Date: A very hot 9th of May, 2013
Place: Chandigarh, North India
Today is my last day. As the Head of the India Division. So many years I have been here. Now – it is time to leave. I write this sitting in an office that I built – sort of like “This is the house that Jack built.” Remember –the Mother Goose poem where the dog terrorized the cat that killed the rat that ate the malt in the house that Jack built!
I shall leave for Austin tomorrow. My other country. The technology hub of Texas with rolling hills and live music. Series of international flights, glassy-eyed attendants, leathery omelets, eyebrows puffy with static, achy shoulders and I shall be back.
I sit at a large cherry desk with an enormous glass center. I look at my reflection on the speckled glass. My lipstick caked on the vertical cracks on my lips. When did my lips get wrinkles?
Tomorrow – I have to leave. I think. Tomorrow – I cannot crank open the gray blinds and see the train lines in the eastern corner. The morning express passing by, gaining momentum as it crosses the gully full of shadowy green waters and mislaid egrets. I feel like those airborne trapeze artists, reaching the end of one ladder and letting go.
The peon opens the glass and aluminum door. He holds a red mug with a Le Corbusier fish etching. He looks sad. I take sips of the hot instant coffee and tell him everything will be alright.
People come in throughout the day. Young professionals who started fresh out of school. We laugh and talk about the impossible working conditions we braved, mistakes we made, and relationships we forged and released into the greater world.
Memories are full of energy.
India has given me a headiness I never knew.
Evening comes quickly. Shadows fall across the mango trees in the horizon. I collect a few of my memorabilia strewn around. A jade Buddha in repose, a marble coaster with pink inlaid stones, a couple of photos of a cricket match. I touch the smooth green leaves of the potted ficus and say goodbye. I run my fingers over the spotlessly clean credenza and feel the pliant elegance of the wood. I look at the Tahitian girls by Gauguin – a reprint I had hung in the early days.
I switch off the light and exit my office. I throw a glance at the long hall with blue and gray workstations – rows and rows. I feel a strange kind of lightness. I choose not to take the elevator. As I walk down the gray concrete stairs, I feel I am crossing over an invisible yet distinct threshold. An old Elton John favorite blows into my head suddenly.
Goodbye doesn’t mean it has to be the end, …And I have a feeling we will meet again, When we return to Paradise
The air in the basement smells of fried onions and cumin. I can hear the crows cawing somewhere far away.
Goodbye India – my land of love and longing.
