message in a bottle (02.2003 - 09.2008)

I am missing Penang today, which is very odd given the fact that I have spent only a few hours on that isle. So when I shut my eyes to remember the point I want to mention in the document at hand, I see the winding road to the QueensBay mall with the ocean on one side and the skyscrapers on the other. For a moment I see flashes of extremely clean and almost hauntingly empty roads and then the terribly crowded and almost suffocating sight of the Prangin mall blinds me. After almost an hour of thinking about the day that I spent in George Town, I have decided that I will reminisce about it once and for all and then get back to my document.

---

I step into the huge building my eyes wide and breath held for a moment. No, it is not my first time in a mall, nor is this mall anything out of the ordinary; it is mostly the excitement building up inside me. I run from one showroom to the other looking at every designer item and not noticing much because I want to see it all in the designated one hour. I want to buy something just so I can remember this day – this feeling more than this day, actually.

---

It is a huge shoe store. I look around and I see so many fancy things that I cannot decide what to pick up. I look at the shiny golden belle shoes for a few moments and then look away to search for something less jazzy. I look at one pair after the other, discarding everything because I am impatient: too red, too flat, to high, to broad. Ultimately, I am pointed out a pair of black open-toe sandals that zip up at the ankle. “Gorgeous, but too expensive,” I say. “I will buy them for you,” he says and I thank him with joy, forgetting that as of last week our finances have merged and his buying is not very different from me swiping my own plastic.

---

It is post lunch time and I am browsing those endless shelves labeled ‘Fiction’ in Borders. I turn around to face the graphic novels section and marvel at those ultimate editions, neatly wrapped in sheets of cellophane paper to prevent us from finishing the book in the bookstore. A boy of around ten, his shirt un-tucked and his uniform shorts a little dirty, is going through the latest comics with great earnestness. I close the book in my hand and observe him. This is serious business for him; unconcerned with his surroundings he looks for the right issue and then moves to graphic novels to lust for those expensive items that his pocket money would probably not buy. I watch him pay at the cash counter and then walk out of the store looking content with his purchase.

---

I look out of the window of my luxury bus. Most buildings are old and remind me of the British era, except the temples. There are a lot of those, one after every ten buildings. This view undergoes a quick transformation as the bus turns from the crossroads. Now, I see huge skyscrapers and wide clean roads. This mix is what makes this town so different from the rest of the cities I visited in the last few days. When I get down from the bus in front of another huge mall, I find myself in a completely different part of the town. Here people ride on trishaws (also called bugbug) and the emptiness that I had been seeing since morning is replaced with huge crowds of locals rushing about.

---

At twilight, I stand in the queue to get back onto the ship. As I approach the port’s exit I turn around for one last glimpse of the beautiful George Town. I see an ancient white and red building; a building so very British. The green creepers making their way to the second floor add to its character. Just behind this building, I see the tall clock tower – white and blue, and ticking. I close my eyes to capture this picture and today, that is the exact picture that flashes in front of my eyes when you say the word - Penang.

Nineteen is a selfish age and finds one’s cares tightly circumscribed. I felt endlessly powerful and endlessly optimistic; my pockets were empty but my head was full of things I wanted to say and my heart was full of stories I wanted to tell. I felt I had been made to do those things. How conceited does that sound? A lot or a little? Either way I do not apologize. I was nineteen.

Around the age of thirty-nine, my troubles began to set in. The world eventually sends out a mean-ass Patrol Boy to slow your progress and show you who’s boss. You reading this have undoubtedly met yours, or will. I met mine, and I am sure he’ll be back. He’s got my address. He’s a mean guy, Bad Lieutenant, the sworn enemy of goofery, fuckery, pride, ambition, loud music, and all things nineteen.

- Stephen King

Unlike King, I never did drugs or got drunk enough to boast about it. Nevertheless, I have had my own share of careless juvenile ambitions that gave me a high back then but wouldn’t catch me dead now.

Dreaming my way through life

Until five years back, I believed that one day I was going to grow up to write books for children, to open my own bookshop, to earn enough money to take vacations in Hawaii and Vatican City, to build my dream house…you get the drift, right?

I still want to do all these things. I really do. I still think that one day I will do all these things and more. Yet sometimes, just sometimes, I feel the feasibility of all somewhat bleak. I Doubt. Damn this Doubt.

So how did I come from believing in my dreams to wanting my dreams to come true? How did the big D creep in?

Spotting the Patrol Boy

The day my hairdresser discovered the first strand of grey in my hair, I stopped to think for a moment. But no, that’s because of the polluted environment and the harsh chemicals I bestow on my hair, I told myself and moved on.

Then I tumbled upon a book written by 24-year old author and the book was not another Opal Mehta. I walked into a florist shop run and managed by a 23-year old girl and bought flowers for my friend who was throwing a house warming party for her own house. That was the day I spotted the bad old Patrol Boy in my neighborhood. He was right there making clandestine inquiries about me.

As I looked at him from behind the lamppost, I realized that the clock has been ticking. If I were to make all my dreams come true, I would’ve at least started on some of them. Sigh.

Being friends with the Patrol Boy

No dear reader, no, I have not given up just yet. I have a game plan. I am going to switch on my charms and be friends with the Patrol Boy. Being his nasty self, he must be pretty lonely. If I were nice to him, he’ll have no choice but to reciprocate. And then, I shall gain some more time to make my dreams come true.

I am still on my fantasy trip, people. However, this time around I am not dreaming of beaches and hammocks but of superpowers. Here’s a list of my top three favorites.

#1. Shape-shifting: I can turn myself into any living being. What fun it is to hide myself as Nicole Kidman, a fire-breathing dragon, or the elderly vegetable vendor from across the street. Even so, notice that I cannot turn myself into inanimate objects. You see, there is a high risk involved. If I turn myself into a crystal glass, I have to stay a crystal glass until some nincompoop drops me on the floor!

#2. Flying: I fly. Rather, I glide through the puffy clouds, high above traffic-clogged streets. I visit people more often. I see the remotest places on earth by taking a flight across the deep blue ocean.

#3. Communicating with animals: I can speak dog, cat, horse, tiger, and several other wild languages. I am the mistress of the wild ones. They talk to me as I fondle them and they lie at my feet. They are friends and I am their link to the human world.

However, someone told me that with great power comes great responsibility. Catch! My frail shoulders droop with all the good work that I’ve to do. :p

Every morning, I would hastily gulp down my glass of milk and rush out, my hair still wet from the bath, to meet her. She would be there, waiting for me. She always wore a white frock, with lace in floral print for sleeves. Her hair was wispy, the kind that flips with the slightest hint of breeze. She was Nora, my only friend in the summer of '89.

I had just moved to Delhi. The other kids of the neighborhood were still busy with their annual school exams. Nora was the only one who had time to play. She would come out early in the morning and meet me on the terrace. She did not mind the sun, and loved cycling with me. We would ride up and down the street all morning. At noon, we would sit on the terrace and play house. I let Nora take turns to dress my Barbie up. I told her stories of the tropical area I had come from. She would listen earnestly.

When mum called me for lunch, Nora would go away. She never ate at my house. That way, she was strange. She did not talk much to my mom. But I did not mind it. I liked her name as well. It reminded me of a character from the Enid Blyton adventure book I had read some time back.

In the evening when I went out for a walk, sometimes, she would join me. We would jingle the coins in our pockets, as we made our way to the ice candy man. I always had an orange popsicle and she lime.

Then, the school happened. I was admitted to a new school, full of new people – eager to be friends. I may not have liked studying much, but I always liked going to the school. Soon, I had other friends, ones with more familiar names like Charu, Seema, and Shalini. That was when Nora stopped visiting me. Initially, I missed her. Maybe she was the possessive kinds, who did not want me to be friends with anyone but her. But soon, I got too busy in my daily routine and the memories of Nora faded.

Sometimes, when I am sitting all by my self, those memories come back. They are happy memories. And, I wonder if I have ever met anyone called Nora.

What happens when you try to recollect something that someone had said earlier?

This morning, I tried to remember a random song some friends and I were humming last evening. I raked my memory to recollect its lyrics but all I got was the theme of the song. Interestingly, I ended up recalling a lot of minute details I wasn’t looking for.

Sitting on my desk, I closed my eyes and concentrated on the lyrics of the song. Instantly, I found myself transported to a different space. In the twilight, I could sense the fast moving vehicle. I could see my friend’s happy face, eyes shut, and lips mouthing the undecipherable words. I could feel the chilly air. I could smell the smoke and hear the sounds of the traffic. I had no clue my mind had registered all those tiny details. All my senses work and record specifics that I never bother to recollect!

However fascinating the brief experience might have been, I still had to ask around about the song in question.

By the sea, frothy-waves reaching out to me. I walk unaware of the sand granules stuck within my toes. I feel the cool breeze on my face as I sip the tender coconut water.

In a field of yellow flowers, by the stream. I lazily thumb through ‘The Thorn Birds’, slip the bamboo bookmark in the book and close it to watch the squirrels at play.

By the pool on a hot summer day like today, saxophone playing in the background. I dip my feet in the cool water and close my eyes to absorb the moment. I swim my anxieties away.