The First Step a.k.a. The Loss of Starry-Eyed Notions

For many months I had visualised that moment. 

Standing on the final steps of the bus. Looking at the red earth beyond the last step. There may be a stone or two, some clumped earth, or even a footprint. Perhaps my knees would wobble after stepping down, due to the unevenness of the ground. I think I would inhale, a deep inhale. There would be the scent of mixed everythings, including the dust of the land and smoke from the bus. I may be tired from the many hours of sitting, and yet restless to begin. I imagined I would see fellow pilgrims gathering their gear, an upwards path visible in the distance, and what would seem like little ants creeping up slowly. I figured I would be approached by an enthusiastic chaiwala, and of course I would gratefully accept. His name would be Chotu, obviously. 

View from the trek

I would then stand back, taking it all in, my hand covering my little tea glass to contain the heat of the precious little. I would tense my shoulders, pick up my kit, and take the first step. It would all be a bit like that last scene in the Sound of Music, when the Von Trapp family trekked over the mountains to escape Austria. With a Sikh twist. We might replace "Climb Every Mountain" with Beynti Chaupayi, and maybe the long flowing grass with dry earth, but really, that would be the only difference.

This is how my journey to Hemkunt would begin, once we got off the busses at Gobind Ghaat.

Entrance to Gobind Ghaat, the base of the trek

Clearly, clearly, it had been a while since I was last in India. 

I had forgotten that you cannot lock India in a woven basket and hypothesise on what lies inside; for like a snake charmer who bears the risk of snakebite, you have to lift the lid and allow yourself to be hypnotised by Her dance.

You cannot chart the turn that your journey will take, you cannot follow a map; for like the milk She blesses into Ghee, She churns every possible route and outcome in Her consciousness, and delights in picking the most impetuous one. 

You cannot hope to keep your feet on the ground; for like the pilgim mass that will sweep you in its embrace, separate you from those you know, and unexpectedly release you in unfamiliar places, She will deliver blows to your stomach, compassion to your heart, tears to your eyes, sickness to your body, and bliss to your soul.

Her weapon of choice is shock, and She uses it unflinchingly. Her soul is unruly; She will not be tamed. 

Enter the den, and survive, O Man.

The lure of marigolds

The romantic myth of my first step was quickly dispelled. Let's revisit my earlier reverie.

Standing on the final steps of the bus. Looking at the red earth beyond the last step.

CHECK. There was also a frayed plastic bag, mixed in the earth, to add to the view.

There may be a stone or two, some clumped earth, or even a footprint. 

CHECK. Small stones, many footprints.

Perhaps my knees would wobble after stepping down, due to the unevenness of the ground.

CHECK. I did lose my balance.

But not because of the stones, oh no. I was ambushed, ambushed, I tell you, by an army of pithus (porters).

Each face earnest, and hungry to be selected. Each mouth promised to be able to carry anything in the baskets on their backs: luggage, food, even children. Each frame small; most of them are Nepali farmers who come to the region in the summer for this type of work. 

Bahadur bhaiya, one of our pithus. This was bhaiya's first summer working at Hemkunt. 

Ma liked him instantly for his sweetness :)

In all our bewilderment, we attempted to formulate a strategy to circumvent the mob and make it at least 2 steps away from the bus. Forget it! By now, our newly arrived bus had drawn significant interest, and the siege was joined by porters and their mules, guides, dhaba-owners (breakfast! lunch! dinner! NUDELS!!), walking stick sellers, and every other human in that square who believed he had God's own solution to making our trek a smooth one.

Anything you need, HA!

At this rate, getting to Hemkunt seemed like the least of my worries… I first needed to get to my travel gear, a mere 6 feet away! :)

And so there it was, the Loss of Starry-Eyed Notions. There was no submissive step down, no liberating deep breath. No sea of pilgrims, no intoxicating scent of cha. And no opportunity to pause and take it all in. 

Elbowed by humans and bags on one side, and badgered by pithus and mule owners on the other, I made a quick adjustment to all other naive fancies I had earlier formed on the days to come.

  

Designated parking area at Gobind Ghaat. All modes of transport welcome!

And then, a corner smile. A knowing shake of the head. You did it again, Mother India. Aimed Your stun gun and unsaddled me. 

As mischievous as Your methods may be, here, I am reminded that the only thing that exists right now, is right now.

Throw out the guidebook, and surrender to the vortex of Your whirlpool.

  

Sign along the trek. SO appropriate :)

I turned to look at my mother, and we both laughed. Here it goes!

And we took the first step.

North Star, leading the way, as always :)

~ notes from my road, Hemkunt 2012 ~

When the Saints Go Marching In

I have to say. This thing they call meditation? Pretty freaking cool.

Before the Siri Singh Sahib’s teachings and I found each other, I’d been fed all sorts of hogwash by all sorts of well-meaning people. 

“When you meditate, you will be at peace”. “You will see a light moving towards you”. “Time will fly by.” “You will feel still and calm… completely relaxed.”

Oh what will it take?!

Photo credit to Surabhi Nambiar

But but but...I am not at peace; rather my mind rakes up some serious filth from dark, scary corners that I didn’t even know existed. 

Nope, no light moving towards me; only me running after random specks and swivels forming and vanishing under my eyelids. 

Time most certainly NOT flying by; I mean, there is the Hare and the Tortoise, and then there is the Snail, you know? Every second.. every blistering second..!!

Still and calm? It’s like a bag of ferrets let loose in my body with all the itching and twitching. ANY excuse to take a break. Oh! Need to use the bathroom. Oh! Throat is dry. Oh! Hair on my forehead just moved. Oh! Ran out of excuses so going to go and look for another one. 

Yeah, like that wan.

So either all those well-meaning people didn’t tell me the full story, or I’m just so damn cursed that nothing will save me. 

Optimist that I am, I’m going with the first possibility :p. 

I now know, thanks to the Siri Singh Sahib/ Yogi Bhajan/ Yogi Ji, that my experience is perfectly normal. The thought that I’m normal is as alien to me as it probably is to many of you, but I’m (obviously) inclined to agree with him. Not that it isn’t possible to have a beautiful and blissful meditation, which many do, and even I have been blessed to have had on some occasions. But on the whole, it’s a lot of work. The mind is like a pit with all sorts of creepy crawlies multiplying in there... cleaning it takes time, persistence, and perhaps most of all, constance. 

You can ask a thousand people about their meditative experience, and probably hear just as many versions of it. Everyone has their own creepy crawlies, and every moment presents different ones. For me, in the midst of all the Filth and Specks and Snails and Ferrets, I’ve come to realise that meditation ignites the tiny (and suppressed) creative side of my (accountant) brain. Thoughts and sentences and projects take shape in my head, and By God I am a Genius for thinking up most of these. We’re talking some serious smarts here, people.

(Note to self: Ego getting out of hand... attention required! :p)

What I love most about these ignitions are the Lightbulb Moments that often follow. Epiphanies, revelations, perspective. They rush in; racing and stumbling over each other, in an absolute hurry to make themselves be heard and known. A reminder to this host body, wallowing in self-pity, consumed by negativity and engrossed in the “why me” complex, that you are so completely blessed it is almost ridiculous. Outrageous that one little person, in the context of this ever-expanding universe, can be so wholly bathed/ drenched (almost drowning!) in blessings.

And so it was Lightbulbed to me on this morning of Yogi Ji’s birthday, while (attempting; got to be honest) to meditate at Chayo. During the Guru Ram Das chant, I thought to myself, you blessed, blessed, blessed girl, everywhere you turn, you are surrounded by divine sanggat. 

O my mind, meditate forever on the Lord.

Photo credit to Angad Singh

My own little Saints, EVERYwhere. Our home has always had a Darbar; I have known no loneliness amongst the pillars that are my family. I have the Ulu Yam clan; the laps in which I have grown. My Samelan community; from which has emerged a lifelong supply of friends and inspiration. My London soul sisters and brothers; whom I have no words to describe, but cherish with a London-shaped hole in my heart. My sisterhood from Women’s Camp; who make being beautiful, bountiful, and blissful seem so easy. The Setapak sangees; who I sing and seek with during rainbows and stormclouds. The Chayo family; that I cling on to for doses of sanity in the eye of the city-life hurricane. My husband and newly-gained NM family; which I’m so so so grateful for, knowing that I have the BEST company on the roads that lie ahead. EVERYwhere. 

My markers, my checkpoints, my lift-uppers, my guiding forces, my rocks. There is no escape from these stalkers, I tell you. At every step of the way, every bend in the road, every climb uphill and every bumble down below, they stand there, glowing so bright that it hurts my eyes and brings me to my knees in gratitude.

My Beloved Guru, thank you, thank you, thank you, for marching in all these Saints to keep an eye on this little person. 

I see you, each of you. I thank you, love you, bless you, pray for you, bow to you, and hold you in the lightest and brightest corners of my heart. 

All my love.

I was Born.

Today, I reflect on some of the many things I've take for granted as a woman.

Being able to: go to school. Read. Wear shorts. Have a childhood. Go to university. Live on my own. Travel alone. Drive. Have a bank account. Be an equal witness. Marry a man of my choice. Work. Earn equal pay. Vote. Pray without an intermediary.

Or maybe I should have started with: being allowed to be born.

To the organisations who defend and promote these rights, to the women who brave the odds and fight for them, and to the men who stand by them, you live in the lightest corner of my heart, and have my deepest gratitude.

Happy Women's Day, all.

The Road.

The road to Hemkunt is paved with landslides.

That they will be there to greet you, there is no doubt. The only variables that exist are the magnitude and “stopability” of these landslides. I know of some who had attempted the journey and not even made it to the base at Gobind Ghaat, whilst some others were stranded on their way back, having to spend an uncertain number of hours in their vehicle while the road was cleared.

This I knew, and I went prepared for either eventuality. I had already decided, after all, that being able to go was really not in my control anyway, regardless of how much I wished it or how intensely I prayed for it.

And because of this little acceptance, I tried to look at each landslide as a part of my journey as opposed to an obstacle. This wasn’t difficult… the road was windy and the movements of the bus were relatively slow, unless Vijay Bhaiya was feeling particularly enthusiastic. Each bend, each pothole, each bump, gave me ample time to push my nose up against the window and inspect my surroundings. It goes without saying that my faith grew by leaps and bounds every time I felt, actually felt, the bus drive over a part of the road that was not wide enough for us... so maybe I should add that the road to Hemkunt is also paved with logic-defying optimism!

What I saw amused me. An interesting choice of word, you may say, and I would have to agree. Today I am brave enough to use it because I have the benefit of hindsight; we were fortunate that our journey was fairly uninterrupted and we could stick to our schedule. So yes, today, I am amused. Had the situation turned out differently, I suspect my word would perhaps instead have been @?&;%!$ or something of that variety :p.

One has this preconception that a landslide is about mountains and cliffs, rocks and stones, sand and dust. But isn't everything more vivid, more exaggerated, more layered on this subcontinent? :)

The landslides to me were a photo book, a CliffsNotes, an India 101. Not quite the Incredible India that is on the posters all around the world, but India as it was; uncensored, unInstagrammed, and real.

“Horn please” signs were painted on almost every available rock face, occasionally with paintings of horns (it is very likely after all that you may not know what one looks like), and often accompanied by words of wisdom on the perils of speeding. “Be Mr Late, better than Late Mr”. Ha!

These were naturally followed by ring tone horns with an average 3-5 second sound time, going off one after the other in a curious medley of beeps. Just making sure you heard them the first time. And then the second. And the third. And wait.. why are we honking again? 

“All India Permit“ trucks with missing bumpers skirted the curvy road, the latest Bollywood hits blaring from the hand-painted external speakers in a great spirit of music-sharing with the local villagers who may not enjoy the good fortune of owning a radio. This is real peer-to-peer technology, yo.

Traffic jams with buses packed like sardines (I wonder what the Indian equivalent is to this expression?) lined the path, with kohl-lined eyes and bits of saree cloth peeking through the prison-bar windows. Each vehicle an artist's palette, bursting with colour and heat, waiting to be plucked out and freed.

Cows chewed. Grass that grew on the roadside. Plants that sprouted out of the gaps in the face of the rock. Leaves that stuck out of their semi-covered transport trucks. They chewed, and chewed. Occasionally they gave dirty looks to the sweet Punjabi girl trying to sneak up for a photo. But still, they chewed.

(Now this next one isn't something the prudish me would normally write, but one is determined to be frank!)

Men stood with their backs to the road, performing a certain ritual that is known to grant relief. There. I've said it now. Don’t judge me! Or roll your eyes :p.

Conveniently located food stalls and dhabas, created an entire industry just for slowed-down vehicles, with arms waving through the windows exchanging rupees for street munch, fruits, paan, Kurkure packets, and refilled mineral water bottles. We were significant contributors to this economy. Burp.

Water flowed through the rocks, down to the Ganges far below, where many a pilgrim waited to receive his drop, his purification, his answer. It tickled the rock, reaching into all it's funny hidden corners. I wonder if to the Earth, a landslide is just the mountain laughing as it is tickled by trickling water. A great, big, giggle, with loose parts. We see it as destructive but maybe it's just a matter of perspective, eh?

Half-constructed bridges, like forgotten ideas, decorated the bends. I imagine the men came one day, started building, went off to have tea, and never came back. Why bother, when a landslide would wash it down anyway, and you’d have to build it again?

Audiences gathered, especially at larger landslides. Men with shirts rolled above their bellies (such shiny drum-like bellies!), arms akimbo, and waited for the next piece of action. Add a muffler or two, and a beanie perhaps, and there you have it... I'm laughing too :)

Miniature yellow suns lit the path on trolleys. There were rows and rows of glass Coke bottles, now home to mountain water adorned with beautiful yellow nimboo in the place of the caps. The eternal Indian question for me: to drink or not to drink? The water was pure, but could the same be said for the bottle, the nimboo, and the handler? Where lies the line between caution and surrender?

Statues of gods were auspiciously placed at particularly perilous parts. They may have appeared old, but you would be wrong to think them abandoned. The uneven garlands of marigolds around their necks and red tilak on their foreheads suggested recent invocation. The Gods are kept busy out here, be it by soul-searchers or businessmen. 

So… just mountains and cliffs, rocks and stones, sand and dust?

They say a picture speaks a thousand words. But sometimes, it takes a thousand pictures to describe just one.

For me, all those images came together to summarise the experience of one (just one!) little-big, sweet-pungent, beloved-awkward, practical-ridiculous, colourful-bleak, spirited-nonchalant word.

India.

Every day a journey, every road a mystery, and every destination a blessing.

~ notes from my road, Hemkunt 2012 ~

Joy is Now.

~ For me. ~

I remember that it was raining. 

We drove through puddles. Water hit against the window, and my head jolted back from the glass each time; an impulsive reaction to the thought that I would get splashed.

A building came up on the left, unoccupied. Between the road and the front steps, a lake of rainwater. The unsightly kind. The kind that summons dirt and dust and mixes it into a brown concoction, garnished with coloured plastics swimming giddily. The kind that makes you think of waterborne disease. 

But this in India, and one treads with faith.

The bus slowed down.

Necks craned upwards, looking over the seats in front of them. Small chatter, questions. What’s going on? To the left, Lake Cholera. To the right, Death Highway (or so it seemed to us foreigners, whose stomachs were unaccustomed to the great nerve that Indian roads demand).

Vijay Bhaiya explained: checkpoint.

Checkpoint?! A beach umbrella, a school table, a three-legged stool, a man in a nondescript khaki shirt, and a clipboard.

Yes, checkpoint.

The road was about to head into the mountains, and vehicles were inspected to check that they could make the journey.

Well. That was reassuring. I think.

I was curious as to what a check actually meant. There were no tools, no additional personnel apart from the Khaki Man. Vijay Bhaiya held a few sheets of paper, probably documentation certifying the vehicle’s safety. He got down from the bus and the checking began.

We stayed put due to the drizzle, and I soon lost interest in the inspection. Looking for other distractions, my attention diverted to a food stall pitched a few feet away from the beach umbrella.

It was one of those mobile trolleys, four-wheeled. A tarp covered the frame, and on it sat a stove with two hobs. The first was uncovered, and He was making rotis bloom directly on the flame. The second held a pateelah, and there was no doubt that cha was brewing.

I watched the roti-making with bated-breath, given my troubled relationship with the roti-making process (see earlier post). Junior tended the cha. Probably His son, I thought.

Another man walked past our bus and reached the stall. They sipped out of the steel cups, and talked. Of what? I hazarded guesses. The latest Bollywood blockbuster (Ek Tha Tiger was on every billboard between Delhi and the moon). The going rates for bribes (no doubt He had first-hand knowledge given the stall’s proximity to the checkpoint). A daughter’s marriage (or the curse of, what with dowries and mothers-in-law of the Zee TV variety). Or maybe the weather (safest really, when all else fails).

The fascination was mutual. They turned to look at the bus, and caught me staring at them, camera in hand, as I tried to take a photo through the raindrops. Knowing that they were being photographed, their backs straightened, smiles widened. I smiled back. Another 5 minutes of this and we would have become Facebook friends, fo sho.

And here it is.

That was when She appeared.

There was nothing memorable about this woman. This is not a judgement, but a mere statement of fact given that even as I recall this memory today, descriptions fail me. I was already suffering from the usual sensory overload that the Indian experience offers, and the rain further numbed my senses and blurred my vision. 

Yes, that’s it. It was raining, you see.

She offered a plate with a bowl in it to Her son (an imagined relationship; keep up, please), who placed a few fresh rotis atop the bowl and took the plate away. Lunch for Gran. Yes, another assumption.

Apparently this was the last order of the day. He gathered a rag and wiped His cart clean. Hmm.. clean really is a relative word, isn’t it? The white specks of atta disappeared and His teeth shone back at Him from the reflective metal of the stove. Or so I imagined, through my rain-streaked window.

She put all the utensils together and carried them… to a bucket a few feet away, placed next to puddle. Rain water in the bucket, rain water in the puddle. Rain water in her hair and on the bus and rain water everywhere.

The washing began. Hmm… washing is another relative word. The utensils went into the puddle, then were rinsed in the bucket. Rainy, dirty, muddy. From muck into muck.

Here there is a pause in my notes, where I’d written 12.30 p.m. I don’t know what this means. It must have seemed important enough for me to jot down, so here I write it again.

12.30 p.m.

As She sat by the pail (ah, yes, She wore a saree; She had gathered it around Her knees as She squatted), He walked up to Her side. He pulled His trousers up by a few inches, and squatted beside Her.

He placed His hands on Her shoulders, and shook them. In a loving, playful, it’s-the-end-of-the-day kind of way, He shook them.

She tilted Her head towards Him, and They laughed.

And laughed, and laughed, and laughed. 

I was trapped in the bus, but I heard Them laughing with my eyes. It was a teeth-showing, belly-shaking, head-thrown-back, eyes-crinkling kind of laugh. 

I had no idea what the joke was, I had no guesses left. But watching Them like that, soaked, squatting by a disgusting puddle, next to what were probably Their only utensils, and just simply laughing at nothing more than a shoulder shake...

Bewilderment. 

What was Their secret joke, what could there possibly be to laugh about, I thought condescendingly. This entire episode had been nothing short of a rude glimspe into the crudity that some lived in.

And yet, there They were, laughing.

It was over in a few seconds. He walked away to tend to the stall, and She continued on with the washing.

But those laugh lines, they would not fade. I heard Their echo, with my eyes, through the blurred, wet window.

That burst of emotion is so vividly etched in my mind. 

One word came to mind: Joy.

I love this word. It is so big. Big, and deep, and whole. It has nothing to do with what you own, who you are, or where you are headed. It is in the small things, and the big things, and the non-things. It grows inside a person, in the quiet storm, in the busy calm. 

It is an attitude that you nurture tirelessly so that the seeds will bloom when you need light around you. And when those roots grow strong, then it is a choice, to look in the face of everything you have, and everything you don’t, and to still say, I choose you, Joy, right here and now. 

Soon the inspection (!) was completed and we continued on our way. I scribbled the passing thoughts from those moments as best I could. I wanted to remember Her uninhibited laugh, to remember that in those few seconds, while I was caught up in everything that wasn’t there, She made a choice that I didn’t even remember I had.

So many things we know, but without knowing.

My pilgrimage to Hemkunt began at that spot. It was my first checkpoint, and my first lesson. 

That happiness is a choice. And Joy?

Joy is Now.

Enough hiding. Run out of the shadows, my dear girl, and live.

~ notes from my road, Hemkunt 2012 ~

The Sisterhood of Round Rotis

Being a normal (!) human being, I am not fearless. 

This I have accepted; and I believe most of my fears are common enough and shared by many, if not most.

From phobias, however, I thought myself free. I recognise serious phobias that require diagnosis and counselling or treatment, but a few short minutes with Lord Google and I found some really irrational ones, such as the fear of being tickled by feathers (pteronophobia), or of being pursued by timber wolves around a kitchen table while wearing socks on a newly waxed floor (luposlipaphobia), or of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth (arachibutyrophobia), or of ducks watching you (anatidaephobia), or of long words (hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia; although having tried to pronounce that I think I have now also developed hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia).

Until.

We were at Gurdwara one day for cooking seva, and I remembered. I remembered.

I have a phobia of making rotis at the Gurdwara.

source: http://www.silentyak.com/2010/07/12/chapati-face/

Let's be clear here; I don't fear making rotis, and I don't fear the Gurdwara. I fear making rotis AT the Gurdwara (it is imperative that you read it like that).

Don't laugh!! I am being serious, wholly serious.

For those unfamiliar with Sikh culture, all our places of worship, known as Gurdwaras, also run free kitchens, where all, all, are welcome to join and partake what we call langgar. This means that any devotional activity that takes place at the Gurdwara is automatically followed by food being served to the congregation and visitors. 

As a result, the kitchen usually swings open several hours before prayer, with numerous Grandmamas and Grandpapas and Aunty Jis and Uncle Jis busying themselves with making oh-the-most yummalicious food. More often than not, this includes the subject of my phobia: round rotis.

I can trace this irrational phobia back to its origin. Ulu Yam Gurdwara, age between 9-12 years, at prayers held for the annual celebration of Bhai Vir Singh. My little cousin Sukhsharan and I, roused from our little sleeping places early in the morning, walk across the road to the Gurdwara to help with the roti-making for the hundreds of people that would arrive later in the day.

We go to the all-familiar cooking area, and everyone takes up a spot. Roti-making has several stages and the ladies automatically form clusters. Speaking is not necessary; everyone knows where what takes place and who fits where - it is just a matter of settling into your spot and rolling up your sleeves.

And what are the options?

STAGE 1. Kneading dough

Texture, texture, texture.

source: http://indianfood.about.com/od/breadrecipes/ig/How-to-Make-Parathas/Making-Parathas---Step-1.htm

STAGE 2. Making perrey (dough balls)

Global Punjabi Standards of shape and size to be adhered to.

source: http://www.najjuazulkefli.com/?p=98

STAGE 3. Rolling perrey into round rotis (uh-oh, trouble starts) and tossing them unto the tava (pan)

A Perfect Roti is a Blooming Roti.

source: http://www.najjuazulkefli.com/?p=98

STAGE 4. Flipping rotis

A Master only requires two flips, no more, no less. That's all, kthxbai.

source: http://unsunburnt.com/recipes/chapati-dough-for-bread-machine/

STAGE 5. Spreading ghee

A dying practice - health awareness to be blamed for the gradual demise of the ghee-fied roti.

Obviously, it is your seniority/ experience/ number of inner circle contacts (ooo touchy subject) that determines which category you will fall into.

Dough-kneading is supervised and carried out by the orang kuat (i.e. the main force) of the kitchen; the ones who know how many people are expected and how this translates into quantities of flour and water (which is the crux of a perfect roti). It is generally wise to not disagree with this group, simply because they really do know what they are doing, and are divinely bound to get it right, period. Exclusive rights are reserved and entry is by invitation only.

The Perrey-Makers I consider to be apprentices, on their way to Stage 3. Usually these are doe-eyed young girls, and generally just grateful to be elevated from Stage 5 with promises of Blooming Rotis dangling in front of them. This is a critical transitionary level indeed - it is like being initiated into a sorority. Here is the first door into the most secret enclave of the community of Punjabi women. They are now on the path to making their mothers deliriously happy. Look here, they say, my daughter, the roti-debutante, has arrived. 

Stage 3, oh Stage 3. Rolling rotis is an art in itself. And rolling them round, that is a gift. But rolling them round, while under pressure to churn them out at a rate of 3 per minute, while having eyes bore down on you to see if you deserve to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Stage 3 crowd, while trying to estimate if you have too much/ too little dry flour on your roti and whether that will improve/ hinder your rolling activity? I fall at the feet of those who achieve this.

If you're flipping rotis this probably means that you are nearing the end of your roti-making life-cycle (with a potential promotion to Stage 1 should any vacancies arise). You have worked your way up, from Stage 5, to Stage 2 and then to Stage 3, to arrive at this comfortable position that says: yes my child, I have walked the Path of the Roti-Maker, and have earned my place here. Your reward is the long roti-flipper that adorns your fist - it is a dream, a dream I tell you, to be able to wield this instrument of beauty and wave it around like a medal. To use a Roman reference, this would equal to having a Triumph, and a Roti Triumph is the true test of a Punjaban. It is a home run.

Finally, in the corner, far away from the rest of the prestigious roti activity, sit a a handful of little girls. Spoons in one hand, hot rotis in the other, spreading ghee onto every other roti. Don't look down on these girls; the rotis that they work with are fresh off the tava, and with their burning fingers they have to pick the right side for spreading (of course there is a right side!!), and gauge how much needs to be applied on the edges so that the white cloth that wraps the rotis doesn't become totally stained. Moderate staining is, of course, permissible. We are reasonable beings afterall.

And that, in a nutshell, is an overly generalised, intensely exaggerated, and substantially fantasised view of the process of making a (round) roti.

source: http://lisabrockman.wordpress.com/2011/12/01/india-new-delhi-gurdwara-sis-ganj-sahib/

So back to little Sukhsharan and I, standing in the kitchen at the Ulu Yam langgar area, figuring out where we fit in with this confusing clockwork of The Sisterhood of Round Rotis.

I have no idea what to do. Eyes still a little hazy from insufficient sleep, I try (fail!) to underderstand this unspoken arrangement while also trying to decide which cluster I was least likely to embarrass myself in. I had watched my mum and grandmothers making rotis many times before, and had had a hand in making them too, but nothing on this terrifying scale of Gurdwara-level round rotis. My rotis thus far had been oddly-shaped, uneven, unbloomed, and would probably have been better served as poppadoms (remember the age group: 9-12 years old - have a heart!). And from that, I was being thrown into this.

And to make matters worse, just a little whole lot worse, 9-12 year old Sukhsharan, seeing an open space for a Roti-Roller (STAGE 3! STAGE 3! STAGE 3!), starts to walk over.

Oh my, oh oh my.

Imagine my reaction, in bullet time. Eyes going wide, hands reaching out to pull her back, mouth opening to make way for the silent shout that is rising in my throat.

Imagine what happens, in real time. She reaches the open space, grabs the rolling pin, and starts rolling.

Yes, she obviously could not roll 3 rotis per minute.

Yes, she didn't have eyes boring down on her to pick on her mistakes - when you're that young they are more inclined to praise you than chide you (yes, I'm bitter, deal with it).

Yes, there was perhaps a little too much/ too little dry flour on her rotis that hindered her rolling activity.

BUT. Oh, the crucial BUT.

They were ROUND.

As round as a merry-go-round, as round as a Gurdwara bowl, as round as Po the Panda.

I won't even say as round as the Earth because apparently that's an oblate spheroid, and no, Sukhsharan's rotis were most certainly NOT oblate.

Here, a realisation.

I knew I could not make rotis like that. 

And without round rotis under my veylna (rolling pin), how-oh-how was I going to add the Roti-Triumph feather to my chunni?

I was being dragged off the track of my home run, that same track that generations before me had run on and Triumphed on, and I was helpless. Oh the shame I would bring to my family! 

And thus, in this dramatic, curtain-parting, floodlights-shining, earth-rumbling way, out of the womb of insecurity and fed on fear of watchful eyes, a phobia was born. Roundrotiphobia.

Would the ground just open up and swallow the 9-12 year old me now, please.

~ to be continued (time needed resurface from ground-swallowing) ~

Note to reader: I draw your attention again to an earlier sentence: "And that, in a nutshell, is an overly generalised, intensely exaggerated, and substantially fantasised view of the process of making a roti." Emphasis on "overly", "intensely", and "substantially". Please do not take my breakdown of this seva literally. Please instead, laugh. At me, if you will. Thank you.

Something worth celebrating.

For my spirit, I laughed out loud, sang a childhood favourite, and added to my bucket list.

For my soul, I touched my Guru's feet, meditated on grace, and said thank you for the morning stars and fallen leaves.

For my body, I took my vitamins, did my BSE, ate my 5-a-day, and ran with Zafar.

For my mind, I read from a beloved book, talked with a child, and listened to a wise man. 

And at the end of the day, I found something wonderful worth celebrating: me.

Happy Women's Day, all.

My tiffin.

For the last time.

Timesheet submitted,
Aura replicated.

Lotus Notes crashed,
GTS cursed.

It appears that I am at the end of a road.

If I could shrink you, I would fit you into my tiffin and take you with me.
But unfortunately you have been eating to many chocolates/ popcorn/ doughnuts and can't be shrunk.

And so I must go home with my empty tiffin.

But wait! It is not empty.
Look inside, what do I have? 

Memories.

Of timesheets submitted, Aura replicated, Lotus Notes crashed, and GTS cursed.
Of files not reviewed, and financial statements not signed.
Of food shared, and snacks devoured.
Of clients loved, and client not.
Of birthdays celebrated, and children corrupted.
Of silly jokes, and real tears.
Of late nights, and early mornings.
Of late mornings, and early nights.

This, is the PwC experience :)

My tiffin is, happily full.

xx