willful nomad

It's amazing how quickly things can change.

Saturday, the spouse of a long-serving employee of the High Commission passed away in his sleep. In his mid-forties, he hadn't, as far as I know, displayed any signs of illness or distress. He just went to sleep on Friday night and never woke up. For religious and practical reasons, in India, Sikhs who have died are cremated by their families on the day of their death, preferably before sundown.

We found out Saturday afternoon; Dan received an email on his blackberry informing those who checked their messages that the funeral would be conducted at 6pm at Lodhi Road Crematorium. I had driven past the place a few weeks ago with Jason and commented on the large sign outside: Lodhi Road Electric Crematorium. I had asked him about it at the time, confused over the specificity of the sign: why is it so important that it's electric? I had thought to return to the place; this is a practice I’m unfamiliar with having grown up in a largely Christian setting. I never dreamed I'd be there for any reason other than curiosity.

However, by 5:45 my family and I had joined other members of the High Commission at the Crematorium to pay respects and support someone who has helped to support us.

The first person we encountered was the High Commission's nurse who helped guide those of us who had never attended a Sikh funeral. We gathered around a neem tree in an open area outside the crematorium chamber, unsure of what to do next.

I'm always fascinated by what people talk about in situations like this. Some groups chatted about the weather, their day, jewelry, food, anything to absorb them while they waited. Some talked about the times they had met the now-deceased individual, marveling over how something like this could happen to someone so young. Others stood silent.

At 6:15, people began to question why we were still waiting; in 35 degree weather on the day of a funeral, the wife and immediate family were held up in a traffic jam on the other side of the city.

But the family arrived and the covered body was carried from the vehicle on a lashed wooden stretcher to the raised platform under the neem tree. The pandit recited prayers and the family cried silently over a flower-laden body that had, until yesterday, been a living, breathing, planning person. Many of the people I knew at the ceremony were tearing up despite not having known the deceased very well, silently relating to what it must feel like to lose someone so close so suddenly, or maybe remembering loses of their own.

Despite the solemnity of the occasion we all still had to cope with the daily considerations you just can't escape in India. The heat was oppressive, flies and mosquitoes had to be shooed away, cell phones rang mid-prayer, and the crows that had made a home of the neem tree refused to remain silent despite half-hearted protests from some of the observers.

At one point, an older man who looked as if he'd worked at the crematorium his whole life limped up to the platform to pay his respects to the patron. He was casual but composed, dignified despite being dirty around the edges and a complete stranger to the family. This ceremony saddened but didn't phase him; after all, he sees this every day.

Once the final flowers had been laid, the body was carried by a group of men to the crematorium chamber itself. As we made our way toward the chamber I heard a friend of the deceased say "just yesterday they were discussing how he was going to…" but I couldn't bear to hear the rest. We stood outside while the family entered, listening to the last prayers. I stood next to Brandy, arm to arm, watching the other High Commission visitors who had chosen to remain outside the chamber. The chamber emitted four loud clangs. Smoke started to lift from the chimney.

The family exited the chamber and stood in a receiving line as visitors passed to say their goodbyes. The wife, head covered and in a white suit, stood silently and nodded goodbye to everyone in the line. In Sikhism it's prohibited to show excessive grief at a funeral; death is a natural process in the soul's progression toward reunification with God. As I watched her, though, and got closer to saying my own goodbye, I couldn't help but wonder how it must feel to silently endure so private and immediate a loss in such a public way.

Those of us from the High Commission separated ourselves from the deceased's closer friends and family. We slowly made our way back toward our vehicles, mostly quiet. The sky was a surprising blue and several kites were flying from neighbouring rooftops.

You roll over and rub your eyes and wonder for a moment where you are. Your cell phone, in its slightly affected monotone, is announcing that "it is time to get up, it is seven o'clock, it is time to get up…" As you grasp half-asleep for the phone you remember: you've crashed at a friend's house. That would explain why the mattress feels so strange.

You pull yourself up off the spare bed and stretch quietly, hoping not to awaken your friend who is still sound asleep. After staying up late chatting, you decided it would be best to stay put instead of taking a taxi home. Delhi isn't the most forgiving city if you don’t know it well, and you've been given the death speech by enough well-meaning locals and compound-dwellers to be sufficiently freaked out by nighttime travel. Plus, staying over means an extra hour of chat time.

Thankfully your friend's tiny but perfect apartment comes complete with a hidden extra mattress, bedding, and the comfiest tie-dye t-shirt for you to sleep in. Despite the fact that there were only six hours between the time you set the alarm and the time it went off, you're feeling pretty rested.

You tiptoe into the bathroom to change into yesterday's clothes. You can't help but notice that they're of questionable cleanliness after a day spent in 35 degree weather, but at 7am in Delhi no one but you will likely pay any attention.

After a quick hug and directions from your friend you wander out into the early morning sun. After a week of monsoon rain the sun is a welcome sight, and at this time of the day it hasn't yet had a chance to really heat things up. The neighbours glace at you and then at each other as you pass by, going back to whatever it was they were doing before you caught their attention.

Luck is on your side this morning—as soon as you reach the main road you flag an auto wallah who is willing to ferry you all the way back to the compound for only marginally more than your Indian friends would pay. He pulls a u-turn and trundles off toward the diplomatic enclave.

It's actually a really nice morning. There's been a lot of haze lately but today is crystal clear. Those big puffy clouds won't be threatening until they reach somewhere closer to the mountains in the north, and they're sweeping away some of the grime that's been hanging in the air. The traffic is comparatively light on account of the hour, but the rickshaw is one of those older slow ones; you get a leisurely and almost unobstructed view of the chai wallahs and construction sites, the kids in their school uniforms, sleepy dogs and the odd cow.

The rains have wreaked havoc on the roads so the rickshaw has to bump over the pockmarked surfaces. As you navigate a particularly rough patch, a newer rickshaw pulls up beside you to say hello. The drivers are friends, apparently, and yours can't help but beam a little at the catch he has in his back seat. You spend most of your time with expats so you forget that, of the tens of thousands of rickshaw drivers, there must be many to whom foreigners are still novel. You nod and wave to the mother and daughter in the scooter beside you and they smile and wave back.

Maybe it's the early sun, or the lack of traffic, or the smiling women in the neighbouring rickshaw, but this morning Delhi's almost pleasant. It's likely that at this rate you'll be late for work, but somehow that isn't really a concern. How many Delhi Mondays start off like this?

my head is spinning at the number of beginnings,
so many ships leaving harbour,
setting sail.

Wanderlust is a double-edged sword.

I love travel. Moreover, I love travelling to a place and staying there long enough to really get a sense of how it works. Granted, dropping in on a city or country for a vacation or just to explore a little is fun in itself. But I find few things as exciting as going to a new city--in Canada or abroad--and figuring it out little by little.

I love mapping the geography.

I love memorizing the street names and the landmarks and deciphering how people drive their cars.

I love figuring out which part of the city was built when and why by looking at the architecture.

And I love meeting new people, hearing stories, laughing, sharing drinks and bitching about whichever place we happen to co-inhabit at the moment.

In a place like Delhi the opportunities to indulge in such investigative work are endless. I still can't quite remember how to get to Khan Market though I stare at every street sign as I pass, but I now have two routes to Defense Colony and several to Siri Fort Auditorium. Expats change over faster than the Leaf's lineup. I even contemplate driving my own scooter because I think I have a chance of surviving the traffic. Maybe.

But sometimes, the pull of home starts to tug at me. These tugs normally occur when I'm sick or tired, like today, because, for some reason, sniffles and body ache seem like they'd suck just a little bit less if I were "home."

The happy, healthy, normal day tugs happen because, damn it, I miss my friends and family.

There's a certain allure to staying in one place for a long time, surrounded by the ones you love and the ones you tolerate because they're familiar and frankly you can't imagine your life without them. You get to watch your neighbours grow up, and then watch their children grow up, see how your parents change and how your siblings mature, watch intimate relationships between your friends evolve or unravel... and you get to participate in all of that, because, while you're out there watching, others are watching you.

Today I miss home. Not that I'm entirely sure where that is anymore, except to say that it's geographically located somewhere in Canada. It's not really Barrie anymore, though I refer to it as such when I'm in Victoria. And it's not Victoria, even though I refer to it as such when I'm in Barrie or abroad.

What I miss, really, are the people who I associate with both Canadian homes. Apparently my heartstrings have no sense of geography. On days like today, I hate that I'm missing first days of school, birthdays, due dates, weddings, house warming parties, careers launching and retirements.

That said, though, I'm still here in Delhi, and aside from my more sentimental moments, I'm loving it (screw you McDonalds). Even on the days when I hate it--and those days occur--I still love the adventure in all of this.

For the millionth time in my life, I wish I could be in several places at once. But for now, I'm stuck in bed with a bad case of sniffles and homesickness.

i got lost somewhere between your jawline and your ear--
that curve your fingers brush past every time you tuck your hair behind your ear--
but only for a moment;

normally i tiptoe into eye contact,
silently padding from your shoulder to your chin,
carefully avoiding any downward glances to ease into your eyes.

but sometimes,
like this time,
that one curve catches me and i'm sure you notice my momentary hesitation
because you drop your eyes a little to find mine,
a smile hedging at one corner of your mouth-
i can't help but see that smile, it's right next to the jawline that caught me-
and i hope you haven't noticed.

but i so hope that you have.