The Way Back Home

The way back home was three months long. What were the three months in India like? people ask. And I find myself at a lack for a summary that I could provide. They were long, confused, mixed months filled with family and a few friends that I can still find in India (MD and Hansa and Niraj and now Dharini). Then there was my cousin's wedding, which was large and spread out over 4 days, despite its attempts to be otherwise. So, overall, my time was good, in the way that life is good when you look back on it, but can be painful and tedious while you go and grow through it.

Despite friends' complaints that I wasn't my usual gchat self, I was actually regularly tied to email. And the internet was my tether to the Promised Land of Cairo. And while in Goa, I could not help but think of Gouna, and Mumbai was laden with comparisons to Cairo - mainly about how easily I could move from one place to another in Misr.

So it's good to be back. Back to my room, my bed, my laptop (which was also in Cairo), and mostly back to my self. The chill here in Cairo (comparative again to the 30-odd degrees celsius in Mumbai) is pleasant. It makes me take pleasure in the warmth of Indian tea, and even in the cold breath I take in - which tricks me into thinks it's fresh and unpolluted by Cairo traffic. Soon I will complain... As one guy said about Palestine, you can only call a place your own when you complain about it... I'm looking forward to it.

I could be...

...charging my mobile phone, which makes complaints like an underfed pet.
...watching two youtubes, one finished loading, one still loading.
...working on my unfinished, sometimes unstarted, novel.
...writing poetry.
...writing postcards to friends as I had imagined (the imaginary postcards, not the friends).
...taking a shower, being in daytime clothes, appropriate for the present hour of 3:33pm.

...but then I would not be a Pajama Girl. And you know what, that is such unmissable bliss - why give that away? :)

So, speaking of pajama habits, which will be recorded henceforth.

Presently: blue pajamas, with dark-grey anorak to keep off the cold filtering in through my balcony. Said balcony brings in air from the Nile, of which I do have a not-too-bad view, albeit blocked by a few piles of concrete. (Although one must remember, one lives in said pile of concrete, too).

Time till which was in Pajama-uniform: 3:36 plus.

Yesterday I went to a poorly-attended desi concert at the Gomhorriya theatre, featuring some really commendable performances by Indian artistes. It felt so good to go up to countrymen after and talk to them. They were all very cordial, too. I would love to culturally liaise with India. It's a very tempting thought, that might almost convince me to stay. It would be like having one foot in each of the worlds I love best: Egypt and India.

For long now, I've been waxing nostalgic and pathetic about moving back to India - coming up with the hackneyed, "but the pani puri of India," and "but the Diwali of India," and "but the movies of India," and sometimes even "but the boys of India." (look what I've come to).

So yeah, at times, it does seem like I've reached high time to leave Umm el Duniya (Egypt), and return to the MatruBhumi (India). And following on that temptation, I have applied to publishers a la HarperCollins, hoping they'll give me a second glance. :)

Reasons they should take me.
1) I am funny. I can talk like an Indian and walk like an Egyptian.
2) I know I am funny. I was and am mental - I admit.
3) That makes me funnier. If I can make fun of me, you can make fun of me. What an irresistible offer.

Plus, I like pajama-lifestyle. How no-fussy can you get? Feed me pani puri, show me Indian movie, give me a holiday on Diwali and dangle a picture of Abhishek Bacchan at me - and I'm sold. Will work. How hard is that?

But I don't think HC are reading this, and if they are.... well, they should take me! :)

Otherwise, I'll be shaking hands and taking pictures with the Indians that make it here for concerts, lectures, talks, events... and write about them.

Signing off - the phoenix rising from her bedcovers. Pajama girl signs off at late afternoon 3:45 pm. Proudly Pajamas.
love.

Main yahaan ajnabi hoon...

...and maybe the sense of being foreign to a place is really not that foreign. :)

It doesn't have to be a country, it could just be a roomful of "friends" that aren't quite that - but uncanny faces that you just did not anticipate. The familiar turns unfamiliar.

Perhaps it is good for the eyesight. Perhaps it is a reminder that you are not blind - that things you see are not even.

As a result, I approach strangers cautiously now. Even I am turning unfamiliar to myself.

I bought a book on psychology, presumably to understand minds better - but I think the mind that most fascinates me is my own. I don't know it at all.

I Come From There

And interestingly, a friend sent me this on the day I wrote the first blog entry.

Apparently it was also submitted to that website by a C.K. It's a poem by the recently deceased Palestinian poet, Mahmoud Darwish, and touches on some of the same thoughts I found myself turning over on my plate the same day.

I Come From There

I come from there and I have memories
Born as mortals are, I have a mother
And a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends,
And a prison cell with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls,
I have my own view,
And an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words,
And the bounty of birds,
And the immortal olive tree.
I walked this land before the swords
Turned its living body into a laden table.

I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known
To a returning cloud.
I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood
So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up
To make a single word: Homeland.....


Submitted by C.K.

Mahmoud Darwish