From fact to fiction

For better or worse, I never did write a diary entry to mark my first Summer Solstice.

But much like the scene of any crime committed both flagrantly and brazenly, in broad daylight, with the flashbulbs cracking and the cameras rolling, there were more than enough eye witnesses to attest to its golden existence. Even if memories warp three years to any day, there were too many teary eyes to whitewash the evidence. Too many smiles to ignore the joy radiating from every angle.

Of course, the pursuit of pure love is by no means a crime in itself.
Folding oceans over time zones constitutes no terrestrial misdemeanour.
And overcoming near impossible odds is not punishable in any court of Karma.

All we ever really did wrong was to meet under the strangest of circumstances, wouldn't you say? Like two loose ends dangling on a sudden crease in the fabric of the space-time continuum. The rest was good-old fashioned hard work as we did everything any two regular people would have done to be together. We wrote every day. We shared intimate stories. Consoled each other when necessary. Fuelled dreams. Calmed anxieties. Spoke on the phone and learned to imitate our funny accents. We helped each other dismantle our old lives, piece by painstaking piece, to make room for new love. We met in noisy midnight airports, lived in close quarters and traveled unchartered waters, kissed and fought passionately, cleaned clinically, hugged tenderly and laughed from the belly, even when we drove each other crazy, all before saying goodbye in noisy early-morning airports. We only promised each other the moon and stars, so as not to feel the gravity of unnecessary burden or expectation. We surrendered any notion of a simple life. We found comfort in the idea of together forever instead.

And all the while, we kept each other's secrets safely tucked between us.

No, let's say things as they are. I mostly held your secrets, close to my heart, just like you asked me to. I even began to collect a few from your family as well. Like laminated butterflies behind glass, they just sat there, silent and motionless. Frozen in their own metamorphosis. No longer looking to set anyone free. Still, I tended to their stubborn silence with a gardener's affection, trying my best to weed out the demons from the necessary life lessons. For you. For us. There's no crime in that.

No, there's no crime in believing in the eternal potential of your own love story.
There's no crime in having family and friends do the same.
Until, of course, that very beautiful story becomes all you have left.
Unless it's all there ever really was to begin with.
Until you disappeared with the last chapter.
Still clinging to all your stillborn secrets.

But how could I not have known? You finally did what all your favourite fictional characters before you did. You just up and vanished. They should have warned me when you couldn't. The pages should have cried out when I devoured them smugly. Maybe they did. But I wasn't listening. And when I was finally ready to listen, the same winds which had carried so many secrets finally went silent. Dead still. Like a soft breeze that never really existed.

Soon, there will be nothing to prove your existence beyond words on a page. Nothing but our story and our secrets. Our secrets and our family secrets, captured in grainy photos, fuzzy memories and cold genetic code. You and I, but no us. No longer husband and wife. No longer star-crossed lovers. No longer lazy daydreamers. Just subject and scribe; one all too eager to swim right over the ocean's edge, the other wading patiently in that same cosmic depth, a patient lifetime to uncover, understand, internalize and record whatever the dragnet may carry along with it.

It might take every last ray of sunshine the Summer Solstice can spare to shed light on the true depth of our love. Because the crime was never how strongly we believed in our own story. No. The crime was the unwilling role everyone around us played in that story's tragic unraveling; simple pawns and witnesses suddenly lending supporting roles in a narrative that never belonged to them in the first place, and one whose facts they'd see and hear but never truly understand. That crime will only be understood over a very, very, very long time. When the truth finally slips free from the grasp of those who have held onto it too tightly. When the suitcases become too many to carry. When the sunlight reaches the darkest corners of the cosmic dragnet. When you finally go home.

For now, we go back to being what we were before space and time brought us together:
A fascinating subject with no storyteller. A writer without his favourite muse.
Life has taught me you cannot be one without understanding the other.
But I have been proven wrong before.
So don't cry crocodile tears.
Be honest. Come clean.
And love yourself.

That, my darling, is no crime at all.       

The keys to some kind of kingdom

I needed to see Monsieur Lafleur to replace a faulty combination lock.

The one I had simply wasn't working so well anymore. Its five buttons had become numb and powerless, often sinking into nothingness and arbitrarily denying access. It had become somewhat of a sore spot in my life. And I had ignored it long enough.

But let's not get too lost in metaphors. The Simplex 1000 Mechanical Pushbutton Lock that Monsieur Lafleur had suggested as a suitable replacement, over the phone, was pretty much identical to the one that protruded from the thick oak Mothership door for the last seven years - and, quite possibly, the last 20 or even 30 before its pharmaceutical-to-musical reincarnation. Which all struck me as comforting, I have to say. This simple mechanical, single access-code lock, eliminated the material and labour expense of battery replacements. It said so on the website. Not cheap by any means, it instead embodied a certain timeless simplicity, an engineering Rembrandt in an age of fast food gadgets, if you will. Lock and locksmith, one in the same. Because if Monsieur Lafleur embodied anything - and he did, a great many things indeed - it was comfort and continuity.

I had carefully planned my day around a mid-morning pickup and relatively effortless installation of said Simplex 1000. Monsieur Lafleur, without committing to it, had assured me a peaceful transfer of mechanical power. But like many innocuous renovation projects in my life, this one was not destined to be so simple. Too many tiny adjustments had to be made. I worked patiently. But before I knew it, it was 2 pm on a Friday afternoon and I was headed back to see the old locksmith.

People never seem to drive as absent-mindedly slowly as when you're in a rush. I arrived 15 minutes later, as promised, but less patient than I should have been.  I was greeted with a minor lineup. A loud sighed betrayed my lips. The young dude manning the cash immediately acknowledged the sloppy, half-opened box in my hand but then went right back to getting a play-by-play on how to ring up a proper bill by a more pleasant-looking middle aged woman who I had already convinced myself must be family. Monsieur Lafleur sat to the left of the chaos, hunched over his key cutter. I was quickly identified as the combination lock guy and then just as quickly left for dead. The young dude had his own work to finish before he punched out, he'd explain to me eventually; work which apparently involved taking every opportunity to break Monsieur Lafleur's concentration with another set of questions. A second, deeper sigh escaped me. It was the daughter who finally alerted the old locksmith to my presence. "Salut, jeune homme," he acknowledged with a disarming flick of his glasses. Did he remember me? Impossible to tell. The simple greeting immediately dissolved my impatience as he sent my brand new faulty combination lock and his daughter back to the supplier. It would be a half hour wait, he explained, unapologetic but with a certain tender humanity nonetheless.

I accepted. But before I could get any more words in, I heard the door struggle behind me. Behind it stood a crumpled old man with a walker, fighting a losing battle with the hydraulic door closer. I pulled the door open for him and he thanked me without looking up. He continued to make his way to the counter, determined, at a snail's pace. I watched him struggle. My own petty impatience suddenly hung on me like adolescent cologne. The young dude did his best to acknowledge the presence inching toward him but seemed uncomfortable as the man came to a full stop, slowly reached into his bag and pulled out the barrel of a lock with the key still attached to it, his hand trembling with the mechanical entrails. "I need a longer piece for this one," he croaked, in the deliberate French of a first-generation immigrant. He talked just like he walked, the intensity in his eyes other-worldly. And though the young dude seemed to know exactly what the man needed, I predicted his almost instinctive impulse to defer the case to Monsieur Lafleur who, it turns out, was now waiting patiently on hold while his supplier tried to figure out where I had got wrong. Obviously. Apparently, I had broken the sticker seal that nulled the guarantee while attempting to figure out why my brand new combination lock was not responding to the combination we had all agreed on. The frustration of the relayed message had swelled up in me like bad sushi. I assured Monsieur Lafleur that I had simply followed the instruction manual. Speaking loud enough so the person on the other line could hear me, I asked him if this supplier even knew what he was talking about. The old locksmith remained silent.

Now, beckoned by his young dude in training, he hung up and approached the counter. And even as I let out a third sigh, Monsieur Lafleur's pleasantness seemed to transform the crumpled man before him. Distracted, I hadn't noticed that his walker had turned into a small stool on which he could sit more comfortably on, revealing a man who had decided long ago to negotiate his own molecular breakdown with equal parts practicality and humour. The young dude long gone, Monsieur Lafleur fixed the barrel in question himself as the two discussed the perils of being a landlord in a province that favoured tenants every single time. The same words I'd heard many times from my own mother must have rung especially true for both old timers - one crumpled by time, the other visibly unscathed by its passage. Monsieur Lafleur presented the crumpled old man with the finished product, cracked a quick joke and then refused to take the old man's $5, explaining that he'd simply add it to the next bill the next time he came around. The crumpled old man seemed unable to process the kind gesture and slowly reached in his wallet, looking for cash. But the old locksmith simply waved him away.

Once he was gone, I scanned Monsieur Lafleur with fresh eyes. Here was a man who probably spent a good chunk of his life unlocking, disassembling and decoding. It struck me, right then and there, that there was probably nothing the old locksmith couldn't solve. I explained my struggles to him again and he assured me we'd get to the bottom of it. "You wouldn't believe the things that pass off as work on a Friday afternoon," he explained to me without further judgment. And when my combination lock returned with his daughter, we examined the instruction manual together. I had been vindicated. But that didn't seem important anymore. What was most satisfying was spending the next half an hour together, both hunched over that same combination lock, trying to figure out what had gone wrong in the first place. And as we worked it out, unscrewing and retesting, his patience became mine. In his work ethic and thought process I saw a man who sought refuge in the calm; a man who would rather wait an extra hour to avoid traffic then to have to helplessly curse through it; a man who'd rather let his supplier figure out his own errors by asking him to repeat the same procedure, without uttering a single nasty word; a man who valued health, happiness and piece of mind, above all else.

We were not so different, Monsieur Lafleur and I. Men of ideals, who were most disappointed when we fell short. When the combination lock was fixed and ready to go, we both let out a collective sigh of relief. And before I left, he urged me to take some sweets with me, the navy blue packaging revealing a solid white keyhole outline with his name written inside it. "And take some for your wife as well," he urged with a wink. "Even if she doesn't want them, it's the thought that counts."

The keys to some kind of kingdom, I thought to myself, smiling. 

Once, in a Blue Moon...

There was more to this night than just the apparent rarity of its moon.

Guru Poornima, the Full Moon holiday dedicated to the celebration of your spiritual guide, just happened to coincide with Mohd Rafi's death anniversary. He was one of Ma and Uncle and India’s favourite Bollywood singers. I didn't have a guru to celebrate. I was just thankful for the breeze.

Guwahati had become unbearably hot and stuffy the last couple of nights. It was the kind of feverish heat, I was learning, that made you think crazy thoughts and dream crazy dreams. It felt like Mother Nature had suddenly decided to see how long she could hold her breath, leaving the rest of us who hadn't been warned to do the same to now suffocate in her mighty resolve. The curtains had gone still. Tired fans pushed stale air that went limp behind the mosquito nets.  

Maybe that's why the delicious breeze that floated into our room that Blue Moon morning felt like its own tiny miracle. In the kitchen, Ma smiled and confirmed my suspicion: "Hawa from God," she explained, pointing to the grey sky. The trees were swaying. The curtains were breathing. Mother Nature had relented and I was in no position to complain. One less thing to worry about.

I knew the night ahead had all the makings of a predictable Bollywood drama. I saw it as the coming together of all the disparate people, themes and gossip that had come to characterize this particular trip of mine. The estranged wife and her estranged lover. The birthday boy. The Harmonium Man, gig-less on account of the beloved president Abdul Kalam's death, granted a more intimate venue to pay homage to his guru. The young constable who had just lost his finger on the job. And all of us, of course. This seemingly random Blue Moon encounter made all the more prescient by the element of time. A house that would soon become a lot emptier than simple subtraction might suggest. I have no doubt Ma had been planning this for a little while, ignoring any objections from any and all sides. Everyone was going to show up. And if that wasn't enough, Puji was making biryani. 

For all its psychological healing, the God wind that filled up our room that morning failed to stir outright forgiveness. I didn't participate in the morning shopping or help Puji marinate the two-and-a-half kilos of chicken. But sometime between that and my shower, I decided to let it go. Must have been that line in Kartography - something Zafar or Uncle Ali had said about living a full life, free of judgment. With Puji, it always came down to patience. And whenever I felt my patience waning, I would think about Ma and what she would do. And what she might think if I lost my patience.

There were of course more practical considerations. Like Puji, I had also calculated that being busy cooking was probably the best place to be. Not that any of them would understand why I'd be in the kitchen. But Pankaj asked me anyway. He laughed dismissively and then segued into my travel plans. You see, he continued, I’m getting married in October and it would be amazing if you could be there. I half-heartedly explained that I had to go back, though possibly wifeless, because I had a life back home. Of course, he sympathized. Then maybe you could go home and come back? Lucky for me, this ridiculous exercise in reciprocal face saving was made all the more tolerable thanks to Ma’s secret stash of the Johnny Walker Black I had gotten her from Canadian Duty Free. By the time Puji and I had made the last of the chutneys, it was 10:30 and I was buzzing. And with that buzz came the reassuring feeling that I was in my own home and that all of this, however random, all made perfect sense. Just like it had at our wedding anniversary at the resort. And probably at my wedding before that. And probably at my Haldi and Puji’s bachelorette before that. Maybe it was the alcohol. Point is, by the time Puji and I had shared a much-deserved smoke in the washroom, I was already ready for anything. Ma and her huge heart had made this night possible and it would be impossible not to enjoy. 

We walked downstairs and into the party together. 

I sat down next to Aman Uncle as he sang one old Assamese love song on the harmonium while Hussain, sitting across from us with his left hand bandaged to the wrist, banged along on an upright table with his right hand. Uncle was sprawled out on the bed, smiling and silently mouthing the words while Ma was clapping along, blanketing Aman's tenor with her own falsetto. Mamoo Aunty and her friend with the perpetual guilty look on her face also watched from the bed, while Sagar and Didi sat on two chairs in front of them. Pankaj, who felt the need to place me into the heart of the action when we first walked in, was now greedily capturing everything on his phone. 

I’m not sure exactly how much time had passed before the Bollywood songs took over, but I definitely know who got it started. The usual suspects came fast and furious from Didi’s laptops and suddenly, everyone was dancing. Aman Uncle ditched the harmonium and started to do his best ‘come over here’ routine, forcing Ma to burst into laughter and point his way. Hussain kept on drumming through the breaks in the Youtube feed. When Didi urged him to get up and dance, Ma scolded her, worried for his health. He grinned, slapped my back instead and reminded me to sip my whiskey. A boisterous Sagar did his best to keep up with Aman, singing along in pretty shabby Hindi. I danced with Puji and sang my usual gibberish lyrics for her ears only. Didi, armed with a wide assortment of moves that only a true connoisseur could know, danced up a perfect storm before serving up the next track. It wasn’t long before the Help got involved. Suresh and Poali were the first in, Munna followed and even Suraj entered sheepishly from next door. I joined them in a clutching circle dance and did my best to film the unfolding madness. In that brief half hour, I could honestly say that everything about the last two months simultaneously made sense and didn’t matter. Life in this extremely remote corner of the world, like so many other remote corners just like it, was what it was. And whatever could not be solved or resolved, could be laughed, drunk and danced away. 

Uncle, Aman and Hussain were the first to eat. I already knew the biryani was going to be a smash hit, but both guests went out of their way to convince Puji tonight's version was truly the stuff of Muslim dreams. Uncle just looked at Puji and said ‘Best!’ Now it was Puji, not Ma, who silently hovered over the dinner table, accepting compliments graciously and making sure that everyone had enough. Everyone ate and everyone left happy. 

And somewhere beneath the clouds, the Blue Moon watched while Mother Nature continued to exhale, satisfied. 

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'll always be a sucker for a good story

We were back on that track tonight, you and I. Running quietly. Orbiting Jarry Park under a full moon and nothing else kind of sky.  

I knew we probably wouldn't be up late enough to see the moon turn red. The fact that it was there was good enough. That and the email I made you read. And the fact that another long cycle, one that took us on a set of different loops, just like the ones we had imagined in that imaginary world, had maybe finally come to a key junction. Strange too that on the way to meet you, I remember thinking that, in the end, we had both actually taken the plunge. That nameless plunge into the deep. The old moment of truth. Uptown VineRise was just a blueprint, wasn't it? The conflict of our own creation. Neither of us could have imagined just how dark it could get on the way down. We suffered. Not alone, but without each other. Not enough to have forever lost touch. We just made our peace spinning in different directions. 

But nothing happens for no reason - not in the lives we want to live. 

Maybe it's time to get back to writing that happy ending.

Cold feet

The wind whipped up the snow in every direction. The initial storm was done and now the air growled with the smell of gasoline. The snowblower provided the unintended movie magic and did a good job of hiding the tears that had started to blur the letter I had been waiting for all day. A closeup would have perhaps caught the moment. The perfect angle cropping the glow from the screen and the slight crumpling of my face. But there in that manufactured snowstorm there was only you and I and my phone as messenger. The right words at the right time. Again. My socks would have already been soaked by then. Maybe I hadn't even noticed. Somehow, a steaming hot bath was the only thing on my mind when I reached home. After the last-minute MacDonald's promise from the night before, my cold feet were in desperate need of relief. No book or no beer this time around. Just me and my thoughts and the heat. And your words. And suddenly, lyrics from the last song I never wrote. The one I could never properly explain. The one that now explained everything.

You came
And everything went down the drain
All my pain

And then one simple little question, sent back halfway around the world.

a little more lightweight

     Today on the drive back from Subaru I didn't take that side street off the service road. The one I had taken just the other night. The one with the tiny magical church at the end of it. With the front-lit Jesus statue (or is it Mary? Jesus) just standing there, inviting and creepy. The most unassuming Heaven's Door you could ever imagine. Just sitting there. Before that final right back onto Saint-Laurent.
     Turns out it wouldn't have been the right way anyway. A large tree had cracked in half just above the trunk and crashed right into the cab of a parked truck. The truck was not spared and the street was completely blocked by a damn of thick branches. My brain registered the shape of the disaster out the corner of my eye but it took me a solid twenty five seconds and one reluctant u-turn to realize this was not the kind of thing you see everyday. So I photographed and reported back. Even though I had vaguely heard about the power outages on the way back. Even if I vaguely heard the wind howling all day. The nondescript knocking around of plastic garbage bin on asphalt as I played phone in for a bargain! with at  least three different dealers, just to see who would throw in something (anything) more than just the winter carpets that would compliment the shiny hunk of metal awaiting me at the end of the exercise. And this was a good day to be investing in metal. An auspicious day to buy a car - the start of Diwali and all.
     But today was something else. Today was so many things for so many different reasons.
     A missed birthday with no phone call. Some last-minute goodbye wishes. A day to reach out. To rebuild. To nurture. Not from the ground up. Never again from the ground up.
     Everything I set out to do today I did. The car. The hot water tanks. The re-connect and the background check. Whatever had been lingering around since I got back, really. Whatever I couldn't get away with blaming on jet lag any longer. The afterglow had dimmed a little. I had been beaten back down into reality. As if. As if I had expected anything less from life. Everything except the evil eye. And maybe the old tightening of the chest, first thing in the morning. So I had to let a little more of that weight go today. For myself and my well being. More promises followed. Tomorrow I would even start to run. And when the wind finally started to die down a little we watched the Muppets. Because it was still in the DVR. And we were all so much older than we might have been our first time watching. But there was still so much magic in those puppets. And everything seemed to come alive when I saw all those smiling faces go up on my wall. Those rows and rows of beautiful and colourful smiles. You would find no inner struggle in any of those rows of smiles. There would only always be life.
   

Forever lost and found

     I already knew how the book was going to end. I'm pretty sure it was written that way. And still I needed to finish it. Maybe that's the sign of a good book. Or at the very least, a book that's good for you. 

     Only Love is Real is not really my kind of book. Even the title bothers me. I don't dig New Age philosophy or too much metaphysical mumbo jumbo. The idea that this psychologist would take his patients through their past lives using hypnotherapy is not what continuously gnawed at me. The brain is a magical and powerful machine. It's not that I don't believe in the possibility of such things. I just kept wondering why Dr. Brian Weiss felt the need to constantly refer to his older books during the story. You'd think promoting older material would be the last thing on your mind after having lived through such a beautiful and fantastical story.

     But as much as I kept questioning how much of Pedro and Elizabeth's story was really real, I soon realized it didn't matter anyway. This was more than just an interesting tale of reincarnation. It was more than just a book about us. It was a book about me. I was living through it and learning many of its lessons. The idea of spending your life - many lives, even - searching for your soulmate was the reason I was sitting here, now, relating to this very book. All those strange, inexplicable feelings. The feeling you've known someone your whole life. Feeling like an old soul, lonely in your patience. Understanding that some people come to you as students and others as teachers and that sometimes, the person you are with is simply not where you are. And despite all that, having to constantly rediscover that there really is only one kind of love. That the love for your mother is no different than the love for your girlfriend, your best friend or that random stranger you think you met for only a beautiful, fleeting moment. How that love is reciprocated makes all the difference in the world.

     And the only thing you can do in this life is pray you get to share as much of your love as you can. So that maybe one day, in this life or in any other, you can breathe that final sigh of relief when you finally, finally reach home. 

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.

one day, even the ocean will go still and silent

"Robbie. Feels like you've been living here forever, ya."

Like I had become part of the furniture, I joked back. Smita had been repeating that line since day one. I knew she always meant it in the best possible way. But then I'm not sure what triggered the thought on this night. It had unfolded like any other. The three of us would have our midnight meal together, without fail. Some nights we'd watch Arnab Goswami grill some pigheaded official on The Newshour, other times we'd just sit on the couch and discuss books I should read, share family stories or laugh giddily about how much weight the three of us had gained since I came to Bombay. It was a good thing too, we'd agree, over green tea. We had all found some kind of happy routine together, temporary as it would be. But on this night Smita couldn't imagine how it would feel when Puji and I would no longer be there. 

In many ways Smita had become the adopted older sister I never had. Forget that I was actually the eldest. She was far more responsible and mature than I would ever be. But we still had a lot in common. We had both just come out of very long-term relationships. We both looked to avoid unnecessary drama in our lives and called things out exactly as we saw them. So I can't say I was surprised we got along so well. I just never thought I'd have an opportunity to get to know her as well as I had. There had been several times where we got to speak about our pasts, one on one, while Puji was either sleeping or doing her own thing. I always spoke to her as honestly as possible. I never made myself out to be the good guy. And what I had written in that letter to her still stood. This is why we never felt like strangers. 

But on this one particular night she wanted to hear the story of how Puji and I met. She was, after all, a storyteller at heart. It's not as if she didn't know most of it already. But then Puji had managed to keep many of those early months secret from her - possibly because the two of them had been fighting so much at the time. And while she had never really approved of any of her sister's choices, with me there had been little protest. Just be careful. That was all Smita had said. Maybe it was a feeling. Despite her realistic streak, Smita still believed all things happened for a reason.

It felt like ages since I had told this story. I had forgotten how beautiful a story it was. And the fact that I had come to know Puji in a completely different way didn't diminish that one bit. 

I filled in as many blanks as I could, especially about Amy. She was an important part of the story. And with her birthday looming she had been on my mind a lot. I still worried for her happiness. I had put her through hell, even when trying my best to be honest. I had lied to her. I had fallen off the map emotionally and pulled the rug out from under a life we had been building up for so many years. And then I had given her no choice but to move on. I knew she would too. Maybe she already was. It was hurting less to think so. I felt free to speak about all this in front of Smita. I felt free. It was a feeling more powerful than any guilt or homesickness. All I felt that night was intense love for all concerned.

Puji and I shared storytelling duties and quietly smiled at each other every now and then. It might have been the nicest conversation the three of us had had together.

I think Puji and I had needed to hear the story as much as her sister had. Maybe we had lost track of just how incredible ours was. Smita smoked, listened and asked many questions. Was she comparing my story to her own? I knew she understood that somewhere along the line I had fallen out of love with Amy. Maybe the two of us had grown too comfortable together. And us being best friends had just made it all the more heart wrenching to say goodbye. I thought these were the kind of things only people who had lived through long-term relationships could truly understand. But then that was only half of the story. Smita also had to know that the only reason things had worked out between Puji and I was because we both wanted it to. God or fate alone would not have been enough. 

She told me how the Buddhists believed that any person incapable of learning from their mistakes in one life would be destined to repeat them in the next life. Those who harmed you would reappear in different forms. Even from a non-religious angle this made perfect sense to me. He who doesn't learn from history is doomed to repeat it. I knew in my heart that Smita would heal as she needed to. Just as Amy would. And as for Puji and I, these moments made our own insecurities seem inconsequential. It was exactly the kind of night we all needed to have. And I hoped there would be many more like this before we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

There is no such thing as a beautiful goodbye

I have never felt so scared, so excited and so ambivalent all at the same time.

Tomorrow night I'll be flying somewhere over the Atlantic. In transit. Exactly where I've been for the last four months. Or maybe for the last four years? Who knows anymore. All I know is I'll be heading East. To a new life in India. For the next six months, anyway. Or for however long I can last, depending on who you ask on any given day.

I should probably be more anxious. The truth is I have no concrete plan. Just a Mumbai arrival and a tourist VISA that expires in mid October. A late-night jet lagged airport meeting with the most perfect of strangers, some apartment hunting and then a complete blank slate of 'whatever will be, will be.' Some people tell me I've got balls. Others probably assume I'm just running away and are waiting to see how long I can last. Whatever. This is what happens when you stop rationalizing your life away and listen to your heart and your gut. Shit gets messy. You suffer, you cry and you do everything in your power to break free. You bulldoze expectations, shock your family and inspire complete strangers. You open your heart and pour out your soul. And the Universe finds a way to fill it back up.

It's been a long and crazy Winter. But now it's time to go. And not just because it's literally time to go.

There is nothing left for me to explain. There is no one left to convince. I will go into this new chapter of my life the exact same way I came out of the last: with only the best intentions. I hope everything works out the way I think it can. For everyone involved. Funny thing about life is it almost never really works out that way, does it?

This is the leap of faith we wrote about, Jski. The one that kept us up all those crazy nights. I never thought I'd get to peer over the edge of that darkness again but here I am.

Time to figure out what happens when you come out the other side.  

the long and winding road

i was standing on top of a huge flat roof, packing. it felt like i had been packing for the better part of the day but then it's hard to tell. Dave was around but he wasn't around. maybe he was distracted because Manemou was back in town. maybe he was just distracted. but i did almost all of the grunt work on my own, sometimes mistaking the door to our apartment for another that opened right into this huge empty mezzanine filled with nothing but a thin layer of fine plywood dust. it smelled freshly cut but i was still scared to look over. when i made my way back into the place i was leaving i ran into Jules, only half surprised when he opened the door to the same bedroom i was walking toward. the door was open enough so that i could make out sweaty sheets behind him - he had just gotten back into town and Kim was probably there scrambling to get dressed. he asked me if it had been me playing the drums before and i said yes, half embarrassed and half proud. "not bad, not bad" he smiled at me. "so I guess you really do have a lot to tell me these days?" i meant to answer but felt there was no need. relief gave way to a quiet joy as he said something about how maybe our own story had yet to be fully written as well.

somewhere in the mess that was last night

I don't get out as much as I used to.

But when I do, the night always seems to have an urgent feel to it. Like everyone who you simply assumed no longer thought and/or cared about you just suddenly comes out of the woodwork and makes you feel like a chump for having been out of the loop for so long.

Obviously, most of this has to do with music. For a lot of people (well, Montreal is still a small big city) I am and forever will be the singer of Kamikaze Baby. The songwriter who could string some nice chords and words together. The guy whose band inspired them to play music in the first place. I always try not to make too much of it; dismiss it as a lot of alcohol-soaked nostalgia. And for a while I almost dreaded the conversation. But that conversation is always ready to be had, behind a cigarette and Vodka in some dark corner of the club. Nobody wants to give up on the underdog, it seems. Even when the underdog himself has contemplated packing it up.

But things have been changing.
I've also been feeling that old familiar feeling more and more these days.

Walking into the Narcotiques room every day to visit Angel and knowing that it will soon become my own. I talk about it like it's already done. And after an awesome conversation with Mr. Smiles (and right before the Sweater Song dragged me away) I now have a drum set to add to the imaginary arsenal; the same one that's just been secretly sitting there in the case, just waiting to be identified. And unwrapped.

And maybe that's exactly where I'm at.
Maybe I'm finally ready to be (re) identified and unwrapped.

all the Social without all the awkward

I never thought I'd enjoy using Twitter.

I figured it would be too much like Facebook, where you subconsciously follow the otherwise useless lives of people you barely ever really knew and no longer really care about. To the point where it all becomes so much depressing social static; where the very act of signing in feels like showing up to a lame party, ducking the crowd and heading straight for the booze.

Twitter feels different. It might be early and it probably helps that (much like this blog) I haven't really announced it to the world. I'm not even using my full name.

But what I enjoy even more than the privacy is the fact that I get to follow all these interesting minds. I get to read, see and watch what the people I admire are thinking on a whim at any given point in time. And then contribute to this incredible stream of consciousness. I don't know, but it seems way more intellectually stimulating and socially pressing than scrolling through generic comments and vacation photos. I feel like I have left high school and graduated to Social Media University.

That being said, you can follow me @gracebythegun. And right here, of course.

Where this whole adventure began.

the early birds get the last sunset

We were up at 4:30 this morning to catch the sunrise. The roosters had deceived us. Sunrise was actually an hour and a half later.

I accepted the short snooze and dreamt of sunrises. The real life one was just as pretty - and it included some banana and nutella tacos and the company of Cookie, the hotel's resident basset hound with the pink rhinestone collar. Should we ever actually follow through on all the big dream talk of moving here for good someday, we will open up a restaurant called Choco Loco and this will be the signature breakfast dish.

A full-on sun day would have been outight cancerous in today's heat. So we took a drive down the Inter Americana to Penonome in search of beach toys and Panama Hats. What we found was a bustling little town with lots of dollar stores but no paddle balls. I haven't figured out just how long the Chinese have been in this country, but there are a lot of decent-looking Asian/Panamanians walking the streets and serving killer chicken dishes with vegetables and peanuts by the highway. I had already committed to a $3 imitation hat when a sweet local told us where we might find the real deal - insisting that I reminded her of that guitar player from GnR, the band that had taught her most of her English. In Pintada we found only one simple shop with a tiny old woman. There were only a few models to choose from and she chose the same hat for Amy that first caught my eye. It looked like a Louis-Vitton and clocked in at $50 after some gentle haggling. Well worth the drive.

When we finally got back I gave Abdil the lottery ticket I had bought him and told him that should it be a winner, we would build our little beach Villa next to his and enjoy the life together. He let us take the lawn chairs down to the beach. We spent the better part of the slow sunset walking the beach collecting seashells and figuring out just how early we'd have to get up tomorrow to do the same before driving back to Panama to make the late-morning flight to Costa Rica.

the high diving board all over again

There's always a million different things I have to consider before I start something new.

Sometimes I wish I was the kind of person that could just jump into a new project without trying to figure out where I`m going to land - before it begins. I'm not sure I was ever this kind of person. It's in my nature to overthink.

All I know is that once I start something, I curse myself for having taken so long. This blog is a perfect example. I wish I would have started this thing right after the band broke up. All that emotional turbulence would have made for some fine print, if nothing else. Be constructive with my blues, as Thom Yorke would say.

But here we are, right? I guess it doesn't really matter when you decide to take that plunge. It`s far more important that you avoid looking down. Jump in with both feet.

umm, anyone remember the way to point B???

I feel like I'm working off a master plan that is bare on details. A blueprint to a blueprint.

You got to start somewhere, but God help me if I remember the way from point A. I think I might even be too scared to ask for directions. I can sling the big ideas with the best of them but at the end of the night, I'm still singing into my iPhone. Stringing together words that don't make much sense on paper. Howling in a voice that sounds foreign to my ears. I'm not sure it's even safe to call this writing. But I  assure even near-perfect strangers that I am.

You're the musician right?
Yes.
How's the band doing?
Actually, the band broke up.
Really?
Yeah, well you know. These things happen. It's hard to keep things together.
Must be. But you're still writing?
Of course.
That's good.

I sense it's important these people know I'm still working at something. Puts everyone at ease. Just like Cleinfeld and I slurred into the camera that night at Steph's wedding, back when everything was still fresh and awkward: Just keep on keeping on. Gotta keep on keeping on.

Feel better? I know I do.

on a night like this

my head is swimming.

my head has been swimming since last night, when i took a little walk past the Home Depot, past the train tracks and through the hole in the chainlink fence. past Waverly, onto Bernard and then west. more west. but not west enough.

if my boots wouldn't have been rubbing against my heels, i might have walked for hours. past the mountain, maybe. with Bob Dylan singing in my ears underneath my hood, i think i could have walked forever. invisible and invincible. Planet Waves had me all figured out and nothing else mattered.

on the way back, i got a really strange feeling when i imagined how it would feel like to go back in time; back to that very same bus stop on Van Horne to see the 16-year-old version of myself on that warm summer day. the one i'd been trying so hard to picture. the one who just realized his heart was broken and who would only later learn that the lack of a proper explanation is what really hurt the most. like losing a loved one at sea. what words of wisdom would i have for him? not even sure i would say a thing. probably just study his face. try my best to memorize it.

but that was yesterday. today i'm thinking about the master plan.

i haven't yet decided if i have any control over this or not. but i have become acutely aware that something in me has awoken and has since taken on a life of its own. time has slowed somewhat. days and weeks no longer pass unaccounted for - not without some kind of written record or psychological marker.

another chapter of the time traveller's wife. another insanity workout with Amy.
another one of those fun drum sessions where you forget it's you playing.

this is the way it has to be.

if a future me should ever visit, i would want to make sure he'd have plenty to say.