Author: Pooja

Where does the heart lie?

I have a theory that I leave a little piece of my heart in every place I have ever lived – there is a sizable chunk which lives in Indore, a big piece resides in Pune, a couple of fragments in Goa and Nagpur, and most recently, a pretty significant portion in NYC. It makes for a pretty picture – a heart in pieces which span cities, countries, even continents … almost like non-creepy Horcruxes: neither deliberate, nor for immortality – these ensure that I am home no matter where I go.

heart

I have a theory that I leave a little piece of my heart in every place I have ever lived – there is a sizable chunk which lives in Indore, a big piece resides in Pune, a couple of fragments in Goa and Nagpur, and most recently, a pretty significant portion in NYC.  It makes for a pretty picture – a heart in pieces which span cities, countries, even continents … almost like non-creepy Horcruxes: neither deliberate, nor for immortality – these ensure that I am home no matter where I go.

Most often, this love is not for the city itself, but for the people and memories I have associated with those places. I love Indore, not for the Rajwada palace or chappan dukan, but because it’s where all my childhood memories are. Indore is home because of my people – my parents, my brother, my very first friends. I miss Indore for my alma mater – the school halls I walked for twelve years straight. I miss playing hide-and-seek with my friends and always, always hiding ‘out-of-boundary’. I miss Indore for the millions of evening strolls with my BFF, walking arm-in-arm, sharing gossip and secrets of the utmost importance, growing up together and finding our places in the world. She doesn’t live in Indore any more, and neither do I … but in my mind, Indore is where the Pooja-Varsha covalent bond lives and flourishes still; the ghosts of two little girls giggling and wheeling their bicycles along will forever haunt those streets. Oh yes, Indore certainly has a piece of my heart.

Pune is special to me because that was the first time I lived away from my parents, and made a new home. This is where I made friends who are now family. I miss Pune for my Biology professors, for the inedible food in the mess which unified one and all, for those late nights and early mornings, for the trips we took and the hills we climbed. I miss Pune for the long study sessions and even longer chai sessions in the garden. I miss the version of myself that I was in Pune – I look back upon her fondly sometimes, like some sort of younger sister I had. Pune for me is a picnic basket full of memories and experiences, of laughter and tears and teasing banter.

But my love for New York is a lot more intense – it’s not a warm familial feeling, but a fiercely intense sort of passion. I love my people here – an eclectic medley of people from all different walks of life I would never have met otherwise.  I cherish the independence I have here, it’s a whole different level of independence than what I had in Pune. No, this is not the first time I am living away from home – but here I am completely on my own, the training wheels I had in Pune are off, and I am carving out my own niche. I love the skyscrapers and the bright lights, I adore the museums and parks, the book stores and stationery shops, and the sheer variability in weather around the year.

In spite of all that, I find myself taking NYC for granted at times – like we often do to things which have been ours for a while. I get caught up in my daily routine and chores, and find myself lulled into complacency – but existing in a three-block radius does not do justice to the city. NYC has so much more to offer, and if I ever forget, she will walk right up to me in her sparkling stilettos and remind me, raising an eyebrow at my very audacity. In the middle of wondering if I need to buy milk, I will find myself walking through glittery streets in midtown, or finding a new subway station (I can NOT stop gushing about how much I love having a stop so close!), or catching a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline while walking across the Brooklyn Bridge –  and I am hit with a swell of emotion, a kind of pride and heart-stopping awe. What a marvel, what a sight! Where else can you saunter off to buy prettier shower curtains on a whim at midnight, or grab a slice of pizza at 4 a.m. just because? At the end of a regular day, I will be trudging home from work, tired and weary, only to stop and stare because it has just rained, and the streets have been swept clean, and are reflecting the sparkly glow from the street lamps, headlights of cars and leftover Christmas decorations, and at that moment, life shifts from ordinary to extraordinary. Such a magical alignment of phenomena, atmospheric and man-made, colliding together in harmony, creating this moment in time… yes, NYC has a big, big chunk of my heart. No matter how much I miss open spaces, and the ability to see stars at night. No matter how many ambulance sirens I hear (to be honest, I don’t even register them any more – living next to three hospitals will do that to you). No matter how small my apartment is, or how unreasonably high the rent is.

The real intensity of my feelings becomes clear the moment an outsider criticizes the city. I get riled up the moment someone’s opinion of New York is less that incredible, and it’s a very primal instinctive response – New York is MINE. Mine to love, mine to hate, mine to complain about. I am happy to hear people rave about it, but the moment they say it’s too dirty, or crowded or ‘just like Bombay’ – I will fight you tooth and nail no matter how irrational it may be. True love is irrational that way… I don’t need a reason to defend my beloved city. If you are an outsider, and don’t like it, kindly stay outside and keep your criticism to yourself. My city, all mine! My love of NYC supersedes my love for the people, the buildings, the Broadway shows – somehow it’s more than the sum of its parts, something more intangible than ever.

After twenty three years of calling myself a small town girl, it didn’t even take twenty three hours to morph into someone who adores the big city, and wants to be mistaken for a local. Someday I will leave Manhattan, but this love affair will always be something special. It’s even more special because it’s transient. I’ve always rolled my eyes at the clichéd I ♥ NY T-shirts, because somehow that isn’t nearly enough to encompass how I feel, and besides, they are so very touristy! But then again, maybe there isn’t a better way to explain it. And maybe being a tourist is a good thing, because they are the ones who gawk at every new building, every street sign, live (and live-stream) every single moment in the city. There’s a balance between being a local who can swipe their subway card without breaking stride, walk super fast, and automatically hold one’s breath while walking past the garbage piles, avoiding the drip-drip-drip from the air conditioners and jaywalking expertly… there’s a balance between that and the wide-eyed tourist who stops to appreciate all the sights. Maybe the only way to explain that, explain this whole ramble of a blog post is a simple heartfelt phrase:  I ♥ NY.

A Playlist named Home

The whir of my dad’s car pulling into the driveway at the end of a long day. Gales of laughter around the dinner table. The renderings of Kishore Kumar singing in the background. The annoyingly shrill cries of the hordes of peacocks parading around town. The soft tap-tap of a tennis ball hitting the walls, interspersed with thwacks as it is caught by my brother’s ready hands. The drone of the water cooler as it fights to beat the summer heat. The hum of the washing machine. The tinkling sound of my mother’s laugh, warm and delighted.

Seven thousand, six hundred, and forty five miles. Here, in my NYC apartment, I am approximately seven thousand, six hundred, and forty five miles away from home. So very far away – more than twelve thousand kilometers,  a whopping 9.5 hour difference in time zones, and over sixty six hundred nautical miles. It’s a long way to home by any means of (feasible!) transport. I put on my headphones, close my eyes and listen …

The whir of my dad’s car pulling into the driveway at the end of a long day. Gales of laughter around the dinner table. The renderings of Kishore Kumar singing in the background. The annoyingly shrill cries of the hordes of peacocks parading around town. The soft tap-tap of a tennis ball hitting the walls, interspersed with thwacks as it is caught by my brother’s ready hands. The drone of the water cooler as it fights to beat the summer heat. The hum of the washing machine. The tinkling sound of my mother’s laugh, warm and delighted. The snip of the secateurs as the rose bushes in the garden are trimmed. The cheerful babble of school children on their way home. The characteristic jangle of the landline telephone. My mother’s voice, so like mine, talking to a friend. The static-y old Bollywood music trilling out of the radio in the kitchen. The piercing whistle of the pressure cooker. The rhythmic creak of the canopy swing set in the garden. The soft click of the front gate signaling my parents’ return from their evening walk, sending my brother and I scurrying over to more respectable activities. The jarringly loud flap-flap of a peacock’s wings as it flies up a few feet to rest upon the leaves of the bottle palm tree in my front yard – the peacock with two left tail feathers slightly crooked, who has made our garden his home, and now co-exists with us in not-so-peaceful harmony.

Back in my NYC apartment, I close my eyes and listen to all these sounds – these discordant, unrelated sounds, which somehow all come together seamlessly and blend into nostalgic melody: the soundtrack to what I call Home. And as my melody plays on, those seven thousand, six hundred and forty five miles steadily fade away into nothingness, and in a blink of an eye, I am home.

A memory for my Pensieve

20160730_215920I am a Ravenclaw. My favorite subject is Charms, and I am particularly adept at producing a corporeal Patronus (it’s a Golden, er, silver Retriever). Potions is a close second; my current project is to brew a perfect batch of Felix Felicis over the next six months. I own a snowy owl as well as a purple Pygmy Puff.

I am, most assuredly, a Potterhead. I’ve loved the Wizarding World since I was 11, and J.K. Rowling and her incredibly detailed universe captured my imagination like nothing else. However, in spite of all the times I tried Levitating my shuttlecock instead of hitting it with my badminton racket, in spite of all the scrapbooks and zillions of sketches of Harry I made on the last page of every notebook, in spite of reading the books over and over till I could recite the chapters off my head – I have, for the most part, been a Potterhead in isolation.

Growing up, I have been laughed at, mocked, and gently rebuked for this obsession of mine. I’ve been reminded, multiple times, that this is all just a distraction, and I need to focus on reality. I lived in a world without midnight release parties, without crowds around me clamoring for new books the way I was – I grew up feeling different, feeling like I wasn’t understood – pretty much like every Muggle-born witch before she gets her Hogwarts letter. I grew up with my magic intact, but just better-concealed. Over the years, I have cultivated a casual, ‘oh yeah, I guess I like Harry Potter’ attitude, even though I know that deep down in my heart, it lives on in all its obsessive, many-splendored glory. In true Ginny fashion, I gave other stories a chance, became more comfortable in my skin, more myself – and yet, never truly gave up on Harry.

Yesterday evening, on the eve of Harry and Rowling’s birthday, I attended one of the many many midnight release parties for Harry Potter and The Cursed Child. And it was a revelation. People of all ages were running across the bookstore on scavenger hunts to find Horcruxes and Fantastic Beasts, making glittery wands for themselves, and playing across a giant chessboard. We all tried on the Sorting Hat, we decorated and left out socks for the House Elves (Hermione would be proud!), guessed the number of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans packed into the Triwizard Cup, and with the whole place decorated with House banners, owls and Dementors, Hedwig’s theme playing in the background – it was completely magical. I couldn’t help squealing for joy when I popped into the girls’ bathroom and found a troll. Such attention to detail! There was a Muggle wall, where everyone had put up lightning-bolt-shaped, funny, poignant, heart-felt messages about what Harry Potter has meant to them. This was it, in this moment in time… I found my tribe, my people. Yes, we were all crazy, but in the best possible way. And isn’t it absolutely incredible that one woman can write a story of such epic proportion that she inspires millions of people to dress up in robes, sport scars and flourish wands – one woman, causing such multi-generational mass hysteria! If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is. Being there, celebrating Rowling and her world, surrounded by people who were unapologetically reveling in their mutual wizardry – it felt like coming home. Finally being wholly accepted, and celebrated for who I was , what I loved… after all these years, I’d finally made it to Hogwarts. All was well.