060309 - Gliding with the Gods

Snow.. Tuhina.. Neige.. Neve.. Gngas.. amazing amazing snow.. finally a snowstorm in New York.. we were buried.. and we dug ourselves out.. we were covered and we shovelled our way through.. we were blanketed.. and we snuggled our way out.. New York metamorphs into a crystalline kingdom.. and we become its elves.. no cars.. no transport.. just wrapped bodies traversing the length and breadth of this magic kingdom.. all its coarsness.. all its crassness.. all its so called darkness converted into white.. how sweet it is.. Alexi and I pick up our fantabulous toboggan.. and make our way to the hills of Central Park.. a crowd awaits us.. of frolicking youth.. from two year olds to the end of the ages.. we are all caught up in the delight that is Snow.. I boom out ‘ Coming Down’.. ‘Clear the Way’.. the path down the hill is cleared.. we race down on our sled that has seen many a snowfall.. Oooohs and Aaaahs herald its decent.. and ours.. we make our way up the hill with our sleek vahan.. the sixties children have a look in their eyes that tells of times when they were snowbound on one such as this.. the little ones flock around aching for a ride.. we pile them all on.. in true Indian fashion.. if it was meant to accommodate half a dozen.. surely it can accommodate double that number.. and away we go.. the years are washed away.. we are all One.. young and old.. Alexi pushes from the back.. and then jumps on.. I steer.. suddenly a little flying snowflake of a dog come flying through the air as we clear our first bump.. I am mesmerized.. Alexi yowls.. the magic has caught the pooch’s’ senses as well however.. midair it carries out a course correction and disappears in a blinding flash as we make the longest run in the history of that hill on Central Park West (do not quote me on that)..

the mountains must surely too be covered.. we may return to our lives in the snow.. the season started off gloriously enough.. and then a lull.. it was a summer in the middle of winter.. but now we are back on track.. we may continue our spree.. between Hunter.. Killington.. Lake Placid.. we have fairly dominated the East coast (I know.. I know you East coasters.. and you Continentals).. but what the hell.. we make do with what we have.. and it is true Bliss.. the joy.. the freedom.. the ecstasy.. the sublimity of being on a Board.. in the snow (ice / sometimes thin ice/snow with grass) is phenomenal.. Bu calls it.. Gliding with the Gods.. and it truly is.. we are Free.. we are One.. we are in world created momentarily and we cannot get enough.. a sensation so akin to flying.. no.. beyond flying.. all the senses are at their most acute.. and yet as we zip down the mountain we are a flock of birds.. Bu..Chien..I.. together in formation and out of it.. yet unique in our own aura.. nothing stops us.. snowstorms.. icy rain.. sleet.. freezing weather.. winds at 71 knots per hour.. zero visibility.. skiers.. Bu and Chien carry out stunts fit for Olympic glory.. they are the Champions.. I play in their shadow.. ‘the only thing to Fear is Fear itself’.. truly.. once fear sets in.. one is undone.. till then it is a completeness of body and mind.. and snow..

Miriam returns to New York.. momentarily.. she fills our sphere with her wanderings.. a year ago she vanished into the horizon.. no more work.. she had had enough of the daily drudgery.. no more stagnation.. there was the whole world to be conquered.. and conquer she did.. she returned with a lad from England.. who did the same but a year before her.. and had been wandering ever since.. Mighty John.. who traversed the globe in his Land Rover.. they met in that sliver of the Americas called Chile.. John is like the ancients.. like a Narad Muni.. he has the World in his Eyes.. a week spent basking in the aura of their travels was delightful.. the more one traverses the globe the more one realizes that we are all common souls.. how else does one explain the thread of continuity he found across the planet.. Krishna once opened his mouth and his mother saw the entire Cosmos inside.. of the worldly.. one sees the orbs of their eyes as revolving planets.. and so it was with them.. a kinship of the revolving orbs.. delightful..

the body revolts now and then.. enough it says.. no more.. my wanderings into the massage parlours of K-Town finally led me to the ultimate of ultimates.. a true underground New York experience.. and I am hooked.. so many people and yet one is alone.. and yet not quite so.. so many people.. and yet one is naked.. and yet not so.. this dungeon of the release personifies it so well.. it is a mini New York experience in New York.. one descends into the depths of a hued tomb.. giant red fishes glide around in the walls blowing phantasmic bubbles.. a gauze curtain demarcates the space from my eyes.. music strangely familiar yet with unfamiliar overtones pulsates in the background .. a woman in pseudo oriental garb approaches me and asks.. how long.. and I say.. rather nonplussed.. after a bit of hesitation.. and finally comprehending.. One Hour.. she ushers me into the sanctum.. there are bits and pieces of other bodies visible behind towels and below oriental hands.. I lie down.. she eases the tensions out.. with her magic fingers.. elbows.. feet.. face down I suddenly have a sensation that I am the centre of a haggle of mandarin voices.. there are giggles.. prods.. my masseuse yanks down the last shred of dignity I have on.. I hear more ahhs.. and then a whistle.. I am on display.. what matters.. the body has ceased to exist.. I am floating.. I hear an approaching rumble.. the whole room vibrates.. next door the subway hurries past.. it adds to the experience..

W visits India and bypasses the Taj.. like popping into Buckingham and not having tea and cucumber sandwiches with the Queen.. he dwells instead in the ancient cities and streets that have recloaked themselves to become the new centres of the Globe.. they are the new Taj.. India it would seem shines with a new light.. a new vibrancy and vitality.. nowhere is this better exemplified than in the voice messaging system.. in the US the phone message voice is that of an automatron.. impersonal and completely soulless.. in India it is the voice of a woman in a perpetual orgasm..

another getaway over the weekend to the North eastern tip called Provincetown.. Mimi’s fathers’ great rambling house on the top of a hill.. a plumbers’ flood has washed away parts of it.. and we are there to rejuvenate it.. I am back in a place where the cycles of connection are much much smaller.. so much history and association concentrated in a tiny little bit of land.. we eat oysters harvested just a stone throws away.. we take in the infinite panorama of a dark blue sea merging into a multihued sky.. the waves make their own music against the sand.. as the golden orb of the sun drips elliptically into the waters its rays catch the white bodies of the gulls as they fly stationary into the rushing wind.. and colour them into Gull shaped Oscars.. Mimi mentions her childhood escapades.. wrapped in her saffron and gold hued silk sari Mimi sashays on the sands against the backdrop of a phantasmically multicoloured sky.. it all happens in front of my eyes once again.. it is magic.. and I realize she is still a child.. how can one not be if one has a place so simple close to ones soul..

back in the City.. my clients treat me with great indulgence.. I would have thought it would have been the other way around.. but it is not so.. they chide me for taking my work too much to heart.. is their any other way?.. they say that the way we architects think is something no one but we ourselves and God will see it.. one realizes once again that there are a multitude ways of viewing the world.. and ours is probably the most critical.. it would probably provide us a great deal better nights sleep if we could switch on and switch off these faculties at will.. at least we would not have to notice every misplaced joint.. every non aligned screw head.. every arch that did not meet its ending.. it is tragic to be imbibed with such a horrible sense of the prefect that one does not view imperfections as anything else but boils..

back home.. my brother and my sister in law make ready to leave Indian shores for the promised land (in this case MIT).. it is going to be a long journey.. not physically.. but in terms of realizing that even though one traverses the expanses of the globe.. everything and everyone on that side is very much akin to this side.. it is the realization of the space between which creates the distance.. but until the world does not realize that we will make our millions.. we will be the kings of this world and the other.. and everyone in between.. because we have the knowledge that everything across the planet functions pretty much the same way.. you scratch my back and I will scratch yours..

as always this missive has been written over a while.. and much wine.. and if I do not send it now.. I realize it will be the Ramayan before I ever send it out..

Bon chance..