Miracle in blue

When victory or defeat in sports leads to tears, you know you have been emotionally drained. Today was one such day. Since I woke up at 7.30, I had only one thought in my head: Will they or will they not?. The answer, after 9 hours of torturous wait, was one that thrust me into a state of ecstasy. Chelsea beat Barcelona. David had finally beaten Goliath. The ebb and flow of those 2 hours of football was nothing less than a roller-coaster ride.

This day will live in my memory for ages and beyond. I’ve always loved an underdog. And when the underdog is your favorite team, and has caused a great upset, the connection between you and your team evolves to something beyond mere fandom. A poignant affection, which caused you to fall in love with the club in the first place, resurfaces. It’s a glorious feeling when your emotional investment is thoroughly rewarded. Here’s hoping for many more such days!

Cascades - A Collection of Photos

View from the crossover bridge

The hike gets steeper

Bridge by accident

Looks like there's a network of these 'bridges'...

Streams finding its way through the rocks

Natural Precision

More gushing..

...splashing.

Straight out of the Lord Of The Rings set

Over time...

Through the tiny creeks

Largest of them all

A glimpse

Voila!

The last things she said were the first I heard

"You have to believe me.", she said, talking into her phone. I was waiting for my bus back home when I heard her say this. On her left hand was a half-burnt cigarette. The wind spread the strong stench of the cigarette my way. She wore a milk white dress with red dots lining the borders of her cuff. Hair tied in a bun. She looked, I daresay, defeated. I am not very sure why I felt that way, but if you were there, you would have felt the same too. It could have been a failed attempt at love(not everyone has their way with love), failure to love, or the worst kind: failure in life. Yes, there is a difference between 'at love' and 'to love'. Huge one at that. You just need to give it a context.

Her eyes looked tired, not the kind of tiredness induced by lack of sleep; this was different. One that is materialized due to a lack of being understood. It happens. You have been there, I have too. I wish I knew what her issue was. I couldn't have done anything about it though. Because unless you magically become that person, you can never have a proper understanding of their predicament, and without that understanding, you can accidentally end up doing more harm than good. But not knowing what her issue killed me. Then all of a sudden, she shot a glance at me, we eyeballed each other for a second. Was she reading my mind? I didn't look away. There was no need to. I was curious as to what those eyes said. That's the beauty with eyes: they always speak the truth (numbers do too). But I could see nothing in her eyes that suggested pain. Or otherwise. 


Two minutes later, she lit another cigarette and was puffing away. And I went back to the Fat Old Sun.

When different cultures came together: International Street Fair

Irish, Brazilians, Persians, Japanese, Arabs. All of them and many more were present at the International Street Fair today. An exhibition of vibrant colors. A Gala, if you may. Each country had their individual stalls that showcased their country's tradition in fine fashion. Ranging from delicacies to rare traditional items. Trying ever so hard to impress the passer-by. And they succeeded too. I must say that it was tremendously hard to look past certain stalls.

The diversity of people, both, took me by great surprise, and interested me greatly. For one, I clearly underestimated the number of Arabs on my campus. For a little while, I thought I was in the middle of Hala Febrayer celebrations in Kuwait. Wherever I turned, I spotted people in Keffiyehs. Some even turned up in their dishdashas! I loved it. 

This diversity heightened the need to associate with your own culture. You either stuck to your culture or risked being left alone. Sans identity. And I had a culture to fall back on, one that I could call my own. Usually, I don't talk to people about my culture unless a topic pops up, but today, all of a sudden, there I was, going on and on about my culture. Conversing with a stranger about my culture without even being asked to. I didn't care. There was a lot of pride at stake today.

***

Caribbean Steel Drums 

(All rights belong to Arnab)

There was a choreographed dance to a Bollywood mash-up, which I thought was quite nicely done. The whistling and howling after the performance gave a true indication of how many Indians were present. What's a celebration without a Bollywood dance and some loud desi-style whistling eh? 

After the Bollywood love, came my most favorite performance of the day. A band that played Irish trad to perfection. I found a good vantage point to view this performance. Couldn't miss it. I don't know the name of the track was played, but it didn't matter to me. The music was transcending, even amid the clamor of the crowd. The fiddle, banjo and accordion were the only instruments that I spotted. They combined to produce magic. It was magic. As if that wasn't enough, it was followed by an Irish Set Dance.  Needless to say, that left me out of breath. And no, I am not exaggerating. 

***

There was Baklava too at the Turkish stall, priced at a ridiculous 5 dollar per cube. And then, at the Iranian stall, my friend and I, tried this drink called Saffron Sharbat - a mixture of sugar, rose water, saffron and ice. It was refreshing. And brought back certain memories associated with Rose Water. Yes, even a simple drink has the potential to unearth old memories/desires. 

To sum up the day in one word: Success. 

A creamy cupcake holding Syrian and Mali flags

***

It is twenty minutes past three. And all I hear is my neighbors playing some good music, some really groovy music, some not so good music.  I guess when you have enough alcohol in your system, most music sounds good. She did play Gotye's Somebody That I used To Know, though. A hundred times at least. 

But it's chai for me now, as I resume on my adventure with a certain Mr. Holden Caufield, after a week's suspension. Sleep has to wait it's turn.