I cherished the ride home those last six months in India. I’d wrap my dirty white bandana around my head, pull on my black $20 helmet and climb onto my rusting motorbike. The key would click into place, and the engine choke to life. I’d glide down the ramp of the parking garage, the smoothest part of my ride, and exit to the right, leaving the tech park I spent 10-13 hours per day in, typically till 1 or 2 in the morning. I would push my bike as fast as I could, which admittedly was only about 50mph with a strong wind at my back, but on the pot-holed, dusty decrepit roads of Chennai it might as well have been 100. There were dogs, cows and goats to dodge, busses 6 inches from my handle-bars, tires burning, garbage like snow drifts on the roadside, people everywhere. It felt like chaos. It felt dangerous. It felt like fucking heaven.
My 20 minute ride would end at a steel and wood gate. The night guard would appear from his shelter, hold up his hand in greeting, bobble his head and swing the heavy door open. The inside of the compound was a stark difference from the streets of my nightly ride. Contemporary concrete condos surrounded a blue lit pool pulled straight from the pages of Architectural Digest. Lush tropical foliage grew ever taller in prehistoric fashion, vibrant splashes of green and red against the whitewashed buildings. Cobblestone pathways and soft grass carpeted the grounds. The dirt was for the outside. The garbage was for the outside. This was our sanctuary, and it was beautiful.
I’d park my bike, pull off the helmet from my sweating head and quietly climb the flight of stone stairs to my condo. Unlocking the door made a distinct clunk that echoed through the concrete walls and marble floors of a lightly furnished Indian condo. There was a gray contemporary couch, with a huge mid-century lamp that dangled over a teak coffee table. The large window formed a view of the glowing pool just below. Quietly walking to the dining room, I’d pour myself a generous glass of whiskey. Drink in hand, I’d quietly open the front door, continue up the stairs to the roof and step out into the warm Indian night air. Relief. That is what I felt when I finally reached the roof: relief I had not woken my children, relief my wife was either asleep or, at the very least, did not emerge from her room, relief that I could finally have a drink. Relief that I was alone. I would look up at the stars, down at the dirty street below on one side of the white wall, and the lush paradise on the other and wonder if either mattered at all. Laying down on the cool stone tile, I’d close my eyes and wish for disaster. An earthquake, lightning, a mushroom cloud on the horizon that would baptize us all in a flash of white light. I wanted a reset, something to make it all start over. A zombie apocalypse maybe. I felt alone in a foreign land, waiting for the storm.
This is very good.
Did you recently write this?
Your voice and descriptions feel effortless. I think having an honest voice can be challenging in memoir but you’re in-tune with it in a way that feels right. This might sound cheesy, but it feels like you ‘know yourself’ in your writing and it’s apparent to the reader. It makes me believe what you’re saying…if that makes sense?
You add just the right details to give a clear image. I loved the part about you leaving work late at night and wearing a cheap helmet while starting your bike “the engine chokes to life” and then driving on dusty roads trying to “dodge dogs, cows and goats” while “garbage like snow drifts on the roadside.”
This was especially interesting as I’ve never experienced anything even remotely close to that driving here in the U.S.
“It felt like chaos. It felt dangerous. It felt like fucking heaven” made me laugh and it tied well into the ending of you lying on the cool stone tile wishing for a disaster.
One of my favorite parts is when you described the Mad Men-like scene of you drinking whiskey inside your modern home with your mid-century furniture, the view of the blue glowing pool from the window.
This part stuck out to me most because I remember seeing pictures on social media when you guys lived in India. I specifically remember seeing pool pictures and being in awe, thinking you guys were living like kings and queens.
I like the juxtaposition of you going outside on the roof, in the confines of your clean concrete home, and looking at the stars but also noticing the dirty city streets below. “The dirt was for outside. The garbage was for outside.”
One of my favorite lines is how the guard “bobbles” his head when greeting you. This was a unique way of describing a nod yet it made so much sense and I could see exactly what you meant. I found myself reenacting the bobble as I read. Do you ever do this? Do you ever reenact or say out loud when you read something you like? It’s like a way of testing something in action to see if it works.
I also like the descriptions “step out into the warm Indian night air” and the “mushroom cloud.”
I think this is my new favorite piece of yours. I hope you continue to write about your travels!
I was able to steal a moment for this, yesterday, and it was a great way to start my morning. Last night Beth and I talked briefly about your piece, your writing in general, and I’d said reading stuff like this feels “nutritious” afterward. Not sure why exactly—it’s probably just the plain simple sharing of an honest story, and knowing the writer put in the time to craft it.
I’d just like to echo most of what Beth said. My thoughts exactly.
Like Beth, I had the same reaction: that part, “It felt like fucking heaven”, that made me laugh too. It’s not funny or anything, in fact it’s poignant. Instead, it’s more like a very definite part of your personality just poked through at that moment, that’s what made me laugh. Not like laugh like “haha that’s hilarious”, but like “that is so very Josh, somehow”.
Something else Beth touched on—the starkness between outside/inside, poorland/richland. You’ve told me about this before, re India’s society, but it’s interesting through this lens. And I could feel this class contrast captured my attention, in a strange way. I suspect, deep down, that I relate more with the “outside” of your story, and have an insecurity about knowing (really, really knowing) that I’ll never be the kind of person that’s “inside”, ever. But, that’s my own baggage.
And love how Beth put it, about “knowing yourself” with your writer’s voice. So far, that’s very true. It’s a gift I hope you don’t take for granted, and one you’ll continue to use.