Load

As the sun was planning a trip below the skyline, the streets thrummed with the familiar chaos of rush hour traffic around office building. Winter was somewhere close by, according to experts. The darkening sky at 6 PM dropped a similar hint. 

I was in the massive lobby, waiting for my fellow badminton players leaving work.

Waiting along with me was a young porter. Biding his time, for the people to leave the giant revolving doors, he strained against the weight of two big pieces of luggage, each bag a reminder of someone’s journey. His muscles tightened as he slowly dragged the cumbersome load toward the exit. To the casual observer, his struggle was visible, a physical manifestation of labor. May be each piece he dragged held stories, of families reuniting, business ventures launching, and adventures beginning. 

‘Who checked in to work with all that?’ I wondered. 

How heavy must that be?

Meanwhile, a middle-aged delivery man navigated the steps, balancing multiple packages stacked precariously in his hands and a short neck straining to see over his load. His brow was furrowed in concentration, sweat glistening on his forehead. Somebody who was still at work, had ordered pizza at 6 PM! 

His hands barely managed the precarious stack. 

I stepped out after the young porter.

At the bus stop, a woman stood, her headscarf fluttering in the brisk still hot wind. Lost in her thoughts, she was unaware of the world around her. She didn’t seem to notice the bus waiting for her or the taxi drivers signaling potential travelers through brief taps on the car horn. In her stillness, she carried a weight that transcended the physical.

In the city’s symphony of movement, the young porter, the delivery guy and this girl seemed connected. Or so I thought.

In a bustling city where burdens are often measured by visibility, the question of who carried the heavier load, will remain unknown.

The Gas-Powered Flight. (originally written 0n 12 June 2024)

Picture this: you and your buddies, all set for a leisurely flight to Kathmandu, where snow peaked mountains await. Excitement filled the air literally, until the air's filled with something else entirely. 

As the seatbelt sign dimmed, we settled in. 

But fate had other plans, in the form of a fellow traveler whose digestive system seemed intent on redefining the meaning of turbulence.

As the first waft hit, we exchanged wide-eyed glances of disbelief. Was this a test of our friendship? A survival challenge at 30,000 feet? More importantly, are human beings capable of such intensity? 

At first, it was subtle—a faint whiff here, a suspicious glance there. But as the minutes ticked by, the cabin air became increasingly dense with the unmistakable scent of trouble. We exchanged nervous glances, attempting to pinpoint the source of the olfactory onslaught. Waving frantically, we dubbed ourselves the Fart-Fighting Squad and dove into action. My black hoodie came to the rescue. We grabbed a corner each of the hoodie and folded the fabric over three suffering noses, fashioning ourselves as the intrepid Gasping Gang, the defenders of our nasal integrity.

In between we also adopted the "breathe through your mouth" technique, which, while effective in filtering out the odiferous onslaught, left us tasting airplane air. 

All this while, the culprit remained anonymous.

There were three seated directly in front of us. One was our buddy, the youngest in our group. He was crying being the first recipient of the waft. The other two; an elderly lady who seemed to be completely unaffected by all this and working on her script on a play in Russian. Her younger compatriot who had a blackout eye mask and seemed asleep. He was suspect number one in our list. Or was it the old lady who seemed busy writing who may have had two outputs; one creative and the other for remission? 

As the flight hovered above Kathmandu skies, the Pilot announced that the landing strip was hidden behind a thick cloud cover and we had to circle the skies until it cleared. We looked at each other and winced. Guess what; it took another 90 minutes of circling and more of chemical warfare until the skies cleared.

But in the end, we emerged, traumatized but united by a shared ordeal and with a newfound appreciation for air circulation. The flatulent fiasco became the stuff of legend among our group, forever immortalized in our travel anecdotes as the day we conquered the skies — and the smell.

So, to all future passengers: buckle up, breathe easy, and may the winds be ever in your favor. And remember, in the battle against flatulence, solidarity is your best weapon. Or a thick black hoodie.

Footnote: I had paid extra for that particular seat 🥹

Celebrating Azeez. (originally written on 5 March 2024)

 KelvinTalks is our new kid on the block, a corporate Toastmasters club chartered where I work, at Sodexo, Auh, UAE. 

In the realm of public speaking, there are moments that transcend mere rhetoric, moments where words become a vessel for raw emotion and personal narrative. Last Wednesday, one such moment unfolded as Azeez, one of our colleagues, stepped forward to deliver his inaugural icebreaker speech. In a stirring display of courage and vulnerability, Azeez shared his deeply personal journey, weaving together moments of struggle and triumph. You could hear a pin drop and there wasn't a dry eye in the house. During my many years with Toastmasters, this was a first.

Azeez's speech was not just a recitation of events; it was a journey through the labyrinth of human experience. With each word, he invited us into his world, something that seemed to resemble  a movie script depicting glory, fall from grace, struggles and a final leap of faith. His last sentence was this; 'I feel relieved now'. The audience exhaled along with him.

Having endured a never ending supply of re-hashed and clichéd sob stories, a Toastmaster often becomes immune to such stuff. But last Wednesday, in that moment, we realized the true essence of Toastmasters – not just to hone our speaking skills, but to connect with one another on a deeper, more meaningful level.

On behalf of the entire team, I extend my heartfelt congratulations to Azeez for his courage and for choosing to be vulnerable in front of his colleagues. May your journey continue to inspire others and may you find boundless success in all your endeavors.

In the words of Maya Angelou, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." Azeez, thank you for having the courage to share your story with us. 

Raw. Straight from the heart. Azeez Tijani. 

Take a bow!

Trek Mare (originally written on 28 Dec 2023)

 Ah, the enchantment of an early morning trek, where the allure of breathtaking sunrises collides with the harsh reality of sore muscles and aching limbs. As I hobbled back from my latest foray into the great outdoors, I couldn't help but ponder whether my fondness for trekking was a recurring dance of "fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me, and fool me every time someone announces the next trek."

It all began innocently enough. The day before, I drove down to Ravi’s place. The winter evening at JLT unfolded beautifully – cold and pleasant. In the words of my fellow trekker (name withheld for obvious reasons), “nalla alcoholic weather!” Succumbing to the atmosphere, Ravi and I delved into discussions about weather, women, and work over a few well-brewed beverages. By 11 PM, two thoughts were dueling in my head: sleep now and rise at 3 AM for the long drive to RAK, or stay awake until early morning and venture out at 3 AM. Despite the sensible option being glaringly obvious, my brain opted for a third alternative, and I found myself lying down by only midnight, waiting for sleep that never arrived. 

At 2.30 AM, bleary-eyed, I woke up to find Ravi sleeping, the sun yet to rise, and the birds contemplating the merits of waking up so early. With one eye open and the other closed, I succumbed to the call of panoramic views and the communion with nature. My pre-dawn alarm rang out.

As I stepped out, the road lay bare and barren, with the occasional passing cab seeming to float above the tarmac. I shook my head – I needed a chai. 

The 1.5-hour drive to the starting point passed on autopilot, with loud music aiding my battle against drowsiness. The sky remained unchanged as I pulled into the spot where others would gather, only to find none. I was early, surrounded by total darkness.

Another 20 minutes passed before I saw another human, and then, the rest trickled in. My first winter trek was about to commence after a considerable hiatus.

The initial steps up the winding trail filled my lungs with crisp mountain air, making me feel on top of the world. However, a couple of hours later, I found myself questioning life choices with each agonizing step. My once-reliable legs rebelled against the uphill climb's tyranny, sweat poured down my face, and desert shrubs with thorns bullied my ankles. The lazy-ass sky still lay sleeping on its belly above us.

Two and a half hours into the trek, most fellow hikers decided to call it a day. We were on the most grueling and ironically named trek in the UAE, aptly titled "The Stairway to Heaven." (Surely, there must be some logical criteria for naming treks, I thought.) 

As I descended from my latest uphill escapade, my uncooperative noodle legs, served as a stark reminder that they were not built for such early morning acrobatics. In the hushed whispers of one nursing aching limbs, I vowed, "No more trekking for me," declaring my resolve to a few mountain goats witnessing my triumphant descent into soreness.

On the way back, I rolled over smooth rocks, winced at sharp ones, and climbed over bigger ones. At each resting point, we huddled together through shared misery, bonding as fellow trekkers. 

I was back at Ravi’s place by 4 PM, nursing sore muscles and a cup of chai, contemplating the insanity of it all. My hiking boots awaited by the door, but I lacked the energy to drive back home. After a hot shower, I settled into the comfort of a thick blanket, thinking whether to engage in Ravi's discussion on the three W's we left unfinished.

But something didn’t feel alright.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone, my fingers danced across the screen, and the familiar voice on the other end greeted me with a chipper, "Hello?" 

Taking a deep breath, my sore muscles staging a final protest, I blurted out, "So, when's the next trek?"

The Day After (Originally written on 15 Feb 2023)

Last year, on Valentine's eve, I shared a recipe. This year, I had no appetite. But I had impatience. I had not seen her in days. She had to be around.

Where are you!

I do not know if you have ever felt this w
ay too...

On those days when you are restless for no reason and can't settle down, you get to work. And by work I mean, any random stuff. My most preferred indulgence is cleaning my room. The cobwebs in the most unreachable nook in the ceiling gets tackled at the end of a broom, held by me, standing on my toes precariously balanced on a stool not meant for that business. The bottom shelf of the TV stand that had assumed another color from the dust it gathered, regains its complexion. A pair of leather shoes that I lost interest 6 months ago will get a coat of wax. There are miracles all around.

I kneel down, hold my face at an angle that helps me get as close as possible to the floor. This inspection reveals a curry stain on the a tile from a few weeks ago. With a discarded kitchen knife I scrape it off the floor. Then I find another mark. The knife and I get to work until my back and neck is sore. I stop. I get up a little too quickly, feel giddy and fall ungracefully onto the sofa. A vape that I do not use anymore and had disappeared among the folds of the sofa poke my bony butt. Another reminder.

There is dust accumulated inside the window frames. I wish I had not chucked the old vacuum cleaner in the dumpster when I moved out of my earlier dwelling. Too late. I look around to see if there is anything else I can do.

There are dirty clothes in the hamper. But no. Too lazy for that. Especially when the Super Clean laundry right opposite will take care of that.

That is when I hear that familiar noise at the gate. I wipe my hands on a towel, throw it in the direction of the hook on the wall and grab the yellow packet on top of the mini fridge on my way to the door.

She was there, waiting. I step out and she stops, hesitating for a second. I hold my hand out and she comes close, my finger touch ever so lightly against her nose. She purrs and rubs her face against my palm. I open a fresh pack of cheese flavored Dreamies treats. Now it was her turn to be impatient! 

I watch her eat.

My love turned up a day late. Who cares!