The Mountain

I wish I could properly account for what it felt like to reach the top of the mountain. I would have to begin by saying that it didn’t feel good when I saw the triangular pillar that sat at the very peak. I was ecstatic when I touched it with my own hands. I didn’t suddenly feel as though I had accomplished anything exceptional, or that I could now somehow do anything that I set my mind to. 

To be honest, I just wanted to go back down the mountain as quickly as possible.
Two months earlier I decided I was going to climb Jebel Toubkal in Morocco’s High Atlas valley. I decided this in an instant, feeling a sudden urge to prove myself capable of taking on a challenge and seeing it through. Maybe it was because I felt kind of small in my new job, isolated living in a small town, and diminished after years of exciting adventure and thrilling challenges which were suddenly replaced with routine. Whatever it may be that made me jump to the sudden conclusion that I would summit the tallest mountain in North Africa, I took the challenge seriously and began preparing for it as best as I could.

I started hitting the gym 5 days a week. I had been running all summer and had slowed down a bit with the snow. I took up running on the treadmill, running for up to 2 hours without stopping, throwing in high intensity intervals at super high inclines and very fast speeds. For the first time in my life I began lifting weights, dumbbells at first, then bench and barbell lifts. I studied different varieties of lifting styles, and I got quite strong over the course of two months. I kept myself motivated by telling myself ‘if I can’t run this next 5k I can forget about climbing a mountain’, and that’s all it took. I ran on, I lifted heavier, and I kept my mind on my goal.

At 4100 meters above sea level, my breath was short, my heart beat 3 times for each half-step. My head felt dizzy and my legs confused. I tried to pull out my camera to take the pictures that I needed to prove that I had made it to the top, but I couldn’t bare the thought of removing my gloves that were hardened by the frosted winds. In the back of my mind was the success of having made it, at its forefront was the reminder that I still had to walk back down, and then back down the valley towards the village some 6 hours away from the basecamp. 
I wanted to be known as someone how climbs mountains during his holidays. ‘What did you do on Xmas Eve?’ they’d ask, ‘I was in Morocco and I was trudging my way up the side of a very tall mountain’ I’d respond. It sounded good in my mind, real good. However, upon my arrival in Casablanca a new question emerged, not to do with the climb or of what someone might think of me upon telling them of my adventure, but in regards to what I could tell myself. ‘What am I doing here?’ I asked over and over as I walked around the city in a jet-lagged daze. Day two, during the train ride to Marrakech where I’d depart from the High Atlas region, the question kept creeping up, ‘Why did I come here?’ and I couldn’t sum up an answer. ‘To climb a mountain and test myself,’ sure, but why? 

The trek to the basecamp began from a small little village called Imlil, located within a valley roughly 1 hour and 30 minutes drive from Marrakech. My guide, Ibrahim, patiently led the way up winding trails through rock and dirt, then further up to snow and dirt, and then just snow, and ice. My breathing became quicker after the 3 hour mark, not only due to the altitude, but to the difficultly of treading the path (or lack thereof). I could feel my heart compensate for the diminishing supply of oxygen that my deep breaths could no longer provide it with. 5 hours into the trek my legs would occasionally wobble, I would lose my step, trip on a rock, or just have to stop to gather myself. Three or four quick breaths followed by a slow, deep inhale… okay, ready to continue upward. 

About 6 and a half hours is what it took to get to the basecamp. The Toubkal Refuge, as it is known, is a surprisingly well-equipped little facility which provides passing trekkers with a kitchen, dinning and sitting area, rooms with bunks, functional toilets and even a hot shower (for an added price). How they got electricity, hot water, and functional sewage so high up in the mountain area is beyond me. After dinner I decided to go lay down, it was roughly 8pm. I figured I could use the sleep, considering how I felt, and 5am the following day would come quick. I lay in my massive sleeping bag, boiling with heat and trying to vent as best as I could. The altitude kept me awake, crushing my lungs and making my head dizzy. Sudden a pain started in my lower back, to the left. I felt that pain before, it was my kidney, or right thereabout. The last time I felt that pain was in India when I had developed the Godzilla of kidney stones. ‘Not now, please, not now’. The dull ache came and went depending on how I turned my back, and suddenly I got scared. ‘What if this pain follows me up this mountain tomorrow? Is it another kidney stone, and will I have to pass it half-way up? Will my dick and fingers freeze off while wait in pain for a rock to be pissed out? Fuck me. Maybe it’s not a stone, maybe it’s appendicitis. Is my appendix going to burst half-way up the mountain? What side is my appendix on anyways?’ My legs hurt and were sore from the hike up, my lungs felt like I had a small platoon of gorillas sitting on my chest, my head spun about as if on a carnival ride, my sleeping bag felt like a sauna, and suddenly my kidney was reminding me of the surgeries I had in Delhi to remove a very serious stone the size of the titanic. 9 pm, 10 pm, 11pm…. 5am. 

Darkness. I switched on my headlamp and tried not to wake the two Spaniards who were snoring. Christine and Trong (yes that was his name, and he looked as a man named Trong should), two Norwegians, were quietly getting ready as well. They were to join me on the way up with my guide and another one who had accompanied them up to the refuge. Two pairs of socks, long-johns, ski pants, a shirt, a fleece jacket, a North-Face jacket, gloves, a muffler, and a hat. Boots, followed by crampons (spikey overlays that you attach to your shoes for snow and ice walking). A quick omelet and some juice, and we were off.

The thoughts that had kept me up all night were still fresh in my mind as we began the walk in the complete darkness of early morning. My headlamp illuminated the rocks and snow and my guide. Almost immediately each step felt like 10, each breath was forced, my muscles were not recovered, my lungs not yet fully adapted. My head felt better, and I knew that I wasn’t going to be ill. I hoped, actually, that I would not be ill. This was it, each step into the snow, each scrape of metal crampon across icy rock, this was what I came for. ‘What am I doing here?’ 

It wasn’t the time to question the will that had motivated me up until then. I was there, the moment had come, and there was only one direction: up. And up was steep, very steep. I pushed out those thoughts of turning around and going back to bed, but they kept pushing their way in. ‘You can turn around, you can go back, it’s okay, no one needs to know you didn’t make it, and you don’t have to be ashamed. You are in pain, your legs hurt, can’t you hear them complaining? You can barely breath, or see a thing. Look, you almost slipped and fell, your back hurts from your bag, you are thirsty, and you still have 3 hours of this up, and you have to come all the way back.’ Shut up, and walk. 

One step, two step. One step, shit, wait. Okay, breath. One step, two step. One step, two step. Look up, the sun is starting to rise, we’ve come a long way, I can’t see the Refuge any more, but there’s still a really long way to go. The Norwegians are super humans, leading the way at a crazy pace. I wish I was 6 foot 5 like them, that’d make this easier. Shut up, walk. 
It’s cold, but I am sweating. My fingers are warm, my toes are warm (despite being restricted by the crampons that are fastened tightly around my boots, limiting their flexibility. At least those aren’t cold, that’s a good thing. ‘But you’re tired, and your legs feel like they are carrying the weight of the entire world, you lungs can barely hold a breath, you’re not moving more than a few steps at a time and you can barely keep yourself from falling and giving in. You can turn around, it’s okay if you do.’

Ibrahim follows me very closely, keeping an eye on my progress and asking if I’m okay every 10 minutes or so. 1 hour in we take a quick break, one of many that we’ve taken already. I am sitting with my crampons digging into the ice on the side of the mountain, which slopes directly down at a near 75 degree angle. I ask Ibrahim if most people make it to the top. He says no, he says that most turn around, or never even start once they’ve reached the Refuge. He says that they usually get too tired, or get altitude sickness and are forced to turn around. I am in pain, I am miserable, and I smile and tell him that that’s not going to be me, not today. We get up, and continue zig-zagging up the side of Mount Toubkal’s snowy peak. 

My camera remains in my bag. I had planned on taking lots of photos and videos, leisurely snapping away as the sun revealed the epic beauty of this incredible landscape. Nope. I could barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other, much less handle a DSLR camera at 3000+ meters. That required clear thoughts and an ability to pay attention to my surroundings in the distance, to spot the best angles for shots, to adjust my aperture and exposure just right to get the best blue from the morning sky and the warmest orange from the sun. Perhaps the clearest thought that I could muster while climbing was on the connection my own personal willpower had over my body. I didn’t give a damn about the scenic view, I could barely see it. Not because I was blinded by gusts of snowy winds and ice pellets, or because of the lack of direct light. I just wasn’t seeing anything beyond the next 5 steps and I was thinking very little beyond getting through them. I had enough of a time fighting off the temptation to give in and turn around. Taking pictures to show others was very much at the back of my mind, and the camera just became a weight that made me bitter. 

When Ibrahim announced that there was only half-hour left, I could feel the joy in his voice. Not for him, but for me, for having made it so far. 30 minutes didn’t mean anything to me, there might as well have been another mountain to climb upon reaching the top (technically there was another mountain to descend, either way). I am positive that he did not think I would make it, and now that we were so close he was impressed and genuinely happy that I had pushed through. I didn’t feel impressed, nor happy. 30 minutes left and I could barely take 3 steps without stopping. And I stopped often. In those 20 seconds where I’d stand still, hunched over, clenching my knees, I would clear my mind, breath quickly 3 or 4 times, then a deep breath… okay. Onward. Then I would stop again a few steps later, repeat, and continue. 
15 minutes left. The sun finally fell on us, it felt warm and good on my face. My cheeks were frozen from the bitter winds. The mountain, Toubkal, was not forgiving or welcoming. Ancient and worn, I can swear that I felt the crotchety presence of an angry old man which personified its winds and ice. I thought that I could befriend the mountain, take a picture with it, make it to the top, celebrate, and move on with my life. This mountain wanted none of that. It did not like that I had not paid proper respect, and it tested my determination and will at every turn. the mountain makes me reconsider my future career as a mountaineer. 

10 minutes left. Ibrahim is urging me on. We are so close, we will see the summit after 10 minutes, and then it’s a short 10 minute climb to the top. 10 minutes seems like eternity. I force my legs to move like a puppet master who is losing control of its strings. It is not a pretty walk, it is clumsy and amateurish. ‘I am not an mountaineer, I am not an athlete, I am not cut out for this kind of challenge,’ and these thoughts begin to weight heavily, they cloud my focus, they drain what strength and determination I have left. My mind had not given up, but my body was beginning to win the battle against my will. I look behind me at Ibrahim, he smiles, and I’m not even sure if I smile back. I’m not sure of much. The altitude has a firm hold on my ability to rationalize, my bones and the muscle that wrap around them are coming loose at their seams. I stop, three quick breaths, and the wind suddenly pushes with a strong gust. Not down, and not with ice pellets to my face, but the wind is pushing me upward. It catches in my jacket and insists I continue.

The crotchety old man raises an eyebrow and asks me ‘why are you here?’ and I say ‘I don’t know, but I am going to find out.’

I simply was not in any state of mind upon reaching the top. Elation cannot come close to describing the feeling, it was more of a state of confusion, a kind of shock. Yes, I had made it against all the obstacles, yes I had summited my first real mountain. But those were not the thoughts that drove me in that moment. I looked to the world far below where I stood. There was not a person taller than me in all of the North of Africa, except for those two Norwegians, but I didn’t feel so bad about not being 6’5 anymore. My guide hugged me and congratulated me on the accomplishment. High fives from the Norwegians who began eating chocolate and singing songs as if they’d just had a nice morning walk through a flowery meadow. And a moment of reflection where I looked at the face of the mountain and gave it my full respect. I think it gave me a little bit in return.

Of course, the walk down was gruesome, but much faster. 2 hours, roughly, to descend. The joints in my knees felt like jelly by the time I reached the refuge. I had 1 hour to pack my stuff and walk the extra 6 hours back to Imlil. 6 hours of dazed reflection upon what I had just accomplished. I was more preoccupied with the pain in my knees and legs to properly think about anything, if I were to be honest. There was nothing easy about the entire thing, from the moment I began the trek up to the refuge to the moment I returned to town each step got harder and harder, every moment led to a greater challenge than that which came before it. It was only when I saw in the tub quietly washing by beaten body in hot water did I feel as though I could start properly reflecting on it all. 

I sat down in the bed in my inn after a warm supper, freshly washed, and feeling slightly relaxed after a short nap taken not long after arriving. I stared at the screen and tried writing down my thoughts on what I had just experienced. My mind was about as functional as my the rest of my body, perhaps exhausted from having to carry the weight of my will. After a few false starts at a first paragraph I settled on being contented with stopping at writing the title, which somehow still managed to encompass the entire experience for me in that moment: The Mountain.

A revamped short

A few months ago I had the chance to work on a small film which depicted the work of a UN sponsored NGO in New Delhi. Seeing as I had only two days to shoot, edited, narrate and basically produce the thing it was a bit rushed as a final product. I’m happy to say that I’ve taken the time to redo most of the video having given it a fresh polish and a little extra care.

Egypt: Western Deserts

After months of delays (completing a Masters degree and moving across the world will do that), I’ve finally completed the first chapter of the Egypt Series!

Fighting boredom.

3 weeks into being back on Canadian soil, I’ve begun to exhaust the novelties of having returned to the developed world. The stark differences between my life in Delhi and my current stay at my parent’s in the small town of 2000 (roughly) in the Canadian country side has tested my ability to adapt and re-calibrate like nothing other. At first the familiar comforts that most people on this side of the planet take for granted were a welcomed relief – simple things, like hot showers, good and plentiful meals, clean roads and sane driving standards, politeness, and clean air… these seemingly invisible elements of Western society managed to keep me satisfied and distracted for the initial return, but now, boredom is setting in, and so is an acute sense of loneliness that pervades through the rolling hills and potato fields that surround me at every turn.

In order to manage the transition from a city of 16 million to a village of a couple thousand, I’ve thrown myself into my hobbies full-force. The beauty about living in a fortress of solitude is that you tend to have the time to pursue all kinds of things that you couldn’t before. At the moment, I’ve thrown myself into learning complicated post-production animation programs like Adobe After Effects, while honing my skills with Photoshop. The goal is the create my own cinematic animations to up the level of my short film productions to a much higher standard.

This includes learning how to take a 2 dimensional picture and transform it into 2.5d, giving it the illusion of depth in order to create a really solid effect called a parallax. I’m also learning how to make an ‘animated wall’, which is basically the effect of having several ‘screens’ lined up, each with their own unique video playing, with a camera panning across. Hopefully if I can pull off this effect, I’ll be able to make an awesome introduction screen for my CapDev Travel line of short documentary travel films. Finally, and most recently, I’m taking a tutorial on animating geographic maps, in order to create an ‘Indiana Jones’ style travel route for my Egypt series… this has me especially geeking out.

Outside of my seemingly useless effort to produce video, I’m also preparing for the next big career step, which is to break into the federal government’s service via rigorous national testing. I just bought a study kit for an inordinate sum of cash which promises to prepare me for the kinds of questions and scenarios that will be presented to me on the national tests. One thing I wasn’t expecting to be doing this summer is to be brushing up on my mathematics and arithmetic skills! I haven’t done math like this since I was 17-18 years old, which I dare say was a rounded decade ago!

I’m also anticipating a potential move to Montreal, to start up the internship that I had applied for back in April (I think it was April?). After having agreed with the director of the programme to put it off until August, I’m slowly moving towards preparing myself for another major move in my life, away from the potato fields and back in the action of one of Canada’s most exciting cities. Though I’m enjoying the slow pace of being at home and with my family, I’ve come to the undeniable conclusion that I am, at heart, a city boy, not at all bred or designed for a country life that requires little to no insight into the outside world. In fact, I feel kind of dumb here, not because I’ve regressed – not yet anyways – but because I feel as though it’s practically impossible for me to share any of my experiences, or to discuss matters that I’ve been involved with for the past, well, forever. I feel like an ocean fish who was taking out of the sea and placed into a nice comfortable aquarium, wanting desperately to go back into the vast ocean to continue exploring and adventuring after getting bored trying to explain the taste of salt-water to the local tank-breds. That really sounds patronizing, and I honestly don’t mean for it to be, it’s just so hard to convey the rest of the world to those who have only seen it through a glass aquarium, and even doubly so difficult to relate to them. I guess the traveler is forever a stranger, even in his own land.

I’ve taken a bit of a break from writing lately so that I can focus on the video editing, I really want to complete this Egypt series this summer, if only I can stop myself from constantly wanting to improve upon it through the learning of all these new cinematic techniques! I’ll take to writing more once I’m back in the city, seeing as my favorite place to write is in cafes, and here, well, there are no cafes.

In this moment, life is ours.

A little boy just rode by the window where I sit on a small makeshift bicycle. All I caught from the streak he made as he zoomed by was the look on his face, which caught into focus in my eye for a brief second. It wasn’t joy. Nor was it satisfaction. No… it was pure, unadulterated control over the world, as if for that instant he was the king of this planet and couldn’t give less of a damn about what happened to it. It’s the kind of look grown men get when they manage to place a small ball into a giant net with their feet, or slap a ball outside of a rounded field with an oddly shaped bat. His face reflected the feeling anyone gets when, at the moment of success, we’re taken from the earth and set down upon a small surfboard and told to ride life’s wave as strong and as hard as we can. Because in that precise moment, this world is ours.

It made me smile broadly, actually, truth be told it made me laugh aloud. His happiness was palpable, and I had to cover my mouth to hide my own embarrassment at enjoying his moment as a quiet, voyeuristic observer. He’ll never know that he had a small admirer, or perhaps even a follower of his triumph. His was the kind of instant we strive for in life, where nothing else matters, and the passing of time becomes nothing more than the illusion it actually is. It deserves recognition, but only silent recognition… for any other sort of celebration only serves to disturb its purity and earnestness.

When flirtations with life yield such an incredible result, the best action to take is to just let the wind blow into your open mouth and squinted eyes, hold on to the handlebars for dear life, and call out to the clouds with a voice emanating deep within.

 

 

Make Belief

I wanted to begin by asking what a life lived in pure chaos would look like compared to mine, you know, for perspective’s sake, and I gave up. I thought it was probably a good idea not to pursue something that everyone on this planet can fill in the gaps for by themselves. We’re all in some form chaos, and we all think our own experience is unique, somehow different than everyone else’s. It is, if only because we’d never be able to see through another’s eye – our perspective is unique in that it is inextricably tied to our individual histories.

That is a subject I think best left to the individual to mull over for themselves. In the mean time, I’d like to begin with a very sharp turn in directions.

If I had the infinite ability, what would I do with my life?

Here are some of my personal dreams, no deadline on them, long and short-term; just things that I want to do for as long as I have time and life to make them real:

Short Film Idea: A look at some fundamental differences between the Developing and Developed World, specifically between Canada and India. I’m going back to Canada soon, and it would help me cope with the sudden change in direction and lifestyle. Plus, it would be interesting as a sort of window into how I perceive the differences, both on the surface, and idiosyncratic to each society.

Write a Story for a Video Game: Don’t laugh. It’s actually been a life-long dream of mine to pen the story to a video game. I love video games, they present uncanny opportunities for story telling combined with engaging participatory mechanics that serve to identify the main character with the user in a whole new way. My favorite part about the really notable games are that they’re often accompanied by really good stories. Jon and I came up with a story that would go great with an old school 2dimensional Role Playing Game – a deep story, about time, aging, society, alienation, civilizations collapsing and being reborn, and interesting sci-fi elements to weave them together. Very exciting!

Collection of Short Stories: I love writing fiction, but I prefer implementing elements of my own life into my characters, to give it a personal touch. I’d love to write a book of short stories connecting myself throughout the numerous experiences different “me’s” have had throughout my life, but in very different physical settings and alternate realities. This will take years to put together, but that’s okay.

Finish the Egypt Series: This will happen this summer in Canada, no doubt about it. I’ve already nearly completed mounting 2 our of 4 videos, each resting at about 8 – 9 minutes each. They are pretty good, but require more care and attention. I’ll probably upload them in August, 1 per week, and following the travel pattern we took while revealing Pre-Revolution Egypt in all of its glory.

Day Job: I want a job I can love and passionate about. One that will require my attention and energy, and one that will entice me to grow professionally. I dream of a job that will give me the space to pursue the items on this list, as well as provide new experiences that push me to my limits.

A Home away from Homebase: I want a place to settle for a while, a place where I don’t have to worry about my next move. Homebase, with my parents, will be awesome – but I need a place to call my own as well.

Plan a trip to South America, make awesome travel video on the side: This is another long-term goal. I’ve been to the West Indies, but never to Spanish or Portuguese speaking parts of South America. I want to take my time to visit the continent properly, and if I can’t afford to get so much time, I’ll focus on one of my biggest dream spots: Machu Pichu.

Love might come, love might go. I may one day discover that I’m married and have a child on the way, but throughout all the elements of life that I cannot plan, I want to most of all continue to live a life full of passionate and balanced pursuit.  So that I can inspire my yet to be born but still deeply loved children to discover the beauty of life for themselves.

***

Just a glimpse…

The hidden image

Rajasthani Leather

Lightened

***

Here’s a short video I’ve recently made about a UN Traffic Safety Programme that did some work on my campus. I loved making this video, and I care about it very much. I hope you enjoy watching as much as I enjoyed making it. – Do note: this is a pre-release beta, of sorts, which is to say that certain edits are pending (like new voice work, and a reordering of the final credits). I’ll post the final final link once exams are over.

Friedrich at the end of the world

As the setting sun submitted once again to the sleepy moon, the stars appeared out of the blue to illuminate the dark. Hours had passed and the afternoon’s empty orchestra of softly blowing wind silenced into a soundstage for crickets and frogs whose operatic concerto accompanied him along his way. Not really knowing where he was going, or when he’d eventually turn back, Friedrich, or Fred, depending on your own preference and degree of acquaintance, felt no urge to return into the night from which he came. The road was not long, for no destination called to him, and to his surprise he was welcomed by the starlight that revealed a whole new world he once thought he knew so well. Sleep has robbed me of the mysterious side of this life, he thought aloud as he looked upward toward an endless sky.

On an especially engrossing late-afternoon walk, it can become difficult to give into the body’s desire for rest or its want to return to the comforts of home. On this particular day, Fred had faced little opposition from either his aching legs or from his heart. It must have been the sight of the old woman and her cane that he’d seen earlier in the morning hours from his office window. The familiar and seemingly ancient lady had made her slow and meticulous way down her drive to collect whatever mail lay in wait in the letter box. The thought of the lifetime’s worth of effort that had gone into each arthritic step, of each push of her arm stabilized by her cane, and of every breath that made her journey from chair to roadside offered but a glimpse of old-age torment, and was what had inspired him to step out of his cubicle for good. He imaged it was worth every step, for whatever words remain hidden on the pages of each letter received must have brought her a panacea of joy for each aching muscles and fibers. Walking with this thought in his mind, he continued undeterred through the dark that surrounded him.

Restrained by his mere mortal facilities, Friedrich eventually stopped to ponder a rest upon a small stone near a tiny bog. Now, far from the city and suburbs which he had left behind without so much as a consideration, most comforts such as warm food or soft cushion to rest his now slightly sore behind were more apparently absent. Unwilling to falter, or more precisely, to give up this most enjoyable afternoon walk which had turned to a nighttime stroll, our protagonist turned to the light of the moon to guide him towards a small little clearing, where, next to a rather large and healthy maple tree, sprouted the most delectable brown mushrooms polka-dotted in white.

Curiosity eventually gave way to pangs of hunger, and, trusting in his instinct as he had so far that day, he ate one, then two, then five mushrooms altogether, at which point he sat under the tree and, with a deep breath, looked up through its leaves which swayed in peaceful silence above. The stars and moon, perhaps recognizing that Friedrich was in need of a slight distraction to help him relax, began to dance a very elegant waltz with the leaves and their parent branches along to the songs of the crickets and frogs from a nearby marsh.

*****

The next morning Fred woke to a drowsy collection of fading dream-memories, which he took to remembering in painstaking effort as he set off through the thick, early mist. Those dreams had been unlike any he had ever experienced, most of which had amounted to nothing more than a collection familiar images and patterns, colors and faceless voices… But these new dreams had been constructed by such a skillful architect the likes of which he had not thought possible to come from his own imagination, certainly they could not be his own machinations?

The pre-dawn’s morning haze took shapes before his eyes as he continued along towards nowhere in particular. His dreamscape played out before him in the shapes and patters of the fog, revealing first a long climb up a rocky mountain, a rather funny looking goat with a pink beard and blue eyes, and a talking dog that loved playing the mountain snow. The dog and goat were siblings who lived together in the rocky hills at the base of a very tall mountain, one that seemed to reach past the clouds and touched the blue of the sky. They had beckoned him to follow him up the mountain, but he told them that he had to walk on, that he had to continue with his journey. Other dreams had followed that had made more sense, but by this point the sun began breaking through the thick murk and so with it disappeared the memories of the dreams.

When you walk for a long time, you meet many people, and you experience many things. Time compresses and compacts itself, making its passage seem as seamless as falling asleep and waking. Without realizing it, or perhaps without caring to realize it, Friedrich’s life became one with the road; as he had forgotten about his job, his responsibilities, his house, his comforts, and most likely even the road back to whatever home he once had. Days, months, and years seemed to pass by as easily as the ‘hello’s’ and ‘good day’s’ shared with many a friendly passerby. Yet the path was endlessly entertaining and ever changing. So too were the variety landscapes, people, and of problems and solutions. As Friedrich grew older, as his pace of walk slowed, as the aches and pains caught up with his knees and his back, he watched as children remained awestricken by new discoveries, as lovers continued to sing sweet poems to one another, as young families set root, as everything, more or less, stayed the same.

Though aged and worn, Fred’s legs had kept to a decent pace over the years, and one day in particular a young man had walked up to him and took to walking next to him while asking the kinds of youthful questions a person of his age would. Sir, he’d once asked, where’s an old guy like you heading with such brisk? Friedrich turned to the young man, and recalling the old woman he had seen at the very beginning of his journey said;

Young man, I don’t suppose I know where I’m going. To the end of the world perhaps, if these old legs can reach it before they give. I’ve never been so interested in the whole ‘arrival’ or ‘departure’ part of it, but I can say that I’ve enjoyed the in between quite a bit. He paused, I once had a dream, and in that dream a voice told me that to discover the world is to discover yourself, to replace the unknown with the known is to define yourself, and if the years would serve as proof I’d say that I took that advice quite to heart. I expect you know where you’ll end up at the end of today, but wouldn’t you think life to be far more interesting if you didn’t?

The young man frowned and stopped at that instant. Unbothered, Friedrich continued at his pace, ignoring the child’s confusion, as he had learned long before to allow a young mind to figure out certain things on its own and with time, and that realization is quite akin to the process of fitting a model ship into a glass bottle: never all at once, only ever piece by piece.

*****

It happened unexpectedly one afternoon, as such a thing as actually reaching the end of the world could not be expected at any time of day or night. Even if you’d been there before it wasn’t the kind of place that fit nicely onto any human made map. Where the sun should have been keeping guard for at least three more hours, an eerie darkness introduced by a deep crimson sky crept out of the distance, eventually reaching over the head of our adventurer. No stars occupied the growing darkness that stretched before him.

Friedrich did not look back at the light as it faded behind him. The chirping of birds drew further and further, and the road became unbeaten and rough. Suddenly, from across the horizon, for as far as his eyes could see the earth’s rounding was being stopped by a rather intimidating wall. With each step that he took, the wall seemed to grow taller and ever more imposing, offering no warmth or comfort to Friedrich as he approached.

The dirt path led him to an entrance in the wall, which now revealed itself to be made of thickened leaf and thorn. Next to the opening sat a rather large tree, under which stood a wooden sign covered by a metal plaque onto which the following message was engraved:

TRAVELER BE WARNED: Here, perched at the end of the known world; the entrance to the Labyrinth of Truth. Within its walls is a maze of such enormous complexity that only the most valuable of items could be secluded at its center. The prize for such a conquest is the final answer to the greatest of ever-expanding questions: WHY? The answer to the universe’s ultimate mystery has tempted many, but be warned seeker of truth, successfully finding the heart of any labyrinth also entails finding one’s way out… Enter at your own peril.

Upon reading the foreboding sign, Fred sat next to where it was planted in the ground and leaned up against the tree.

Life has been an adventure, and I have learned much, he thought. Though I’ve often asked myself ‘why’ in the face of rather confusing and often saddening situations, and though the world and its people may not have given me any prevailing answer per se, they have given me new paths to follow and greater questions to ask. I’ve learned more from seeing the world than I ever could have from an explanation of it, and an answer is no more of an explanation than the path towards discovery. I would rather face the collapse of my knees and the blistering of my feet than to give up my journey in exchange for death in search of a final destination.

Fred put his hand up against the tree, and with all of his might pushed himself up. He dusted off his old pants and took one final look at the entrance to the Labyrinth of Truth. Perhaps its time to head back, he thought, and with that turned around and walked out of the darkness back towards the bright afternoon sun.

Curtain Call

The lady in question wore a proper, well designed sari. It didn’t stick out at the wrong places, and it barely ever needed readjustment, revealing only a calculated amount of flesh for the world around her to steal glimpses of. But of course they weren’t stolen, they were given away, as a form of charity. The sari sparkled and shined when the afternoon sun reflected off its sequined lining, flashing dancing spots of light onto people who would have the fortune of walking close enough to her. She was tall, with long straight hair that flowed like water, and she had what many would refer to as a ‘fair’ complexion, though one might argue that fairness had nothing to do with it. For all intents and purposes, her lush lips, seductive eyes, and geometrically appeasing facial structure gave her a certain incontestable beauty to aid her in her negotiations with the world.

Her face was contorted into a rather perturbed frown as she walked out of the air conditioned grocery store and into the sweat inducing heat of a Delhi spring day. With her nose held in the most respectable position for a woman of her stature, she walked without looking at the ground which served no greater purpose than to support her feet from below her. Worrying upmost about her quickly dampening clothes sticking to her body, she ignored the world around her, choosing instead to focus on the importance of her work assignment, and about how stupidly incompetent the hired help in her office had been as of late. As if they they weren’t even able to secure the Valentino collection, idiots, good help is impossible to find in this city.

As she approached her car, she pointed him to the back seat upon unlocking the door. She didn’t look at him from the moment he had begun following her. Her phone rang loudly from her designer purse, one she was guaranteed wasn’t a knock-off.  She answered.

He’d not said a word from the moment they had left the store. It was hot, but it was going to get hotter, and he knew that he should appreciate the fact that his place of work actually had AC to begin with. The grocery job wasn’t bad, there were worse things that he could be doing, or worst of all he could be doing nothing at all. Standing at 5’4, with a rather generic combover and pencil mustache, he never seemed to stick out much in a crowd. People wouldn’t look at him, nor would they bother him. Sometimes his boss, or some bitchy cashier would yell at him to work faster, but for the most part he was just invisible to the world in general. The salary wasn’t much, but it let him buy the necessities, which wasn’t much, either. That was life though, born into a role and forced to play it out until, well forever.

She had asked the cashier for a porter, and he had been assigned. He’d done this hundreds of times before, and he’d have to do it thousands of times more. He followed her out of the market, trying hard not to make eye contact or to be noticed. She could carry her own bags, he thought, but then, what would I do? The world seemed simple then in that moment, and as he walked behind her he thought about his friends, about what he had that he could be grateful for. It was all he could do, otherwise a flood of harsh thoughts would come flowing in, thoughts about ‘fairness’ and balance, of feeling invisible and of being no more than a shadow, or the fear of starvation, of doing anything necessary to survive…

The not-so-faired skinned man placed the bags in the back of the car and watched the lady enter the passenger seat. Her driver closed the door behind her, shot a glance to the bag carrier, and for a moment felt sorry for him. He’s nothing more than a paid slave, he thought as he shifted gears and drove off. Looking in the rear-view mirror at the store clerk, the driver thought about his job and how lucky he’d been to get it. This rich family paid him enough to send his kids to school, and employed his wife as a housekeeper and nanny for their children. They lived in a small attachment to what had been the biggest house he’d ever seen. Thank god I’m not that poor clerk… those guys, no concept of upward mobility. The beautiful woman continued speaking on her cellular phone and the driver continued to drive, unable to understand the English that she spoke. It sounds so ugly, that English… but then again, Madam makes Hindi sound ugly as well, so maybe English isn’t so bad. He made out the words theater and friend, but that’s all he could muster, otherwise she spoke too fast.

Their vehicle stopped at a red light, where the driver rolled down his window and called down to an adjacently parked auto rickshaw driver for directions. The rickshaw driver looked back and almost instinctively responded to go straight then left at the next light up ahead. Without thanking him, the driver rolled up his window so as to keep the AC in and the heavy traffic fumes out at the insistence of his patron.

The rickshaw maneuvered itself between a rather large SUV with tinted windows and a family sedan. Horns honked relentlessly around it, and it responded in kind. Vehicles, like people, use rather straightforward forms of communication, often without even offering much of a message, just like people. The light turned green and the rickshaw sped off into the cloud of dust and smoke that had been kicked up by the countless vehicles before it. The rickshaw passed a cyclist who thought he deserved as much of the road as anyone else, and he honked at it to get out of the way. A car sped up behind the rickshaw, it honked at the rickshaw, not once, not twice, but in a constant stream of honk, an uninterrupted sonata. The rickshaw got the message and moved out of the way so the car could speed by.

The rickshaw driver looked into his mirror at the passenger in the back of his tiny 3-wheeled cab, thinking about how smug this guy had been. He had spoken to him when negotiating the price, which, clearly, was in the favor of the passenger. Any attempt at conversation thereafter had been rejected with silence and a clueless look given to him by the passenger. These bastards, thought the driver, with their fair skin, their nice clothes, their sense of entitlement… if only they knew what it was like to inhale Delhi traffic smog and pollution and dust, day in, day out… he lit a small cigarette with one hand, then spat out the side of the rickshaw.

I bend over slightly and peer out of the open door, the world makes only as much sense as I can afford it to. Cows walking in the streets, children running up to me barefoot asking me for money at the red light intersection, giant trucks spitting dirt and black smoke into my face… I think about the driver and his attempt to talk to me, I wish I could speak to him, but my Hindi sucks, and I get nervous and stumble when I try to speak. I couldn’t even understand what he said, and I tried to explain to him that I couldn’t speak, but then gave up half-way. He wouldn’t have understood me anyways, I suck too much, and I haven’t made enough of an effort to improve. I make up excuses, like there are just too many other things to do, or, I’m surrounded by English speakers all the time and therefore the imperative isn’t there. I know my faults, but if I don’t at least pretend to defend myself for my many shortcomings as a human being, who will?

I see my time in this country slipping away, I see the return to another world as imminent, and it makes me feel as though I’m sitting in the audience at a very well-staged play. Everyone has a role, everyone has a stage name and a character to portray, everyone except for me. Though I would like to stand, make my way onto the stage, and give a long, dramatic monologue about the importance of being ernest in life, I know from experience that my plea will go unheard, and I will most likely be booed off stage. It’s happened before, and I learned an important lesson from it: as an outsider you must first know your audience before attempting to seduce them.

My destination arrives before me and I pay the rickshaw driver. I give him an extra ten rupees and pretend not to notice. I enter my usual cafe by the usual window where I always love to sit and spy on the passerby’s. I take out my laptop and enjoy a decent hot coffee. The world continues to turn around me as I sit here, more or less content to write about the scripted lives that will continue to play out until the end of time. My purpose, unknown and yet also undetermined, beckons me to act, to stand up and make my mark, but for now I will sit quietly, waiting patiently for the curtain to fall, and for the next act to begin.

Not my turn

Breathe

Be honest, he thought to himself.

How can I be honest? How can I even pretend to be honest? Everyone is reading, judging, compartmentalizing my thoughts into proper little boxes. They only ever get a surface view, they only get a glimpse. What then is the point?

Of course, the point. Always we must come back to the point. The dot at the end of the sentence. The conclusive ‘it’ that language and logic seems to orbit helplessly around. We must always come to the point.

I have no point to make, yet there are so many thoughts, so many feelings… they pile up, they add up, and they confuse the hell out of me. There are a billion things happening all around me all at once and I try, I try very hard, to make sense of just a fraction of it all. What kind of person will that shape me into? One I will like? How does a person become a person that he or she can like for themselves?

Again, the point: what’s the point of knowing yourself, creating yourself, or at least learning about yourself, if, in the end, when the final period is in place, we conclude that we don’t even like ourselves?

Life seems to be about absorbing, doesn’t it? From the moment you are born and first open your eyes, you are absorbing. Sounds, sights, voices… they are all supposed to eventually make sense, aren’t they? But they haven’t. The more I open my senses, the more confusing the world seems, and the more like a child I continue to feel. How does one regress like this? Is this why so many people close their minds to the world, why they live in their little boxes, why the compartmentalize and stereotype, why they only stick to what they know, and why the term ‘ignorance is bliss’ exists?

There are too many questions here. There too little sense to be made of too much information. Each element of life needs to be broken down into its respective designation, otherwise you’re left with a kaleidoscope of ever shifting colors and patterns, you’ve got nothing more than a post-modern work of art, a smearing of this and that which can only be defined according to other ‘this and thats’.

Give in? Give into the moment and let go of the eternal? Breathe in today, exhale tomorrow?

Maybe. Maybe that’s what all of us need. Otherwise, you’re nothing more than this and that, a blank tableau that has had an assortment of colors thrown at it with the intention of making something unique, because, to be honest, to be really honest, you’re not original, you’re not unique. Every thought and every feeling, every conclusion and the very point you seek… they’ve been done, and they’ll be done millions of times again.

So, what’s your point?

Stop trying to make a point of or draw a conclusion out of an existence that never required one to begin with. Just, breathe.

The afternoon gives way to our night

To the girl sitting across from me.

From what I can tell you and I were made to be together. I base this conclusion predominantly on instinct. I make a sly attempt at eye contact with you, and chicken out when you look back by pretending to focus deeply on the wall behind you. I see your blurred face smile as your eyes take you back down to your book. The waiter brings you a tea, and I continue to pretend being absorbed by my work.

In a moment’s time, I will get up and walk over to you. I will smile and tell you what I’ve been thinking all along. You’ll smile and maybe try to brush me off as a crazy. I’ll make you laugh with an unexpectedly witty comment about a character in the book you’re reading, because clearly I’ve read it before and it’s awesome. You ask me to join you, and I happily oblige.

We leave together an stroll around the crowded market nearby, sharing stories together and laughing wildly. As we laugh we are both sort of taken aback, meeting new people shouldn’t be so easy. You tell me about how you gave up your parent’s dream of pursuing a career in academics for your own love: music. I’m impressed by your commitment to the violin and piano, you shrug it off as no big deal. I tell you about my travels, adventures, and meaningless ventures and shenanigans, you actually listen to me and even ask sincere and meaningful questions. You don’t seem to care much that I’m broke and have no actual career prospects to speak of, you say that you kind of like the free-spirited attitude rather than the rigid career driven one. I blush.

Time passes unnoticeably as the afternoon gives into the night, and a short walk turns into a stroll under the stars. At one point while walking my hand sort of accidently grazes yours as I sidestep to avoid some belligerently racing child, and you grab it and don’t let go. Thanks kid.

I walk you to a cab, and you make me promise to call you. ‘None of this 3 day waiting bullshit, I actually want you to call’ you say, and your honesty is a welcomed change from the useless games other girls play. A real one, I think to myself as I kiss you on the cheek and stare deeply into your eyes. You look out the cab as it drives away and wave one final goodbye, then call out ‘Nick, Wake Up!’

The waiter brings you your bill and you thank him. You leave a 100 note and pack your book into your bag, stand up, and walk by me. You smile at me as you pass by towards the exit. From the large widow next to which I sit I watch you walk away. I don’t have your number, not even your name. All I have is a ‘what if’ and a ‘should have but didn’t’, and I content myself with those, for now. Maybe you will return, maybe not. Maybe another ‘you’ will show up in my life, as another person whom I can create my silly little fantasies over. Maybe not.  I curse myself quietly as I finish up this last sentence… another one lost to the realm of possibility.