Chaithoughts

When and where does this real world exist?

A line from a movie that I've been thinking about recently.

Where is the life that we feel we're constantly moving towards, striving for, holding out for, and what are we living in the mean time? Where are we when we struggle through the days wishing constantly to be anywhere, anyone, else? What life is that if it feels so misshapen, badly wrought, makes our skin scream with heat and chafing? Is it less of life than life when things work out how they “should” or how we'd like them to? Which part is real- daily routine or the break from that routine? Finishing homework for class the next day the night before, or staying up late with a sick roommate, homework sitting in your still-closed backpack and at the very bottom of your brain right above your spine, pressing down? Which part of life is the part when you see before you different choices, completely in your control, choices which will completely change your life? Is that the in-between, or is that the stuff itself?

++++++

After an awkward 50 minutes of Hindi class with a teacher who's manner I can't quite figure out, we got up to leave the classroom. He always waits for me to start down the stairs before him, which makes for several awkward intervals. First, me packing up my things, him waiting. I'm reminded of how in 6^th grade, Ms. Porter told my parents that she though I'd have trouble in middle school because it took me so long to pack up my things and in middle school you change classes a lot. Next, walking down stairs clearly built for the giants who once lived in the mountains (before wizards drove them out- see Harry Potter) with a number of things inevitably packed badly or not packed at all in an attempt to hasten the packing-watching-packing experience. Stumble down the stairs, make awkward conversation. Today, it was about my water bottle. It is huge, and gets a lot of attention.

H: Is that a thermos?

A: Well...I guess. It's a water bottle, but I think it could be a thermos. It's just got water in it.

H: Hot water?

A: No, but I think it could have. It's also good because I can use it as a weapon.

H: ...Oh, yes, because it's so long.

A: Er, yes.

H: Did they market it like that? As a water bottle and a weapon?

A: Yes.

H: Really?

A: No...But they might sell more if they did. (bottom of the stairs, scamper away)

After my 2:20 class, coffee (Hindustani coffee, my teacher says, so something between tea and coffee) is served from a tin-looking tea pot with a rag wrapped around its handle. A plastic tub of small ceramic mugs sits beside the tea pot and students and professors come and huddle around in the chill, drinking. I pour a glass and see some acquaintances outside. I consider going to stand with them but decide that navigating my way through the gaggle of Hindi teachers isn't worth the trouble, so I stand alone with my mug.

My mind slips into hibernate, my eyes un-focus and I stare somewhere between the stairs and the bannister. It's not often that I get the opportunity to do this- just enough time to check out without feeling like I should be doing something else. Except maybe socializing. I suppose I've not set much store in socializing for the sake of socializing though. For better or for worse. Backpack on over down jacket and five-trillion under-layers, shoulders hunched, hands grasping warm, smooth porcelain, bandaid around my finger. I swirl my coffee without knowing why, thinking vaguely that I should stop, as I don't actaully want it to be any cooler than it is. I don't stop though. There's something meditative about standing there, swirling my coffee. Truthfully, it doesn't taste like coffee. It leaves a kind of tangy, bitter taste in my mouth. But holding it, swirling it, drinking it, seeing it, milky brown and steaming slightly, encased in an ugly little mug with a handle. It is calm, something that I suppose I've valued highly since coming to India. It is sweet, warm, and calm. I look into the mug and drift away, being in a moment that feels somehow stolen or won by a clever trick.

My glass empties and the bugs in my belly, wherever they came from, return to shake things up, the buzzing in my head resumes. I say “excuse me” to the Hindi teachers, wave to my friends, and walk out of the gate. I carry on with the day, but perhaps retaining a bit of the groundedness, born of chai. I look up and see the Himalayas, the clearest they've been since I arrived here. Gravel scrapes and grumbles beneath my shoes, and I have a thought that a friend could use a hand. I send a text message, and get a call a minute later.

A: Hello?

F: Do you know why you're the best?

A: No.

F:You don't?

A: Well, I mean, I could probably make an educated guess...

F: You're the best because you know me.

Maybe it's just here then; this life that we're seeking.