It is dusty, so dusty outside, that no matter how many times I wash my hands, I can see (or imagine) a layer of dust coating them. I decide today is the day I venture out, the list of small tasks has grown and in a way, I am now itching for action.
The lady at the salon, she recognizes me, even though it has been a whole year of my being absent. I am surprised, I would not recognize myself. I am bundled up, so bundled up, because the house radiates cold (outside, it is quite lovely mostly). Vanity was never my fault in Delhi winters - I am all colors of the rainbow and then some. I am grateful for her attentive tending to my face, my face for which the guard at the airport said 'chalo chalo beta' as I was slowly walking out of the gates.
I walk in sector 18, a geographical and social marker if you live here, and a meaningless address if not. I walk through all the construction, I dodge the cars and bikes, some of them going straight and others reversing. Sector 18, and Noida, is never in stasis. Somewhere some road is being dug up, a new building is being constructed. The bigger wars of ownership have been fought, now the smaller battles are fought by the cars, bikes, cycles, the pedestrians, the parking wallah bhaiyyas and all the beings of the roads. I wonder, if anyone keeps track of the spaces in Noida. It is history in action, noisy, dusty history that ruthlessly tramples over nostalgia and the way it used to be.
Being back reawakens my ability to walk around and only absorb details partially. In Minneapolis, I find myself noticing more, because there are fewer details to absorb and they all matter. Here, it is impossible to pay attention at once to the tapering pavement in front of you, the man walking really fast in whose way you stand, worse the man walking at your pace by your side, the bike coming on the pavement from the other side, the car beeping its horn loudly, the phone ringing, holding to your bag, the beggar clutching to your leg, the sad, sick dog sprawled across. It is not possible for me, perhaps there are others who have this ability. I have realized I only see those things that are crucial to survive. I deftly dodge the man walking too close to me, I hug my bag closer, I jump out of the way of the motorbike, and I look for another pavement to walk on. I remember this happening when I went to Vietnam as well. When the details multiply in such abundance, they also lose their ability to capture your attention.
Being back is strange.
The lady at the salon, she recognizes me, even though it has been a whole year of my being absent. I am surprised, I would not recognize myself. I am bundled up, so bundled up, because the house radiates cold (outside, it is quite lovely mostly). Vanity was never my fault in Delhi winters - I am all colors of the rainbow and then some. I am grateful for her attentive tending to my face, my face for which the guard at the airport said 'chalo chalo beta' as I was slowly walking out of the gates.
I walk in sector 18, a geographical and social marker if you live here, and a meaningless address if not. I walk through all the construction, I dodge the cars and bikes, some of them going straight and others reversing. Sector 18, and Noida, is never in stasis. Somewhere some road is being dug up, a new building is being constructed. The bigger wars of ownership have been fought, now the smaller battles are fought by the cars, bikes, cycles, the pedestrians, the parking wallah bhaiyyas and all the beings of the roads. I wonder, if anyone keeps track of the spaces in Noida. It is history in action, noisy, dusty history that ruthlessly tramples over nostalgia and the way it used to be.
Being back reawakens my ability to walk around and only absorb details partially. In Minneapolis, I find myself noticing more, because there are fewer details to absorb and they all matter. Here, it is impossible to pay attention at once to the tapering pavement in front of you, the man walking really fast in whose way you stand, worse the man walking at your pace by your side, the bike coming on the pavement from the other side, the car beeping its horn loudly, the phone ringing, holding to your bag, the beggar clutching to your leg, the sad, sick dog sprawled across. It is not possible for me, perhaps there are others who have this ability. I have realized I only see those things that are crucial to survive. I deftly dodge the man walking too close to me, I hug my bag closer, I jump out of the way of the motorbike, and I look for another pavement to walk on. I remember this happening when I went to Vietnam as well. When the details multiply in such abundance, they also lose their ability to capture your attention.
Being back is strange.
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