Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence

I am just speeding through moments, breaths, flickers and clamor, barely brushing the surface and soiling my clothes in the process. The war against time feels like an embarrassment right now, seeing how I’m being tossed around like a rag doll. And all the while, I seem to be waiting to catch some sickness that’s always floating in the air here so that I can celebrate it in solitude, gather my ideas, channel my dissatisfaction and focus. Sounds like a toast to acute pharyngitis and lung infection and blood-streaked sputum.

Heavy drugs are giving me strange, recurring dreams. One is the old sequence of a hand tossing noodles relentlessly, inches from my face while I try to discern the sounds of a familiar house. This alternates with a sunset on a languid muddy river, where a small boat sways and I’m lying on my back eating an apple. I sometimes see myself back in a well-lived image, see the very friendly trees rising from a ground covered in brown and yellow leaves, silent and pacifying in those autumn noons. And then I have some horribly addictive ending to it all – perhaps I get frozen while the picture falls through into an abyss. Or some other kind of crash.

Change is seething within me once again. The need for it is rising in a familiar rush from every root that drives perception. I did not imagine it would come so soon, but I find myself better prepared each time it happens. There’s a reason for this. I’ve spent much of the past years, by chance or choice, struggling to adapt to changes. This feeling of restlessness would then go unrecognized, parceled off as a by-product of the struggle. Now, when I landed into a coveted slot and find myself thriving with little effort, this unease emerges in a new light. It’s not really a need to change the present, it’s a need to change. Ah, well. Simply, it’s not born of dissatisfaction with what I do, it’s a call to move on despite the goodness of what’s right now. It means I am becoming fast friends with the hippie in me who was till now a welcome, but sporadic, distraction. And the wanderlust is roaring for highways, dirt trails, lost-to-sight grounds and tranquil lakes. Yet it’s not simply a craving for idle tramping and breakaways. The change is not just an individual need. It’s fast becoming my sehnsucht. More of this later.

Fortunately, I’m so deep in the quagmire of practical decisions that I don’t have to worry about being rudderless. When I emerge, it’ll be a smooth transit and not a snap like those in the past. Till then, small, naughty dents of whimsical escapes should do.

Again, it’s amazing how happy I feel just by venting off the top of my head, by saying nothing, really, in so many words. But this is important, believe you me.

Blah. Time for pills.

P.S: As for the title, I've reverted again to the more-or-less static obsession with the 80's. I was listening to New Order and this one's stuck in my head as usual.

The good, simple kibbutz life is getting a hold on me. Unlike the aggressive spell cast by bigger, thriving cities, this is a net of vines with yellow leaves, the texture of pebbles in dry soil left on the feet after a long walk, the smell of pine needles and night flowers, and the comfort of silence. Silence as I have rarely known.

I am lying on this uneven bed, watching the dance of tiny rainbows on the wall, thrown there by a crystal dangling on the window. The position of time on the sidelines does help in bringing a lot of things in perspective. Movement of one day into night, all the days and nights behind me take a different meaning. I am beginning to value a lot of things more than I did before, and decisions are being tempered steadily in me. And all this, while I contemplate a late lunch and a walk thereafter. Life is fuller, effortlessly, in the absence of too much life around me.

Our meals are cooked with a sudden spurt of enthusiasm or lazy and famished efforts. Always with a sprinkling of love, with a shared acceptance of the will to do and the need sometimes not to. Naps get extended, pauses between book-reading stretch into long minutes. Silence is a rare commodity; even rarer is to find it in absolute comfort between people, with minimal shifting of positions. There’s ample space for all I need in this tiny home I am beginning to love so dearly.

I am coming to realize the full extent of my sensitivity. The numb coatings of the mad race I've been running now come off with a touch, with the vapors of rosemary leaves, with the break-out from my thoughts to find nothing has changed. I am being stripped naked, washed clean. Everything – the quaint tractors that transport children around, the rows of saplings in the nursery compound, a rusted bicycle and a discarded sofa, the green dunes lining the streets – they all leave an impression on my mind that I know will last. I sniff like a dog at the smell of earth getting heated by woodfire, I close my eyes and listen to the singing, whistling sap that fizzes out of twigs, I devour its smell, mixed with smoked sweet potatoes and coconut milk and pita discs gently roasted. Berto is taking eager bites of the sausage in my hand. I let myself be dazzled by the sharp pinpoints of starlight in the ink-blue sky as I stand on the edge of the hill, then look down at the straightened necklace of city-lights in the distance. I shudder in the cold wind, coveting the blanket that’s wrapped around her. Every spark shooting up from the fire holds meaning in the brief moment it has to emphasize itself against the darkness before it fades into ash.

I have never before known with such clarity why “life is beautyfull.”

Then, past the granite dunes on my left, I see the magnificent sea – breathtakingly blue, calming even when it clashes and breaks into milky froth on the black rocks. So close, I feel like extending my arm and color it blue. In the distance, the water diffuses into emerald, shimmering in the sunlight. Pure. On my right, hills stretch a dark green curtain as if blocking this visual from an evil eye. The city of Haifa is sprawled on the slopes, basking in deflected sunrays. The inner turbulence is reaching a crescendo, but my senses are feasting on the special favors nature has bestowed on this city of the north.

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Walking the steep slopes of the city brings back an old familiar feeling to my feet. I am, at the end of everything, a hill boy. The clean air, the gradual movements of daylight, the way the city noises lose themselves quickly… My feet now relish the stress on the calf muscles when trudging up and the pressure on the muscles of the shin when coming down. In the depth of the city, discovering a spice store and the streets smelling of fruits – I am in the middle of quiet life similar to another very well known. Must be something in the air of all the hills and mountains of the world. Life is placated, tamed and so happy.

The magnificent sprawl of Baha’i gardens yawns above me – purple, red, yellow, blue and pink blooms on a canvas of neat green. Right ahead is the sea. No one can miss the strikingly European ambience of this promenade lined on both sides with tiny cafes and eateries, and punctuated by rows of trees. These are the German quarters, now restored to become an entertainment district. Say, a lunch of hummus and a huge salad with fried goat cheese.

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We descended from the hill down an uneven path, walking mostly in silence in the floating dusk. She wanted to show me her thinking perch of years past. A lost dog was yelping on a distant slope. The desolate tower glowed pink that hour. The whistle of wind and the faint crashing of waves were the only sounds (except the dog’s bark, of course).

The white paint was peeling off the rails on the deck where I leaned. Below me, a sheer drop of about 200 feet.

Have you ever seen sunlight split into rays we so casually talk about? The sea was still restless, disturbing the orange flood like a naughty child. The wind messed with my hair (too too long, it was in my eyes and nose and mouth). I groped for her hand, drew her close. I was thinking of countless evenings spent in search of the right moment, the fitting shade.

The sun never sets perfectly. There’s always one flaw, at least one tempering of the serenity that looks all set to reveal itself. Till the last moment. We are always one step removed from perfection, one stride too far from achieving the bliss of having achieved.

In this case, it faded too soon. And the dog never stopped yelping.

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Haifa is beautiful. That’s why it’s so tough to write much on it. It is a place to lower your guard, the mantle of stress, and just bask – on the hill, on the beach, in the lush gardens or in a café along the streets. I still feel like a cauldron inside, bubbling and disturbed. But this stunning port city takes my mind off me every now and then.

The day, though sunny, feels promising. Last night, the snores of the South African runaway real-estate broker sleeping next to me gave me a disturbed night. But it’ll pass. I’m running a bit low on cash, so broke fast with fresh bread bought from a street vendor. It’s mildly sweet and smells wonderful. The last breakfast? I chew.

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The Western Wall of the city is a revered place for Jews. A site of mourning for the repeated destruction of the Temple, it embraces sorrow for centuries of oppression, invasions, destructions and unrest. Lament is the easiest route to one’s spiritual grail. The Wailing Wall is stoic enough to withstand trillions of teardrops. It is the Prevailing Wall.

Today being Shabbat is special. I see hundreds of devotees (mourners?) leaning in unison on the impassive stone. There is a swarm of security officers, uniformed and plainclothes, speckling the black-and-white of religion with blue-and-gray of mute strength. I’m asked not to click pictures.

On my left is the exit that’ll take me to Via Dolorosa. Just beyond the compound, I can make out the Dome of the Rock, splendid in late morning sun. Masjid Qubbat As-Sakhrah, or Kipat Hasela. The rock in question forever in dispute between the three children of this religious cradle. The last site for Mohammed to leave the earth? Abraham’s ultimate testing place? Constantine’s church? I am standing in the vortex of beliefs. It’s all peace and quiet, broken only by faint chants, children’s laughter and a soft buzz of conversation.

Yellow stones stare back at me. The wind whistling through the compound hurls a challenge to me – decipher me, claim me.

I excuse myself before I am swayed.

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Walking the Road of Suffering

It’s hard to picture the last walk of Jesus along this street lined with stores selling jewels, stone carvings and embroidered clothes. I try to obliterate this visual contrast by staring hard at the ground below. Here must have walked a procession, with the cross-bearer in the center. I’m trying to read stories off uneven stone blocks littered with cigarette stubs.

A kid interrupts me.

“Hello! This fifth station. There four three two one. You go up.. seven eight,” he recites, rocking on a plastic chair at the intersection.

So, this indistinguishable junction marks the fifth fall of Christ. I follow the directions given to me. Up the stairs, past the seventh station marked by a small shrine. This time, an Arab standing beside it guides me on.

The walk is pleasant, though I am accosted periodically by shopkeepers eager to make first sales of the day. History descends on me again, only to be blown away by commerce. Spirituality is nowhere near me.

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Church of the Holy Sepulchre

Via Dolorosa culminates in the Golgotha – the site denoting the burial and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The massive stone structure that faces me could be an old school building - anything but a church from outside.

Inside the arched entrance, the contrast is severe. The cool draft from the cavernous chambers hits me after the dry heat outside. The echoes are hushed and the light is diffused after entering from windows high up near the ceiling and bouncing off dulled gold surfaces. The soft glow of candles reflects on the contemplative faces of pilgrims lined around the central shrine.

I’m sitting just outside the Treasure Room on a wobbly wooden bench. Giant oil paintings of Jesus being taken off the cross and anointed adorn the walls. The vividly painted fresco on the domed ceiling shows the Son of God peering down (curiously, I think) on those that bow down in reverence for him. The silence is unsettling.

The altars, the out-of-use stone staircases and the marble flooring are coated with silence. The yells of unquiet history are muted here.

But it can take your breath away.

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Half a day’s attempt at religious comprehension and I’m tired. It evades me.

I escape the Old City once again to tramp uphill-downhill through the settlement beyond the walls.

And now I am back in the Arab quarters in another coffeehouse. Ishmael, the owner, readily joins me for a chat. Upon learning where I am from, he is positively beaming. He insists on brewing me an Indian “chaee” as he calls it, even though it’s not on the menu. So I am treated to well-made tea with buttered bread on the side. He is inquisitive about everything from Amitabh Bachchan to Kashmir, and I try to answer whatever I can in a way I hope will be within his comprehension. But I can’t be normal when he asks if the rumors of Aishwarya’s divorce with Abhishek are true. Jesus (you’re near!), help me here. I didn’t know that.

He introduces me to his friends who drop by frequently, now to light a cigarette then to serve a customer. I ask him about Jerusalem. He responds with monosyllables and a lot of smiles. He then produces a miniature poster of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai from his wallet. I am getting sick of this. I bid him farewell.

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In the Christian quarters, Josh acknowledges me with a smile. It’s a quiet weekend afternoon when the city exhales and the business is quiet. We’re sitting on the pavement outside his café, he’s gurgling his sheeshah and I’m nursing my coffee. I ask him the same question: What is the secret of Jerusalem? He shrugs it off in silence.

Josh, an Arab Christian, was born in Jerusalem. He’s never had the chance nor felt the need to leave the city all his 28 years on earth. He helps his lovely aunt run the small café, and is in turn helped by a whole bunch of friends who all are built like wrestlers with biceps exploding out of t-shirts and chests rippling every time they yawn. Like elsewhere in the city, life here is gentle, and business is family and fun and friendship. The sandwich I ordered is gobbled up by a friend. Josh gets up to make me another.

“You see how everyone knows everyone here?” he asks me a few hours later when I’ve deprived his fridge of the entire stock of beers. People walking past stop for a quick chat or at least a jovial wave of the hand.

I ponder this while a woman wrapped in niqab stops to let Josh play with her baby in the pram.

He takes me home for an early dinner, even offers to show me the depths of the Christian quarters but I won’t be around. These are my last hours in the city. He generously lets me take a nap in the small cot in the café upstairs.

Rest it is, then, before I squeeze my impressions for more.

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Late at night as I sit on the same stone bench near Jaffa Gate that scorched my butt yesterday morning, I breathe in the cool air blowing across the deserted streets. The shops have long dropped their shutters here and the vendor of sweet bread left a few minutes ago. While I wait for Noga to pick me up, I revel for a few minutes in the flitting shadows from cars’ headlights on the stones.

I started a love affair with Jerusalem and I hate leaving it incomplete. Incomplete stories bring unrest beyond endurance. My only consolation is in the promise I make to myself, bent low near the lamppost: I will return soon. For reasons more than one.

Till then, give me some peace, O Jerusalem. A crumb of falafel and a thick stick of incense; a trinket, a grain of yellow dust or an endearing mix of colors; with all your coiled energy, centuries of patience and accumulated devotion, speculation and surrender – send me off.