-wall, the coffee-tree teasing with a few dark red cherries, the avocado tree engulfing us all in its’ benevolent shade.

On weekends, I open the windows wide. Let all the fresh Southern California sun-warmed air in, along with the consistent stream of birdsong—sometimes the hummingbird buzzes close to the window, occasional bark of the neighbour’s shih-tzu, occasional shrieks of the kids across the street. I let a bit of me dribble out—aromas of ginger suffusing the milky chai, sweet-shop perfume of buttery pancakes, pungent tadka of mustard seeds in hot oil, hints of a life being loved, presents of human culture. Often, notes of the music I play waft out along with the aromas; listeners are subjected to anything from peppy Dua Lipa, to liquid-gold of Suraiyya Begum, to traditional garba, to honeyed tunes of Nina Simone, and K-pop demon hunters of course. The birds get to see us moving swiftly in the kitchen, kids clambering up and down the breakfast counter, shaking a leg with me often.

My windowsill started very aesthetic and minimalistic. A singular candlestand, miniature monolith of an electric soap dispenser, some cookbooks. In true life-well-lived fashion, things started to accumulate and broke the aesthetic spell. Now on the sill sit my kids’ coin collections—not piggybanks, they broke those already—but two non-aesthetic purses of coins and dollar bills. My son deemed the windowsill as the safest place for them, so there they sit. A clunky dish rack is next to the sink. The stack of cookbooks has multiplied. The cute wine-bottle-holder holds our mail instead and doubles as a bookend for the cookbooks. Kids’ water-bottles of various primary colors stand between these two. Cups half filled with water are scattered everywhere. A tiny succulent sits on the sill from last year’s mother’s day. An ugly fly catching UV light thing is mounted on the outlet. The sink is never empty for too long—not piled, but not completely empty. And I love this arrangement a lot more than undisturbed perfection. Signs of existence, happiness.

The window itself is just a slab of glass encased in aluminium, but I have seen windows with more depth. Wooden ones with niches of stars and moons cut out, so that when light passes through, magnified versions of those stars and moons splay on the floor or walls. Windows of frosted glass whose heaviness you can feel just by looking at them—strange arrangement which brings some light in but blurs everything else. Glasses tinted just so slightly to bathe the kitchen in a cool green or soft pink. Sometimes there is a metal grille outside the window, straight bars or intricate patterns of flowers or geometric shapes, the metal establishing a boundary firm but the patterns declaring it’s not hostile. I’m talking about India of course. Where the windows are also often painted in bright hues, colour blocking before it was en vogue.

I miss the patterns and shapes, the lack of uniformity, the little niches, the purposefully cluttered sills. Somewhere along the way, the West popularized minimalism in a way that robs spaces of life but to be fair, there is nothing minimalistic about life.

My kitchen windows have been modest in size compared to the living room windows that provide expansive views and pull a ton of light. But even that little sliver, or perhaps exactly that smaller sliver, makes it so much more precious! I have discussed the possibility of a backsplash entirely of glass so that I can have all of the greens of my little patio to colour my mind cool. We humans made homes out of concrete walls but couldn’t keep the outside away, couldn’t disconnect from our roots, and gave ourselves windows of all kinds as compromise.

On my walks, sometimes I allow myself the voyeur of examining strangers’ kitchen windows. I see figurines lined up, dangling terrariums, stickers of various beliefs, backsides of photo frames, Stars and Stripes…the knick-knacks all say a little something about the inhabitants of those kitchens. Even if it doesn’t align with my preferences and aesthetic, I have come to admire the thought being put into these spaces, the care taken to fill them with heart, personalizing. I don’t like it if the clutter is one of neglect, one of laziness, and perpetual, but who am I to judge? For my own sake, I don’t mind when things appear mismatched, but they must be thought out, filled with intent, they must hold deep meaning, doesn’t matter if it’s a rock picked from a foreign beach reminiscent of a family vacation or an olive-wood serving board from Williams Sonoma that was an anniversary gift.

I imagine a village in which the kitchen windows of all houses come to face one another so that the people inside can swap recipes, trade spices, share meals. That happens in some parts of India and the world, I’m sure. There is nothing more intimate than letting someone into your kitchen, making with them, showing them your mish-mash of a kitchen window.

I stayed quiet, I understood where you came from.

I stayed quiet, my empathy made me.

I stayed quiet, thinking love is surrendering.

I stayed quiet, hoping my silence will be inferred as a strength.

I stayed quiet, hoping my silence will be interpreted as respect.

I stayed quiet, to deflate angers.

I stayed quiet, to defuse scuffles.

I stayed quiet, to make you look good.

I stayed quiet, to not make a mountain of a molehill.

I stayed quiet, because I had other avenues.

I stayed quiet, it was somewhat of a choice.

The words stayed inside me. They burbled and roiled and churned inside me, dashing about, mashing about, bumping the walls of my insides trying to find a way out!

Inside me was a tumultuous lull.

Inside me was a quiet chaos.

Inside me was ambivalence, angst, conflict.

My body did not want these words either. She expressed distress, a shift in personal demeanour. Unpleasant changes. Who was I becoming?

I will not be quiet, it does not determine my stature.

I will not be quiet, you have to understand where I come from.

I will not be quiet, too much empathy has led to poor decision making and moral quandaries, ultimately self-neglect.

I will not stay quiet, because surrendering in love implies defeat but love isn’t love if not empowerment and equality.

I will not stay quiet, because my silence was seen as weakness and I am not weak.

I will not stay quiet, because my silence was disrespected.

I will not stay quiet, your anger is not my cross to bear.

I will not stay quiet, who will calm the scuffle inside me?

I will not stay quiet, just because its good optics.

I will not stay quiet, it may be a molehill to you, it’s still my mountain.

I will not stay quiet, because I have other avenues.

I will not stay quiet, it is a choice, damn right.

WOMEN AND SILENCE

Almost every woman I know, every girlfriend, every cousin, every foi, every masi, every coworker, has had to stay quiet during some phase of her life. The strongest of women I know have had to.

I have had to stay quiet, even with a supportive family and friends who would probably have advised against it.

Whether for a short time or for far too long, silence has plagued the boldest and bravest of us. We all have our reasons, justifiable or not.

Some have resorted to silence out of social conditioning, or fear, or pressure, or lack of alternatives and dependence.

Some have resorted to silence in hope of resolution or because the contrary appeared petty.

Sometimes that silence has reaped short-term benefits but always at the cost of some deeper long-term damage.

Some of us are fortunate to recognize the patterns soon enough and break out of this cage of silence. Some of us endure longer, amass the hurt until bitterness collects into empty crevices of our bodies and flows, side-by-side with our blood.

Some of us heal. Some of us struggle longer than we deserve.

DEDICATION

This is for all those women who have ever been silenced.

You will be heard if you are loved and respected. That is simply the short and long of it. You deserve to be.

BEING A GIRL MOM

In my ongoing journey as a girl-mama, this is my penultimate goal: giving agency to my daughter. She has my characteristics, my unabashed ability to assert and my confidence. But it took me many years to nurture these attributes until they bloomed into meaningful expression whereas my daughter comes preloaded with them!

My enjoyable struggle then is to inculcate discipline without suppressing. Sometimes it is the hardest thing to do! I fear, “what if she retreats into her shell if I am too firm?” “what if she crosses the line between assertion and cockiness if I’m not?” Like I said, it is an enjoyable struggle, a fun challenge! Akin to my mom, I come armed with loud love for my kids, for my daughter, a love that is expressed explicitly every chance possible, on which’s foundation rest all of my efforts of raising her, and encouraging her to go on speaking up, go on breaking barriers the world puts up, go on making dents in expectations, do it to smithereens.

So this is also for my daughter, as a reminder to where her mom and those before and around her come from, a warning about what the world around her can wrongly push her into, a hope that she will fall back on her instincts with us in her fold, to speak the hell up. (but we are not using the h word!).

How apt are Faiz’s famous lines here:

We talk about breaking generational cycles, overcoming childhood trauma. There is a trend “first in the bloodline…”. It is only apt then that I give credit where its due, to champions of change such as my mom, who broke the generational cycle for me, who was my pillar to lean on in face of events that could be filed under childhood trauma.

I am not the first in my bloodline to do cool things, my mom is.

It is grand luck and privilege to be born to a mother who paved the way.

Was she perfect? By no means.

Did she wake up at 6 am and make meals for us? no

Did she bathe me and braid my hair regularly? no

Did she enroll me in multiple extracurriculars? barely

Did she sit down to help me with homework? rarely

Did she attend all the parent-teacher meetings and school functions? no

She did do all of the above, just not all the time, not perfectly.

She was human, she made that clear. She delegated to dad, who pitched in readily for his fair share of workload. She was explicit in letting us know when she was exhausted, having a bad day, or just not in the mood. There was nothing she sacrificed for us. Turns out, that is role model energy. She taught us self-love.

Growing up in her radiance, I inherited from her, agency, confidence, audacity, and a healthy amount of love for self. She showed us that desires, comforts, joys, are owed to every member of the society no matter their gender, age, job title, or any such factor. By not suffering, by speaking up, she leveled the playing field. She always leveled the playing field. She commanded attention, she claimed space.

The central points in mom’s MO for raising us were her ebullient, expressive, love and kindness. All mothers love their kids, of course, mine was heavy on the expression. Any moment that carried with it the possibility of expression of love was ergo utilized fully. She has the kindest eyes, the kindest words.

My mom is second of four kids. My grandfather (dada) told me this anecdote from mom’s childhood that has a graphic memory in my head.

When my mom was 2, during play, the pointy end of chimta or saansi (tongs) pierced and drove 2 inches into her soft skull. My grandma (dadi) who was pregnant and the only adult in the house at the time, mustered her reflexive courage and pulled out the tong with her hands, fearing tetanus. The phrase that my dada irrevocably employed to describe what came next was “Fountain of blood”.

As a child, this image rent my tender heart that always held my mom in the dearest regard. It brought tears to my eyes when I was a child, to imagine my young mother in gut-wrenching pain, crying, hurt innocently. It pained my heart even more as I grew up, became a mama myself, and imagined having such an injury inflicted on one’s kid.

My mom gradually lost consciousness following extensive blood loss. My grandparents were people of simple means, highly revered but poor; my dada, a headmaster and my dadi, a professor in a women’s college, in a small village called Vyara in the suburbs of Surat. They rushed my mom to the local clinic. There was only one hospital in Vyara which would not admit my mom because her case was deemed hopeless. The doctor in Vyara advised my grandparents to take my mom to the hospital “in the city”. This was circa 1962. Dada-dadi had a bicycle as the only means of transport. Only a handful of families owned the automobile. Because dada was relatively well-known, a jeep was arranged and my mom was whisked to Surat for treatment.

The first hospital they took her to, Seventh Day Adventist’s —which would happen to be the same institution I later went to school and interned at—did a quick exam of my mom and declared that she would not live. My dada, furious at the doctor’s lack of effort, did not give up, and tried another hospital. The Maskati Hospital (named after Muscat?) in the heart of the city of Surat, was where my mom was treated. My dada always held this doctor in the highest regard for he did not immediately give up. He quickly initiated mom’s care, warning my grandparents that her survival was not guaranteed. If she did manage to survive, she might have serious complications. My mother remained in a coma in that hospital for two days. On the third, she opened her immense eyes, and said, “Bhoo”, indicating ‘water’ in toddler’s Gujarati. That was the moment my dada knew, she would live. And boy, did she live! She thrived. She shone through. She made her mark and continues to do so. She never ended up developing any complications either.

Such then, was her first encounter with the city where she would someday go to study, meet the love of her life, where she would have her babies, the city that was to become her permanent home. Mom went into the arms of the city of Surat a helpless child, pale and limp, and she took her in, breathing life into her, restarting the cogs and wheels of her little body, sending blood gushing down to her toenails, not unlike the Tapti gushing through the city, life bubbling up wherever it flowed...

Many years later, my mom would return to Surat. This time, voluntarily.

She would be the first in her bloodline to leave her father’s home to complete her higher education.

She would be the first to pursue a Master’s degree, in English literature, nonetheless.

She would be the first to go on the stage of her college’s annual function and sing “Tere hontho ke do phool pyaare pyaare” to a resounding applause and cries of encore.

She would be the first to write and publish poems in magazines, and be selected for an international workshop in writing (that could have taken her to London, and we have talked about this, me and her, about how different her life could’ve been, what it would have been like?).

She would be the first to fall in love, break up, fall in love again.

She would be the first to marry someone not of her religion.

She would be the first to wear mini skirts.

She would be the first to drive and own a car.

She would take after her own mother and become financially independent (and continues to be at present).

She would not change her name after marriage. She would not change anything about herself after marriage.

This was my mama in her 20s. Baddie, like I said, in all ways.

But you know what was the most endearing bit? She was grounded as iron in the the earth’s core. She did not think of these things as accomplishments. She did not blow any trumpets about her own. She simply did what she loved, followed her heart’s calling, was unapologetically herself.

I will not say that it was easy. It never is for a woman, especially in that time. But she had her strong resolve and unwavering support of first, her parents, and second, her husband. A support that was born from love and bolstered by basic humanity. That is all that is needed to see an individual flourish! My mom stood up for herself and was given the space she claimed.

I intend to write about what a wonderful, fulfilling, rich tapestry her life’s journey has weaved. I’m lucky to have glided on it, flown on it, and while she is here with me, I want to commemorate our beautiful, solid, complex relationship.

I love you so much, maa!

I woke to the calling of my own consciousness, untroubled by trills of a device. My room on the 19th floor of Normandie Court in the Upper East Side dazzled, flooded by the spring sun, bright, sweet, crisp as a metal wafer on the copper-topped, glass-bathed concrete columns that make Manhattan. Windows covered three-quarters each of two of the four walls of my room and I had the habit of sleeping with the curtains wide open to allow my body to rise to the natural rhythm of the circadian, aligned with the daylight, at least on weekends. Faint clinking of spoons and glasses, and hisses of conversation arrived muffled through the faux walls that separated my room from my two roommates’. Inevitably, the ambrosian aroma of fresh coffee made its way through the slit in my door. I lay spatchcocked on my bed under a fuchsia Cynthia Rowley quilt, eyes fluttering open, senses awakening, slowly registering, reorienting, relishing the slowness that weekend brings.

Blizzard season had exited with a flair along with its flu, cold, cough team. Spring was arriving lazily, dispersing pollen as though to punish everyone who roused it. Central Park was about to be hit with hundreds of cameras and clicks in the cherry blossoms corner.

I sat up, leaned over, looked down 19 storeys.

Magnolias, Crabapples, Pear trees in bloom. It never gets old to see this city shed off its winter garments of black and white and rust, and wholeheartedly plunge into florals.

I just want to cherish these few moments of nothing before everything.

How much quiet character is bestowed upon this city by her trees alone? The Kwanzan Cherry trees are the reason I divert to Park Avenue. The Ginkgos make me stop and take the inevitable selfie with a brownstone in background. I could be standing under a cloud-piercing tower and find that the most endearing part of it is right at the bottom in that little piece of square where the Hawthorne is planted. And the running paths? Don’t even get me started! I would not have run long distances if not for the canopies of trees in this knot of cement and glass.

As I watched the trees gently swaying in the spring breeze, as I let my body tingle with the contentment of assurance these trees brought, that one image of that other tree kept coming to my mind.

During my routine online meanderings, I had come across a completely different kind of tree, that had immediately fascinated me. The way it had enthralled me was almost ridiculous. Why so much enchantment towards a tree? Because I had never seen anything like it before.

Miles away from New York, beyond the Great Lakes, the Rocky Mountains, the White Sands, on the other coast of the country, lay this patch of land so otherworldly, so startling, it indeed is the only one of its kind in the world, and what gives it that unique quality? This tree.

The Joshua Tree.

I think I first came across it in a friend’s photo of its namesake Joshua Tree National Park. One glance and it engulfed me in its’ sway entirely. Hundreds of Joshua trees, spread out on yellow earth, 360 degrees. What was this?! Was it the tree’s unique art-form of a shape that drew me? The beautifully strange branches holding pom-poms of spiky leaves and white flowers, pointing in directions one couldn’t predict. Yes, the tree itself is unique! What was equally fascinating to me was that there were hundreds of them spread out across acres upon acres. These trees are exclusive to the Mojave desert in Southwestern US!

Nowhere else on this entire planet can one witness a scene like this! This otherworldly forest that sparkles like gold under the sun and creates unparalleled silhouettes under the incandescent Milky Way at night! I’m helplessly besotted by everything nature.

I wanted to visit.

I weakly pitched it to friends when discussions were being had of where to go in the next few months but someone else came up with Yellowstone and I got swooped up in that, fairly so. I tucked away Joshua Tree in some recess of my heart. Someday…

Since that easy Sunday morning in Normandie in 2013, my life graciously took me through many other tree-lined paths across state lines. Yet, a decade passed and I had yet to see Joshua tree. The National Park bug had bitten me. Yellowstone, Shenandoah, Grand Tetons, Cuyahoga, Acadia, Rockies…but I still hadn’t made it to Joshua Tree. And then, fate, notorious for her surprises, did her thing.

I found my life transported smack dab in the heart of the mind-boggling beauty that is California!

It was December 2022, one month after moving to Southern California, when my husband gently reached out to that recess of my heart that had held Joshua Tree NP for so long. I was told that I was being whisked away to a surprise location. West Coast being completely novel to me, I kept thinking it was San Diego we were headed to because all the road-signs pointed to that. It wasn’t until the highway bifurcated and planted us very close to it that I was sure we were indeed headed to Joshua Tree NP!

Love asserts itself through these acts, which is a whole another saga, and what a love it is that reaches into the recesses of one’s heart, bringing forth with utmost care that which was carefully stowed, and allows it to prevail; all of this without any prodding! but, back to the Joshua trees…

I sound like a lunatic to anyone who will look at a Joshua tree and go, “what’s the big deal?” I couldn’t explain to you why it really is such a big deal for me!

Once inside the NP, the majestic Mojave desert, I remembered something that my mom had told me many years back. I remembered her describing the desert as a landscape of incomparable beauty. What she had shared had stayed with me, as what she says usually does. In the Mojave that day, I realized that I’m my mother’s daughter after all, because what was this mad attraction for a landscape that has swathes of the same exact trees standing on a baked and cracked sheet of land, thoroughly awash in prickly desert sand?!

What is it about the desert that lures me despite the glaring obviousness of what it lacks, as transparent as the thin air of the desert, as white as the blaze of the sun on it?

Desert exemplifies the lack of.

Absences.

I wrote a tiny poem many years ago about spaces:

Deserts are blank spaces on maps but anyone who has spent some time in the desert will tell you that they are spaces filled to the brim with blank.

Empty, in a constricting way. Imagine feeling suffocated in wide open spaces with miles and miles of room everywhere you look, so much room it chokes you. As if a piece of the vastness of space itself is temporarily shelved in planet Earth.

Isolation in such a place is realizing the centripetality of loneliness.

This is only conjecture, as far as I’m concerned. That’s because experiencing a desert the way I do is hardly an adventure. It is balm for the eyes and soul, sure, but adventure, barely. We are too equipped, too prepared, too comfortable. I want it that way, don’t get me wrong, but I admit, it is not the same as exploring a part of the park where Google has not dropped a pin. Yet, the desert is “terribly fascinating”.

Edna Brush Perkins writes specifically about the Mojave in The White Heart of Mojave- about the terrible fascination of the desert, the stillness, the silence, the utter absence of smells, and the white and blue of the desert amidst the chocolates and purples and maroons and oranges of the mountains and mesas. She writes how the emptiness engulfs one, overpowering but at the same time liberating. I find myself so endeared her experience. (Beg to differ about the Joshua trees though, which she thought as dreadful!)

Since that first visit to the Mojave, I’ve had the good fortune to revisit. Each time, the Mojave has shown me more than what she did the previous time. In a land so parched, so blistering, how do the Juniper Pines and Cholla Cacti spring up? What is in this soil that made these yuccas grow here? The Mojave is where I came face to face with the animal that inspired a beloved childhood cartoon character- the roadrunner!

I’m not the only one though that feels intensely about the desert, about the Mojave—the skies do too! Their intensity comes across in the sharp blues and whites of midday, the strokes of deep purple, misty pink, flaming orange, honey yellow at dawn and dusk. Nothing else but the desert inspires such a dance of hues in the heavens.

A bit north of the magnificent Joshua Tree NP is another such endless terrain—Death Valley. Edna Brush Perkins writes specifically about her trip to the Valley. Death Valley, has also beckoned me as it has beckoned many others since centuries. Humans have inhabited this valley, despite her harshness. Long before the white man moved in searching for gold and gems and minerals and what not, this land has been home to the Timbisha Shoshone and the ones before them. Bolstered with gadgets and technology and yet the Valley is intimidating. How did people before us get by here without all the modern paraphernalia?

Perhaps the Valley chooses the ones she wants to provide a haven to.

The road that led us to the heart of the Valley, or as Edna calls it, the white heart of the Mojave, was surrounded in all directions by miles and miles of nothingness bordered at the edges by series of mountains, some snow topped, some red, some brown, some cream coloured. Never in my life have I ever seen so many different colours on mountains in one single place. Mountains that change colour with the arc of the sun.

To my naive Bollywood fed self, deserts were sand dunes and palm trees with a random oasis thrown in. The Valley laughs at me, or maybe just smiles amused. Because she shows me how much more she is than my simple idea of a desert!

By showing me the blinding white in Badwater Basin, salt sparkling like crystals.

By putting me over 200 feet below sea level.

By the squishiness of the salt flats that do not betray the presence of water.

By the yellow and purple wildflowers, thriving in the driest and roughest of earth.

How can canyons of all these shapes and textures, each one distinct from the other, all exist in such short spans of one another? What geological process made the soil here rich in the minerals that made the hills a gray green?

The striking thing for someone like me though, is how stunning the Valley is despite the sheer absence of trees in the saltpan. We saw some Joshua trees at the far reaches of Death valley, surely at higher elevations, but as we traveled to her heart, no true trees. Only creosote bushes. What a severe kind of beauty!

Where Joshua Tree NP is relatively uniform, Death Valley is manifold and myriad, offering a novel vista at every bend.

One of the reasons that I find the desert so attractive could be the glimpse of the otherworldly that it provides!

I’m tempted to stretch my imagination and dream up the surface of another planet! I’m tempted to imagine our Earth herself eons ago!

It feels as though the desert is a relic of times long before us, and hence a sort of time machine that indulges our fantasies. Or that it’s a blueprint of another part of the universe which we may never ever have access to and hence a sort of playground that indulges our imaginations.

As nature so profoundly does, the desert too has the unfailing effect of rendering us small and insignificant. A few minutes out in the Mojave makes one realize how helpless one is left to their own devices. It’s a swift reminder that on this incredible planet, we are only tentative specks.

The rocks and forms of the Mojave have existed for millions of years. Dinosaurs have walked these tracks. Bristlecone pines have seen more seasons here than any. The Mojave took her arid form after the last Ice Age, tens of thousands of years ago.

These forces of nature will persevere, the cycle of life and extinction will go on churning, and we are nothing but fortunate to have been a part of this magnificence for what little time we have as a species.

Thanks to my dear Marcia for the book, Edna Brush Perkins’ The White Heart of Mojave.

Artemis II launched.

4 astronauts, one of them a woman.

This is such a fresh truth. (I fully acknowledge the privilege of being able to revel in a truth of choice, forgetting other truths, even if just for a moment.)

It revives hope.

Maybe all is not wrong with the world.

It’s a strange place in history to be in—years ago, something like this could only have been telecast on television in a specific time slot. People would talk about it in anticipation, clear out their schedules for the stipulated time, and gather around their TV sets to watch history being written, in unison.

Today, when it happens, there is no such urgency (except in enthusiasts). There is some talk, but no jamboree. Everyone gets numerous chances to watch and rewatch the launch. They can pick the time they want to watch. There are multiple recordings and viewpoints of the event—like the ones where people got to see the launch from their aircrafts! It is still special but it is not exclusive.

Sometimes I really cannot believe I’m part of that generation of humanity that gets to see this distinct transition into technology.

Transistor radios to Spotify.

Calculators to iPhones.

Bullock carts to Waymos.

Everything in between.

That’s it, nothing much to say but mark this moment in history I was alive to witness. Humans going to the moon again, even if not landing on it.

If everyone paid a bit more attention to space, it would remind us of our smallness in the grand scheme of things.

The world, the only place we know, our only home, could be a better place.

During one of my difficult times (which in retrospect wasn’t all that difficult!), I read Carl Sagan’s Cosmos. The gist of that book for me was that we, humans, are a very tiny piece of a cosmos that is vast beyond imagination. We should not be brooding if we can help it. We are probably insignificant and definitely not special.

This life, this planet, is all we have in this infinite universe. That is such a loaded reality. What are we going to do with this fact?!

Insignificant as we are, we are still, made of stardust! We have the vestiges of creation in us. Beauty standards of the world are laughable if you hold this fact close to your heart. Class, creed, religion, race, are laughable.

Cosmos stayed with me and gave me unexpected relief and strength.

When I hear news of space, it rekindles those old feelings of awe in me, makes me feel like a child, one who is close to ultimate forces of creation.

Cosmos made me think, what if God is in a form we can never imagine?

What if love is a force of nature and a law of physics no one has decoded yet?

It is incredibly fortunate as it is precarious that some of us humans get to be closer to that space, watch our entire world in a single frame in a single moment with their naked eyes. While I may not be able to get that perspective, I will cherish every moment of vicarious joy that such events bring.

To hope, to science, to love, to humanity…Full send!

Some notes from Cosmos.

“If we were randomly inserted into the Cosmos, the chance that we would find ourselves on or near a planet would be less than one in a billion trillion trillion* (1033, a one followed by 33 zeroes). In everyday life such odds are called compelling. Worlds are precious.”

This one made me chuckle: “Organisms are selected to engage in sex—the ones that find it uninteresting quickly become extinct.”

“But if we do not destroy ourselves, I believe that we will one day venture to the stars.”

“If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.”

“The universe seems neither benign nor hostile, merely indifferent to the concerns of such puny creatures as we.”

My favourite:

(All images from NASA)

I went for my classic chicken curry. Over the years I’ve been able to come up with my own version of classic chicken curry after tweaking the recipes from both my mom’s and dad’s families. (That deserves a separate post.) I rinsed the wild-caught salmon filets, rubbed them gently but generously in ginger-garlic-green chilly paste, garam masala, and salt, and sautéed them in some EVOO in a stainless steel pan—easiest meal to put together. My knife was slicing to the rhythm of Bombay Rockers when the door opened and one by one, my world poured in. Powered by chai and pakora, I was in a mood to feed, like literally feed my tribe! Sometimes in the daily grind, where I’m dishing out meals robotically, pleading my kids to stay put in a spot for meals, clear their plates, wash their hands, and on and on, I forget how much I actually enjoy cooking and feeding!

Feeding is my love language. How cliche! Feeding is the love language of most moms in India. A love language that, unfairly, became associated exclusively with the female members in Indian families. A beautiful thing that became a gender role marker ergo receiving negative connotations.

Patriarchy took the love and joy out of cooking, essentially reducing an act of joy into a tedious, enfeebling chore. Cooking came to be seen as banal, something simple and easy enough to be derogatory, something that does not require intelligence, and therefore does not carry much weight, compared to what the men in the house were traditionally assigned —physical labour and external employment duties, further reinforcing anything that men pursued as alpha while emasculating women. It comes as no surprise then that some modern Indian women, incorrectly espoused not cooking, not knowing how to cook, as feminist, modern, and cool. (Thankfully, things are changing.)

Because cooking, feeding, eating together, is the simplest affirmation of togetherness.

My mom, an inherently affectionate soul, has always had the power of articulating her emotions well, and she liberally and abundantly used the magical “I love you” for both us kids—me and my younger brother, and for my dad. My dad, who evolved in his expressiveness due to my mom’s presence and contributions, still had a hard time explicitly saying those three words (but he tried and more than made up for it). My family is not your typical desi family in that sense, I learnt later. Explicitly saying “I love you” is not at all common in Indian households. Food then, is one of the central ways in which love is expressed and since cooking is unfairly reserved for women, it is how the women in the house say “I love you”.

“One more roti, beta”, and a roti is slid into your plate.

“Aur thodi sabzi?”, and another helping is ladled onto your plate irrespective of the response.

“Bass this much? You need to eat more”, and more is plopped onto your plate.

“Abhi toh meetha baaki hai”, and dessert is served whether you like it or not.

This gentle coercion is love. In a country where food has been the oldest currency for relationships, for diplomacy, for negotiations, for friendships, this is true love.

In a country where food has been a scarcity for some, this is wealth, and the highest form of hospitality.

This is one of the many aspects of being Indian that I absolutely hold close to my heart—sharing food, with anyone, even if it leaves less for you. The poorest person in India will not let a visitor to their home go without offering of food.

Such a heartwarming attribute!

Fortunately, I did not come to see cooking as a burden or a disempowering activity because of how my dad’s family celebrated food and cooking.

Cooking was a communal activity in my home. Most men in my dad’s family cooked as well. The task fell upon women more due to the absence of men out to do their 9-5s. Given a chance though, these men would flock to the kitchen, genuinely entranced by the culinary processes. They would joke, prank, cut up onions, stir the gravy, set the rice to a boil, tease. Oh it was such a joy! Some of my chachas who were otherwise infamous for their poker-faces could be seen smiling, bellies wobbling as they let their guards down and freely laughed. Women felt like they were the bosses, masters of this territory men wanted a stake in. They felt adored because they were not alone in this undertaking which can otherwise be confining and hence, alienating. Little kids would scamper into the kitchen asking for this treat or that and were quickly shoved out lest hot oil inadvertently get near them. Older kids, like I, were welcome, allowed to be assistants to the grown-ups, and in that way, being initiated into the fine skills of cooking, family tips and tricks trickling down generations. It was a camaraderie of my mom, my buas, my chachis, my dad, my uncles, my chachas, and us cousins. A party!

The kind of joy that is derived when all members in the family try to fit into a tiny kitchen, crowding together for making a meal, is unparalleled. It doesn’t matter if it’s dal in the pot or biryani. (men on my mom’s side were not all as enthusiastic about cooking.)

This group activity would culminate in enjoying the food together.

Someone from the kitchen would announce loudly, “Dastarkhwān bichhao”, indication that food is ready to be served.

A dastarkhwān would be spread.

Pateelis of dal and jeera rice, kadais of aloo gosht, salad plates, dessert plates of zarda or halwa, roti dabba, glasses of water and sherbet, all would be brought out and placed on the dastarkhwān. Place settings were simple - dinner plate, a bowl or two, spoon.

Everyone says “Bismillah” and digs in. Women, men, children, all eat at the same time, everyone serves everyone. Salad and dessert are passed across, ladles of meat and dal capriciously traverse across folded knees.

Such happiness! What memories!

This joy around meals, and the fact that both my parents worked full-time, drew me into cooking from an early age. That and chores were shared in our family. Whoever was present was called to contribute.

Kneading the dough while mom rolled the rotis.

Setting up the mise en place while dad prepped the chicken.

From such a wholesome place then, was my love for feeding born.

Everyone coming together at the table and breaking bread.

It’s a way to make others feel the way it made me feel—loved and cared for.

Besides how it makes me feel, there is also the element of art and creation that excite me about cooking. The sights, smells, and sounds of cooking.

The sizzle of fish in hot oil.

The stink of cheese.

The spluttering of mustard seeds.

The bubbling base of tomatoes and cream.

The blistering of shishito peppers.

The caramelizing of onions.

The bright colours of my masala box.

The shapes of pasta.

All the breads of the world.

I love how chemistry silently guides this entire labour of love.

The Maillard reaction.

Breaking the pectin by washing raw rice.

Knowing that certain spices bloom when added at specific times.

The layers of a biryani and using dum to cook—the various ways in which food can be cooked—saute, fry, steam, bake, roast, so much more.

So yes, cooking is an old friend. It has been a thing of joy for me.

Feeding has been a promise, a love language.

And as I grow, I continue to be enamored by the myriad ways in which the world cooks and eats, and strive to learn more, and incorporate what I can in my small world.

In my little home kitchen, my kids often join me in cooking, especially my son. They deposit themselves on the counter, mashing the avocados, cracking the eggs, stirring the rassa, kneading the dough. Mistakes are forgiven, messes are ignored. They know who the head-chef is, and they take their responsibilities as sous-chefs pretty darn seriously!

How I hope they inherit, this love for food, cooking, feeding, and hope they experiment as much as their mama does, or even more!

Hope they keep my recipe cards and use them fondly!

To quote Anthony Bourdain:

“When somebody's offering you food, they're telling you a story. They're telling you what they like, who they are.”

and

“Food is everything we are. It's an extension of nationalist feeling, ethnic feeling, your personal history, your province, your region, your tribe, your grandma. It's inseparable from those from the get-go.”

Loud laughs.

Sarcasm.

Instagram posts.

Eyeliner.

We push it deep down, stanch it, hoping it will not surface.

Because we want to be alphas. Because who wants to rely on a vulnerable person? Who unleashes their realities in the reins of a vulnerable person? Who wants to trust the waxing and waning expected of a vulnerable person?

But, uninhibited expression of vulnerability is exactly where we strike gold! That, is where friends are made. That is where bonds are solidified.

Not in the joys. Not in the parties. Not in the laughters.

In the sorrows. In the messy, disheveled, vomit-crusted selves of after-parties. In the tears.

Vulnerability is a test then. A vibe check. Not something to be feared but something to be freed. See where it lands, what happens—there is either a covalent bond waiting or clearance of much needed space.

Honest adult friendships require a safe space for this vulnerability. They require disarming of guards. Exposing some of your soft bits. Which is contrary to normal human tendency - we don’t normally like to show our soft bits especially to people we don’t full well know but I have found that, in order to full well know people, we have to show them our soft bits. This corollary, when it works, is in fact a means to deepen friendships.

Every deep friendship that I’m a part of today, has blossomed due to this opening up, exposing our soft bits, dismantling the egos, tearing down facades. It has never been easy to do that—you go in not knowing how you will be perceived, but if you are accepted, understood, then you come out on the other side, paradoxically, feeling less vulnerable, less exposed, more empowered, more strong, and more prepared to go through life, knowing that you now have an ally.

A young me grew up in a society where appearances were to be upheld. Middle class India of the 90s, especially the nouveau riche. There was no place for vulnerability there. I grew up fearful of being cast out if I was seen as weak, survival of the fittest and all. Even though I realized that this burden was sapping me, I carried on stoically, never letting on. I always had one friend per school year! It was so predictable! I can tell you who was my “best and only friend” in second grade. Or fourth, or sixth. Teenage was even more cruel. Dark skinned and diffident, I felt ugly and alone, almost all the time. Yet, there was something shifting inside me. Sulci and gyri like tectonic plates, rearranging the topography of my thoughts and traits. I began to learn that I was not alone in what made me human, in my vulnerabilities, I was not the only one. I became good at picking up what others around me held dearly as their Achilles’ heels. Empathy, possibly my greatest suit, then locked in, and I was no longer limited to one friend per annum. Empathy begat respect. Instead of asphyxiating my vulnerability, empathy took it up, wrapped it in a soft cloud, and enshrined it next to itself, like a trophy.

What I’m saying is, that my empathy allowed people around me to put their faiths in me, to trust me with their deepest secrets, and my empathy allowed me to see that everyone had their Kryptonite, something that challenged their confidence, that shook their equilibrium, that made them vulnerable. Ever since, I continue to learn, continue to experiment, continue to build relationships, often in the most unexpected of places. With those two simple ingredients—empathy and vulnerability. You could call it love.

One of the greatest lessons I’ve learnt about adult friendships is that they may not be all encompassing. sharing below my thoughts on this from a few years ago:

Life has blessed me with many friends, but it has also played an interesting trick of consistently increasing the distance between me and them.

I left India and left behind my friends.

I left Texas and left behind my friends.

I left New York and left behind my friends.

I left Michigan and left behind my friends.

And now, in my forties, I’m here in Southern California, starting all over again!

That which comprises the beauty of such a nomadic life then is the very thing that becomes its’ bane. It’s a cross I have to bear. I take solace in the fact that while proximity of friends is an unparalleled comfort, distance does make the heart grow fonder.

Every city I go to, chances are I will find a friend nearby.

These phenomenal friends work hard to make meet-ups happen even when everyone is in a phase of life where motion is logistically complex (kids, work, schedules, travel)—especially endearing are my girl-trips I plan to write about separately.

Any mood I find myself in, there is always someone I can share it with.

This then, is the essence of life to me. My village, one that constantly changes shape, amoebic, but never absent. Like a constellation where some stars are brightest and some muted but a constellation nonetheless. This then, is the greatest wealth to me. I hope that I continue to feel this way— continue to see the beauty in shared human experiences.

Of all the roles I play, that of a friend is what I’m best at. Even with my children, I’m perhaps a better friend than a nurturer, which was a surprising revelation to myself even. With my mom, the most cherishable aspects of our relationship are ones where we are both in the roles of friends, but then a mother and child relationship has many more elegant complexities. With my brother, my cousins, my family, I may not be so good at being the beacon of light that an elder daughter is supposed to be but always a great friend. And what even is a wife, if not her husband’s best friend?!

For sure then, where I’m allowed to be a friend, are the relationships that see the best of me!

Where there is vulnerability, safe space for expression, no judgement zone, clean clean hearts, is where I thrive.

And finally, if you are in my village, in my orbit, in my constellation, I so deeply cherish you.

My first post/note here is me thinking out loud about how I want to use this space, what I want to put out here in an era of hyper-surveillance, while I silently mull over the why behind this, behind writing. Why the need to put in words the mind’s underpinnings, why the need to showcase or share— these are questions I have often cogitated about without any specific conclusions, and learnt overtime that there is no need to arrive at specific conclusions, because not every outcome of a pursuit must be tangible, not everything is transactional. Certain acts are simply acts of joy. Writing has always been an act of catharsis and immense joy for me and that is what I will start with. Hoping that like-minded friends and acquaintances will join and form a small but reliable klatch of writers, readers, sharers. I made some friends from my ‘blogging days’ and they remain friends still. The world has gotten a bit less trustworthy since then but still, there is hope, and there is the definite chance of existing friendships deepening if we share, talk, open up, and Substack can be one such avenue/platform.