Things aren't what they seem.

July 22, 2011

Things aren’t what they seem.

Today was intense. I suppose yesterday was as well.

I’m immersed in a feature piece that is important; I’m colliding with the lives of others. Odd paths are crossing and something more than meaningful is happening, I can feel it. History. Politics. Well-being. Complicated. Things aren’t what they seem.

Anyway, that’s not the point of my story. This story is about Pushpa.

Like I said. Intense couple of days. And anyone who knows me well knows that my favorite way to manage anxiety – good and bad – is to sweat. So I make a playlist: Raconteurs, Billy Idol, Aesop Rock, Morphine. Tonia Style Yoga.

I’m sweating worse than a whore in church – what kind of feminist says something like that? Strong, forceful workout, almost in the dark.

I don’t know how long she was standing there, she moves quietly unless she’s moving furniture. I should write more about her. Her name is Pushpa, she’s my caretaker – and that’s an understatement. She may certainly be the most influential and endearing person I have met in India.

When I turn and see her there, me sweating like a pig, breathing like a bull and obviously working on something more than asanas, she turns and walks right back out the door.

I continue pushing through my insanity.

About 15 minutes later she returns with one of those flimsy plastic handle bags from the market. She gives me that grin, the one that I have grown so fond of.

In the bag? One cold Touborg can, 1 baggie thick flour mix, two shiny red onions, 1 thin spicy red chili and a handful of green fuzzy okra.

What comes next? Spicy okra and onion pakora, a cold beer, a tousle of drenched hair from a wise friend and Tonia feeling much more able.

Things aren’t what they seem. Because people like Pushpa, change them.