Tuesday, August 5th, 2014

I left her again.

And again it was the same thing, crying and kissing each other at the entrance of an Indian airport, feeling a little shy, with security and everyone else watching. I didn’t think it would be so hard to go back this time. In many ways, the last three months were supposed to be all business: Clear the apartment in Bombay, travel to meet up with old friends, plan the wedding at home and then maybe take a honeymoon. But it ended up being so much more. It ended up being a whole lot of much-needed real life, even if it didn't necessarily feel that way in the beginning.

And so I felt the tears coming even before we reached the gate. Even before we said goodbye, so casually, for the next undetermined period of time. I felt them as I was rolling a dolly packed with only my luggage to the last gate - the visitor’s gate - to see if we could get a last-minute printout of those fucking immigration forms. I still couldn’t believe we were doing this on the last day of my trip. I was mad at Puji and even more mad at myself for letting it go to the last minute. But mostly I was mad that I was letting this last thankless task ruin what was in effect our last moments together. But there we were. This had been our trip. And truly, in our combined lives, nothing ever seemed to go as planned. Things would always go smoothly when they weren’t supposed to and vice versa. Somehow, they always worked out in the end. Except this time they hadn't. I had fucked up and signed the wrong date before Puji realized that the forms we had printed right before leaving the hotel had not even been validated in the first place, which effectively meant that our application would not be finalized with our honeymoon. I had fucked up. I always made these dumb mistakes under pressure. Not Puji, though. She loved the pressure. Sometimes I think that’s part of the reason why she enjoyed leaving things to the last second - and the real reason it irritated me. Now she would have to courier them to me in Montreal. Seven hours spent in Hong Kong airport and more than an entire week in Japan and we hadn’t been able to take care of this one little thing.

Puji must have known I was fuming so she didn’t dare say a word. She wasn’t going to pick a fight with me now. Nor was I. In fact, I think that somewhere deep down inside, I had been particularly irritable the last couple of days because I knew this goodbye was coming. 

Especially during our last day in Tokyo, when we ended up doing all our shopping at six in the evening because we had spent a little too much time at the 17th century tea house in that impossibly hot park. There, the roles had been reversed. I was the one who suddenly couldn’t tolerate the sun while Puji remained stoic, snapping 75 different pictures of endless rows of orange and yellow flowers. That annoyance I had continued to carry like old fashioned luggage while shopping, where I once again had to remind her that I wasn’t made out of money and couldn’t just buy every last person I knew 1000-Yen chopsticks. And that argument, which had started on the last day in Kyoto and ended with us not speaking the entire drive to Mount Fuji, had been rekindled later that afternoon. It all seems so trivial now. But I had been right to call her out and she had been right to fight back. Two years in and this was still one of the sore points of our relationship: Money. She didn’t know how to handle it and I didn’t know how to spend it with a free heart. 

But once we had finally sat down to chill under the complimentary mist on a bench by the Sensoji Shrine, after we had finally matched gifts to both her family and mine, I explained to her nicely why I had gotten mad. She lowered her guard and listened. And then we played a game of Ludo and everything was fine again. Because in the end, the two of us were right to say the things we said. With Amy, it had always felt like both of us were wrong, making arguments the other never understood. What exacerbated mine and Puji's fights was that we both needed to make our points and then stubbornly stick by them for some time. But I also understood this was part of the process. And I never felt for one second that we wouldn't learn from our mistakes, a thought that always left me with the same stubborn hope. Every fight we had - and on this trip, there had been many - was a painful gateway to something better. The peace they ultimately generated is what made them worth it. 

So with the sun setting and the Ludo honeymoon series all tied up at three, we had then decided to stop by Asakusa for a little snack before heading home. It only made sense to spend our last Tokyo night where the adventure had all started. We found that same street just off the main market that we had seen those first few days, the ones where rowdy locals would sit on metal chairs, nursing beers and tasty-looking street food. In the end, it wasn't all that tasty. The grilled squid was rubbery and the whale bacon had a funny smell that Puji just couldn’t quite put her finger on. But the Filipino waitress who roped us off the street was far more bubbly than your average Japanese. She was a little tipsy and not at all shy. She seemed to enjoy our story. She complimented Puji on her beautiful eyes and then told her we were lucky to have found love. I felt bad for her in that moment, imagining how lonely a big city like Tokyo could be. Hence the tequila, I thought to myself. She still managed to convince Puji to have her (our) first taste of cold Sake. It was quite good and by the time that small bottle was done we were all a little tipsy.

Somewhere in the next hazy hour, with the couple on the next table watching us awkwardly chase sake with salt, Puji did her best to explain why she had reacted the way she had after having read Amy's last email without me knowing. It must have happened that morning at the Fine Garden in Gifu. There had already been no love for that love hotel, starting with her tantrum while trying to sleep in our stuffy car in the parking lot and followed by one of the most awkward conversations with a hotel receptionist, who hid behind a curtain and pointed to the screen behind us for room availability in a desperate attempt to make up for the complete communication breakdown. And somewhere in all that had been another shitty email from Amy, reminding me (once again) of the person I had crushed to be where I was. Reminding me that she was not moving on. I had kept it to myself. Maybe Puji had thought I had done so nefariously but I had my doubts. There was simply nothing that either of us could do. It was something I had to deal with on my own. But that email and her period had caused that particular fight. And we hadn’t spoken about it since. Like many things, it was lost in translation. But with the help of the sake, Puji tried to make me understand that despite her own insecurity, she always prayed for Amy’s happiness because she felt a shared responsibility to do so. She asked me to do the same. And when it came to questions of spirituality, I always listened. For me, this is when Puji became someone from whom I had a lot to learn. This is when she would feel almost other-worldly, much more mature than myself. There were no tears to cry then and I didn’t have much to say. I spent the rest of the night quiet, not because I was mad, but because I knew how lucky I was to have her and how difficult it would be to be apart. 

Even that last night in Tokyo, after we had packed and failed miserably to find a proper place to enjoy a last sushi meal, something she stubbornly pursued far more than I did, and even after we ended up eating McDonald’s for the third or fourth time that trip, I couldn’t help but feel that we were both very blessed. This trip had been real life. Unlike the first meeting, this one had really put us through the ringer. We had often gone long hours on little sleep. We had been distracted by friends, family and our own phones. And still we could both manage to say the right thing or crack the right joke at the right time to diffuse the situation. When one person was at their wit’s end, the other would step in to balance things out. Somehow, everything always seemed to work out. And it worked out because that’s what we both sorely wanted. I hated fighting with her as much as she did with me. Fighting with her was like looking into one of those funhouse mirrors on a really bad hair day. You immediately wanted to look away. And so even if we only got to sleep a couple of hours that night before getting up, hopping onto the express bus (another blessing) and catching a flight to Hong Kong with plenty of time to spare; even if we spent seven hours at the Hong Kong airport bitching at dirty mainlanders who farted in line, hustled to put together my dad’s wedding album before enjoying a last game of Ludo that I won just as they were closing our gate; even though neither of us got any sleep on that last flight for those very same reasons and then reached our Delhi hotel past midnight, again without so much as a kiss to justify our ‘luxury’ suite; and despite all the last-minute bullshit that brought us to those final moments outside Gate Number 6 at the Delhi International airport - even after all that, I know we both wished that this adventure could go on forever. But that wasn’t the way the Universe had planned it for us. So there was nothing we could do but to say goodbye. Again.

"Rubu, we have now officially spent nine months together." Puji had announced the calculation in the last Delhi cab ride, and something about the way she emphasized the last word made we want to cry and wrestle her at the same time. She had somehow managed to capture the intensity and love of our entire physical existence through simple enunciation. These were the moments that made my heart smile. And there were so many of these now that it was impossible to ever conceive that they would ever be finite. For now, at least, they would have to continue in a medium other than real life; that sort of half reality we had learned to manage so well. Whether or not this time would be easier or more difficult was impossible to tell. The sad truth was that one year was a long time and so many things could and would happen. The last time we were apart Baba died, Didi left Bombay and my parents got divorced. Now I’d be going back to a half broken mother who would try her best to convince me otherwise and a father with a penthouse condo and a new girlfriend. The Mothership and my brother seemed to be just fine. Jules would be in town. But everything else would once again become a giant question mark. Would I make it a year without needing to go back? If she begged me to come, I know I would. Because in those last five minutes I spent scrambling around the airport looking for anyone with a printer, internet access and an ATM, all I could think about was the girl I’d be leaving behind. My darling. My blessing. My wife. Probably the absolute love of my life if I could ever stop for half an hour and really think about it. 

And as I approached the gate I thought I might have forgotten I caught a glimpse of her through the filthy glass. Puji, standing there in her grey jogging pants and purple Adidas jacket, doing nothing but keeping her eyes peeled for me. She had asked me if she looked okay before we left the hotel for breakfast. I didn’t even have time to tell her she looked beautiful. As I made my way past the gate and the first guard, who again reiterated that I not step out beyond the line separating terminal from pavement, she came over to my right side. She was smiling. "And?," she asked. I told her there had been no luck with the forms before I handed her 10,000 Rupees and told her to contact Titz and mail the forms to me from Delhi itself. No need to wait any longer for this thing to get underway. I hugged her and kissed her neck as the other guard, the one who had originally told me I could go, check in, go to the ATM and then come back to the door, stood on my left and kept letting other people through. I know Puji probably felt a little awkward kissing while others watched scandalously but I didn’t care. I was relieved she wasn’t crying because I could feel some tears forming behind my own eyelids. She asked me to text her when I reached London. As if. She mentioned that she might not get the What’sApp messages because it hadn’t been working so well and that’s when I realized she was crying. Those deep sobs, I had come to learn, always started with what sounded like innocent sniffles - the same kind she’d make to emphasize, in jest, that I had said something that had offended her. 

It wasn’t often I got to see her cry like that because it wasn’t often that I was the cause of it. Thank god for that. Maybe the last time was shortly after the wedding, when I had yelled at her for ignoring me. She had explained then that she no longer had a father and her family meant everything to her. It had broken my heart to hear that. Because all I had wanted her to realize was that even our time was limited. It anyway always felt that way, didn't it? And now, time had run out. It would now be time to flip that giant hourglass around and start counting back the other way. It would feel impossibly hopeless. But then today would be the worst day - and every day a little better from there. Keeping track of time would become meaningless as the weeks became months and eventually come to a grinding halt as the months became weeks once again. This was life. If there was any blessing in this second trip, it was that time had gone by so slowly. Three months had felt like six. Easily. We had enjoyed and made the most of it. And I knew we’d try to make the most of this next phase as well. 

I didn’t think about any of this as I listened to her cry because I didn’t have to. Physical grief took over and did all the heavy lifting. My eyes filled up with tears as I went back toward her and told her not to cry. I hugged her and felt her tiny body and stroked her hair and kissed her and tried my best to take her all in. And then she told me to go and I told her to go as well. I walked toward the counters and turned back to look at her as many times as I could without making it worse for either of us. But I knew she’d be watching me go until she couldn’t see me anymore. And with my tears still falling on the dirty carpet, I took a right at the ticket counters and saw her again behind a different dirty window pane than the one where I had left her. I walked toward her and she walked toward me and I could see that she was still crying. I gave her one of our nods, the one that sarcastically asks ‘what is it?’ even though we both know exactly what it was. I smiled through the pain and gestured at her not to cry. She gestured the same and then told me to go. We both walked away and looked back a couple of more times. But the last time I did, she had turned and walked away. 

Until we meet again, my darling.

seven hundred and thirty days of sunshine

Exactly two years ago right now, we were already lost in conversation.

I don't want to make this any more philosophical than it has to be, Puji-la. The significance of that innocent direct message is, anyway, immeasurable. It didn't ask for a thing. But it begged to be answered. I knew that much. I swear to God I knew that the second I read it.

You came into my life when nothing seemed to be working. And nothing was working out because I had closed myself off to the possibility of things working out. I didn't want them to work out in their present form. In many ways I had turned my back on love. It's not that I didn't believe in it anymore. It's just that like everything else in this life, it had slowly worn me down. Its strings had dragged and ground me to a halt instead of setting me free. So the last thing I was looking for was more.

I ended up watching those elections, alone, because that's the way it had to be. The same way you couldn't have been anywhere other than in that deserted newsroom on the graveyard shift. That conversation was in the cards. That's why the timing worked out. That's why everything worked out.

That night, I fell in love with the idea of you and you of me. Same to same. I fell in love with your company. Your warmth. Your hopes and dreams. And with your words.

Every day since then you have become more and more real to me. These two years have become a beautiful eternity as time continues to slowly fill in the blanks. Some days I even feel I know you better than you know yourself. Other days you surprise me. But mostly you just make me smile. Even though everything still is what it is, I smile. I smile because you smile. 

I thought I had lost you. Until I lost you.

The thing I'll remember most, big guy, is how good you looked the day we found you.

You weren't skinny and you didn't even look beat up. No scratches on your nose. No scars or trauma of any kind. Nothing physical, anyhow. You just sat there with your thick orange coat and your paws tucked under you. Watching with the weary eyes of a cornered criminal. Nothing except the realization, maybe, that the jig was up. Your vacation was done. Your days on the streets were suddenly numbered - thirty six to be exact - on this improbable and dreary Saturday afternoon. That's what had you whining, I bet. The unassuming end of it all. Time, place and coincidence all lost on you. That's what had you whining and crying and racing for the staircase. Running for the exits. Looking fr an extension. You were just fine where you were, weren't you? A stranger in a strange alley one kilometre in the wrong direction. Eating out of a stranger's hand. If it was up to you, you would have never come home. I know. I realized that when I called your name. And whistled my last whistle. And stared into the blankness of your eyes.

Turns out we have more in common than even I thought. Me and you and our terrible long-term memories, big guy. So easy to say goodbye.

Now we'll become a part of each other's fuzzy pasts, Pepsky. I'll forget you and you'll forget me. It's okay. Maybe we were already halfway there. I'm not gonna fight it. There's no consolation prize at the end of this life anyway. We just lose little pieces of ourselves along the way.

I'll see you in the eyes of a stranger in another life. We'll walk the alleys, me and you.

you gave me sanctuary in the pages of this book

On page 51 of Kafka's Letters to Milena, centered at the bottom of the page and scribbled in Smita's blue handwriting, are the words I was here.

This is the last page she read before she decided I needed to have this book. There was something about his writing that was very close to mine. A likeness in style and soul. From page one she had had it in her mind that one day I would write a book just like his. I was honoured but told her she should finish it first. I knew exactly how much her books meant to her. And at that point it had still felt like there was more than enough time.

But then I learned something else about Smita. For her, there was no greater gesture than giving someone your unfinished book. And for all the bitching she had done on books that had been lent out and never returned, I was especially touched and promised to read it first chance I got.

It was only late last night that she realized just how significant that last page was. The three of us had been sitting on the couch in her new apartment; a quiet house-warming of sorts. The place wasn't feeling so claustrophobic now. Only last week that same couch had been in J267, the two BHK the sisters had shared for the last four years. Things were moving fast now. Everything was changing, for all of us. Chapters were closing and new ones were waiting to be written. The sisters would be apart for the first time in nine years. The future loomed silently. We spoke of traveling then and I told them about one beautiful day in Rome nearly five years ago where I had left my father and wandered the streets alone. He had been too worried about having a destination to appreciate what was right there in front of him. Maybe he had been hurt when I told him I'd meet him back at the hotel. I felt a little guilty but it had to be done. Some things in life were better enjoyed alone.

When he left I found some perfect little square where people were just milling about enjoying their day. And I was snapping pics while some kindred stranger with her own camera eyed me from a distance. We kept tabs on each other and I hummed unwritten songs to myself. And every last Italian looked so beautiful then in the dying light. Men, women and children of all ages, shapes and sizes. So stylish and comfortable in their own skin. I fell in love with my people in that moment. And I promised myself I would end up back there someday.

When I finished the story Smita just looked at me and smiled. Something clicked, I felt. She didn't want to tell me what or why and said only that it had something to do with page 51 of that book. Something about a dream Kafka had described. She probably had it memorized and could have quoted it line for line. But she said nothing more. Except that I would see when I got there.

Now I had a proper destination. If not in life, than at least in the pages of this book. Maybe there was no better gift than that.

how to lose your head completely

i was riding my bike down town with Dave and Manemou. but something didn't feel right with my bike. with my head. we were riding on the city pavement but my head was already three stories up  - and rising, like my neck was attached to some invisible hydraulic lift. as i was riding i could see myself and everything in front of me from at least five stories up now. and all the cars, people, cabs, pets, animals, buses, street signs and traffic lights were so small as to be barely visible from my new vantage point. yet miraculously i avoided hitting anything or anyone. like i was being guided, watching myself the way a predator drone might follow a moving target. i was terrified, panicking more with every peddle stroke. i was yelling at Dave to stop but he must have thought i was just fucking around. we got to an intersection by a seven story lamp post and i had to stop. at this point I could no longer tell if i was having an out of body experience or if my head was really that high in the air. ten stories, eleven stories - i continued to rise. i was nauseous with fear. i think Manemou felt the same - either that or my own fear had become contagious. so I leaned against the lamp post carefully and started to pull myself up. she followed. every step from this point on was painfully slow. from the top of the lamp post i jumped to the top ledge of a building that was fairly close. it looked like a skyscraper that was all made of glass. except I wasn't really on the roof where at least i could have felt solid ground under my feet. there was no way down from there except to climb down the façade  and as far as I could see there was no ledge either. it was like rock climbing in a gymnasium except without the safety harness or any foot rest in sight. i was terrified again. what I did finally notice was a little alcove in the façade (an indentation just roughly a little taller than my body) that led to the inside of a clothing store located near the top floor. i was kind of hanging from the roof and then had to lower myself into this hole. once I was able to land safely on this, i opened the storm hatch windows and jumped into the empty store. my heart was racing in my throat and i was expecting the alarm to go off at any second. that didn't even bother me all that much. i just wanted to get to floor level and kiss the ground. i opened one of the sliding windows and looked down. dave was still waiting for me, asking me what the hell I was doing up there. it was only when i turned around that i realized there were security guards around me. the store owner was there as well. everyone looked a little worried and very freaked out. i put my hands up instinctively and told then not to worry. i explained what had happened and told them i had simply broken in out of fear. i assured them there had been no damage and i had not stole anything. everyone seemed to believe me. i started talking to the store owner, who explained that this place i had accidentally prowled into like a professional spy was a Spanish clothing retailer. only when the security guard let me down various colourful ladders through the store i noticed how outrageous some of the décor actually was. i was speaking to the owner (a young guy as well) in broken Spanish, telling him I had a music pad that was just as colourful that he would probably enjoy. even told him I was a musician for good measure - like that fact alone might explain all that had happened. we were all already laughing about the whole thing and i was relieved. we got to ground level (i could see the street I had been riding, framing what looked like the Concordia University Hall Building) when one of the security guards admitted he had been mesmerized to see how i had slithered into the store. never seen anything like it. even the move I had pulled when I had been caught was one for the books - a security footage relic. i replied: "my God, could you imagine what would have happened if you guys would have shot me the second you came into the room? you would have never heard this amazing story. what a tragedy that would have been." one of the people who had gathered in the main lobby upon hearing all the commotion reminded me that the tragedy would have been compounded because of the the day's date - the sixth of December, the 25th anniversary of the École Polytechnique de Montreal massacre. i repeated the date and the event in my mind, then out loud. and agreed.

movie magic

I can't think of a better way to spend a cold Thursday night than to stumble upon one of your all-time favourite films on TV.

It's hard to pinpoint just what it is about Big Fish that gets me every time. Not sure if it's the fantastical fairytale side of it or the more heart wrenching story of father and son. Or the way Tim Burton is able to burn these magnificent scenes into your brain. (Yes, even a brain as elusive as my own) Like the impossibly green grass and draping lights that make up the town square of Spectre, with all the shoes of past visitors just dangling from the electrical lines. It's almost like you've walked into that same town and met the love of your life in your own dreams - except he was smart enough to jot down every detail the second he woke up from his.

This movie was huge for Jules and I when we were writing Uptown VineRise. As the album's own story was coming to life, films like this reminded us that we really were onto something bigger than just the two of us. Tonight, I let those same tears well up for what felt like forever as the son recounted his father's last tale, its beautiful and timeless lesson unchanged:

Your life is only as magical as you choose to live and tell it.

just a cut of this cookie desert

We spent last night in the suburbs. The new inner-city suburbs. Where every house is some slight variation of brown and beige and shingles and stone. Where the yards are huge, the pools in-ground and the sprinkler systems all programmed to go on after dark. Where the trees are either so young or so quietly absent that you can actually feel the concavity of the sky. And where it's so quiet you can actually forget there is any life beyond the company you keep.

mayday, i can`t explain

I'm always going to have a soft spot for May Day.

Let's put the plight of the international workers and all the student protests and the death of Bin Laden aside for a second. Six years ago to the day, my brother Mark and I opened the first side of il Terzo Piano. It was our first jam space. Well, the first jam space we built ourselves - and a first of many hard lessons in construction, cost over-runs, sound leakage and nation building.

But when it opened, it became the coolest spot in my universe. All turquoise blue and sunburst orange. There was Vox Populi and D Open D in Room 1, Broken Palace in Room 2, odd couple Nick and Jonathan in a windowless Room 4 and Kamikaze in the deluxe suite. Humble beginnings, but with so much promise. Like Balzac had been at one time. And it didn't take much for the place to catch fire. In the next three years, it became the place to be. It was the place to spend your Tuesday mornings and your Sunday nights. It was the place I would run to from my parent's during the summer and the perfect place to have a snowball fight on a March night. It was always Franco's last stop after tour - and just a short drive to the quarry, if need be. We walked its stinky streets and admired the giant reservoirs from the roof in states few people would ever understand. We poured bending guitars into the hallways and shared our most intimate words on her cold, hard floors. The vibe was almost always positive, the pad parties were epic and those of us dedicated to the real cause all got to create some special music there. For me, the place peaked with Uptown VineRise, still months and months after our final pad party in the back section and before things went really sour with the landlords. And the band. But every musician will have their own story; their own beginning and ends.

And even in those last two years, when everything was broken and cold hard reality crept into those magical hallways; when the early wounds were torn open, the salt poured and the place left to slowly rot from the inside, I always found a good reason to go back. It wasn't always easy. But it was always necessary. Because that place was ours until the day it wasn't.

In my head, it'll always be all shiny and new.

no man can walk out on his own story

i love this line.
i heard it about halfway through Rango and was really doing my best not to forget the exact wording. another gem of a kid's movie, i might add. i'm not even sure why anyone would even bother watching rehashed, re-vomited 'adult' Hollywood flicks anymore. animation is where it's been at for a while now. Up made me cry, Fantastic Mr. Fox was nothing but and Rango's got me memorizing quotes.
i really got to write me a fairytale at some point in my life.