My present, my gift

by Namrata bhandari (India)

A leap into the unknown India

Wide-eyed and open-hearted, I stood at the taciturn airport exit. Cold air caressed me like a harsh lullaby glazed in the salted caramel sunrise. My trip to Jaipur was an act of rebellion, an escapade from my over-protective folks back in Mumbai. I arrived wearing newness like an ironic amulet on my arm. This was my first trip laced with absolute freedom. I couldn’t stop smiling and the colors of the pink city had rubbed off on my cheeks. My life was in the wintry midst of deep tumult, but I shed the chilled chaotic robes of home at the Mumbai airport. I stood there drunk on delight, on time for the Jaipur Literature Festival. Well, that was my pretext. On my way to the hotel, I reminisced the time I came here with my parents and felt just like I did that day, wore the same wide-eyed and open-hearted look, with innocence and naivete up my sleeve. My eyes instantly became misty when I remembered my father, who recently passed away, but I continued smiling because I knew I was about to meet someone very special. My father and my past taught me to appreciate the fragile, ephemeral present tenaciously. There I was, drowning in the decadence of the royal city. Jaipur was specked with ornate palaces, stained glass windows, playful puppeteers who would orchestrate vibrant puppet shows and the fragrance of spice amalgamated with shivers of January. Of course, like any other human, I received the affectionate hospitality of the stray dogs along with their puppies, who would cutely collapse into dreamy siestas induced by the trafficky din. I walked along the lakeside, immersed in a sensory overload by the scarlet sunset and smell of saffron, amplified by the whiffs of the cardamom chai. Amidst the hawkers beckoning to catch my attention, a distant dulcet came within earshot. In that moment, I was magnetized. It turned out to be the sound of the Ravankutta, a rare Indian instrument which is also called the ancestor of the violin. The soulful musician simply sat on the pavement, remaining obscure, with his yearning to be discovered overshadowed by the passion for his craft. I needed this reminder, the visual of someone being hypnotized by what they love. The promise of satisfying raw artistic desires. The ability to etch a piece of one’s self in every strum of an instrument, stroke of the paintbrush and movement of the pen. Being someone who is inclined towards arts, I’ve always felt a sense of uncertainty born from the daunting thoughts of financial instability. But that day, I felt inspired and fierce. Yet there was something that gave me more intense joy than the flavor of North Indian food, the sweetness of the Rajasthani accent and every thing I just described. It was my present, my gift. My Irish boyfriend, who was backpacking across India. We had barely spent any time together in person when he was in Mumbai, but we had developed an adoration that transcended time. Jaipur was an exhilarating leap into the unknown. One of my fondest memories is the wind teasing my hair while I held his shoulders as we snaked through the city on a rented bike. I blush as I remember the way we explored all the stunning forts and Mahals together, glove in glove, intoxicated by our affinity for each other. I revisit the time we dipped marshmallows in hot chocolate at the festival, arms intertwined, barely listening to the panel discussion on stage. My trip ended in a jiffy. It’s a fragment of the past. But it’s still my present, my gift- something I cherish. If I ever go to Jaipur again, I imagine I’ll be the same wide-eyed and open-hearted girl, whirling in a medley of rose-tinted memories whilst gently reminding myself to rejoice the present moment. I’ve observed that the orientation of time and memories is enigmatic and whimsical, with varying pacing and intensity. I am still with my Irish man, and we don’t know what the future holds for us or when we’ll meet next, but I love my present. My gift. Perhaps I'll leap into an unknown country, with a known present.