Someday Soon

“This is not a date.”

“I never said it was.”

“The candles are scaring me. It makes it feel all too romantic.” Morris said as he pushed the candles towards me and pushed himself against the banquette so he was as far away from the candles as he could be.

I blew out the candles and smiled. “There, feel better now? You have nothing to worry about.”

He let down his guard a little and started talking about his latest project at work. He was back in town for a visit and decided to call me up, much to my surprise. Morris and I were lovers ages ago, for many years. Sad to say, I have never truly gotten over him. 

We had our coffee and desserts, actually let me rephrase that, I was taking as long as I could to finish my cake because I knew when it was finished, he would want to leave. Seconds turned into minutes and minutes into hours.

Morris looked at my empty plate and said, “Alright, let’s go.”

I nodded and looked out the window, thinking how much I would dread the end of our encounter.

We left the restaurant and walked to our cars. We got to mine, and without hesitation he said, “Good night.” 

I looked at him, and recognized that conscience stricken demeanour right away. He regretted calling and rekindling old fires. 

“Good night.” We hugged briefly and separated. 

I got into my car and watched him wearily as he faded into the mist of the night. I thought to myself; I wish I could, I wish could just walk away without thinking, happy. I wish I could come and just go, as I wish. I wish I was the one who could make love to a different person each time without care or consequence. But instead, I am compelled to follow love faithfully. Instead, I am easily moved and often hurt, ending up like a shadow tucked away in the corner, where one forgets, where no one visits. I wish to rise with the sun and dry away all my tears; leave my cold behind, and return me to Spring, someday soon.

December Rain

Peter always loved the sound of the rain. As a child he lived in a house with huge, wide windows. Whenever it rained, he would climb the chair next to the window to watch the rain and to place his ears against the windows so he could listen.

Today, it was raining when he woke up. He had fallen asleep on the couch by the piano. He walked towards the window, watching the rain paint gentle slashes across the window glass. He made a circle to wipe away the window fog, and pressed his ears up against the window. He couldn’t hear anything this time. He tried listening again, even more intently. Not a sound. In disbelief, he pushed open the window, stepped onto the window ledge and leaped out. He felt himself lifted up; he was floating upwards towards the sky, through the soft clouds. Once above the clouds, he found himself drifting through the foggy air towards a distant but distinct figure. He couldn’t quite figure out who he was. Then, he saw it was Igor Stravinsky, a young Stravinsky in his thirties.

Peter was stumped for words. He stood in front of the great maestro Stravinsky; staring blankly at him. Stravinsky shot him a firm and steady gaze and said,” Let’s play.”

Peter opens his eyes. It is raining. He had fallen asleep on the couch by the piano. He walks towards the window, watching the rain paint with slashes of water across the window glass. He makes a circle to wipe away the window fog, and presses his ears up against the window. And he can hear Stravinsky orchestrating the rain, first a gentle rhythm, then a rapid change with the rain beating down hard on the pavement, followed by staccato raindrops falling from the eaves onto the metallic top of the car below. He smiles a smile of relief; he sits down on his piano and starts playing frantically on the piano again, infused with newfound passion. He will be ready for his comeback performance as concert pianist with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. 

It had better rain that day, because then he would know Stravinsky's listening.

The Shop Keeper

On a mild winding sloped street at the foot of the mountains in Lhasa, Tibet, the shop keeper sits slouched on a stool with feeble legs and stares sadly at the passer-bys that pass his tiny shop. He sells a wide variety of souvenir trinkets, knick-knacks and laminated pictures of the Dalai Lama on a street where trekkers must pass on their way to the mountains.

This shopkeeper is an old man, with heavy lined wrinkles on his face. Business has been progressively worse ever since shops had sprung up all along the street selling similar items at lower prices. Furthermore, these young Tibetan shopkeepers had much more in common with these mostly young tourists; they carried with them an air of confidence and could also speak enough English, German, French, Chinese and Japanese to develop a rapport with them tourists.

The old shopkeeper had longed given up on trying to keep up with warm genuine smiles and patient hospitality. He couldn’t speak nor understand their language. He couldn’t lower his prices anymore. He stayed open as late as there were trekkers. But still he had barely made enough from what he sold for the last three months. He was at the end of his tethers.

But today, a young tourist sitting outside a teahouse across the street from the old shopkeeper was watching the old man sitting slouched in the corner of his shop, staring sadly at the passer-bys who passed by his shop onto the others, as if his shop was invisible, as if he was invisible.

Then an idea came over the tourist, who happened to be a calligraphy artist. He immediately took out his drawing pad and calligraphy pens from his bag and started writing.

After an hour, he walked over to the old shopkeeper, joined his fingers and centered them at his chest and said, “Namaste”.

The old shop keeper looked up; and smiled a wide toothless smile. “Namaste”, the old shopkeeper stood up and returned the Tibetan greeting with another and a bow. Then, as if they were both conductors of their own symphonies, they started pointing and gestured with their hands as they bargained over prices for the items, smiling and making playful faces of disapproval of the selling prices at each other. Finally, the tourist bought a couple of meditation beads and the Dalai Lama’s pictures. After he paid, he took out his drawing pad and placed it among the shopkeeper’s items. He gestured a thumbs up and pointed to the pad several times, bid farewell to the shopkeeper and left.

The shopkeeper looked at the pad, he had no idea what was written on it, but kept it in the same place in case the man returned and wanted it back. Something strange happened after that day, the shopkeeper’s business picked up sevenfold. He couldn’t understand why. The universe seemed to have set itself right for him. It hadn’t occurred to him that the content of the drawing pad had been the reason. On it was scripted - 

These Spiritual Window Shoppers

These spiritual window-shoppers, 

who idly ask, 'How much is that?' Oh, I'm just looking. 

They handle a hundred items and put them down, 

shadows with no capital. 

What is spent is love and two eyes wet with weeping. 

But these walk into a shop, 

and their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment, 

in that shop. 

Where did you go? "Nowhere." 

What did you have to eat? "Nothing much." 

Even if you don't know what you want, 

buy something, to be part of the exchanging flow. 

Start a huge, foolish project, 

like Noah. 

It makes absolutely no difference 

what people think of you. 

-- Rumi, 'We Are Three', Mathnawi VI, 831-845

Date

I went on a date the other night. I had chatted this fine looking chick up at an art gallery opening of a business acquaintance. She was looking at an O’Keeffe painting; I figured I knew enough about O’Keeffe to strike up a conversation. And it worked. It turned out she was working in another art gallery.

I put on my Armani Exchange ensemble, one I usually wear on first dates, buttoned up sports blazer, pressed white shirt and pants. Polished Hugo boss shoes, three whiffs of the bloody cologne. All set.

I wasn’t too inventive on this one; I had suggested watching an art film, ‘Music of Bueno Aires’ to continue along the line of the art gallery encounter. I picked up the tickets, and waited outside the theatre. Leaning against the stone façade, one foot backed against the wall James Dean style, catching up with the news from my Blackberry. Looking to the sides of the street only occasionally; I wanted to appear nonchalant when she showed up.

Whoops. There’s my date. She bobbles when she walks; up and down like one of those glass bottles you see bobbling on the surface of the ocean. I wondered to myself if it was because of her choice of shoes, or was it an idiosyncrasy?

“Hey Charlotte.” I smiled.

“Hey, you.” Charlotte smiled back somewhat nervously as she pecked me on my cheeks.

I studied her quickly one more time before we went into the dark theatre. Five seven, perky boobs, small round buttocks and long legs. She reminded me a little of Heather Graham. Not bad, I thought to myself.

The film was fantastic. It told the story of the evolution of tango music as a popular and important cultural and artistic symbol of Argentina and South America.

After the film ended, we headed to a nearby Italian restaurant for dinner and on the way exchanging our reviews of the film. I noticed another idiosyncrasy about Charlotte; she was flailing her arms excitedly as she spoke, even at the most uninspired statements, which pretty much made up most of our conversation anyways. Was it to get my undivided attention or was she drowning in her own river of awkwardness?

We sat down at the nicely lit restaurant, made our orders and while waiting for our appetizers, she asked,

“So, have you been to Argentina?”

“No, but I have been to other parts of South America.”

“Oh, like?”

“Brazil, Chile, Peru, and Venezuela.” I wondered if she would notice that I had named them in alphabetical order.

“Oh, that is cool.”

Cool. She said cool to that. I waited to see if she had something else to say. Silence. Nothing. Awkwardness.

“How about you?”

“I have never travelled out of the country before.”

“What? Why? You are thirty-five and you have never gone on a plane out of America?” The words came out of my mouth faster than my brain could order my oratory muscles to shut up.

Her face went white. The next thing I knew, she placed the napkin on the table, got up, took her bag and bobbled out of the restaurant.

I felt like a moron. I had wasted her time and mine. 

A Monk's Dilemma

The grey, cold sky hung heavily over the Nepalese landscape. The monk finishes sweeping the courtyard of the monastery after evening prayers. He looks at the worn out bristles of the broom, at his worn out robe, and sighs. The days have been unusually endless and colourless like the faded sky. 

He leaned against the wall of the exit of the monastery, staring out at the mountains. There was trouble in his heart, one torn between desire and emptiness. He closed his eyes tight shut, again the image of that beautiful woman who had been visiting the temple over the past weeks surfaced. She had been praying incessantly for her mother who had taken ill. She had poured her heart out to the heavens. Her long silky hair, her slender body, that long dress with a slit that revealed those smooth, fair legs. The tears that flowed down her porcelain face. He was moved by her beauty and her vulnerability. He wondered if they would ever meet again in another life?

Then, in his own moment of clarity and truth, he opened his eyes. Reciting from the Dhamapada, he turned back toward the monastery grounds.

Empty this boat, O bhikkhu!

When emptied, it will swiftly move

Cutting off lust and hatred

To Nibbana will you thereby go.

Be not attached to the beloved

And never with the unbeloved.

Not to meet the beloved is painful

As also to meet with the unbeloved.

Therefore hold nothing dear,

For separation from the beloved is painful.

There are no bonds for those

To whom nothing is dear or not dear.

Dhamapada (Sayings of the Buddha)

A Little About Love and Marriage

Heather observed her father with a sort of strange respect.  She knew her parents’ story best.  Her mother is in love with their family friend, Henrik, a Dutchman.  Though she refers to him casually as a “good friend”, it was obvious to her father and her that their relationship went beyond that.  The travelling alone together, the constant mention of him, and the way they looked at each other when they met, as if they were the only two people in the room.

Tonight, Henrik had just arrived for another vacation in New York. The family, by tradition was his host.   Heather’s mother, Anne was sitting next to him as they were all gathering around the fireplace at her parent’s apartment for a social discourse over wine, cheese and opera music.

Heather listened with a disinterested gaze; all she seemed to be able to pick out was her mom saying,  “Henrik this and Henrik that.”

She turned to look at her dad; a meek, elegant man who carried on him a quiet dignity.  He was looking at his wife, smiling. But Heather could see his weeping heart beneath the cheerful exterior.  She admired her dad even more at that moment; she saw in him a man brave enough to let someone he truly loves be with somebody else, never once besetting a sense of blame or betrayal on Anne.

She glanced back at her mother, a woman with a beautiful face, hair up in a classic bun, who moved about with a grace of a ballerina.  She was somehow oblivious to her husband’s pain.

Five hours later and many glasses of wine, Heather got up, bid farewell and left.  It was late. 

She walked a little, and then stood on the sidewalk, hands in her coat pockets, staring at the empty streets and empty roads.  She thought about the emptiness of her parent’s marriage; she too felt empty inside…

Family

He slumped himself on the sofa and lean back. He let out a long sigh.  Memories of his youth started streaming into his head…

“After Mom and Dad got divorced, I started to travel extensively with Dad on his business trips. We went deep into Africa, the Middle East and Asia.  We were two lonely souls manoeuvring in and out of foreign and chaotic lands, with only each other for support and security. 

Whenever we were in a new place, I found myself restless and often unable to sleep for an indefinite period of time.  Tonight, in a new bedroom in Berlin, surrounded by strange cold walls, was just such a night.  As I lay in bed staring blankly at the ceiling, thoughts of Mom’s last words with Dad before she left us started playing in my head again.

“You, Frederic, and your stubborn ideals are going to be terribly lonely.  You know that, don’t you?”  The more I travelled with Dad, the more I began to understand what she meant.

But I also understand how Dad came to be. His father, my grandfather was a prosperous and rather well-known industrialist, perhaps a tad too ambitious. Hungry for greater riches, he was an aggressive player in the stock market. All went well until the Great Depression happened. Grandpa lost his business empire and went bankrupt.  Heartbroken, he took his own life.

Almost overnight, Dad, merely eleven and the only son in the family, became the man of the house, supporting his heartbroken mother, bringing food to the table and tending to his two younger sisters. 

He became a full-blooded capitalist. Money, money, money were the only three things on his mind.          

I found myself having the same arguments my mother had with dad

“Dad, there are things money cannot buy. Things like values, integrity, ethics, truth, justice, humanity. You have to allow the non-material aspects of life to be part of life.”

“What do you know about life? What do you know about survival? I am not wasting my time on this same dense argument.  If you have nothing else to say to me, please don’t speak to me."

“Mom is so right. No wonder she left you!  You are a stubborn pig!

I ran to my room and slammed the door.  I buried my head under the pillow and wept uncontrollably, making sure Dad could not hear my cries…

Over the next few days, I made sure to leave my room and the apartment at an opportune time so as to avoid facing Dad.  Dad became a stranger in the day, and but a shadow in the night, as he made his way past my room towards his each night.

About two weeks went by.  I had begun to feel completely alienated from my dad.  Then that fateful Tuesday, October 21, in the middle of mathematics class, my German tutor Peter pulled me out.  The hospital had called the office and informed them that the father of Charles Weir, Federic Weir had been admitted into the emergency unit

As if time warped to my needs, the next thing I could remember was racing to the reception desk of the ICU, just calling Dad’s name, and spelling it, my legs were shaking; they directed me to his room.              

I saw Dad, he looked so fragile. His face was white and devoid of blood, of life.  I stood in front of him and said:

“Dad, how are you feeling?”  

Dad opened his eyes, and smiled gently, a smile I haven’t seen in years.

“Hi Charlie. I love you son. I want you to know that.”

I held Dad’s hand in mine.

“Dad, I love you too. I want you to get well soon, for you and me. Okay?”

Dad nodded his head and closed his eyes.          

The doctor said Dad had suffered a heart attack in the bathroom and collapsed. 

I was too emotional. I went into the bathroom, locked myself in the cubicle and started to cry. I banged my fists against the wall. Anger, frustration, and fear overcame me.  At that moment, I didn’t care for principles, I cared for dad and his life. Not my values, not his. I didn’t care to disagree or fight with Dad over values. I just wanted Dad to be alright. It was painful for a child to see his parent at life’s mercy, life hanging on a thread.  Fuck it all.

After three quarters of an hour, I got out.  I looked myself in the mirror, and said,” Dad is going to be alright.  He will get the best hospital, the best doctor with the best facilities.  If I had to beg, borrow or steal to get him there, I will.”

I called Mom.  She was on her way to Berlin. 

I don’t know. There are no quick answers or everlasting ideals.  When life assigns its duty to you, you assume responsibility. We’ll never know when life throws you a curveball, or what we will do or how we will react when that happens.  Life and family is a personal and precious thing. The only thing to do is to remain positive through it all. Because light is life, and I believe that light will overcome darkness. It always did and always will.

I still disagreed with Dad. But our arguments took on a different tone, they became gentler and infused with underlying love and deep respect for each other. None of that dogma and aggression. How things change when you see life’s fragility.”

A Girl Named Olef

When I turned eighteen, I was travelling in Berlin with Dad. He was an economist working for the International Monetary Fund, heading a new project in East Berlin, barely a month after the fall of the Berlin Wall; the reunification of East and West Germany. Together with the new Federal Republic of Germany, Dad, an expert in the area of economic crisis management in politically unstable nations, facilitated in a sustainable short term economic development and restructuring plan during this strange and exciting period in German history.

I must say, it was a rather surreal time to be in Berlin.

The Berlin Wall, which for so many years of has been the dividing line of two very different philosophical ways of life; the possibility that man can and must build a structure to shield himself from those close to him to upkeep his principles, came down. It came down because one ideology proved superior to the other within the tiny vacuum of the human race. It came down perhaps because man saw that he had no choice, saw that there could be a better future. All that now remains, is but a shadow of a symbol.

On the streets, there was a spirit of optimism mixed with uncertainty in the air. The youth carried on their faces a look of hunger and fierce ambition; while the older hung about them a spirit of fatigue, a lingering about their noses; nostalgia of a bygone era. People on the streets walked fast; barely making eye contact. It was an intense and emotionally charged atmosphere.

I had been spending my time with my German tutor Peter. Peter was a chipper, the type of individual, mom used to say, that “never wasted a step.”

“Peter, I want to do something different on my eighteenth birthday. Have you any ideas?”

“Ah, you, my friend, have asked the right person…”

So there I was, on the night of my birthday, inside one of the best techno clubs in Berlin. It was one of the best crowds ever. Every man and woman in the club celebrated themselves and life, with technology, music and dance. I hadn’t even drunk, but was already intoxicated with the spirit of these people. The lights intertwined with music, moving lyrically across the people and the place as if it embodied the mind of a poet. I was infused with a strange but hypnotic energy.

I closed my eyes; my mind went into a trance. I too, started to let my body move with the music. I was smiling to myself while moving. My first dose of adulthood; I was enjoying what I called ‘The Dance of Life.’ Then, my eye caught sight of a cute young lady just several metres from me. She was dancing by herself, in a soft translucent short black dress and a pair of padded black boots, resembling the type you might see on an Eskimo. She was completely at ease, and looked the perfect size for cuddling.

I started dancing again, and soon we were dancing next to each other. I looked at her.

“Hi, what is your name?”

“Olef.”

“Hi, I’m Charles.”

She waved as she smiled and gently turned her back towards me, swaying her body from side to side, like a swan just settling into the water from the land. Her movement was every bit defined and graceful. I was mesmerized. I started to observe her closely. She was fair, had a porcelain smooth oval face, delicate and well-defined features. She had smooth, shiny, soft brown hair staged in a bob style that sat around her face in perfect geometry.

“I am going to Vietnam at the end of the month.”

Her eyes sparkled, as if they were happy for me.

“Come with me to Vietnam.”

I could see her immediately deconstructing and analyzing my question inside her head. She was fascinating. She had an intensity of Berlin.

“Can I have your number?”

She looked at me earnestly, and then looked away on the floor.

“So, you want to come? I mean it!” I was serious, already beginning to figure out ways to let my dad agree to this madness if she said yes.

She shook her head. “I would if I could. But I can’t right now.”

“And why not?”

Tears started rapidly rolling down her porcelain cheeks. She pointed to her heart, and looked straight into my eyes.

“It’s broken because I believe in love. I’ll always believe in love. But still I’ll have to fix this broken heart, or it will never be able to contain this deep love that I know of.”

She kissed me on my cheek, squeezed my hand, and then walked away.

The month ended, I left for Vietnam. I never saw her again. I grew up, and became an economist, just like Dad.

Countless relationships and many years later, I saw Olef on television as a newscaster on CNN International. She was just as beautiful and mystical as she was then. She maintained that distant look in her eyes.

I don’t know why. Even now, I often think about her. I was a young man then, but deep inside I knew that if the event of that night had turned out differently, I would have allowed myself to fall in love with Olef. It wouldn’t have lasted, we were both too young for anything serious and committed. But I was drawn to her. I felt it then and I felt it now.  I found it ironic, that just as the Berlin Wall came down, that Berliners like Olef had put her own walls up.

When I tell this story people always ask, how can you miss someone you don’t really know? When we allow our natural feelings to wander free. It is often a dangerous path to tread; that is why people practice so much caution. But if we tread that path and succeed, we are able to become ever more alive, ever more elevated with one another; therein lies logic yet explained. I believe in the possibility of a never-ending supply of love.

Ulrich & Me

Kathmandu International Airport
I stood at the center of the arrival gate, scanning anxiously through the crowd; peoples of all shape and sizes behind the guard rails, waiting for their arrivals. My heart was pounding. Where is Ulrich? We haven’t seen each other for nine years. Had he changed much? Had I changed much to him? Then, a familiar cheeky whistle resounded to my left. I turned, and there was Ulrich! Sunglasses propped up over his tousled hair, revealing a set of thick eyebrows that framed his bright blue eyes within his angular face. He was flashing me his trademark impish dimpled smile.

“Uzi!”

Brushing through the blurry crowd, I ran towards him and jumped into his open arms. He returned my enthusiasm with an embrace so tight I had to grasp for my breath. Finally we pulled apart and faced each other. His twinkling eyes met my teary eyes – we seemed to have gone back in time, to when we were just kids; carefree in our innocence, helpless to our emotions and oblivious to the world when impulse took over.

“Ahhh, look at you, look at you, and look at you!” My small chin cupped between his warm hands. “Come’ on. Let’s head out. We have a lot to do.”

We stepped outside. The sun was just setting in the horizon. Everything around us tinted with shades of gold from the sun’s rays. What a sight. To indulge our senses further, I reached into my jacket, took my cigarette case out and popped a cigarette into my mouth while offering one up to him. He let out a huge sigh of relief at the sight of one and playfully snatched it from me. The sun made her exit as we stood watching her transform into twilight, all in a cigarette minute.

Ulrich and I grew up in the same town – a small but bustling town rooted in a spirit of community and enterprise. Neighbours were cordial and supportive of each other, but also gave each other their privacy. It was a friendly sort of town, I must say.

The kids in this town ironically, weren’t quite as amicable. Kids often hung out in groups; where membership was exclusive and open only to those who fit into their construct. Uzi didn’t care for these groups; while I was an outcast. Let me explain.

Uzi’s family, which comprise of his mother and father were liberal folks who loved people and often held evening dinner parties in the front yard for the neighbours. Uzi was like his father: nonchalant, witty and worldly with an endearing youthfulness. He always hung out with the adults. I had seen him sipping wine on some of these evening affairs. Uzi wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense, but he had a kind of unique and boyish face. His athleticism won him the admiration of the boys and stirred the imagination of just about every budding dame ready to blossom.

I, on the other hand, had a pleasantly cute face. However, it was offset by an eye disease that occurred when I was three, by which I had to wear thick plastic glasses. I also started to develop a somewhat strange facial expression. I would squint my eyes and pucker my face every time I needed to concentrate my view upon anything over thirty metres. My personality at that time started to develop around this physical condition. I became shy and reticent, avoiding contact with other kids and any rigorous physical activity. It was also for this reason that I became a target of much taunting. Loud kids hounded quiet kids.

I had been getting my weekly dose of bullying for several months now. After school, kids would catch insects and put them in a box. Once a week, they would wait for me along my route home from school, round me to a corner and drop the insects all over me as I whimpered quietly. On one of these days, Uzi passed by and saw what happened. He let them finish their ritual; then called them over. They disappeared behind some bushes. I never found out what had been said or done, but that was the last time the kids picked on me. Instead, the next week, Uzi was waiting in the usual spot, with a bicycle. I put my head down as I passed him, peeping cautiously sideways for any attack.

“Hey there” Uzi called out “Need a ride?”

Well, the rest is history. As if under a magic spell, we connected, and became fast and steady friends. Years went by. Life drifted us to greater distances apart. Different schools, different cities, new people and new experiences. But we always kept each other informed of our lives. Firsts, the crazy people we met, just about anything funny and interesting under the sun. He became a photographer for a major design book publishing house. I started to re-design my physical construct, and in that process also became an industrial designer, for new technological consumer products. We led busy, urban lives.

Then, three months ago, in the middle of the night, I received a call from Uzi.

“Hello?”

“How’s it going, kiddo?”

“Who is this?”

“Take a freaking guess, love"

“Is this Uzi?”

“Good guess.”

“Uzi! How are you?! What’s doing? I haven’t heard from you since you were in London. Must you always call so late?!”

“Hah. Take it easy, chick. Hey, I am in a rest house in the Gobi Desert. Can you believe it?! I met desert people, not excluding beautiful exotic women born of the desert. The folks here keep camels like the folks in suburbia keep dogs. But listen, I am heading out to the Himalayas next. I want you to meet me there.”

The Himalayas
And here we are, in Nepal, embarking on our Himalayan trekking adventure. Our main goal is to ascend Poon Hill. We had chosen to trek in November, about a month after the monsoon season, when the weather is often most optimal. Jampa, a Nepalese, is our trek guide. Our route started from Nayapul, to Tikhe Dhungha, Ghorepani, then to Poon Hill. We covered about fifteen kilometres each day. The weather was kind to us. Every now and then the sun disappears behind a mountain peak, by which the temperature drops rather drastically. But aside from that, we had clear skies and beautiful weather. Our trek was fantastic. We passed along forests, waterfalls, valleys and lakes. By the first day, I felt convinced then that a human being can only do themselves justice to experience nature of this magnitude face-to-face, and no way else. Every night, we would set up tent. Jampa would start a campfire, and we’d sit around the fire for dinner and long conversations with Jampa, mainly about the Himalayas, Nepalese tradition and culture. Jampa was a seasoned guide, and conversed with us in heavily accented English. He had a face and skin that was rugged like the mountains. We never asked, but we figured he’d be in his late thirties. He told us many stories; there was one about the myriad of ways his mother used to invent for cooking yak meat and how they’d still taste the same to him because all they had was salt for seasoning. There was still another about an ‘eccentric’ European trekker with big, bright red hair that he thought was a fur hat and wondered why he was always washing his hat instead of his hair. Jampa quickly became our cool mountain friend.

On the sixth day, just before sunset, we ascended to the top of Poon Hill. The sun, viewed from a certain position revealed an unobstructed view of the peaks of the Himalayan Mountains. To be surrounded by beauty like this, was extremely touching. I sucked in every ounce of air as far and deep as my lungs could take and shouted to the mountains,

“WOOOOOOO.”I was filled with joy.

I turned around and looked at Ulrich. He was sitting with his left leg stretched straight, right leg bent, with arms on right knee. He was staring out at the mountains, smiling. The sun was gentle. His hair caught the rays, and played off his dark sand beige hair. He had an unusually serene expression.

“Uzi?” I went over and sat next to him.

“Hmm, love?”

I slapped his thigh in jest. “How have you been, man? We’ve been so focused on this mountain we haven’t really caught up with each other. What’s been happening?”

Then, I caught a strange look in his eyes. They seem to look old and sad all of a sudden.

“Well, I, I haven’t got much time left. I am at the terminal stage of prostrate cancer. I am going to die sometime soon kiddo. That is why I wanted to make it up here. It is one of the few places I wanted to visit before I die.”

With that, he kissed me gently on my cheek, smiled slightly and laid calmly down on the rock, returning his gaze into the mountains. It was so matter-of-fact. He didn’t even seem to ponder about the heaviness of what he had just said. But I felt that there was no other way to tell someone you were going to die. That night, we hugged each other closely to sleep. The starry sky was our blanket. We kissed for the first time; for the longest time ever. It was a beautiful kiss; one borne not out of animal desire but of spirit; of friendship, understanding, honesty and sadness.

6 months later

Uzi had always brought me to places I’d never thought I would go. This time, he has brought me to his final resting place. Tears welled up in my eyes. “Dear Ulrich, I will always remember you. And I will always love you. So long Ulrich.”

Love, Actually

She looked up; her eyes deeply searching, brows furrowed - as if all of mankind’s perplexing questions had gathered themselves at the tip where the brows meet.

He looked up; his eyes transfixed, on her. That day, they both discovered magic - in the space between him and her, love happened.

He thought to himself, “May what I have to give transform into something beautiful in your mind”. He wanted to ask ”Will you dance the dance of love with me? Take my hand, let’s begin.”

It was the kind of ethereal connection, made possible only by the exact moment when two souls meet, having been stripped of all worldly pretensions. The kind of beauty that if one is lucky enough, sees of two kids sitting side by side on the light sandy beach continuing into the ocean, one’s arm around the other’s shoulder, watching the sun set while sharing a maple syrup stick. Where the sand ends and their feet began, the world in all its beauty was one.

The elevator settled at last on the floor – she, along with rest of them, streamed out. He smiled weakly to himself - watching her disappear from his horizon, as the elevator door closed quietly between them.

"What did I know, what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?" (Hayden, Those Winter Sundays)