Finding the peace.
There is none.
In order to grapple with the nature of what one is in the middle of, it is important to muster courage to say the unsayable. Try it.
I am not at peace. The world is cruel. I wish things were better. I do not understand.
Any better?
Of late, due to circumstances of nobody’s making, I have been unable to hold a thought. They come, they go, leading me only to conclude in the words of Thich Nhat Hanh that the way out is in.
All this to say that after many months (years?) of finding the peace through withdrawal—from this space, and others—I am going back in. Peeling my eyes, filling myself with all available stimuli, and then attempting the delicate act of calibrating how and when to take a breath before diving right back in.
We were lost in the hills last month. My friend, Ruchira and I arrived at a lovely Mussoorie homestay on a bright June morning, seeking peace and quiet. Mild nausea of the six and a half thousand feet drive up mountainsides aside, we were hopeful. We held on to the beatific affect of mountain air for a sum total of four hours, two of which were spent being passed out in the kind of nap that feels earned after a long commute from one end of the country to another. A post-nap masala chai later, we decided to venture out to Mall Road, telling ourselves that at least one jaunt around the crowds of the much warned about “tourist season” on Mall Road was warranted. Famous last words.
The roads were jammed, the air cacophonic, and we were frequently jousted against by snaking selfie sticks. Yes, all the world is a self-seeking eye.
We played hopscotch between cars of Haryana and Delhi persuasions with an occasional Uttarakhand driver beseeching them with his index and middle finger together to veer right. Or not drive. We passed frenzied children demanding in turn bhutta, ice-cream, and Maggi, and gussied, trussed teenagers, goth lipsticks beautifully in place, attempting a uniquely posed scenic frame unsullied by grime and teetering electric wires. New brides and their red bangled wrists swept past in shorts and crop tops, their gloriously straightened hair parting the crowds. If I weren’t so frazzled, I would have been fascinated. Their life-ness was truly spectacular, but overstimulated by this magnificent evening of relentless preening, we decided to wind our way back to the quiet of our soundproofed homestay.
Thus began our troubles. My phone and the Vodafone signal parted ways; Ruchira’s Airtel (?) dutifully directed us therefore to our homestay Eagle’s Nest. We embarked upon what we thought to be our 50 minute trudge back through a route that seemed to wind itself around Mall Road in the opposite direction. All roads on the hill-station lead to the same spot, we told ourselves. And walked. Upward. 40 minutes into this trudge, as we silently told ourselves that we needed to up our resistance training and attempted breath exercises, we paused. And re-entered directions onto our respective phones, only to realize that the landscape hosted not one but two Eagle’s nests. Ours was the only one however, Google Maps informed us, that had been built in 1880.
So now, tired, hungry, sweaty, and out of breath, we began to limp down. Ruchira paused for momos, so we could protein up for the walk back. One bite in, the heavens opened up. Pitter patter, and then curtains of robust rain. Dashing into the Cafe de Tavern, Ruchira ordered a mulled wine, an inspired move for when we would be stuck an hour later on a hillside traffic jam. But I am getting ahead of myself. Long story short (or not), we hemmed and hawed, but called for help, and the wonderful homestay manager, Preeti Naugain found us a cab driver, kind enough to come pick us up.
Home at midnight, we scrubbed our faces, brushed our teeth, and plopped into bed. I tossed and turned searching for the moral of this story. Here are some options:
When seeking calm, do not go to the busiest area in town.
Double-check directions.
The grace and kindness of strangers holds life aloft.
Sleep is the end of all life.
And what of peace? That which we began this essay with? What of it, indeed.
Reading:
Time-Shelter; Georgi Gospodinov
I am reading this multi-genre book on the perils of memory at a singular time of life, in which all forms of knowing are up for grabs. It is a sometimes belabored, yet for the most part, interesting and poignant reading of European history as events set off by tragic longing. Highly recommended for those of us propelled by melancholia.
Cooking:
Many things. Or rather, I will cook many things. There are lists of longings everywhere. This delightful apple crumble for instance. For a good apple crumble is catnip for those of middle-class postcolonial persuasions. Biscuit, butter, apple, cinnamon, sugar. And a cold nip in the air. Last sampled—and a sample of exquisite balance too—at Eagle’s Nest 1880.
So good to read you after so long!
And as they say, the only way out is in...