I’ve been dreaming of a white christmas, but instead of snow, it’s smog
I stretch the curtains wide, inviting the world into my day. Looking for the autos and cars chasing the streets, I see nothing. A blank canvas covers the world just beyond the balcony railing. It’s 10am; only now are the edges of the middle ground buildings lining the landscape. Is it fog? Smog? Probably a mixture of both.
Welcome to Delhi.
The boys are stoned while I put a mix of jazz Christmas songs on the TV. Within three notes of any Christmas song, love fills the air like a baby’s first laugh that indicates a fairy is born. Christmas music brings a security like a tight hug or a blanket wrapped nice and tight, creating an inner layer of heat encapsulating the body. I hear the gentle rhythms as the white walls and beige curtains fade away. Warm lights swarm my periphery as imaginary ornaments twinkle in the light. And then the shadows announce themselves and melancholy sweeps in. I am not home for Christmas. I am not in any world where Christmas means anything besides a light jingle in a Third Wave cafe. The shared nostalgia is not shared. It is mine only to hold close.
I don’t wish I were home, given how that would turn and twist every other plan I have in mind. But if I could visit my friends circling around the ice rinks and smashing gingerbread houses— if I could visit my family gathered around the fireplace as we scratch off lottery tickets continually disappointed at how much we spend on the cards, and our negative returns. If I could just pick a home and stop giving pieces of my love to places and people that stretch the entire globe. Nothing is central. Nothing is in one place. My life is fragmented, and perfection can never possibly exist with the contradicting experiences that I crave could somehow occur simultaneously.
But at least the music temporarily transports me back to my first homes. If not to hug my friends and family in person, at least the music can give a proxy of their comfort.
Merry Christmas Eve. Today I flew away from one of the most incredible weeks of the year and landed back to where I started in India: Pune. To fly on Christmas Eve from a chilly place to a warm sunny place is definitely an unexpected energy, but somehow I ended up at the Indian version of a Christmas market, so some holiday spirit has been restored. No matter how cringey the Christmas music covers were, any jingle bell is enough to sweeten my heart.
One night in Rishikesh
Overnight bus. India understands how sleeper buses should work. You actually get a bed. No half-reclined attempts at turning a chair into a resting place. Just a slab of mattress and a blanket, too. Very nice. The auto driver smokes a joint while stuffing a stack of people in the vehicle. He stares ahead, focused, at least.
Walking through the hilled region at dawn. Trying to find sunrise, but the trees breathe too much mist of this to be possible. That is okay. I see monkeys nesting in the trees instead. A first, for me, actually and very touching indeed. The stray dogs here are the loveliest. So sweet. So chonnkky.
Mittens on and chai. Yum.
We sit by the river. The Ganga River (Ganges to Westerners, and to Stephanie who misspeaks: Ganja). Closer to the glacier origination, the water here is creamy blue. Still polluted, though.
We cafe hop, stuff our faces with curry, wander wander wander. Over the bridge and back again. Monkeys!
Night. Sleep. Rest.
Morning. Eat. Search for monkeys. Sit by the river. Amazed at the luxury and luck to end up here.
Momos. Eat them all. Seriously. Never enough.
One last chai and back to the bus. No sleep bus this time. Only mediocre reclines. But it’s okay. My soul is warm. I open my eyes in the night and only see white ahead of me. Fog. Dense, dense fog (smog).
Back to Delhi.
