Each moment was planned, precise, uncomplicated. Their relationship finely balanced, like the two arms of a clock. Their life evenly spaced like an uncluttered face of a timepiece. He worked the office; she worked the home. He filled the bank accounts; she filled the stomachs.

It was a simple marriage.

If there were yearnings, they were well hidden from each other; not intentionally, nor out of regret but out of a deep seated unwillingness to upset this easy ebb and flow. There were pakodas on Sundays, shopping on Saturdays, a movie and a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant once a month.

It was pleasant, familiar, comforting and steady.

Until one day, the wind suddenly changed and at the beginning of a normal week after a typical weekend, he was informed that he was going to Europe on work for six months. Shock and surprise was soon replaced by a throbbing excitement. An old, half-forgotten desire slowly unfurled at the pit of his stomach.

He was home half an hour early with a bouquet of white carnations and an eager smile. But she was out with the neighbour on her customary power walk. The car parked in the driveway a little too early jangled her nerves, so she missed the smile and mechanically arranged the flowers in a porcelain vase listening quietly to the excited voice talking about Pisa and Paris.

They were to leave in 1 month. The house needed to be secured, clothes needed to be purchased, boxes needed to be packed. Many lists held up by flower-shaped magnets covered the refrigerator door and stood neatly crossed out the day before they were set to fly.

Her girls had given her a going-away party and she had promised postcards and match-boxes as pointers on her path through Europe. Their blatant envy and and playful petitions for roles as her foot soldiers to fetch and carry left her feeling alienated and distant, tugging at her firmly anchored self and she felt herself panic as she was forced to drift free.

“I think we should be able to get our Schengen visa a week or so after we land.”

She was packing one last suitcase with small packets of curry powder and instant mixes her mother had thoughtfully provided, while he was reading through his newly purchased Lonely Planet – Europe.

“Won’t it be exciting to see a different country every weekend?”

“Will it?”

“Of course it will!”

The view of the Eiffel and the smell of the Seine filled his senses.  He longed to explore, to walk the streets named after poets and painters the world revered. She sat at the hotel window facing east wishing she were home, cooking food she could pronounce. “It looks the same in real life as it does on TV!” was her one comment that was rewarded with a hug and loud laughter.

He couldn’t see it. Not at first. He was too excited, too caught up with work, too full of the new to notice the hesitance, the reluctance. It was the total withdrawal that finally struck him.

“I don’t want a Schezuan visa!”

“Schengen!”

“Whatever, I don’t want it. Can’t you just finish so we can go back home. Work weekends if you must!”

Over there she had a purpose, a role, a routine. The romance, history, art and architecture of this world so different from hers seemed to diminish her meaning and render her obsolete. This land held her attention for as long as it took for her to feel its opposition and remind her of her need to be home. It seemed to invade her space and no matter how much he tried, it just never seemed to be worth her while.

So, she left for home and he left to soothe his yearnings.

While he gazed at Monet, walked through ancient chateaux and rode the gondola; she picked up her routine exactly where she had left off and felt herself settle back into the only life she had ever known and the only life she ever wanted.

He was back eventually, and as he stood at the threshold looking in through the window at her setting the table for dinner, he took in the familiar sights and smells as he slowly wiped the foreign dust off his shoes and walked in to a hot meal and a warm hug that he knew were waiting for him.

Slowly shifting waves of pink, saffron and orange wove an enchanting carpet of light that formed the perfect cradle for the new born sun. So small you could cup it in the palm of your hand, this perfect orb rose out of deep blue blankets of oblivion to greet us as we stood on top of Bali’s active volcano – Mt. Batur.

The cheerful voice of the on-duty staff shook me out of slumber at one o’clock in the morning. I’d settled into a restless sleep at a little past ten knowing that we had to be up in three hours bundled and ready to go on the fabled ‘Sunrise Trek’. I woke up my peacefully snoring husband, who was blissfully oblivious to the sharp ring of the telephone and I cursed our over developed sense of adventure. It was our last day on the mystical island of Bali and we thought it was poignantly significant to see the sun rise over the island we had both fallen in love with, I only hoped it would be worth the precious sacrifice of sleep.

Mt. Batur or Gunung Batur as it is called in Balinese (Gunung meaning mountain) is an active volcano standing 700 meters above sea level south-west of Gunung Agung – the highest point on the island and another active volcano. Mountains are considered very sacred to the Balinese people and all their houses are built to face their general direction, as they believe that the mountains are the abode of the gods. Watching the sunrise from atop these mountains is considered to be a spiritual journey rich with blessings.

We were picked up from our hotel at exactly two o’clock by a rather beat-up SUV that twisted and turned its way through roads as black as pitch. We had no idea where we were going, we didn’t know the names of our smiling guides, we had no new age communication devices in case of an emergency, we could do nothing more than hold on to the rickety door for dear life and pray to the mountain gods that we would reach in one piece.

We reached the base of Mt. Batur at a little past three o’clock and were engulfed by a swarm of tourists who were chattering in excitement and the cold as they prepared to make the two and a half-hour trek. We were introduced to Nyoman our rather nervous but sincere guide who handed us each a torch, asked us if we were ready and at our nod set off at a brisk pace.

We hadn’t anticipated the chill air and the exercise helped warm us as we settled into a comfortable pace.  There were at least 100 tourists with us on the pilgrimage and we filed up behind a long queue of torch lights and shadows.

The first 20 mins were easy, we were crossing a grass plain, with the tips of the alfa alfa brushing against my shoulder. We could hear shouts and singing from way ahead of us and I confidently whispered to my husband that this was going to be a piece of cake.

I have never been more incorrect in my life. We suddenly hit the wall of the mountain and that’s when the trek began. There was no gradually rising plain, no rest spots to take in the air and the night sky. It was a steep climb from bottom to top. There were a couple of Americans who excused themselves politely and set off at an enviable trot ahead of us and I regretted the delicious Ayam Betutu (a typical Balinese chicken dish) I had tucked into with much relish the previous night. After a lot of huffing and puffing and with Nyoman’s constant cajoling and confident reassurances we scrambled up the rocky path the lava had made when it had last erupted in 1999, an eruption that had completely wiped out two villages. To quote my husband, we were climbing the path of sorrow.

We finally made it to the top, ahead of a bunch of noisy kids who were groaning louder than I was, which provided me with some sadistic pleasure and made me feel better about my state of health.

It was 5:20, we had made it to the top in about 2 hours and our triumph was greeted by Bryan Adams bleating out “Please Forgive Me” through a portable stereo. Not exactly the best reception but nothing could take away the elation of having made it up the mountain and the pleasure of warming my cold hands on the steam billowing from the innards of Batur.

The breath-taking view of Gunung Agung across Lake Batur shimmering under the moonlight and the distant lights winking off as the day dawned, calmed our ragged breath and we settled onto a warm rock, biting into the delicious banana sandwich Nyoman had made for us as we waited for the sun to greet us.

I feint a move
He falters
but catches on

He settles on my lips
leaving a palpable kiss
just as they part
to form half-hearted retorts

The mood shifts
The rules change
It’s no more a game
it’s war

Fiery eyes meet cheeky smile
and forgotten protests
slowly dissolve

A truce is called
and a white flag now flies
at half mast

Dressed in the happiest colours with the faces of my favourite cartoon characters smiling at me, they would sit there tempting me, teasing me through the glass counter of Shilpa Stores. While running errands for my mother, I’d lean against the counter clutching at the Rs. 10 I had in my hand, wishing I could spend 1/10^th the amount for 1 of those beauties. But knew I’d get caught and I dared not risk amma’s wrath. I would glare back at Maugli’s mischievous face challenging me to cave in, but I never did.

I got hold of one quite by accident, if amma had known that there was one in my goodie bag from a friend’s birthday party, she would have “tchutched” at the carelessness of the parents of the ‘unfortunate’ child, while I would have writhed with jealousy at this unfair advantage in the parent domain.

But I discovered it, hid it away in the secret pocket of my sweater; usually reserved for my precious marbles and waited with a level of self restraint I now envy. At night, when everyone had gone to sleep, I slipped across to my cupboard where I had carefully hung up the sweater, grabbed my little treat and crept up under the sheets shutting away prying eyes.

All my restraint was by now completely exhausted and I ripped the cover apart wishing to wipe out Maugli’s jeering face in one vicious movement, wanting the last laugh.

And there it was, just as I’d seen on television, sitting in the palm of my hand in all its sinfulness. I contemplated decimating it as I’d done the wrapper but decided against it. This moment was too long in the making. I wanted it all. I wanted it to fill my mouth. I wanted to feel my teeth sink into it slowly as the hidden juice poured forth. I wanted it to last forever.

I don’t really remember what it tasted like. I remember being shocked by how sweet it was. I remember feeling vaguely disappointed that the blue and pink sides didn’t taste very different. I also remember brushing it aside chastising myself for under-selling my victory. I remember my jaw hurting from all the chomping. I remember waking up with the sickly taste of sweetness on my tongue. I also remember bragging about it to Ashok, bullying him about how wonderful a bubblegum tasted and how if he ever told amma about my piece of mischief he’d never get to taste one in his life.

I’ve chewed many a bubblegum after, sometimes in secret and sometimes on my mother’s indulgence. But it is always tinged with that initial disappointment and a nagging thought: did Maugli have the last laugh after all?

She’s mastered the art of deception – drawing attention away from the shadows; highlighting the rich texture of her hair with greys carefully pencilled away, the gentle sweep of her eyebrows concealing fine lines around the once brownest eyes.

Her beauty refined over the years, still draws her her share of admirers. The gallant and the strong who once pawed at her door, are still in awe but keep their distance. The debauched now retire behind darkened corners to leer at leisure and the brave, toughened souls once spurned venture closer seeking warmth in her softened charm.

She’s done her rounds. Tread heartlessly on dreams laid at her feet.  Sharpened devious charms to snuggle into the pockets of the great coats. Slipped into carefully guarded chambers of guilt with her sly wit that won her favours that still line her shelves – or so at least the story goes.

The old women say her carefully guarded heart broke inside the hard shell she built around it. Others say she gave it away so long ago that it never mattered what happened after. I for one believe the old women, I believe in a last ditch attempt to make it past the pearly gates she took each of the broken pieces and began giving it away, spreading it to the hapless souls in the hope of getting back a heart cracked and misshapen but never-the-less almost whole to call her own.

So the cynics line up to pass judgement, the faint hearted scuttle away and the veterans of a war as old as time stand in line hoping to get their warm, throbbing, full blooded bit of her.

What do we look for in each other?

Insecurities echoed?

Failures replicated?

Are we

In quest

Of a shelf on which to lay our lives

In the hope that each weakness

Is covered in layers of

Fine

Sparkling

Dust.

for something I believed I once owned?

is this a desperately disguised attempt

at being what I believed I could have been?

is this renewed conviction

about to be stubbed out like an abbreviated weekend?

is this new buzz going to be swatted to silence

as nonchalantly as the mosquito

that perches on my nose

bringing tears to my stinging eyes.

Words clinging to each others tails:

Y inextricably pinned to U
where a question forces its presence.

R pines for the adjective
that is wont to be elusive,
left bereft of the subject,
its sole purpose.

Words clinging to each others tails:
looking for disorder
in ordered space.