I can’t quite explain it. Like I keep saying you had to be there. Coming from a wordsmith, when I say I’m speechless, you can take my word for it.
I got downtown around 2 PM. There were people everywhere. Old-timers, toddlers, teenagers, generation now, everybody in Tampa was there. And everybody who wasn’t missed out on a day that will make the history books. But, there’s always next year. Thank God.
The weather reeked of Floridian goodness – calm air, bright sun and the sweet notes of feedback from the sound check drew me in like anti-gravity. The Gasparilla Music Festival had arrived.
I’d invited the only person I knew who’d appreciate artists we’d never heard before. I stood at the center of Curtis Hixon Park looking around in wide-eyed wonder at the land where Jimi Hendrix, Elvis Presley and Janis Joplin had performed before. Icons whose I’ve listened to on repeat, whose documentaries I’ve sought out and watched, whose era I wish I’d lived in. But this was the best I could’ve asked for and Tampa did a damn good job of exceeding my expectations.
Three massive stages, one historic venue, a dozen local food vendors with delectable vegetarian options, and a diverse crowd with one thing in common, music. The first ones to take the main stage when I arrived, the Lee Boys were the reason I knew I made the right choice when I bought those tickets. Undoubtedly, one of the most memorable performances of the day, I’ve never seen old school hard rock with such a strong blues flavor brew so well together. For a moment when I closed my eyes to shut the sun out, I could’ve sworn I’d been transported back in time and The Doors were at a distance not far away.
Soon after, Alvin ‘Youngblood’ Hart. I’d read on the poster that they had won the Grammy’s a while ago, but I’ve stopped watching award ceremonies since music stopped being about tunes and took the well-trodden path of sound. But this group was all about the audience – in tune, in sync, in every way possible. The crowd was still small and I was up front by the speakers giving my ears the treat they’d long deserved. My restless camera kept jumping out of its case and into my hand. Considering how close to the stage I was, I have to say my camera has an IQ of 183. I took some brilliant photographs.
Toward the latter half of the day, Deer Deer Tick drew in an elaborate crowd. Though they started off looking rather good with a tight sound check, it seemed the herbs took over the performance and left them a little off balance. The fact that one of their leads looked eerily like Bob Dylan didn’t hurt. My friend said I was acting like a real girl, gawking and the guy and taking a million pictures. In all honesty, if I never get to see Dylan live at least I’ll have his doppelganger to hold onto.
Walking through the park to keep warm in a night that turned chilly just as it was burning up, we stumbled upon the Distinguished Men of Brass. Entertainers true to their form, this troupe brought their marching band sound to the forefront; it was the only time in the day I saw the amphitheater packed and people climbing in over the sides of the wall. They danced, they hollered, they played and they performed. By the end of their show, the audience was up on their feet, moving and clapping. To say the least, they received a standing ovation.
Not all the bands matched up. But those that did made the Gasparilla Music Festival an unbelievable event that will transcend history. And I’ll be there to write about it. For years to come.
Ladies and gentlemen, the show has just begun.
Ever since I can remember, I always knew I was out of place in the land I was born of. Yet, I never failed to notice a growing sense of pride, appreciation and wanting to belong in a country that time and again never ceases to amaze me and in an instant disowns me like I never belonged to begin with.
This piece was intended to be written a long time ago when I returned to Tampa after visiting India in 2010. When time didn’t permit, my thoughts took a backseat, but when I sat down to write today, I was surprised and saddened just a tad, if you will, at the intensity with which I remembered the relief that swept over me every time I reminded myself that I was only visiting and that three weeks was ample time for me to get back to the life that I had chosen over the birthplace that has now become a holiday destination.
When I landed in India in the heat of August 2010, the excitement was uncontainable. All I could think of was my house, my dogs, my Mum and the hot cup of tea I knew she would have ready every morning before I woke up. Soon enough though I realized that what was once my city, my nook, my niche was no longer really a reality. The landscape had changed so much. People, all of a sudden, had lives that prevented them from making the effort to do anything outside of routine. Friends now needed schedules and even when you met their time constraints, didn’t quite see the value in making an effort to grab a cup of coffee. The best friend, of course, who you had duly informed of your arrival seemed to have time for all else, but the quintessential, quite obviously, no longer best friend.
Money had, in fact, become a deciding factor in the things you did and the things you could do. A new class had risen its glorious head and had rained its wrath upon every memory of fun I had weighing down heavily in my head. In this old town with its new attitude, you didn’t go where you wanted to, you went where everybody else went and eventually, by some hypnotic slight of hand succumbed to the notion that that’s where you were headed to begin with. It was unfortunate to see so many take to this new mantra; I was somehow under the illusion that we had left such trivial non-ideals in the 10th grade. Clearly, I was mistaken.
There are, of course, some things that never change. The select few who you’re rarely in touch with, but who remain a part of your life for the rest of your life and will move mountains to spend a few hours with you that make up for four years of time gone by. The family, who despite your individuality that drives them to discomfort, will still light up at the sight of your physical presence and welcome you with open arms. The air that no matter how many years later never flinches when you take it in.
Back to square one. The questions, the expectations and the advice. The consistent pressure of ‘don’t come back.’ Agree and there’s the instant counter-attack of having become American.
What I used to refer to as my house was in fact, now, my parents’ house. No doubt, I’m the only person who feels that way. But how not when everything seems to have changed so much; the United States was no longer the foreign land. Needless to say, my emotions about mine and my own are heavily conflicted. I would never give up the expression on my Mum’s face for an easier, less thought-provoking trip, but my mind can’t help but wander back to the days that were and are never to be again.
Clearly, life has changed. And with life’s changes, so have I and so have the people around me. This, of course, is true of any of life’s turns and no matter how long or how much I speak of it, there’s really no stopping change.
The tone of this blog in itself defies Chapter 1. My intentions when I began this blog were to tell a story, to take people through my memory on a journey of a journey. Not to philosophize. But putting thoughts down is my only resolve when I find them scattered and tangled within the world that lives inside my head.
One thing I have realized is that the cliche “home is where the heart is” is as true as they come. Today, my heart lives in Tampa and like I cried for Chennai when I left four years ago, one day I will cry for Tampa too. But as time passes, I will make another my home and give another my heart and then, Tampa too will become a ‘once upon a time’ story like so many other long, long agos that have made up this awkward existence I call my life.
It seems like your memory has lost its mind
Being there for you is like a one-way street with a big, red stop sign at the end
No way in, no way out
With you, I feel like I fit, but no matter how hard I may try I still seem to stand out
Nothing I do will ever make you happy
Trying is bleeding me dry and sucking every morsel of soul that lies within my heart
I bludgeon myself trying to understand what I think I’m misunderstanding
You’ve become a part of my self, my flesh, my blood
And yet, I find no belonging within you, near you
Just around you, always
Trying in a worthless effort that holds no meaning to you
And no end to me
Standing beside you, holding your hand
Picking you up even when you’re not on the ground
Thinking of you even when you’re not around
Am I really misunderstanding or am I the one that’s misunderstood
This perilous path has no end
An unforgiving drowning of my every will
That wills me to do more
Were you ever really there?
Are you ever really here?
Is this just a test of time that I am predestined to fail?
The questions, of course, will never end
The answers, no doubt, will never be mine
I walk through this with my head held high
Believing like every other addict that I can let go whenever I decide
Knowing truthfully, only to myself, that the pain, in the end
Is the only real thing that I can trust, is the only real thing that will calm my mind.
I’ve always preferred to be by myself, never really possessed the knack of making friends, even worse at keeping the ones I make. Not for the lack of opportunity though. More for the lack of skill. I’ve never really been able to wrap my head around the idea of people. And those that have made an entry have always made a faster exit. So really, no mystery there.
But this doesn’t mean I don’t have friends. I do, I have a ton of them. Just not the type you’d expect. They aren’t friends you’d see me walking down the street or catching a movie with, which in my relative reality are two usually easy recreational activities that I find practically impossible to do. No, my friends keep me a different kind of company. Company that is exclusive, constant and never ungrateful.
The gang that I’d been hanging out with recently are a group of 6 – Steve, Jeff, Patrick, Jane, Sally and Susan. Hilarious and British to say the least, this bunch has been giving me some of the best laughs I’ve ever had. At the end of a tough day, when a ridiculous amount of s**t has decided to unload itself onto to my modestly small head, there’s no doubt that I’ll sleep the night away with a smile on my face after a half hour’s conversation with these guys.
I’d have to be rather shallow and quite the hypocrite, however, if all I entertained were friends who amused me. Which is where Olivia and Elliott step in. Though we don’t meet quite as often as I’d like to, some weekends we spend entire days talking about horrifying tales of rape and murder in and around New York. The extensive experience that these two have had in the area of heinous crimes is incredible. Sometimes, I have to turn away from them just to avoid feeling like I was there when it happened. But I admire their perseverance. No matter how many stories they tell and how many such cases they come across, they never let up.
My best friend however, is, as can only be expected, the grump. He’s in pain and he’s an even bigger pain, all at the same time. He has an incredibly dry wit and an immense amount of cruel intended to result in good. When I get the message that he’s coming to town, it simply makes my day. Well, in all honesty, we have a love hate relationship. I love the way he hates the world. Of all my friends, he’s the one I relate to the most. As nasty as he can be, I wouldn’t trust anybody’s advice over his. “Everybody lies, you idiot,” he says to me every time we meet. Nobody calls a spade the way he does. More often than not, I feel sad for him. It must be difficult being so bitter all the time. As long as he’s not complaining, I really couldn’t care less.
Friends come and go. The sooner they get here, the faster they leave. Some of them come back every season, some of them don’t make it very far. But to all of them from whom I’ve learned, with whom I’ve laughed and with whom I’ve cringed and hurt time and again, I’m grateful for the lonely, worthless days that you’ve made worthwhile. Most importantly, I’m grateful to the Internet.
My stupid head. Keep thoughts to yourself. Don’t share. Don’t tell. Don’t pun. Don’t spin. Don’t think. Don’t think twice. Don’t sing. Don’t smile. Don’t sigh. Don’t remember. Don’t wonder why. Don’t ask why. Please stop speaking.
Everyday, every hour, every second, every minute. Who, why, when, what? Who are you to ask all of these questions? Why can’t you just accept things the way the are instead of analyzing everything my eyes see? When did it become okay to question the norm and not be called crazy? What are you thinking…change the world, really? Don’t you ever go to sleep.
Sleep and there you are. Waiting for me in the distance, that evil grin on fluid visage. Waiting for me, beckoning me, sweet slumber kisses from your lips take me on a journey that wakes me sometimes in sadness, others in anger and more often than not, drizzling in a sickly sweat that keeps me questioning the thin line between reality and the sandman’s kingdom. Why won’t you ever leave me alone?
Just when I’ve convinced myself that the world is always right and I’m forever wrong. Just when I’ve begun to accept conformity as my new watchword. Just when I’ve decided to give up the fight for difference and live the happy life being like everybody else, there you are, with that blessed grin plastered all over your face again.
Why the consistent conversations? Why do you use the cavern where you lay as a battleground? Why do all your exalted speeches resonate within me? Don’t raise your voice just because I pretend not to listen. You know I hear every word you say. I have no choice. One by one, like red, hot bricks being laid to pave a village road, you burn a piece of yourselves into me. Except you’re the brick that will never come apart, never fall away, never worn from being tread on.
You are the one thing I wish to run the farthest from yet, you are my most prized possession.
Tanya died today. There was something in the air all of last evening that told me something bad was yet to come. When my mum called out of the blue, I knew there was truth in my intuition. In a way, maybe this was a good thing. She had been sick since the day we brought her home; always one thing or the other, never at peace with herself. On some days, we’d be sure to keep it down if we found she had fallen asleep. On most days, she was a restless little child, too nervous to welcome a guest, too sick to play with her siblings.
When she first came to us, my mum was her haven from the world outside. A raggedy, lost, lonely, little wonder, we found her whimpering under a car in the street. She was barely a month old and ridden with mange. The plan was to keep her for a few days until we could find someone to adopt her. Then one evening while we were sitting outside in the front porch, my mum carefully placed her on the compound wall just so she could look over at the road outside. We couldn’t have turned for more than a few seconds when she jumped and landed on all fours, on the inside of the wall, thank God. She yelped and immediately looked up at mum. I knew then that the latest member of our family had arrived. In typical fashion, our mum picked her up and held her close. “You’re not going anywhere,”she said. “You’re going to stay her with me, okay?” Tanya turned and licked Ma’s nose. I guess that was her way of saying “Let’s do this!”
She hardly ever got better. When my oldest, Patches, was unwell and getting all of our attention, we neglected to notice that she had been scratching herself unusually more often. After a few weeks, we were horrified to see that her misery had been so bad that she had scratched her cornea to blindness. Our vet (and saviour on so many accounts) was able to save the eye and Ma was careful to make sure that it never happened again.
It isn’t often you see a skinny, quite grotesque-looking little mutt getting an oil massage. My mum really knows ho to take care of her children – the one with two legs and all of her other four-legged ones. I remember Tanya looking up at me when I went to India, waiting to be petted but ready to take a chunk out of me if I got close. With the little eyesight she had, she eventually recognized me though. In the two years that I hadn’t been home, she’d lost every one of her teeth as well. Still, when Ma spoke to her or cuddled her, you knew she was smiling. Her entire body sent the message across.
I will never forget that little brown bundle of joy, holding onto her own paw, huddled up, at the end of Ma’s bed. She may not have had 20:20 vision and she may have greeted you more with the stench of her presence than a wag of her tail, but Tanya was an intelligent girl who knew how to get her blanket over herself using her nose and her forepaws. All the while she lived she suffered, but of all the memories I have of her, not once do I remember her complaining. Not a sound, just the quiet rhythm of a difficult breath. She may not have been the most beautiful dog I have known, but it was her gentle soul that made her a part of our family and my mum’s heart.
Chapter 1 – Coming to India
Sometimes the best gift you can give someone you love is a good surprise. My poor mother almost passed out when I showed up unannounced in her kitchen after two years. That look of astonishment together with pure joy is something I’ve rarely seen on anyone’s face. It was the most honest reaction I could’ve asked for. It was perfect.
My USF sweatshirt wasn’t quite welcome in India. After having travelled for over 24 hours, I eased out of my groggy state and got out of the freezing aircraft only to be greeted by Chennai’s infamous heat. Did I complain? Of course not; I welcomed the familiar feeling of forthcoming dehydration making its sticky way down my back. I knew I was smiling but I couldn’t help myself. Two years is a long time for someone who sometime owned the very streets she was about to step back onto.
My smile disappeared. Authority in India is something I don’t do very well with and immigration was giving me a cruel little smile as its long, decaying fingers beckoned me right around the corner. After scrutinizing my passport and giving me the once over several times, the officer informed me that my rather “sharp” appearance had led him to believe I was working for the police. I was tempted to pull out my FBI badge and flash him, but I reminded myself that I was undercover and kept my cool. It wasn’t easy.
As I exited the airport without customs raiding my luggage, I thanked God and prayed that my ride was close by; for a small person two bags weighing 28 kilos and 8 kilos, respectively, along with a backpack, does not spell comfort. I trudged along, out the exit and a little into the foyer when I heard my name. My cousin and co-conspirator, accompanied by two of her friends, were there at half past midnight to pick me up.
The plot was set in late March. On my last visit to India, I had set my mind to stay away from the country and all else involved for reasons I don’t quite care to share. When I decided it had been long enough, I also decided that the family needed a little excitement in their lives, namely me. So I enlisted a few people in the master plan; my cousin Ayesha Aapa, a few friends and almost everyone in the U.S. The stage was set and my actors played their roles to the tee. Among all the hustle of keeping mum, what was most difficult was keeping my mother in town. I was to visit Kerala and wanted her to go with me, but unaware of the near cardiac arrest situation that she was about to face, my mother was making plans of her own. Which is why it is always advisable to have someone on the inside. Enter Ayesha Aapa.
Living with my parents was the best decision Ayesha Aapa could’ve made. Well, for me atleast. She managed to convince my mother that she may have to go abroad during the exact same time that my mum was planning to visit my grandfather in Kerala, sabotaging her plan and setting mine back on track. The plan was unfolding just as I had hoped it would.
From the airport, Aapa drove her friends and me to Springs, a 24-hour coffee shop. Having been out of the country and off the roads for so long, that first drive out of Chennai International was everything but pleasant. I quietly nursed my terrified heart and kept it from jumping out of my mouth and onto the street when we cut someone off every 30 seconds. After coffee, we proceeded to Aapa’s friends’ place. In the early hours of the morning, I was five and a half minutes away from mum and could hardly contain the excitement. Six hours, five hours, four and a half…I simply couldn’t wait for the sun to rise.
After forcing myself to sleep, I woke up at 6 o’clock, showered and got dressed. I took one more look at my watch. And then it hit me, I was still on U.S. time. In India, it was only 3:30 AM. I smacked the back of my head a few times hoping to beat the jetlag out of my system, got under the covers and went back to sleep. A little longer, Ma. I’m almost home.
Seven-thirty. A quick cup of coffee later, Ayesha Aapa and I were out the door and on our way. In the car, we planned the last part of our little adventure and a short video camera lesson later, we were ready to strike. Once the coast was clear, she gave me the signal to come inside. To my surprise, none of my five canine siblings uttered a whimper. They just stared, no bark, no wag. I reached the back door and slowly snuck inside. My unassuming mother dearest hadn’t strayed from routine. It was a quarter past eight and as always, she was in the kitchen making tea. I made my way behind her.
I couldn’t think of a better gift to give my mum. As vain as this may sound, I mean the world to her and she’s always made every effort to let me know it. Her face when she saw me is an image that I will never allow myself to forget. That morning, I truly felt that my life in this world was worth something. Her disbelief and unfathomable happiness to see me, to hug me was more of a gift to me than mine was to her. The whole time that I was planning to surprise mum, I didn’t realize how much I would get out of it. As always, she gives me more than I can ever imagine. Like I said, perfect.
Read Between The Lines – That’s Where The Truth Hides
Posted: November 23, 2009 in Words In ProgressEvery time I read your words
My hope re-emerges
Only to be crushed again
By the truth of your dishonesty
The disguised messages with your every syllable
The hatred that lay within each truth I thought you told
The poison that spilled from your lips
As your hand wrote each promise broken even before being made
Words, my own companion, my sanctity, my saviour, my self
Used against my soul
How did I fail to see through you?
How did I fail to understand that you fell far from home?
How does the thorn of emotion blind the mind without a single touch?
Like the splinter that stays below the skin never to surface
The venom stays with me
Trying my spirit
Killing my soul
For every time that I have risen out of the ashes
This time I wonder
If luck will stand by my side again
And strength will me strong
One last time, one last breath
samira obeid 