The Rocker-Saint

A Guide To Recognising Your Saints

2009-01-29T04:56:00.000-08:00

It’s playing on my laptop. The movie. I’m hearing a soundtrack that’s making me nostalgic. I’m watching characters I wished belonged to my past too. I’m experiencing a story I wished was mine to tell. I’m going through emotions. Emotions. A whole summary of them for the past one year. Like a reunion episode of Friends. I stop the movie after around 30 minutes because it’s getting late. It’s the 30th of December 2008. Guess I'll finish it after the New Year.

The world tells me it’s a new year. Apparently because the number’s changed. Because the clocks reset. Because we hang new calendars. Because we get new time tables. Because we grow older. Because ‘Happy New Year’ messages flood into our inbox from well-wishers we’ll never hear from again until the next ‘new year’. Because life goes on. People say its bullshit. Some of us say its just 2009, just another number, its still the same life, and what we make of it. Some of us feel its 2008+1, not ready to say goodbye, holding on to 365 days of memories, even the ones that tore us apart. For some of us, it’s the same year. The same one all our life. It’s always the 31st of December. Everyday, is the 31st of December. Well, no matter who’s right, it doesn’t stop you from remembering the people that make your life.

The Sister

She never lets you pay for anything, even popcorn. She gives you a hardcover book about King Arthur for your 10th birthday. The colours she wears (scarf, top, and pants) make a rainbow look like funeral drapes. She never wants you to make for her whatever it is you’re having, but will always stuff a mouthful, ‘just one’ she says, (the largest ever witnessed) out of your plate. She names her things, whether they’re a phone that has survived inhuman conditions (Orissa), a rice cooker that make curries (Bubbles), or a giraffe soft toy that looks more like a cow (Giffy. 10 points for originality) . She invites you to spend Christmas with her in England, if your schedule permits it. Just you and her. She has to share a room with you until you’re 13. She only hums songs she hates. She wakes you up by hitting you with your bolster and shaking you like she’s trying to bring you back from the dead. She refuses to give up her Sweet Valley collection after all these years. 11 years ago, she taught you how to read music in one night.

The Dog.

He's a combination of Zaphrod (the alien in Liam Lynch's "Whatever" song). Zaphod (the intergalatic president in A Hitchhiker's Guide to the galaxy). Zoltan (the leader of space nerds who wear bubble wrap jumpsuits in Dude Where's My Car) . He’s 10 this year (70 in human years); even if he thinks he’s 3. And that’s not dog years. He can never run in a straight line; it’s always a curve, like his tail. Speaking of his tail, the sound it makes when it hits the side of the cars at home, could put a bass drum to shame, volume and tempo. Instead of communicating with other dogs who bark at him, he just stares. Same goes with when that one cat eats his food. He fetches every ball you throw, but don’t expect it back without a cookie in your hand. He sits and listens to your so-called philosophical take on life; just as long as you keep petting him on the head (another cookie here wouldn’t kill you). He eats everything but dog food. He takes long walks when the gate is left open, and comes back pretending nothing happened (Q: How’d you get cat poo all over youself? A: Nah, its just really bad smelling chocolate cake). He has his own water bowl but only drinks from the lotus pots. He suffers from short term memory loss (tries everyday without fail to swallow the basketball).

her.

She replies every one of your emails. She learnt to lengthen them after a while too, just so she could match yours. She inspired you to go home after 7 years. She showed you another world, where you could be more than yourself. You’d stand next to her and stare at your reflection in the glass displays in shopping malls, to see how you looked together. She ties a turban that makes yours look like a rag. You were both singing Matisyahu’s ‘Time of Your Life’ in the car. That was your moment, when you were both the same. She hates climbing steps (Reference: Batu Caves). She doesn’t quite help you when you swallow a fistful of raw ginger by accident. On the contrary, she laughs her ass off and wipes tears from her eyes. She made you try sushi for the first time. She likes ‘Twilight’ the movie (………). Thank god she knew Bob Marley was dead (inside joke). She buys gifts and laughs at how lame they are as she presents them. She taught you that there isn’t just one person in the world for you. And that’s why you had to let her go too.

The Best Friend.
You don’t know who it is. Maybe it’s every person that sat down next to you and heard you tell your story. Maybe it’s that person in those pictures at reunion dinners from school, college, the flying academy. Maybe it’s the person you keep in touch with the most. You know, the one who calls you from time to time, a person from a memory that seems like a lifetime ago. Maybe its one of your cousins. Maybe it’s that person with 4 legs and a tail who doesn’t bark. It might even be every one of those people you shared a drink with in airports, when you were both waiting. When life was waiting. Whoever you are, wherever you are, and however many of you there are, every one of you was a story. My story. All I can I hope for, is that I was yours too. I’ll love you and miss you. Always.

The Cousin Sister.

She introduces you to rock n roll, that first time when you’re at your grandparents place and Linkin Park’s “Papercut” is on MTV. She convinces you to watch Dostana. Not her finest of moments (she never questions John Abraham’s wardrobe, or lack of). She listens to everything you say intently, even if its you rambling about the same girl for the past year and half. Did I tell you she kills for chocolates (more like massacres, but you didn’t hear it from me)? She comes over sometimes and you watch films together while eating take-outs from En Hui. She sometimes watches Hindi films with you because together you make fun of them to the point of brutality. You meet up with her whenever you have off days. There’s always something to talk about with her. Every time you think of her, you get a text message or a call from yours truly. She believes country music will save the world (I’m being funny with a straight face). She takes you out to Piccolo Mundo’s for your birthday and agrees you get better food in Giorgio Armani.

The Parents.

I love them. I love them so much more than I give myself credit for.

I’ll never forget the day the SPM results came out. Mataji still had her best smile on for us. All of us. I couldn’t look her in the eye. I didn’t want to go home that day. I remember the first time I came home after leaving for Langkawi. Just one month. Mataji was smiling. She was happy. She makes a killer tofu sambal and detox juices that are either green or purple in colour. She watches Hindi movies so she can fall asleep halfway. She buys trees and pots like Harkiren buys Punjabi suits and erm…… Punjabi suits.

I’ll never forget the day Pitaji and I were yelling at each other for an hour, my eyes in tears, our worst argument yet. A half hour later, I get a call, telling me Raveen’s dad just passed away. More tears in my eyes. I remember my graduation ceremony, when I got my wings, the hug he gave me. He makes fried rice that kills, but also a divine banana lassi. Anything electronic malfunctions when he uses it. He's the kind of guy that gives Mac Gyver toolbox phobia. He eats tosai with a fork and spoon.

The Cousin Brother.

Out of the 20 movies you watch in a year, 15 are with him. He got you a battery powered cyclist for your 7th birthday. You’d take long walks into town in Ulu Yam on a daily basis, stocking up on the day’s ‘groceries’. Dr. Phil wouldn’t approve. He’s a Liverpool fan, but you’ve yet to have a football argument, probably because your Premier League history is about as good as his singing in the shower. You crossed off your first item on your Bucket List together. Rock climbing. You both want to go to a U2 concert before you die. He only ever listens to Light and Easy (don’t ask). He was the first guy to call Brokeback Mountain ‘the most tragic love story I’ve ever seen’ (you were the second, and so far, there are 2 of you). You 2, single men in their early twenties who are first cousins, love listening to Coldplay’s break up songs together. You sing ‘Knockin on Heaven’s Door’ together with enough passion to make sure you never get in (not sure if that was the original intention).

It’s playing on my laptop. Again. The movie. What was once nostalgia is now a present. What were once characters are now the people in my life. What was once a story I wished was mine is now the flyleaf of the rest of my life. I’m remembering emotions. I stop the movie at 1 hour and 39 minutes because it has finished. It’s the first of January 2009. For the first time, it actually felt like I could start over. And it all made sense. You are my saints. And you’re all real.

For Antonio too.

Kisses and Cake

2008-11-30T05:48:00.000-08:00

Life’s a series of rooms. And who we get stuck in those rooms with, adds up to what our lives are.

Your parents meet. They fall in love. A year or two pass by, and then comes the magic moment. When your dad asks your mum to marry him. It’s always a story worth telling. Everyone has that story. Each their own. They tell it at wedding anniversaries, birthdays, 10 year reunions. The kind of story where everyone sighs in the end, even if it was textbook material, seen in a few movies, and nothing out of the ordinary. It was beautiful. It was everything up till the happily ever after in a fairytale. A brew of all the right spells. But then the spell wears off, when there’s a new story to tell. Your story. The hospital one. That day when they were deciding what to name you. That day your mum endured the most painful and precious moment of her life. The day your dad saw you, and felt like a father. The day you were pink, bald and of no use to the Tooth Fairy. Your birthday.

17 of those later, they’re still telling that story. The story that changed their lives forever. This time, no one sighs. No one laughs. Tears in a mother’s eyes. Nothing’s changed. The living room is still the same shade of cream, with the same oak finish furniture, the same glasses everyone’s holding in their hands, the same people. Something’s changed. You’re no longer there. There’s an empty seat at the dining table where you had your meals everyday as a family. Your bed looks like no one’s been in it for a while. Your shoes are collecting dust in the closet. Your best friend walks to school alone now. You’re in the family photographs, the ones on a mountain top, by the beach, at a theme park, on a birthday, after a school play. Your mum and dad are in each other’s arms, with you squashed somewhere in between, or dad’s giving you a piggyback ride with your arms around his neck, or you’re planting a kiss on mum’s cheek. Wearing your best smiles. Smiles that could have produced the worlds greatest Patronus. Memories. Stories. The greatest story your parents ever had. Ever will.

Shakespeare lives on through his words, through his works. Loved ones live on through our memories, through our hearts. There will be times when we will see them again. During those moments many, many years from now, when we're in our room in the middle of the night, sitting with the lights out, listening to a deafening silence, the memory clasped tightly in our hands, the moments doing reruns in our heads. Many many years from now, i will be holding this article in mine.

So guess what? I want to tell you stories. Stories of 16 birthdays. Stories that take place in a world where high school is the last big adventure. Stories where the last memory you had was blowing 16 candles. But how do I tell this story? A sweet sixteen? How do I tell my side, when I was stuck in a room with you?

Here’s what I know about Harprem Rakhneet Kaur. Knew. She was from Lahad Datu. She loved to dance and enjoyed Punjabi songs. Every time she looked at you, it’s like she hadn’t seen you in years. Like Manpreet, she was a sucker for chocolates. She had a dad who called her every chance he could to make sure she was fine. Her favourite colour was green. She had cancer. She was 16.

Ranjit Singh. Form 4 student in Sri Dasmesh School. Do you know him? I thought I did. He had the widest smile and loudest laugh in school. You could hear him from a mile away. He always said hi, even when all he got in return was an extremely monotonous grunt. I knew him for 4 years while I was in school. Every story I told about my life then had a role for him somewhere. He had dengue fever. He was 16.

5 bloody lines. It’s all I know about you. I knew you for as long as 5 sentences. Yet when you left, my world had a few less smiles in it. I want to cry but I can’t. I’m ashamed. What is it like to lose someone? To stare at their contact number in my phone for hours, thinking about all those times I had to dial that number? To enter their room after being gone for years, running my fingers along the clothes, looking through the shoebox with our pictures together as kids, scanning the CDs on the rack, their songs playing in my head exactly the way we used to sing them out loud? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to know, but I think the cost is more than I can bear.

Harprem’s message was ‘find the joy in your life’. Our lives are streams flowing into the same river towards whatever heaven lies on the mist beyond the falls. Someday I will close my eyes and let the waters take me home.

I’m deeply proud that they found it worth their while to know me. So one day, when I go to some final resting place, if I happen to wake up next to a certain wall and a gate, I hope they are there to vouch for me, and show me the ropes on the other side. Even now I can’t claim to understand the measure of a life. But I can tell you this. I know that when they died, their eyes were closed, their hearts were open, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and someone somewhere in the world was having the happiest day of their life.

I need you to do me a favour. Yes, you. The one who’s reading this post now. I need 2 minutes of your night. Your every night. For every car crash you read in the papers, for every loved one you lose, for every hurricane you see on the news, for every casualty of war, for every celebrity dying of an overdose, for every child dying of starvation in a refugee camp, for every panda bear being hunted by poachers, for every ant you’ve accidentally stepped on, for every branch you’ve broken, for every patient in a hospital. For every Harprem Rakhneet. For every Ranjit. 2 minutes of lost keys. 2 minutes of silence, with your eyes closed. To remember the people of the people of the people of the people of the people of the people we know. Because apparently, we are connected to each and every person in the rest of the world through just 6 people.

And now, tell someone you love them. Tell everyone.

Dedicated to Harprem Rakhneet Kaur (1991 – 2008), and Ranjit Singh (1992 – 2008)

We will see you again. Till then, Carpe Diem.

A Hope In Hell

2008-10-09T23:20:00.000-07:00

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to another thrill – packed evening of funfunfun here at the Hellfire Club! I am your host, Choronzon, High Duke of the Eighth Circle, captain of the horde of Lord Beelzebub. Tonight, for your entertainment and, delectation, a formal challenge. As the challenged, I set the meter and take first move. And the challenger is Dream, once the Master of the Realm of Sleep, so, lets have a big hand for – Mister Sandman!!’

Dream (Morpheus)
It has been long since I was forced to play such games with Demons. I rise slowly, approach the stage. Around me a soft susurrus of sound, and a large languorous, ironic applause. “The Hellfire Club”. It feels like a bad joke. And like everything else in Hell, it is deadly serious.

‘So, you know the rules, Dreamlord? If you win, I will return your helm. If you lose, you will serve as a plaything of Hell, for eternity. Our slave.’

“I understand.”

‘Very well, I have the first move.’

The Oldest game

Choronzon: I am a dire wolf, prey – stalking, lethal prowler.

Dream: “I’m a hunter, horse – mounted, wolf – stabbing.”

Dream
I smell spilt alcohol, stale smoke and cheap sex, perfume and mold. And I feel grass beneath my hooves, the flanks between my legs. All is real. Nothing is real. Choronzon’s move.

Choronzon: ‘I am a horsefly, horse – stinging, hunter – throwing.’

Dream
There are many ways to lose the oldest game. Failure of nerve, hesitation. Being unable to shift into a defensive shape. Lack of imagination.

Dream: “I am a spider, fly – consuming, eight legged.”

Choronzon: ‘I am a snake, spider – devouring, poison – toothed.’

Dream: “I am an ox, snake – crushing, heavy footed.”

Dream
I feel the snake writhe beneath my hoof, its spine crushed.

Choronzon: ‘I am an anthrax, butcher bacterium, warm – life destroying.’

Dream
A change in direction, but still an old gambit. I think I understand how Choronzon plays. How I can turn it against him. I think I will abandon the offensive.

Dream: “I am a world, space – floating, life nurturing.”

Choronzon: ‘I am a nova, all – exploding, planet – cremating.’

Dream: “I am the universe, all things encompassing, all life embracing.”

Choronzon: ‘I am anti – life, the beast of judgement. I am the dark at the end of everything. The end of universes, gods, worlds. Of everything.’ And what will you be then, Dreamlord?

Dream: “I am Hope.”

Excerpt from The Sandman Volume 1 ‘Preludes and Nocturnes’ by Neil Gaiman

her.

2008-08-28T22:05:00.000-07:00

When I woke up I was all alone
With a broken heart and a ticket home
And I ask you now, tell me what would you do
If her hair was black and her eyes were blue
I've traveled around, I've been all over this world
Boys I ain't never seen nothin' like a galway girl

“Galway Girl” by Steve Earle

I get my answer. All it took was one year. Photographs. Videos. Emails. Moments. Memories. And those 5 minutes every night when I lived through them. The last 5 minutes before I closed my eyes. My last 5 minutes on earth. That would be it. Every single heartbeat. Was I afraid? (Laughs) Terrified. Picture yourself going for a tumour scan and waiting a month for the results. Like I said. I got my answer. Was it what I wanted to hear? Yes. No.

“Always Something” by Switchfoot

She said there’s someone else now. Now. Which means there was a “Once”. There was. She said that too. But she wasn’t going to hold on to it because of where we were and are in our lives. Maybe it’s because I’m an ogre and she’s a princess. Maybe it’s because the clock has struck 12 and her carriage has turned back into a pumpkin. Maybe we’re stuck in different timelines. Maybe we belong to different worlds.

“Secret Garden” by Bruce Springsteen

How’d I know it was her? I close my eyes and see her. I open them, and want to see her. I wake up every morning with a smile now. I smile when I think of her. I smile when I get her emails. I smile at the way she rolls her t-shirt sleeves up, the way you would roll your pants if it was too long. A fate her every top suffered. I smile at the way she ties her hair in a bun with that scarf of hers. I smile at the way she speaks Punjabi. I smile at the way she mutes the swear word in her sentence and just mouths it, on the rare occasion it’s needed. I smile at the way she always talks about food, and throws in random “did you knows” while devouring it, especially when it’s fruit. Apparently apples are good for your digestion. I smile again.

Find anything new and exciting? (Laughs again) That’s what I thought. What can I say? Love is stereotyped.

“I Miss You” by Blink 182

True romance is letting her go. I always said that. But I knew it wasn’t complete. There was something missing from those words. I could never quite place it. You watch movies like a painted veil, a walk to remember, before sunrise, p.s. I love you, and you wonder how I come up with quotes like these. And then, there’s me. My story. The one without a movie. Without a book. Without a poem. Just a tune. A melody. A string of notes put together that play in my head. Just 3 actually. On a piano or a vaja. This part of my life. This chapter’s soundtrack.

“Fix You” by Coldplay

Why her? The million dollar question. When I was falling, she pulled me up, barely even knowing me. I found the courage to be a Jatha Coordinator and lead Rehraas sessions in Samelan 2007. I take cold showers every morning now. I did my first set of the 5 morning Baani’s in one sitting, on the roof of Sri Harmandar Sahib after darbar sahib sewa at 3 in the morning. I organized ‘Across the Universe’. I go for yoga classes every Tuesday now. People come up to me and say, I matter. She stood next to me on the Sarovar steps at 2am, filling buckets with water for devotees to wash the Parkarma with. I stopped running, and became me. The guy with a white shahi turban and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. The rocker saint.
Because her hair was black and her eyes were blue. Because she fixed me.

“Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol

What? My story? Nah. It’s not worth telling. Has a great soundtrack and an excellent script, but too many plot holes, inconsistent character development, boring and repetitive sets and locations, an unexciting lead actor, a leading actress he might never see again, no on-screen kiss or even a date, a total screen time of an hour, and they don’t even get together in the end. Actually, no one really knows what happens. Here’s what anybody knows. Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. That’s it. Doesn’t sound like your everyday bestseller, does it? No. What I’m doing is, describing a moment, like I always do. Like I’ve always done. Because, maybe the greatest story ever told was a symphony. And that’s all it ever was.

“Who Knew” by Pink

I told her I’ll ask her out in 2 years. When life has become a painted house. When it’s become the welcome mat on my doorstep. She said a lot can happen in 2 years. Who knows where we’ll be? For one of the few times in my life, I can’t answer her. And then it hits me. Why the quote felt incomplete. Because it was. What I felt was different. True romance is letting her go, FOR NOW. Perfect.

Maybe I’m pushing her unto a pedestal. Maybe I’m trying to see her with wings. Maybe I’m forcing her to wear a halo. Who knows? If only you could see what I see, and then tell me to let go.

“I’ll Love You Till the End” by The Pogues

2 years. Life is waiting? Not this time. This time, I am. 2 years is a lifetime. Maybe, this is all it will ever be. A memory. A cipher. Maybe this is all I’ll ever have. A gift. Then, I will say words. The only trace of her. The only proof of life. Words like these. “Once upon a time, we were.”

Once. We were.

I think deep down, she’ll always be the Galway Girl. My Galway Girl. The one whose hair was black and eyes were blue. The dream that came true. Never. True. Never.

So, here’s what you are going to do.
Smile. Cry. And then, there’s tomorrow.

“Thirteen” by Big Star

From The Creators of "Across D' Universe"

2008-06-04T21:17:00.000-07:00

Do you love hip hop music? Reggae? Think your parents never understand you? Feel like you're alone in the world, even when you have so many friends? Feel like sometimes you're not cool enough to be accepted? Feel like there's something bigger in life that's connecting everything together? Feel like you want to belong, just this once?

Take up kickboxing. Watch a sad movie with a box of tissues. Sit in silence and put words down on an everyday piece of paper. Go to a rock concert. Jump on a rooftop and scream your lungs out. Come for the Sikh Spirit Camp.

Date : 4th - 6th July 2008
Venue : Sri Dasmesh School, Pantai( Next to Kerinci Putra Station )

Why? Because I need you here.
*I need to know I can count on your faith when I lose mine.
*I need your hand on my shoulder.
*I want to see the face of the person who will one day save my life.
*I want to know there's more to my life than just getting through college, getting a job, having friends, starting a family. Always living for someone else.
*I want to know there's more to my everyday moments than just thinking of tomorrow.
*I want to live in today.

You say:
*I'm only in college.
*I have the rest of my life to worry about all this.
*I want to enjoy these few years, before life becomes another rolling stone.
*Why worry about things you can't control? Life is short. Live it.

The Million Dollar Question: How long is the rest of your life?

We know how it feels when people try to teach us something as if we were in kindergarten. Especially when we think we are old enough to have our own experiences. We want to explore things for our self instead of being spoon fed and told what is right and what is wrong. It only makes sense to do something that resonates with us and to do something that means something to us. We want stuff that we can practice in our day to day life.

I want to learn from you. I want you to teach me. Show me your life.

And I will wait for that one day when we will take on the world together. And win.

Loads of interesting activities awaits you at our camp... We will rock the whole weekend with untold paths and new discoveries to lead us to a whole new era of life Closing Date : 15th June 2008 Dont miss this golden opportunity to be the chosen one to attend our camp. We will be looking forward to receive your forms. Feel free to contact our camp organizers Jesmesh Singh - 017 2010 540 or Hargobind Singh - 012 3753 473 Email : spiritcamp@gmail.com / Website : http://www.sikhswithamission.wordpress.com/

Rang De Basanti

2008-05-14T08:48:00.000-07:00

The Man on the Shatabdi

I saw him on the train to Amritsar. I remember him because it was a 3 seater, with him and a fat guy already seated in the middle and aisle seat. Took a bit of time for me to get in, if you know what I mean. The fat guy sleeping didn’t help either. This guy, the guy in the middle, he was wearing this worn out brown cargo pants that looked like it had survived 3 fires and a flood. And these Nike shoes, basketball ones. I knew from his turban that he was foreigner, despite his attempts at sounding like a local. It was round and black, with a triangle cut on his forehead exposing the inner white turban. You don’t get turbans like that here. We didn’t really talk during the journey. I assumed he was getting off at Amritsar, and I was getting off at Ludhiana, and plus, I hadn’t seen Casino Royale yet, so had brought my Ipod along for the journey. And he kept writing at random times into this red book he kept in his backpack. I tried peeking, but could only catch words like ‘Home’, ‘5 days’, and ‘Search’. The only times we ever spoke were when I would fall asleep, and he’d wake me up, telling me that the meal cart was here, and I’d tell him that I didn’t want any breakfast. But he didn’t know the number of times they would end up serving, so he just kept waking me up. Got a bit annoying. And he carried a Gutka in his backpack! Definitely a foreigner. It looked like he was doing the 5 morning Baanis whenever he felt the time was right. Whenever he felt like it. He gave me the impression of someone who’s looking for something in the golden city. That which would give him peace.

Delhi. Look. Flyovers as far as the eye can see. New terminal being added to the airport and renovations everywhere, 24 hour operations. 3 lane roads with new layers of tar, not a pothole in sight. A journey smooth, no matter where you go. 50 km speed limit in town, because of the number of cars. 1400 new cars on the road everyday. Trucks only allowed into town from 11 – 4. Afternoon and night. The Delhi Metro Rail. Their Putra LRT service. With a station designed like KL Central, for trains going straight to the airport. 20 minute journey from the center of town. Toyotas and BMWs replacing the Ambassador on the road. Billboards of the latest thing in India, the ownership of cricket teams by Bollywood. Akshay Kumar and the Delhi Devils, top of the league. Shah Rukh Khan and the Kolkata Knight Riders.

Delhi. Look Closer. Adults and children alike, bathing on the side of the street from small pails. Throwing water at each other. Putting the same clothes back on their backs. Crossing ‘no-pothole’ roads with their bare feet. Dogs, the stray kind, sleeping on dividers. The ones that don’t bother anyone. The ones who have been surviving for years. Nothing is lifeless in the streets. Not even road kill. Cows walking around in the middle of roundabouts. Munching on government grass. Cows in the middle of streets, holding up traffic. Cows, India’s real superpower. Look even closer. Everyone is smiling. No matter what is tucked under their arms, safety helmets, school books, baggage, daily supplies, newspapers. No matter what they’re dragging behind them, rickshaws with passengers on them, 2 wheeled goods transporters, bags of rice on their backs. There couldn’t be a more pleasant atmosphere first thing in the morning.

Uncle Surrendar Nath Ji

Oh my god. Look at him. A nice turban, flowing beard, and a strong aura of faith. Has it only been 7 years? I don’t recall him ever being 14. My last memory of him was as a child. That 5 year old boy, trying to buy up every shastar he could get his hands on in the bazaar. And then wearing them on his person, as though they were apart of him. Maybe they were. There’s not much time today to talk. What a shame. He’s definitely tired from the long flight, and he has another journey ahead of him tomorrow. We’ll talk more when he gets back. This should be interesting. I see traces of him. That boy who was never afraid to speak his mind, who strutted like his last hour on stage. The boy with blessed parents. Where did he go?

Rock n roll has no place in India. It doesn’t fit in the soundtrack, or do you get the urge to play it at all. That’s just the way it is. Driving around with Sounil, the local stations playing radio friendly hits, the high tempos, the costume changes, the bright colours, the male and female solos in turn, that’s India. That’s her sound. No matter where I was, even on board the train, with that huge CD pack I carry with me everywhere, I’d flip past Nirvana, AC/DC, Guns N Roses, System of A Down, and settle on the Rang De Basanti soundtrack. The only thing in there that’s close to home. You’d listen to the title track by Daler Mahendi, and stare out into the countryside, and then you’d get it. That moment where everything just fit into place. The sights and sounds. That smile on your lips, like you’re watching a movie. Life with a soundtrack. You’d close your eyes and see it. You’d open them and hear it. Occasionally I’d listen to Snow Patrol. They have a song for everything. ‘You’re all I have’ was ringing in my ears on the way to the holy city. Pictures have words. Words have moments, and moments have soundtracks. I’d look out into the fields of sunflowers, they go on for miles, the golden landscape, and I’d think of ‘Desh Mere’ from The Legend of Bhagat Singh. The flowing rivers with tiny boats on them, the farmers sitting on Punjabi Menjey(beds) in the shade of wise trees, taking an afternoon breather and discussing current events. Every time I’d take out and look at that photo again, the one in the red bible’s jacket cover, ‘Roobaroo’ from Rang De Basanti would play in my headphones. And you’ll never notice that ear to ear smile, thinking of tomorrow. Never.

I get off at Amritsar. I must be out of my mind. What the hell am I doing? How did I end up here? Real great idea, waking up one morning and deciding to go to India. I can’t believe I talked myself into this. I have never been here before on my own, last known trip was 7 years back, where mummy handled everything, all I did was tag along. I don’t know if I’ll find that free shuttle bus to Darbar Sahib, if I’ll find accommodation, where I can eat, how do I find my way around, what do I do here for the next 4 days. You try answering these questions in my shoes. I should have just put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger upon the visa collection from Leo Travels. This has got to be the craziest thing I’ve ever done. I hate Epiphanies. Next time I’ll just wave at them as they pass by.

2 hours later, I am where I should be. Checked into the Guru Arjan Dev Ji Nivas(residence), room 16, having langgar for lunch later, standing on the Parkarma, with only the Sarovar(holy water tank) between us. There she is. My knees buckle. My hands tremble as I put them together in salutation. And there’s only one score playing through my mind. Gladiator Soundtrack track 15. Elysium. Download it, and call me a liar.

Holy Cow!!

2008-05-08T08:59:00.000-07:00

Indian Visa = RM175
Return Ticket = RM397
ERL Pass = RM24
Fuel consumption to get everything done = God Knows
Expenses = RM800
Time Lost for Simulator Prep = 6 days
Time to make the decision to go = Seconds
The look on my parents face = Amusing

Seeing Her Again? That's worth my universe.

5 days. India. Delhi. Connought Place. Amritsar. Sri Harmandar Sahib. Guru Arjun Dev Ji Nivas. Chheharta. Miri Piri Academy. 5 days. India. You wake up on board an Airbus A330-300 at 40 000 feet, staring at the emergency pamphlet stamped with the MAS logo. The faces of passengers calm, as they execute emergency procedures. Calm as Hindu cows. Khoya Khoya Chand is playing on the screen. Your headphones are not yet plugged in. You wonder what direction the conversation is taking. You wonder if she still recognizes you. You wonder how you got here in the first place. You wonder.

Thurs night you go to bed, knowing you can afford the ticket price, making up your mind that you want to go. Your last chance, in a long time. You’re not thinking things through. You just know that you want to go. You decide to tell Mataji and Pitaji tomorrow. 7 days later. Thurs morning, you wake up on the 7:20 Shatabdi leaving Delhi for Amritsar. You wonder what she’s going to look like. You wonder if you’ll still look at her the same way. 7 years. You wonder.

7 years. You wait. Why? What had been going through your head? A penny for your thoughts. You wake up every morning and walk past her magnificence, eternal on a wall of memories. Those photographs you took, wrapped in a shawl, like baby Jesus, your feet cold from touching the marble. You talk about the old days, your childhood. Those countless times you paraded around the house with your banaa, demonstrating the use of every shastar like a certified curator of V&A Museum, telling hyperbolic stories of the battles during our Guru’s time. You describe her beauty as something that goes beyond life itself. That awe one holds upon witnessing a miracle. That miracle.

But where the hell have you been?! The growing pains reflecting a Nirvana song echo through your rather short history, that has no trace of ‘believe’, ‘passion’, ‘proof’, in its index. Proof that there was God in your life. You believed in Him, but where was the proof? Your proof? To him? A morning and evening prayer read at top speed and gurdwara programs in between?! That’s what you have to offer? 7 years. Now you have 4 days. You have no idea what you’re looking for. You have no idea what to expect. You are going alone. You are scared shitless. You are going there to find the missing piece, and the one person in your life that helped you realize it was missing, that reminded you, life was waiting.

You put your thoughts down in the Red Bible. That book you’ve carried everywhere for the last 2 years. You look at her picture again, the one slipped in the book’s cover. You wonder how much further you’re going to have to take this. A 5 hour flight, and you don’t sleep. Not a wink. Your mind is racing. Your mind is blank. Your thoughts are like Playdo being stretched in every direction. But they don’t break. They just go on. Your thoughts are empty. Not a trace of history or life in them. You listen to Dreamtheater to calm your nerves. Good album. Good recommendation from the guy at the shop. That movie playing isn’t too bad either. Think I’ll recommend it to Harkiren.

“Cabin Crew, please be seated for landing”. Local time is 21:15. Its 39 degrees Celsius outside. I hope Sounil recognizes me. 2000 feet to touchdown. Here we go.

Dear Diary...

2008-02-10T03:16:00.000-08:00

Someone said thank you to me today. It was really quite an experience. “I want to thank you for what you did for us in samelan”. That’s what she said. No one has ever said that to me before. Those exact words. I mean, people say thank you all the time. When you hold the elevator for them. When you pull out a chair for someone. When you answer a query. When you open a door for them. When you pass them the desert. When you give someone back their change. This was just different.

She went back to our Rehraas sessions in samelan. Those half an hour discussions we had daily after our evening prayer. Where what we were supposed to do as Jatha Coordinators was to discuss a particular theme using excerpts from Baani. Talk about what that verse is trying to say, and how we can apply it into our daily lives. What we did was talk about life, love, hope, and the long journey ahead. I wanted them to see God in their own lives, in their own way, leaving Sikhi out of the picture. Many of these youth had shorn hair, which has never been a problem for me, but told me that they came from a different background, grew up in different circles. Each his/her own. There was no use being their local Granthi, or the Raagi Jatha on stage. Even I don’t respond well to that approach.

She reminded me of some of the things we mentioned in those sessions, word for word at times. I personally couldn’t remember most of what was said. I got home and pulled out my Jatha Coordinator’s Guide under the Oodles of Doodles section, in which Sumeet and I spent a considerable amount of time everyday, planning each session. We somehow found the time, even in between the Inspirational Sessions, sometimes quoting them, to come up with the discussion of the day. It was the best part of my day, that. Sumeet was superbly supportive from the beginning. He could see my angle, and understood its need in order for us to connect with the youth, to let them know there was nothing to be afraid of. We would relate our own experiences, give scenarios every teenager was only too familiar with, and let everyone be comfortable with the subject matter, knowing it was familiar territory. The presentation, that is.

She reminded me how we used alternative rock to prove there is divinity in everything. Songs like Coldplay’s “Fix You” and Switchfoot’s “Dare You to Move”, were God’s words in a different language with a different musical approach. How we talked about the Kara, and the fact that most of us don’t even know why we wear it. How we talked about Einstein, a man of science, who once said that the more he studied the universe, the more he believed in a higher power. How we talked about the difference between fearing God, and loving God. How we talked about the fact that we all believed in God, but did nothing in our day to day lives to show for it. How we talked about going to bed every night, praying for a better day ahead, but strained to recall that one time when we just thanked God for a beautiful day. Baby steps, just baby steps.

She reminded me about some of the facts of Sikhism that we shared with everyone that most never knew about, and some still don’t. About how the Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji is the only holy scripture in the world to be written by the prophets of its dharma. About how in 1973, UNESCO declared the Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji the universal scripture. About how the Atheist Society wrote to Ali Sina, creator of the Faith Freedom website, saying that this is the one religion that “makes a hell of a lot of sense”. About Bertrand Russell, the famous freethinker, and all he had to say about Sikhism was that it would be the only means to guide those who survive a third world war. She shared with me how proud they were to be born into such lineage, yet ashamed to know so little about all that they believed in.

I remembered how we did our Rehraas. We did it like a Q and A(the way we normally do at home, our family), while being seated in a circle. The Jatha was split into two groups. We called it “Conversations With God”. We were conversing, beyond words at times, getting in touch with all that was real, and everything else beyond. She told me why she never sat in front of us during the discussions. She told me why she frequently gazed at the ceiling, trying to hold her tears back. Especially when we talked about our last day on earth, not knowing when it will come. How we always take things for granted. She told me how she never expected to learn anything at a Samelan. She told me how she never expected someone like me or Sumeet to inspire her.

And lastly, she told me how what we said, is the reason she has started doing her Rehraas every single day. She tried Japji Sahib as well, but found it a little difficult to cope with. And I said, that’s okay. Stepping stones. That’s what you need. Start with what you know. I was silent within, for the 10 minutes that she spoke of everything that mattered to her in those 7 days. And here was me thinking that nothing had changed when I left the samelan grounds. No one talked about the sessions. No one had further queries on anything we discussed. Most disappeared before goodbyes. And here was one person saying thank you. And that makes all the difference. This quote comes in many different forms and words, but my personal take on it is “Change the world one life at a time, starting with mine”.

Sumeet is 23 and I’m 20. we conducted every session together. never once was there a guest speaker or an adult around. This was my first year as a Jatha Coordinator. My first year as a leader. I am someone who loves rock and roll, finds inner peace in Jaap Sahib, talks to myself in the mirror while getting dressed, loves hot showers, thinks he can sing, annoys everyone he meets, and has a wonderful family for support. a regular joe, in other words. And if I can inspire someone to change the way they wake up in the morning, then maybe that’s something to think about, if nothing else.

I remember someone, an old friend, telling me after one of the sessions, how much I had matured from what she could recall. To tell you the truth, diary, I hadn’t. I just decided to open my eyes.

And then I remembered the Ardaas we did everyday, before adjourning to the Langgar Hall for dinner.

Dear Guruji,
Thank you for a beautiful day.
Thank you for the precious moments.
Thank you for all the little things I take for granted.
Thank you for giving me another day.
Guide me as I take my first step.
Pick me up, every time I fall.
Let me see the sun rise, forever and a day.
I love you.

My subconscious ardaas.
Goodnight Diary.

the only photograph i found of sumeet and myself. you are the older brother i never had. and for that, i am a better person. thank you for your support all the way. i will see you again. cheers

Life After The Pink Mist

2008-01-18T08:24:00.000-08:00

Your run turns into an abrupt slow walk. You walk. You walk the rest of the way. You walk because you know you don’t have to run anymore. You try to slow down your breathing, but the heart beats way too fast. You realize, you’re not sure if you care. The seconds hand on your wristwatch moves at its own pace. Slows when it wants. Quickens when it needs. You feel the sun on your face. The wind between your fingers. You feel, ahead. Like you’re leaving everything behind. You are. You taste the mountain air on your lips. Not the first time. Something’s different. Something in the air. Something, pleasant. Something welcoming. Something that has been put off for far too long. Like the first breath at the end of examinations. Like at the end of the world. Free. Freedom. Tastes like freedom. Tastes like freedom, and feels like home. Aah. Home. Wife and children. Girlfriend. Parents. Friends. What you fight for. What you go back to. There’s always something worth dying for. Worth living for.

You stare at the ground. At the line that changes everything. You pause to consider your options. Forever. The difference in seconds. Forever. You cross it. Step over. And look ahead. Is it really over? Everyone is sitting down in the mud. Shower less for weeks. Peace on their faces. Smoking that last cigarette together. A sign of good things to come. No jokes in the air. No talk. Nothing but silence. Some close their eyes without fear after a long time. Feeling what it was like once. Feeling it again. That rush of calm. The one without baggage. The one that worried about the future when the world came to sight again. Some keep them open. Wanting to see the world at the end of days. All staring at a spot. The first thing that mattered. Each his own. A photograph. The heavens. The rifle. A speck of dirt. The shoes. Trifles in such a huge world moving at such a pace. It takes more than a few breaths. You see the world, and close your eyes. Taking that long, satisfying breath. Yes. Its over.

All the good things come to mind. All at once. Like being in a candy store as a kid. Not knowing what to choose. It takes time for you to slow everything down. Appreciate one memory at a time. Picture everything down to the colour of your socks. Waking up in the morning in a bed. Nothing but smiles all around. Daily showers. Comfort. Her. Going to work everyday. Coming back. Relaxing on the couch with a coke in hand, watching the game. Her. Having barbeques on the weekend. Taking the kids to school. Watch them grow into wannabe’s and misunderstood teens. Generation x. Paying your bills. Leading a boring, dull and safe life. Her. It’s too much to take in. You feel like you’re going to collapse from all the beauty. Everything that is to come. The promise. What they call the American Dream in the States. What we called heaven on earth during the last 5 years. You want it. You want it so bad. Especially now that it’s so close you can almost taste it. In the wind. Like freedom. Life’s flavours. Just the good ones. All at once.

But then they come to mind. The one’s that never made it. The real heroes. One with the earth. You think about the lives waiting for them back home. The hopeful faces at the doorstep. You think about their last words. The reasons for doing what they did. Those who died saving your life. Your precious, little life. You promise to lead a good life for them. To live on. To cure cancer. To nourish Ethiopia. To end discrimination. To fight for human rights. To end all wars. Something worthy of a nod from Alfred Nobel. At this point, everything seems possible. Everything. Anything that will prove your worth and value. The reason you made it out alive. Your purpose. Someday ahead, you will know to ask the question. “Why me?” Why not the man on my right? My left? You ask questions because no one can answer them. It will kill you. The nightmares. The looks on their faces. The past. We all deserved to go home. The only difference is, some are already there. Waiting.

Dropping your rifle, you raise your palms. Stare directly into them. They shake. Uncontrollably. Relieved of such a weight. All the blood on them. Foreign, and domestic. Friend and foe. Makes no difference. It’s all red. Like an American beauty. Nowhere near the same feeling, if looked upon. Hard to see the beauty behind things when what you’re staring at is another man’s life force. The hands. They stop shaking. The power they held. To give, and to take away. To pass judgment. To pull the trigger. You wonder if god will forgive you for what you have done to each other. To yourselves. Yet you know, deep down, it had to be done. One million had to die. 6 billion would live. You seek solace in the fact that you served your country. Your family. Yet you are changed forever. What got broken here, doesn’t go back together again. This blood will never come off. Not off these hands. Not off these clothes. Not ever. Not unless you can take back every bullet. Every life.

Bonds of brotherhood. The fight for peace. The man next to you. Knowing that you have him covered. All the things you are leaving behind. You’ve crossed the line. Is it worth leaving behind? There was something behind it all. The death. The destruction. The mayhem. The filth. The greed. You discovered equality. Every man is the same. It’s what he does, that defines him. There were no Christians. No sons of Abraham. No Muhammads. No Sikhs. We were all brothers. Brothers in arms. We wanted the same things in life. Took pleasure in the same moments. Dreamed the same dreams. You ask yourself if you could give it all up just to go home. You ask yourself if you can walk away and never look back. You ask yourself if life will still be the same again. You know the answer before you even finish the question. You drop your rifle. Take off your helmet. Pause a minute. And turn around. Give it all one look before it becomes a figment of your past that you will never speak of again. The laughter of the men. The pain in their voice. The sorrow in our hearts. Knowing now what the human race is capable of. You look back. You look back.

3 Cheers For The Black Parade

2007-12-27T06:11:00.000-08:00

There is a life changing experience, and then there is a rock concert. To see the good in the world. To see the moral of the story. To see beginnings. To celebrate life and death. The complete circle. That’s what My Chemical Romance’s “The Black Parade” album is all about. I was never impressed with their earlier 2 works, so I waved this one off as another over-hyped record. But then came the news that they were performing. Here. In KL. And I thought, what the heck? Just give it try. 10, 20 years from now when I look back, would I ever wonder ‘what coulda been’? Rock acts are rare here, so I should just go for whatever I get. I got the CD from a friend a week before. 2 days later I bought my ticket for the concert. I had no company, no one that was available, so I went alone. What I got was a lifetime of experiences. Memories. Things we saw. Things we wished we saw. Lives we lived. Lives we wished we lived. So many of them were painful, but isn’t that what makes you feel alive? What is it that you want to see? World peace? Equal rights? Silence? The future? Walk into a stadium. Grab a good spot. Listen to the calm before the storm. Watch all the different faces there tonight. Chinese, Malays, Indians, the French, the British. Strangers. Each his own. Then over the next hour and a half, watch the magic unfurl.

“When I was a young boy,
My father, took me into the city,
To see a marching band,

He said son when , you grow up,
Would you be, the savior of the broken,
The beaten and the damned,

He said will you, defeat them,
Your demons, and all the non-believers,
The plans that they have made,

Because one day, I’ll leave you, a phantom,
To lead you in the summer,
To join the black parade”

I think we all remembered our childhood. Those memories at the Floral Parade, and the Independence Day march past. The marching bands that walked past us holding Daddy’s hand or sitting on his shoulders in those huge parades. Parades of celebration, of joy, in all your favourite colours. But there was sadness in his voice. Almost a whisper of hurt. Draped in black curtains. Dripping in the blood of patriots. To remind you that when that day comes, remember them. Honour their memories by carrying on.

“Do or die, you’ll never make me,
Because the world, will never take my heart,
Go and try, you’ll never break me,
We want it all, we want to play this part,

I won’t explain, or say I’m sorry,
I’m unashamed, I’m gonna show my scar,
Give a cheer, for all the broken,
Listen here, because it’s who we are…”

We would have died for the world that night. We would have sacrificed everything for what was right. We sang every verse of this song. Will the world remember how bravely we fought? How fiercely we loved? How still we stood? It doesn’t matter. None of it does. We don't need our names on a wall of marble. We don't need a star on our chest. We don't need a flag on our coffin. As long as they promise to carry on. Stand where you are. We did. And I will.

“They said all teenagers scare the living shit out of me,
They could care less, as long as someone’ll bleed,
So darken your clothes or strike a violent pose,
Maybe they’ll leave you alone, but not me!”

The encore could have scared society back to the stone age. It shook the foundations of the teenage world. The song we all sang loudest. It was for every time we opened the morning paper and read about a school shooting. Every time we walked into a classroom wearing a nametag and didn’t know what to think. Every time we saw them dressed in leather clothes, dog collars, lip piercing, topping it off with spike hair. Every time we heard songs like ‘Smells like teen spirit’ and ‘Disposable teens’ and ‘Teenage lobotomy’. It came from the heart, and we meant every word. We were tired of being the bad guys. The ones who lived in a corporate world. The ones who sent young men to war. To their deaths. Listen to our cries, and look at the world through someone else’s eyes. Then you’d understand.

“Mama, we’re all full of lies,
Mama, we’re meant for the flies,
And right now they’re building a coffin your size,
Mama, we’re all full of lies”

Ok, so not exactly a song you would dedicate to your Mataji on mother’s day. Point noted. The song was actually written in a mischievous(I wouldn’t say evil) and funny tone, backed by a very carnival-owned-by-the-evil-circus-ring-master soundtrack. Sort of a tribute to classics like ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’ and ‘The Corpse Bride’. In other words, films that poke fun at death. Gerard Way is one of the most talismanic front men I have seen in rock. He brought this song to life not just with his vocals, but with his ever changing persona from song to song, getting the crowd into the moment. The song was to Mother War, telling her, that at the end of the day, we will see each other again. She was the heart of the world’s despair. The hooker with a heart of gold, and the creep in the gas mask at the same time. It could be in the garden of Eden, or in the bottomless pit Lucifer calls home. Home. A relative term. One that should never be taken for granted. Appreciate it, and love it always.

“I am not afraid to keep on living,
I am not afraid to walk this world alone,
Honey if you stay I’ll be forgiven,
Nothing you can stay can stop me going home”

It made a lot of us in the audience cry. Or maybe it was just me who was tearing. Trying to disappear in the sea of people. Reminiscing my entire life. The fact that I was only ever living it for everyone around me. The choices I made, the paths I took, the hearts I broke, the life I once led. I knew those moments too well. And here I was, screaming at the top of my voice, complete with hand gestures(only polite ones), telling the world I’m living life my way now. The song was speaking to me. I even showed up at the concert alone, deciding not to cancel my plans just because I had no company. I walked alone. And you know what? It didn’t matter anymore, because I believed in myself. To put myself forward once in while. That’s really all that was asked from me. How could I not tear? My heart caved in from the beauty of the moment. So much had changed in the last 2 years. So much. It was, liberating. I spoke, with words I thought I’d never speak. Awake, and unafraid. Asleep, or dead.

And then the night ended. Or so we thought. Sure, the concert was over. The lights were off. The stadium silent. The streets crawling with cars trying to make their way home after an experience. But to me, that was just the beginning. At the end of all things, begins anew. I just had one of the greatest personal experiences ever. Making my way back to the train station, I knew within me that if I died tomorrow, I would have no regrets. None. I would be peaceful. No doubts or second thoughts. I have loved and been loved. I have gained and have lost. I have suffered and have cried. I put my arms around strangers and chanted to the songs like they were a pledge. I received hugs from those around me, people I have never known my entire life. People I will never know again. There was something behind 10 000 people head banging and bouncing to a band of philosophers. Behind the sweaty bodies and sore throats. And all it took was an hour and a half of silence. Silence to listen to our hearts. We were one voice. A voice that didn’t have a care in the world. A voice that lived the perfect world for one night. We shared everything. We shared our smiles and cries. Some of us came with friends. Some of us came alone. Some of us came as couples. Some of us came as family. And then, we went home a parade.

“We all carry on, When our brothers in arms are gone,

So raise your glass high, For tomorrow we die,

And return from the ashes you call…”

Goodnight Mama.

Love Actually...

2007-11-02T05:24:00.000-07:00

… is, all around. I’ve heard that if I should ever feel sad, down, depressed, torn, glum, sorrowful, unhappy, regretful, hopeless, heartbroken, and the countless other ways one expresses that feeling on the days that life is a notch below beautiful, I should think about the arrivals hall in Kuala Lumpur International Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. The arrivals hall. But what I saw that day in the Low Cost Carrier Terminal’s departure hall changed everything. It mattered.

Boy cut hair. Red t-shirt, like a sweater. Youngish, early twenties in my opinion. A chinese couple looking on. Wearing a backpack. Holding the boarding pass in her left hand. Wiping away her tears with her right. But they wouldn’t stop coming. The chinese couple were still looking on, hoping she would look back, so they could give her a smile of encouragement, to keep on walking. But she couldn’t. she just couldn’t. she was now leaning against the pillar for support, with her hand clasped over her mouth, trying desperately to let it all go, and look ahead. I was glued, staring at this scene before my eyes, wondering what was going on. It was like, one of those moments, 10, 15, 20 years after the loss of a loved one, when suddenly we feel alone, alone in the room with the most deafening of silences, and remember how much we miss their presence in our life. And the tears trail down our cheeks as the memory gets stronger.

She gave up. Got tired of being strong. Letting the tears flow, she walked on, to the immigration counter. But she lost her way. All the signage was in English. She wasn’t sure where to go. A few looks to the left and a few looks to the right later, she finally looked back, more out of confusion than that feeling that was bringing all those memories back minutes ago. I went numb when I saw her face. The chinese couple smiled. They called her back to where they were standing, which was just a family away from where I was, using the everyday hand signals. Over the noise, I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying to her in Malay, but one needn’t be born a prodigy to realize they were showing her the right way to her counter. She was still crying. I was still numb. They were still smiling.

She was their maid. Trying to say the final goodbye. going home. Going home and never coming back again. She gave the resonance of someone who’s world had just ended. Someone clinging to the last straws of logic. Someone praying for a miracle. You can argue that she feels this way because of the income she was earning, the standard of living she was experiencing, away from the pressures of family matters. A life she might never see again. Yes, it is. But I’d like to think that its because she was grateful for the kindness the couple showed her, for the love they gave her, the treatment of a human being not needing a better definition. She cared. All I wanted to do in those few moments was just to walk up to her and give her a hug, saying nothing, praying time would heal all her wounds, if she would let it. Hoping it would give her the courage to walk away. I remember my eyes being watery, but I assumed it was because of the dry air coming from the air conditioning.

I saw life in the blink of an eye. I saw a complete stranger break down for a couple she was now calling family. I saw what I wanted to see, restoring my faith in humanity. But most importantly, I saw love. I saw it for the very first time. The way it deserves to be shown. I considered taking her photograph, to remember the moment, but walked away with my family, smiling like I didn’t have a care in the world, but deep down feeling rather insecure. I can write as much as I want, but nothing will better describe what I saw than the moment in my mind. And for once, I want to be selfish. No photos. No videos. Just words. The memory will be for me, and for me alone. As the day I saw love, and knew there was still plenty of it in the world. Thank you, the girl with the red sweater. Thank you.

Roobaroo

2007-09-29T03:33:00.000-07:00

"your first flight in a light aircraft brings back memories of the first takeoff you experienced as a child. that big smile carves on your lips. it was so cool to feel the earth struggle to keep you on the ground then eventually let go. in 9 out of 10 scenarios, you yell out a loud 'whoo-hoo!', with your eyes peeled to the window. you watch the runway disappear beneath you. you see the green, the houses, the people. you see lifestyles in front of your own eyes. you see civilization. you see the world the way God sees it everyday. the bumpy conditions are more than welcomed, seeing as light aircraft are easily affected by wind conditions and the occasional gust."

"All in all, it was a satisfying flight, and a fantastic experience. You truly feel like an aviator for the first time during this flight. You have a bird’s view of the earth, and the people around you. You see the true wonders of nature; in its untouched form. you see man's contribution to mother earth. You see no borders and boundaries, nothing but blue skies and open plains. the air is cool. you have never felt air this cold, and so close to the heavens. You feel free, like no one can touch you, and no one can make you feel low. its just you and the air up there. No matter who you are or where you’re from, for those fifteen minutes, you feel like you belong, like you finally have a place in the world. so what if it's 3000 feet above the ground? Some people drive cars, ride motorbikes, go sailing, and go fishing. It’s their place of peace. Where they can connect with themselves. where life feels beautiful for those moments. We fly. We fly for everything that we believe in. We fly to believe. And this is just the beginning."

i wrote that 1 year, 2 months, and 13 days ago after clearing my first solo. and i have never forgotten that feeling. not even with everything that had happened over the last 2 years.

"maha 04 tango, wind is calm, you are cleared to land runway 03".

"cleared to land runway 03, maha 04 tango".

i taxi back to dispersal via taxiway bravo, unsure of how to feel. after shutting down the aircraft, Capt Zul grabs the aircraft technical log, and leaves for the hangar. i don't move from my seat. i'm glued. i close my eyes and try to look in deep. real deep. i think about all the times i've had here. good. bad. stagnant. my friends and the stunts we pulled together. like that time we went around town stealing all the spiderman 3 promotional posters off the lamp posts at 5 in the morning. my instructors and the shit they put us through. like that time my instructor ordered me to get out of the aircraft and run alongside it all the way off the runway because i was taxiing it faster than the standard operating procedure. the scheduling and the delays that proceeded, stretching the course to 25 months from the original allocated 14 months. all those times we spent in our rooms, with the air conditioning cut off during the day, wandering aimlessly, waiting for 5pm when the schedule came out, praying once for the rest of the world and twice for ourselves, so that we may fly the next day. how do i want to feel? how do i want to walk away from this? when i look back, will i know that i made the right choice? i know the answer. i had been practicing it over the last one week. its going to be perfect.

just to prove that i'm guilty as charged. there were 3. i gave one away to my young cousin.

200 hours. and they were all over. i earned every single one. i unbuckle my seat belt, collect my navigation log sheet, put it in my nav bag, grab the pitot cover, and step out of the aircraft, locking the canopy in place. after placing the cover on the pitot head, i reach for my nav bag. the following are its contents at all times :- aircraft flight manual, the CRP-5, the douglas protractor, a folder with spare log sheets and flight plans, pencil case, sony discman, sennheiser headphones, flight training report, map, log book, letdown charts, and 'a heartbreaking work of staggering genius'. i take the headphones out with the discman already set to track 10. i place them over my head, adjusting the length, and press play. the guitar comes in, and i smile like the terminator, only with a touch more realism. i wish there was someone i could hold on to and never let go. the moment is perfect. and the song never stops. it never stops.

The Lord Of The Rings

2007-09-12T04:28:00.000-07:00

A circle. a closed curve which divides the plane into an interior and exterior. a special ellipse in which the foci coincide. a conic section attained when a right circular cone is intersected with a plane perpendicular to the axis of the cone. a ring. a shape. one with no beginning and no end. perfect. that's what God is. that's what the Kara is.

"Early science, particularly geometry and astronomy/astrology, was connected to the divine for most medieval scholars. The compass in this 13th century manuscript is a symbol of God's act of Creation, as many believed that there was something intrinsically "divine" or "perfect" that could be found in circles."(Reference: Wikipedia for circle)

The Kara is a gift from the guru to constantly remind us that our will at all times must be god-like. the Kara in every aspect represents God's true nature. we wear it on our hand. we, to politely put, 'wear god' on our hand so that every action we perform is one fueled by pure thoughts. yes, god is everywhere, and yes, god is in each and every one of us. but how often do we look within?

In the tenth month, you were made into a human being, O my merchant friend, and you were given your allotted time to perform good deeds." (Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji page 76)

Every man is born to make another's life. no matter how unimportant we feel our lives are, we affect the people around us. a kind word. a gesture of good faith. the stand for all that is right. that's all. if only with every breath we took, we remembered that.

This is the true nature of the Kara. this is why it is one of the 5. now can we all stop referring to it as a 'ward for evil spirits'?

Come Home.

T.I.A.

2007-08-19T04:17:00.000-07:00

“Sometimes I wonder, will God ever forgive us for we have done to each other? But then I look around and I realize, God left this place a long time ago”. 200 000 child soldiers. A life for a stone. Civil war for years. This is Africa. I saw it for the 7^th time last night. I teared for the 7^thtime. How do I go to bed every night with the promise of a beautiful day ahead? How do I go about my life knowing people are losing theirs? I have never seen any film that has left me feeling so helpless. I don’t understand why it means so much to me. Why it hurts every time I watch it. Why I watch it again.

I talk about changing the world. That’s it. I talk. Children die of starvation. I shed a tear. Then pass the newspaper to someone else. Massacres happen all over. I scream outrage. Until the next commercial comes. Life moves on in an instant. She said, “people back home wouldn’t buy a ring if they knew it cost someone their hand”. Did the diamond rates fall? It’s pointed out in the film that we are led to believe that diamonds are rare. But who are we kidding? What has changed? Did we even flinch? All we manage is a sigh, and say ‘what is the world coming to?’

You know that something has hit you when the credits have been rolling for the last 10 minutes and you haven’t even flinched. You continue to stare at the screen, even you if you’re not looking. The last two hours flash before your eyes in bits and pieces. You just want to get on a rooftop and scream. And cry. And scream again. Sorry. I keep forgetting that this is supposed to be about me. I generalize too much. It’s almost like I want to hurt in order to feel happy. I caught myself doing it again. Grabbing the skin on my chest that covers my heart, almost as if I was trying to tear it off. It’s been more than a few times. Life just gives me these moments to feel alive.

Look at the photograph. Now look closer. In this scene, he is standing in front of a standing ovation that’s waiting to hear him speak for the world, for the voice of those suffering from the chaos and bloodshed. What do his eyes say? What are they trying to tell us? They look like they have been crying for generations. So much that the trail of the tears on the cheeks has just become natural. Just another facial feature. Believe it or not, he was not tearing in this scene. I noticed this when I saw the film for the third time. I couldn’t digest it. I just couldn’t.

“My heart tells me that people are inherently good. My experience suggests otherwise. What about you Mr Archer? In your long career as a, journalist, would you say that people are mostly good?”

“No. I’d say they’re just people”.

And the world dies one life at a time

Any Given Sunday - Peace by Inches - Pacino

2007-08-02T22:30:00.001-07:00

The video i promised in my first post

The 9th Day Of The 2nd Month

2007-07-29T19:01:00.000-07:00

To Mataji, Pitaji, and Harkiren

Date: 09/02/07

Time: 13:30

Setting: 2 hours before takeoff

Message: I love you

9^th February 2007. 4 students performing navigation exercise number 10. Langkawi to Penang to Alor Setar to Langkawi. Eddie, Izwan, Azlan, and Hargobind, in take off sequence. Just another day in flying school.

Izwan and mE in Nando's

From Vicky

Date: 09/02/07

Time: 15:08

Setting: During stop-over in Penang

Message: Dey don 4get my Nando’s order man! I’ll kill you if you come back without the chicken :)

9^th February 2007. Hanging out in Nando’s in the Penang Airport. Called Eunice to see if she was in town. Ordered take aways for the guys back on campus. Just another day in a flight to Penang.

The last photograph of Azlan before the crash

From Lavan

Date: 09/02/07

Time: 18:49

Setting: After landing in Alor Setar

Message: Dude, first of all, thanks for not giving me your sortie. U ok or not? Pick up the damn fon la!

From Murali

Date: 09/02/07

Time: 18:55

Setting: After landing in Alor Setar

Message: Harry, murali here. My aunt will pick you up from alor setar airport at 8pm. Just sit tight k?

9^th February 2007. Azlan encounters an engine failure. Crashes in the water south of Aman Island, 5 minutes from Penang. Eddie and Izwan make it back to Langkawi safely. I am ordered to make a full stop landing at Alor Setar Airport and spend the night in town. The beginning of a new type of day.

From Mataji

Date: 09/02/07

Time: 20:21

Setting: At Murali’s aunt’s home

Message: Thank God you are safe. What have they planned for you now?

From Mataji

Date: 09/02/07

Time: 21:54

Setting: At Murali’s aunt’s home

Message: Ok then good nite. God bless you. We love you dear

9^th February 2007. Having dinner with Auntie Krishna and family. Dressed in clothes not belonging to me. Sleeping in a bed new to me. My first time in Alor Setar. Azlan is saved by local fisherman uninjured. Placed in Penang Hospital for monitoring. Quite the irregular day.

The guest room in Aunty Krishna's home where i spent the night. Lovely family.

From Manipalian (Manmeet)

Date: 10/02/07

Time: 21:17

Setting: One day later, back in Langkawi

Message: Hi hargobind,how r u?=) heard abt d ’adventurous flight yday, glad evrythng ok=] me currently tied dwn wth sportsday;>tc, huggies! Satnam –manipalian Manmeet

10^th February 2007. Aircraft is recovered from the sea. The full story repeated by me to the students on campus over and over again. All aircraft are grounded for a week for inspection. Life goes on.

From Coach Sukhbir

Date: 12/02/07

Time: 00:07

Setting: 3 days later

Message: Dear hargobind, heard abt ur friend’s accident, so glad u r fine and pray for ur friend.. miss u as always. Lots of love. Satnam

9^th February 2007. The first engine failure in our flying school history. The first crash I have had first hand knowledge about. My first stay with an Indian family, and they made me feel like family. You know what they say. There’s a first time for everything.

Messages were also received from Paven Singh, Ajit Kaur from Subang, and others that were unfortunately deleted due to storage limitations before I got this idea of typing them all out. My many thanks to all of you who took the trouble to send me your messages. It was an eye opener to see how much one person’s life matters to those around him. And I was not even involved in the crash! I will end with the famous words of Roberto Benighi that you have probably seen countless times in my messages to you. ‘Life is Beautiful’. Cheers……….. Written on the 20^th February 2007

No Pennies For These Thoughts. No Penny's Worth That Much

2007-07-21T05:05:00.000-07:00

3rd july 2007. sometime at night. a regular phone call for me. one that i get every couple of days. the people that mean the world to me, making sure everything is fine. my health. the food. flying. we talk. the same way you tell someone who knows your schedule how the day went. silences in between. wondering what to say next. finally, all formalities aside, its time to hang up. and then i say it, without the least bit of realization. "goodnight Phenji". goodnight. phenji.

Phenji. a distant word. a regularity as a child, but something happened as i grew up. during the last 10 odd years. it became Harkiren this. Harkiren that. just, Harkiren. sister became a word i used to describe the alien life form living next door. the one that got me into trouble. the one that shared my parentage god knows how. everything seems like a lifetime away.

i went back to my room that night. thinking. realizing. the last memory i have of hugging her and calling her phenji as a child. the day Mataji and i picked her up from school in the Ford van we used to have. the school main gate. a rare occasion. mum always picked us up from the back gate. the one with a proper bus stop. i was sitting in the front row. behind the driver's seat. phenji comes in, and yells that she got 4 A's for UPSR. the day the results came out. Mataji reaches back from the front and hugs her. breaking apart, i remember her exact words. "aren't you going to hug your sister?". i do. along with a 'congratulations Phenji'. a forced hug. influenced by a 3rd person. a term i used at my parents request. that was my last memory. it hurt. to think that's all i had to offer as a 'brother'.

i tried saying it again the other day. during the next phone conversation. it never came. not a peep. that part of the sentence muted. like the word "morphin'" from the Power Rangers theme in our early days as kids for its resemblance to the drug. medical or not. so much for being easier the second time around. you know when its hard to say, that it means something. otherwise, it becomes just another word. that's all. a means of communication. no. not anymore. everything changes. from this moment on. i will prove my worth as a younger sibling. an idiot next door. a brother.

i don't care if it makes a difference for her. it may all sound the same. but i see Pitaji calling his sister's 'Peyna'. and i see that look in his eyes. and i think, that makes all the difference.

A HitchHiker's Guide To The Prestige

2007-07-13T04:35:00.000-07:00

4 seconds is a lifetime. the words of al pacino in the movie 'any given sunday'. the movie that has one of the most inspiring speeches of all time. i will past the video on my blog to show you the strength in his words, despite his age. i never thought i would ever start a blog. i honestly didn't. i in my time have viewed too many blogs that are more the day to day accounts of non-existent lives. my believe was always that when you share with the world, share with it an experience. share with it, your love. share with it, that moment. the one that mattered. the one that made, all the difference.

that is what i intend to share with all that i have come to know and love over my lifetime. the things i discovered about myself. the times when life tore me apart. the times i put it back togather again. my love for my Guru. my passion for rock music, for what it has to say to me. my parents, for the role they played in my life. for saving it, one day at a time. my sister, whom i have come to greatly admire and miss. my cousins, whom i shall never let go. ever. my friends, without whom life's pleasures would cease to exist. my teachers, from all walks of life. this is my moment. this is what matters. and thus, does my story begin. with the first post.