Adventures – Sunlit Prism

Reason #3 Why I Love New York: The Skyline

Such a triumphant feat of mankind and engineering – the city standing tall and proud, in spite of all that has happened in the past, in spite of the horrors and terrible things that happen every day, in spite of the insane traffic and maddening crowds – New York stands glorious and proud, undefeated and strong.

I have a lot of complex feelings about New York City. This is mostly because I associate it with a difficult phase in my life – my PhD. It’s been demanding to say the least, and that’s not exactly NYC’s fault – the PhD is hard in and of itself, but I do believe that it gets harder due to a lot of additional factors: NYC attracts the best and brightest minds (i.e. the most intense and type A), we all live in tiny, shared apartments, the cost of living is really high, and on top of it all, just the constant rushing, rushing everywhere (every time I leave NYC, I find myself having to consciously slow down to match my walking companions). Life here is hectic and rushed, and I find myself eternally strained, running around with a worried furrow on my forehead, a little crease that shows up during times of stress (which is around 90% of the time). The apartments are tiny and lack sunlight – partly due to the weather, but mostly due to the tall buildings that surround yours, and block out the sun during those already-limited precious sunlit months. Life in NYC is tough, challenging, draining, and yet…

And yet, it seduces you. The same buildings that block out the sun are the ones that lead to the cool phenomenon of Manhattanhenge, when the sunsets and sunrises perfectly align with the east-west streets of the city grid. The same buildings which house tiny offices and apartments are the ones that give you the best views, especially from the rooftops. The same buildings that make you feel like you’re stuck in a dense concrete jungle are the ones that give you a sense of joy and security when you’re in a jungle of the greener variety – those parts deep inside Central Park where it’s easy to lose sense of direction and time.

View from Belvedere Castle, Central Park

You see, every now and then I feel worn out and run down by my big city life, and I make a fuss and threaten to leave forever. On occasion, I do actually leave for a gleeful, freedom-promising weekend. And I love it, I love leaving the city. As my train chugs out of Manhattan, I can feel a physical weight lift off my shoulders, I can breathe in deeper and longer, and with along me, the furrow on my forehead goes on vacation too. The grass is greener, the air is less polluted, and I can see entire unblocked views of the sky! Leaving NYC is like letting out a long-overdue sigh of relief.

However – and I don’t know if this is common to all New Yorkers – but every time my out-of-town vacation ends and I’m on my way back to the city by train, bus or plane, full of good memories and happiness, and a lingering sense of wistfulness and end-of-vacation blues: the minute I see the Manhattan skyline, I gasp out loud. Every single time.

That gorgeous skyline, the distinctive shape of those buildings, almost definitely scraping the sky! The sleek sides of the buildings reflecting off sunlight, the glittering windowpanes, the dazzling lights – such a triumphant feat of mankind and engineering – the city standing tall and proud, in spite of all that has happened in the past, in spite of the horrors and terrible things that happen every day, in spite of the insane traffic and maddening crowds – New York stands glorious and proud, undefeated and strong. The Manhattan skyline makes my breath catch in my throat, and my eyes light up with awe and nostalgia – this incredibly intimidating, wonderfully terrifying place is home. It is mine, my home, my reality. I made it! This is the dream millions of people dream of, this was the dream I dreamed of when I was just a 12-year-old kid in India, reading books about bossy girls from NYC who bring their New Yorker slang and swagger to a Little League baseball team struggling for recognition. (Hit me up if you recognize this book!)

Back then, Manhattan was the dream, and now every time I look at the skyline I am reminded that I am here, I’m living the dream. I’m in the middle of what I used to look forward to. What I didn’t think would actually happen. Even when I was applying for grad school, I just targeted good developmental biology programs, and didn’t really care about the location (it was away from India, which was honestly all I wanted at that time). And when I got accepted here, I had to go back and check if it was Cornell, Ithaca, which I’d heard was also in New York (you guys, it’s very confusing to have a New York City and a New York State. Be more creative!). It was almost a discovery to realize that – wait, one of the programs that accepted me is actually in THE New York, the real New York you see in all the TV shows and movies! The New York of Friends and How I Met Your Mother, the New York of Gossip Girl (funnily enough, I also got to live on the Upper East Side, though my life is nowhere as scandalous as those kids’)!

You see, life in NYC might be tough, but it’s also a challenge. It’s a statement. It’s the most rewarding, accomplished feeling ever – and when I get to see that skyline, and when my heart stops and my breath catches – sometimes, just sometimes my eyes prickle with tears that I rapidly blink away. This is a crazy, awesome city, and she is mine. I am hers. I belong here. She may be tough, she may be constantly pushing me out of my comfort zone, she may be fast-paced and cruel and impatient and expensive, she may be the one who triggered my quarter life crisis, she is where I have felt my lowest, my most lost, miserable, bewildered self – but she’s also the one who taught me how to find myself. To rebuild myself. To explore and see who I truly am, what I’m made of, what I choose to make of myself. She tests my patience and my strength, and makes me wonder why I’m here, when I could have picked a less unforgiving place. But even when I’m doubting myself – one look at that skyline and I know that I belong to her. She has me. She owns me. My heart lives right here, in New York, New York.

View from Liberty State Park, NJ. The heart is all mine.

Universal Studios: Mischief Managed!

Let me tell you about one of the happiest days of my life: the time I spent the entire day in The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal Studios in Los Angeles.

It was a day I got to share with some of my closest friends, which was great, both because they enjoyed it thoroughly themselves, and also because they let me fully revel in my Wizarding World glee without thinking I’ve gone crazy. I’ve dreamed, day-dreamed, and pretty much lived in Harry’s world ever since I read the books all those years ago. A lifetime ago. I have traveled by the Hogwarts Express, been Sorted, flown Firebolts, and rode Hippogriffs a million times in my imagination. Was there ever a pre-Harry Potter Pooja? (Yes, actually, but that’s a whole other story.) Newer exciting fantasy series have come and gone, but nothing has ever managed to replace Hogwarts yet.

After years and years of obsessing so, I was finally here in Hogsmeade village! It was just as I pictured it – row after row of tiny shops with pristine snow-covered roofs. In addition there were wand stalls (here, the wannabe wizard chose the wand), and giant barrels full of Butterbeer.

I saw moving Wanted posters of Sirius Black. There were Gringotts ATMs to withdraw Muggle money. How considerate! I saw adults walking around in full wizarding robes, and children running around brandishing functional wands. Yes, the wands are interactive and you can actually perform certain spells in specific locations in Hogsmeade! There were little Pygmy Puffs you could adopt. Owl post that you could mail to yourself or to friends.

20171228_152358 — Owl post – lots of parcels to be delivered still!

The Frog Choir was in full form, with occasional dances and gymnastics by the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang visitors. There was old Mr. Ollivander, demonstrating how the wand chooses one very lucky wizard. I was really hoping to be picked for the demo, but I suppose the 9-year-old who was picked instead can maybe appreciate the experience just as much?! Oh, and Honeydukes! You could see why it’s a top destination for Hogwarts students. Fudge Flies, Sugar Quills, Peppermint Toads by the dozen – in candy stores like these, everyone is like a toddler on a sugar high!

And of course, there were all the Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans and Chocolate Frogs you could buy, complete with Famous Witches and Wizards Cards. Do you know how big those Frogs actually are? I was stopped at the LAX airport for extra security later on, because they thought the giant frog-shaped figure in my bag looked very suspicious through the X-ray scanner!

The Three Broomsticks was incredible. The sheer attention to detail was impressive, from a little sign with three little broomsticks on it, to stern notices from the Ministry about underage wizards not allowed to be served alcohol. We had to stand in queue for lunch for nearly an hour, but it was worth it. I almost cried when I had my first mug of Butterbeer. I was worried it would be too sweet, too overwhelming, and I’d be disappointed. But it was sheer perfection. It reminded me of butterscotch ice cream, but in hot molten form – creamy and delicious.

And then of course, we got to wander through Hogwarts castle to get to one of the theme park rides. The ride was quite realistic, as we got to follow Harry on his broomstick above the castle grounds, swooping, soaring, and barely escaping being hit by the Whomping Willow. But before we got on the ride, we had the time of our lives walking through Hogwarts castle. I kept squealing with excitement as we wound through the greenhouses outside, walked underneath the talking portraits, and saw Dumbledore’s office, the Gryffindor common room, and the classrooms. It was quite surreal to finally, finally be physically present in the very place my heart has resided for the last 17-odd years.

20171228_144952 — Look how glorious Hogwarts Castle is!

I wish I could explain how I felt. I could use phrases like ‘magical’, ‘incredible’, and ‘dream come true’, but that’s not nearly enough to capture what I felt. Words are not enough. What I can tell you is that I walked around in a happy daze, happy but almost painfully so. My breath was caught in my throat, my face warm, and my heart pounding away, a big ball of emotion lodged just so, waiting to be released in the form of loud squeals, helpless laughter, or a tempest of I-just-can’t-believe-I’m-here tears.

You see, Harry Potter isn’t just a children’s series. It’s a beautiful glorious world, a fantastical one, sure, but also one that teaches us so much about our own reality, with incredibly visual examples. The Dementors, such a chillingly terrifying representation of fear and depression, and how the only way to keep them at bay is by intensely focusing on your most powerful happy memories. And by eating a lot of chocolate, of course.

The Mirror of Erised, showing the deepest, most desperate desires of one’s heart. What would you see? And how would you react to see it laid out so clearly? Would you get obsessed with that image and fade away to nothing, longing for something that can never be? Would you hide it from everyone, like Dumbledore did (at least so far – but The Crimes of Grindelwald isn’t out yet!), and claim all you can see is a pair of socks?

We learnt the lesson that evil can never truly be eradicated, but if we fight, and fight again, and keep fighting, we can delay its return. How love is the strongest power of all, even in a world of Fidelius Charms and Protego spells and Felix Felicis.

The characters, so complex and wonderful – we see loyalty in the form of 14-year-old Ron Weasley standing up on a broken leg and defiantly telling a presumed murderer that he’ll have to kill him before getting to his best friend. We see that heroines need not be classically perfect – that bushy-haired book-toting know-it-alls are incredible friends to have, and can rise up to save the day, over and over. And Harry. Headstrong impulsive Harry whose instincts are almost always right, and who learns the subtle difference between being dragged kicking and screaming into a battle to the death, and walking into the arena with his head held high. Why wouldn’t we love Rowling’s world?!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the best part of being a Potterhead – apart from all the wonderful source material and the movies, and the tweets, and the cursed play I refuse to consider canon, and the newer fantastic movies, and Pottermore, and more, always more – the best part of being a Potterhead is the community. All those diverse Muggles united by a common love. The ships, the fanfics, the head canons, the fervent debates about Snape’s redemption, whether Umbridge was worse than Voldemort, and which Hogwarts house we truly belong to and why – I love the way these books have inspired countless works of creativity, sparked endless friendships, and fostered a sense of community and belonging in the world. Because no matter who we are or where we come from, we know that Hogwarts will always be there to welcome us home.

Of Races, Fights, and Cheekbones Exposed

I start pedaling so rapidly that my feet are a blur, and the wind is hitting my face hard enough to force tears out of the corners of my eyes. But this still isn’t fast enough. I lean forward, lower, closer to the handlebar with laser-sharp focus. The road is clear and open in front of me, the scooter’s roar is still somewhere behind me. My breath is escaping in short gasps and pants, and I am now just two streets away from winning. I can almost taste the victory! But suddenly, the roar of the scooter sounds much louder, and I quickly glance over my shoulder to check how close it is. Big mistake.

I’ve always been a very careful person. I’m over-cautious and self-preserving, and this has been evident since I was a child. I never had to get stitches, barely ever got hurt, avoided confrontation of all kinds, and never got into fights. While I did play on the streets every evening, and cycle around the colony to get everywhere, I was always careful, non-aggressive and very peaceful.

However, this photo tells a different tale:

karate kid

That’s me, barely 7 years old. Notice the karate uniform. The medal around my neck. And the gaping wound on my right cheek.

Did I get into a fight? Yes, I did. Did I win a medal? Yes, I did. Did I sustain a wound during this fight? Nope, that was a much too respectable way to sustain an injury.

Every time I look at this photo, the memory of how I ended up in such a state is so vivid that it’s like flipping over a Time-Turner. If I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I can almost feel myself whooshing back in time, and as the clock hands race backwards and the calendar pages flip back page over page: we travel back to a time almost exactly 21 years ago, and to a place halfway across the world back in India …

… And BAM. I am 7 years old. I am in the second grade, and loving it. I ride my bicycle to school every day. One fine afternoon I am invited over to my mom’s friend’s place for lunch. I love this woman to no end – she is my version of a fairy godmother. This fateful afternoon, she has invited us over for lunch. My mom is going to bring my baby brother (then just over a year old) to her place, and I am told to come to her house straight from school, instead of going home.

We have a lovely lunch, and at the end of it, mom and I head out to go home. Normally she takes both me and Kiddo on her scooter, but in this case, while she has her scooter, I still have to ride my bicycle home. It isn’t very far – all I have to do is ride straight down the main road (which has a bit of a slope I enjoy freewheeling down) and take a left at my row of houses. Mom says I should head out while she is saying her goodbyes, and this makes sense to me because her scooter is so fast that she will overtake me and my bike in no time.

And so I wave, settle down on my bike, and set off. I reach the main road pretty quickly, and happily start wheeling down the slope. The road is wide open, and completely empty – it is my road. The wind is whistling in my ears, my hair is flying like some sort of birds’ nest on top of my head, and my heart is pounding away in my chest with the sheer exhilaration of going downhill.

In the middle of this, I suddenly hear the distant but distinctive roar of my mom’s scooter starting up. She and Kiddo are on their way! They are still far behind, but will catch up in no time. It is a pity that scooters can go so much faster than bicycles. Or… wait! What if I pedal really, really hard? I already have a head start! Maybe if I go very very fast, I will reach home first and win! Alright then, the race is ON!

So I speed up even more. With sharp bursts of adrenaline pumping through my system, I start pedaling so rapidly that my feet are a blur, and the wind is hitting my face hard enough to force tears out of the corners of my eyes. But this still isn’t fast enough. I lean forward, lower, closer to the handlebar with laser-sharp focus. The road is clear and open in front of me, the scooter’s roar is still somewhere behind me. My breath is escaping in short gasps and pants, and I am now just two streets away from winning. I can almost taste the victory! But suddenly, the roar of the scooter sounds much louder, and I quickly glance over my shoulder to check how close it is. Big mistake. That split-second loss in concentration is enough for my bike to start wobbling. I am going fast, really really fast, and now the handlebar is suddenly vibrating. I squeeze the bars even tighter, trying to wrestle back control from the bike, but it is a losing battle, and a nanosecond before I crash, there is a moment where I register the tiny bits of gravel spilled over on that patch of road, the alarming weaving of my handlebar, and the wind, which is now whistling in my ear, ‘too fast, too fast’… and with a final shudder, the front wheel of my cycle draws a mighty arc, and the bike and I crash onto the gravel-encrusted road.

For a minute, everything goes silent. I lay there, stunned and stung. I have lost. Lost control of the bike, lost the race. My hands are still clutching the handlebar of my now horizontal cycle. I seem to be scratched in more places than I can mentally inventory. And then… the welcome roar of my mom’s scooter fills me with relief. Mommy is here! I am going to be just fine.

I am rushed to the dispensary, my cuts and scrapes are cleaned. Most of them are superficial, except for a giant gash on my cheek. It appears as if all the flesh has been scraped off my right cheek, and the nurses are alarmed to see white bone through all the bleeding. Yes, my cheekbone is now visible and exposed to the world. I am given a quick tetanus shot, and am rushed to the ambulance to be taken to the nearby hospital because this is serious, and I require an X-ray. A momentous event indeed – almost all regular ailments are handled at the dispensary, but if they are taking out the ambulance for me, my injuries must be quite significant indeed. I am bemused, yes, but also feeling a sense of importance because they let me ride the ambulance up front. My poor mother has to deal with this whole situation on her own, as this happens to be the very weekend my dad is out of town for work.

A few hours later, I have been diagnosed with no broken bones. I only have a surface injury on my cheek, and I am lucky my eyes weren’t hurt. A family friend picks us up from the hospital and takes us home – where I am generally made a fuss of. I am quite fascinated and take to eyeing my (still barely visible) cheekbone every time I pass a shiny surface. My recovery is fast, and my face is healing nicely.

Three days later, my karate instructor drops by to inform us of a karate competition starting just then. He wants all of his students to participate. My parents tell him that I am already injured, but he explains that it will be a very basic fight, I only have to fight another girl at my skill level, and even if I lose, I will still get a medal. Ten minutes later, I am all dressed up in my karate uniform. My instructor drives me to the competition. I fight another girl, not very well – I lose the fight, but win a silver medal.

There is an award ceremony later in the evening, and some official shakes my hand and puts a medal around my neck. I am quite proud of myself. Even if it is more of a participation award. I might have lost control of my bike. Lost the race with mom. Lost the karate fight. But I have won a medal, and today, I feel like a winner!

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