mihir

the light breeze through my hair, at eight-hundred-and-twenty-three feet, was the loudest soundest I heard that day.  the plan to be there that day was not a premeditated one, but the thought of being in the United Kingdom was. The idea of being present, let alone celebrating a milestone in America, a land that I have still not been able to call home, was unsettling. Being in western Europe, on the other hand, around people I call home, was comforting to the n th  degree. You can call it an escape, because I sometimes do, but the question I ask of you, and me, is a simple one. Is going home ever an escape? when the clock struck twelve, there was a cupcake, a candle, and a dear friend who asked me to make a wish before anything else.  chapatti, dal, rice, & onion aachaar, was what followed after prayer and halwa in the Gurdwara, here in Edinburgh. I do pray regularly, not out of compulsion, but for what it brings - a light breeze. I couldn't script a better start to this day eve

the city was welcoming Brentford that evening, on the second of May, the official start of summer, and a national holiday, here in the UK. Unknown to them in some ways, they were also welcoming me, with fourteen years of memories up my sleeves.  for as long as I remember time going back, I remember wanting to be here. The cupboards in my room back home, have sketch-pen marks of the players I adored, while books in the storeroom have their images cut out from Sportstar magazines. To add to that, blog articles from back in the day have me talking about their weekly performances. I remember wanting to sponsor my visit here, not 'wasting' (that's what he says) any more of the money my father had spent on merchandise over the years.  and I was finally here, I was home , and I was Welcome(d) to Old Trafford, the Theatre of Dreams, the home of the biggest football club in the world, I heard the announcement. he made a back heel pass, in the middle of the pitch, a few minutes in.

they were talking about planning her wedding dinner - the bride, and the organizer. "I want the food to tell a story", she said, and I overheard. I immediately wondered if I would have the time to pen out the nuances of my special day, like this bride, at 10AM on a weekday.  the cafe was Monmouth Coffee Company , and the nearest Underground station was London Bridge. It was the internet that recommended this place, but it was the white scribble on a black canvas that drew me in. Filter Coffee.  the beans were from Peru that day, and the voices from across the world.  there was a wooden table in the middle, one that could house ten of us -- four each on either of the longer sides, and a piece each on the shorter ones. I got a seat in a moment's notice the first couple of times I was there, but the third time around I was made to stand -- in the first concentric circle around the table, my coffee placed neatly on the arm-rest.  there was this calm I felt, as I tried to read

It was only after I sat down and made myself comfortable, did it really strike me. The privilege I was carrying around was far from innocuous. The sweatshirt read GAP in bold letters, and underneath it was a salmon-pink H&M shirt. The shoes & socks adorned the sign and brand of Nike, and the final strike below the belt was Levis. A bejewelled NRI.  I was in a 3AC compartment of the Indian railways, travelling from Delhi, to Chandigarh on a pleasant Thursday afternoon. It had been a while since I had last commuted via a train in India, and that showed in the lack of expectation and mental preparedness I entered with.  The remaining six people around me had humble backgrounds (I could see it in their eyes) and their clothes smelled of simplicity. I at once knew the privileges, and riches I was travelling with, compared to them, and the majority of India. I had forgotten that most people who travelled in trains in India, came from lower-middle-class families, and used this mode ou