An Obsessed Organizer

My name is Preeti Sharma and I am an Obsessed Organizer. There, I have said it! I can almost hear a collective sigh emanating from harried souls around the world – half a dozen ex room-mates who sacrificed many a weekends to the crack of my cleaning/dusting/arranging whip, a bunch of friends murmuring ‘we always knew’ under their breath, a set of parents who cannot stop blaming each other for passing on the ‘hyper-organized' gene to me and finally one poor husband who has to deal with it for the rest of his life.

At first my symptoms mushroomed as seemingly innocent quirks. Arranging my dolls in a perfect straight line so that they sat in ascending order of their heights on top of the olive green cupboard in my room gave me immense satisfaction. Inside this cupboard was a treasure cove of books which also adhered to one of my many patterns of organization-alphabetical, author-based, subject- based……..What passed off as adorable nuttiness should have set a hundred alarm bells ringing and perhaps the condition would have been nipped in the bud.

As I left the pristine boundaries of home to hunt for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I found myself staring at a big, bad, MESSY world which lay like a repugnant pool of spilt tea on a marble floor, waiting for me to wipe clean. I began yearning fervently for a world where pairs of shoes were organized in neat stacks on shelves instead of lying asymmetrically crooked on the floor, a world where coats and shirts were hung separately instead of mixed together, a world devoid of specks of dust enveloping all exposed surfaces, a world where dishes were done immediately after a meal and dabbed dry before being replaced in designated spots inside cabinets, a world where clothes always smelled laundry-fresh and tidily occupied allotted slots…my wish list went on.

I walked a tightrope for many years, trying to balance work, friends, hobbies and my unrelenting fetish for patterned harmony in spaces I called my own. Truth be told, I was always happiest when I was engaging in some good old fashioned housekeeping. An ensemble comprising a pair of comfy pyjamas circa 1998, an over sized tee from the same era and a head scarf to keep the powdery dust off my crown of curls easily kicked the rear end of pretty dresses and dainty heels. And eventually I started trading in parties for spending time dolling up my house. Since my most favourite section at the super market has always been the one which stores all sorts of cleaning products, I invariably possessed a plethora of objects to help achieve my standards of perfection in the task at hand.

State of the art mops and brushes, surface cleaners which promise a spotless clean house - fragrant like flowers in spring, glass cleaners to scrub window panes so perfectly that for a minute one would wonder if there was any glass at all, thick blue toilet bowl cleaners and a multitude of detergents (one for keeping my woollens supple, one specializing in retaining colours, a fabric conditioner to pamper my favourites, starch for my cotton 'kurtis', a stain remover for times when clumsy people subjected me to the horrors of their gaucherie…..) - This was my ammunition to wage a personal jihad against the forces of filth. When I was done banishing trash to the confines of a trash bag, I focused on arranging furniture, books, clothes, accessories and other things in exact locations and positions, just as my heart desired.

They say ‘Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned’. My private version is: ‘Hell hath no fury as when you spoileth what Preeti arrangeth’. Loved ones understood and resorted to rolling their eyes and toeing the invisible line I drew. In return I sometimes offered to do up their rooms for them. Like a whimsical artist I admired my handiwork every few hours for the next couple of days till my almost satanic arch nemesis - dust and grime - found its way through cracks and fissures and lay dirty, mangled, gaunt fingers on my spick-and-span dwelling. And then the entire cycle repeated itself.

After years of filth-fuelled crankiness and working myself to death, I have finally realized that sometimes it is all right to coexist with a tiny modicum of clutter instead of driving everyone, including myself, insane. To be honest, despite this epiphany, I still jolt out of deep sleep once in a while to stow away a pair of errant socks which somehow found their way on the living room couch or to wipe off ring-shaped coffee stains left behind as a stubborn mark of defiance by coaster-less mugs. I suppose the journey to a neurosis free life is long and difficult. But I am determined to reach my destination and am slowly inching forward.

Now that I have written this cathartic article and the weight is off my chest, I want to get back to what I was doing earlier – polishing the kitchen counters till I can see my reflection smiling back at me, giving me the thumbs-up... Satanic grime, here I come!

A Perfect Afternoon to Reminisce

Shimmering shadows of leaves rustling in a light afternoon breeze have cast a mystical spell over my living room today. Pale yellow streaks of sunlight creep in through the open blinds carrying these shadows on their back. With fragile yet warm fingers, an ever elusive sun lightly caresses my cheek and urges me to slip into a wonderland of memories and tales. Soaked in words, these memories seek to make eternal marks on the pages of this blog.

I reel back to a time when winter vacations meant spending an extra hour in bed under my thick patchwork blanket, tucking into fluffy cheese omelets served with paranthas while warming my toes in front of the heater, devouring Enid Blyton's books by the dozen, waiting for Ma to come back from work so that we could play board games, sipping the customary after-dinner hot chocolate while watching Doogie Howser M.D and finally calling it a day, peacefully snuggled between Papa and Ma.

The second half of the year was always more special. It brought along festivities, lights, mithai, presents and general merriment. The holiday-season kicked off in style with Dusshera. Diwali too closely followed at its heels. My exceptional vacation privileges were revoked on these special days and Ma would badger me into rising early and showering. With the ease of a skillful storyteller, within seconds she would make me believe that if I did not, God would morph me into a donkey.

Each of these events was an experience in itself. Dusshera would begin with a grand pooja at the Army parade ground, conducted usually by the Gorkha regiment. The celebration typically ended on a gory note with the sacrifice of an animal to appease the goddess. Evenings were reserved for witnessing the colossal statues of Ravana, Kumbhkarana and Meghanada being gobbled up by angry flames and finally reduced to ashes.

A few weeks later Diwali would knock at our doors. The tedious process of making gujiyas and laddoos commenced well in advance. Tiny clay lamps with cotton wicks would find their place in front of the household temple. Crackers also shared space with the lamps and were gleefully gawked at by Pranay every single day till Diwali. Come evening and the glimmer of stringed lights on each house alchemized the cantonment into a fairyland. The aroma of fresh gujiyas mingled with the pungent odour of smoke from the firecrackers made for a signature Diwali memory.

On one of my trips home, I came across a letter supposedly written to me by Santa Claus although the handwriting suspiciously resembled Ma’s. It brought back a flood of reminiscences. The socks I would hang on our clothesline on Christmas Eve and the excitement I fought the whole night long were almost always amply rewarded the next morning. This was one day other than my birthday when I needed no coaxing or cajoling to get out of bed. The chocolates stuffed in my old socks and the toys and books littered on the floor bolstered my belief in magical creatures like elves, gnomes, pixies and of course Santa Claus. And every year with my bundle of gifts I got a letter from Santa telling me how much I was loved.

Finally the year would bid adieu with a flourish as we ushered in the New Year with friends and family at the Officers’ Institute. The quintessential elements of a party – loud music, dancing, copious amounts of food and happy people in pretty clothes – made for a pleasant picture. A patina of jollity hung over the crowd as tired but eager voices bellowed the countdown to a brand new year. In a shower of colourful ribbons and glitter the much awaited year would arrive donning new hopes, experiences and resolutions.

For most people the festivities of the year drew to an end here but for us there was one more eagerly awaited event – the Raising Day and Paagal Gymkhana – an occasion commemorating the day when the Armed Medical Corps - the establishment to which Papa belonged - was formed. Paagal Gymkhana – a fair of sorts – included all sorts of unheard of games like the ‘Jalebi race’, ‘Sack Race’, the ‘Three legged race’ followed by a ‘Badakhaana’- a large community meal. All the unspoken barriers between officers, soldiers and their respective families were lifted as the entire regiment participated as one big happy family. Binging on the excessively oily yet lip smacking delicious food was a norm to which I most enthusiastically conformed.

My first holiday-season away from India has made me believe that festivities all over the globe are just as exciting and elevating. The gaiety, the lights, the food and the merry-making are intrinsically the same though they may differ in form and fashion. Candy and costumes on Halloween and Christmas trees, lights and gifts on Christmas are as much fun as the crackers and mithai on Diwali. I am finally ready to open my heart and generously allot space to these new entrants right next to my traditional Indian ones. Three cheers to making fresh memories and writing about them on future cozy winter afternoons.

Conversations with a cabbie

Yet another week in Michigan and I find myself staring at an even more dismal sight than what I beheld the last time I was here. The weather app on my phone shows a tiny grey cloud showering drops of water over the city and sure enough, the view outside is a real life, zoomed-in replica. I walk out of the airport lugging my satchel and trolley bag, engulfed in a mighty overcoat, the tag on which assures me that it is lined with the finest quality felt to keep me warm. I am still shivering despite these assurances. The makers perhaps didn’t comprehend how cold a girl from India can get.

I approach the Metro Cabs booth and shudder at the thought of eliciting services from a cab driver after my past experience. This time though, I am in store for a pleasant surprise. My cabbie – Mahmoud – looks nothing like the surly brute I encountered last week. On the contrary, he has clear blue eyes which never stop dancing and an almost musical Middle Eastern lilt. His cheeriness feels as comforting as a cup of hot cocoa on a cold, rainy day. With my luggage safely tucked in the boot and the heat turned up I feel my good humour rise from the dead.

As we cruise past familiar landmarks, Mahmoud informs me about the Tsunami that has recently hit Japan. His depth of information on the subject startles and embarrasses me all at once. With a hint of scepticism, I surreptitiously cross check the news on the internet and am surprised by the accuracy of his knowledge. I realize that in the routine chaos of my day, I haven’t had the time to browse the headlines of a newspaper or pay attention to the newsreader’s monologue on TV. In short, I am clueless about what is happening in the world around me. In addition, his succinct description of the topography of Japan leads me to conclude that he can easily give Geography teachers around the world a run for their money.

Now I am all ears, eagerly waiting for Mahmoud’s next flurry of wisdom. This time I get a brief but power packed lesson in History. He talks about varied subjects like the British colonization of America and the American Civil War. It isn't just facts that he is rattling off; he has his own perspective about everything he speaks. Mesmerized, I sit upright and absorb everything he has to say. Somewhere in between,the conversation turns philosophical and we discuss the futility of being one in a million rats in the rat race of life. ‘Life is meant to be enjoyed, not frittered away, consumed in jealousy and greed’ he says. I couldn't agree more.

A few more nuggets of wisdom about propane laws and traffic rules in the state are thrown my way before Mahmoud promptly pulls up in front of my hotel. For the first time I am feeling sorry about having covered the distance so quickly. Before I know it, Mahmoud is gone and I am left standing on the curb, a lot more enlightened than I was thirty minutes ago. In a world teeming with over ambitious, over stressed and over cranky people, Mahmoud and the likes of him who are knowledgeable, hard working yet cheerful form a fast diminishing breed. The world would certainly be a more interesting and happy place if there were more of his kind.

Up, Up and Away

Painful skeletal remains of once lush green trees stand braving an ice cold draft. The sky is overcast and gloomy as if mourning their demise. Even though the heater in my room is working overtime to keep me warm and toasty, I find it difficult to crawl out of my quilt. With promises of a hot water shower and a fresh cup of coffee, I finally convince myself to leave the warmth of my bed. The aroma of coffee emanating from the coffee pot is comforting but the aforementioned view from my window isn’t.

It is my first day at work in a new city after a blissful six-month vacation. The butterflies in my stomach haven’t allowed me much sleep last night. Michigan – my current abode – has been a strange experience so far. After the pleasant cheerfulness of southern folk in Texas and the well bred mannerisms of the affluent populace in California, the grumpiness of ‘Michiganites’ is a rude shock. Of course, one cannot generalize and as always there is a mixed bag – a foul mouthed cab driver, a polite security guard, a bunch of courteous strangers at a restaurant and a surly front desk staff at the hotel.

Bundled in layers of woolly nirvana, I step out hoping to walk the less than half a mile distance to work. A bitter winter draft slaps me hard across the only portion of my body which is exposed – my face. It jerks me right out of my dreamland and shakes out all dregs of drowsiness left. I scramble as quickly as possible towards my destination, silently cursing the celestial movements which cause seasons to change. A wrong turn and a near death experience with a speeding vehicle later, I manage to walk into my office in one piece. My nose is red and numb and my fingertips, even though encased in fleece lined gloves, are frozen. I soak in the delicious cozy interiors of the office and my Rudolph-like nose slowly returns to its original colour.

It is going to be a hard day at work as the rusty gears of my brain slowly creak into action. I have tried to keep them oiled during my sabbatical but I am sure they are still going to oppose working ceaselessly towards achieving our unrealistic project deadlines. Was I happier doing my own thing at home at a relaxed pace or will I be happier working under pressure on a difficult project? I don’t know the answer to that yet but I do know that the solace I get in peacefully writing or reading at home cannot be replaced by the adrenaline rush that is associated with being able to hand over quality work against all odds and vice versa. Till I find an answer, I shall dabble in both with the hope that I will find my true calling one day.

With these thoughts I head in trying to work out a game plan for the day. Walking past the cafeteria on my way to my desk, my now near normal nose is further placated by a whiff of oven fresh muffins. I resist only because I have been warned about winter binges and the kilos they add. However, it is just a matter of time that I succumb. After all I deserve a tasty treat for valiantly fighting the vile Queen of Winter, don’t I?

A San Francisco Affair

The heart at Union Square

The seeds of my love affair with San Francisco were sown the very day we were acquainted. What started out as a mere check mark on the to-do list of a travel aficionado, culminated into a full blown obsession which grew exponentially with each passing day. This is the story of my bitter sweet romance with a city which has a little bit of old, a little bit of new, a touch of grey, a splash of colour, a mean streak, a kind vein and many such contrasting characteristics that I fell in love with.

It all began on a beautiful summer day in June of 2012 when I made my maiden trip to San Francisco. Like a seasoned suitor, the city began wooing me instantly and flaunted its most attractive feature – the architectural splendor- to sweep me off my feet. To this effect, its first offering was the tall and handsome Golden Gate Bridge, standing strong with feet planted firmly in the Pacific bed. From atop a hill, the shiny red structure looked grander with sparkling white cotton-ball clouds bobbing in the powder blue sky above and colorful sailboats floating in the crystal water below. As I felt my heart stir and my knees go weak, I realized that I stood very little chance of not succumbing to my wooer’s charms.

Each aspect of the city’s architecture hit me like an arrow from Cupid’s bow. For instance, the rollercoaster like roads and alleys which were unknowing purveyors of breathtaking views knocked the breath out of me. Just when I was at my wits end, having huffed and puffed up one such alley, it suddenly dropped downhill at a steep angle leaving me standing at a peak with a beautiful view of the sun melting into an infinite ocean. As soon as the sun set, darkness metamorphosed the soft blue ocean into a sinister grey monster which appeared to be guarding its glimmering bridges.

I was further smitten by the fact that the intolerance endemic to human beings which causes the young and the old to drift apart, did not affect the city. Old and new landscapes coexisted in perfect harmony. The ill-famed ‘Generation Gap syndrome’ did not ail them and as a result there was no awkwardness. Victorian structures comfortably shared space with modern skyscrapers. A 114 year old statue of Victory on a Corinthian column did not appear out of place in the middle of contemporary buildings housing trendy stores like Saks 5th Avenue and Macy’s in Union Square. Pale yellow cable cars of yore still plied on roads alongside fancy automobiles.

Appealing to the shopaholic in me were miles and miles of retail nirvana in the form of Lombard Street and Union Square. Unfortunately the day drew to an end as quickly as it tends to when one is lost in fantasy and I was left yearning for more. The city grew cold and unforgiving as we painfully parted. Even though it was the peak of summer, a frosty draft seeped in through the layers I was clad in and froze me to my bones. This was soon to become a norm as each time I bid farewell to my beloved, I had to suffer it’s bitter wrath in the form of gusts of cold wind which made my teeth chatter and my brain go numb.

Little did I know that the city was not going to give up easily and I was going to return soon. 4th of July celebrations at Ghirardelli square brought me to San Francisco yet again. This time the city baited me with my love for chocolates. It lay in front of me what can only be described as a chocolate lover’s ultimate fantasy. I stood agog as I took in a view of a different kind. Mountainous stacks of rich chocolate squares with unimaginable fillings like – pumpkin spiced caramel, vanilla bean, pecan pie, salted almonds, egg nog and peppermint bark towered in front of me. Pictures of humungous ice cream sundaes dripping with chocolate fudge and caramel sauce stared at me teasingly from the menu. And yet again I yielded to the city’s love. Savouring the velvety smoothness of chocolate and enraptured by the dazzle of the firecrackers which lit up the sky, I finally accepted that I had fallen head over heels in love with San Francisco.

Hippies engulfed in marijuana smoke at Fisheman’s Wharf, homosexuals publicly proclaiming gay-pride, bizarre performances by street performers, the seal family at Pier 39, large tufts of fluffy pink cotton candy on sticks…my courtship with San Francisco had it all. It was an honest relationship too as the city shared all its facets with me - good, bad and ugly. Today as I pack my bags to move several miles away from San Francisco, I have a feeling of loss deep down. The city, or rather, my city continues to tug at my heartstrings even though I have said my final goodbye and urges me to visit again and again and again. Well, who knows, perhaps I will….

Straight from Papa's mouth - The Gum Boots

I have sometimes wondered how I came to possess a fervent imagination, one which is constantly itching to get down to business. The answer perhaps lies in the fact that I was born to parents who placed a high premium on good reading, listening and regaling skills. I grew up hearing Papa narrate comical incidents from his own childhood with such merry abandon and animated gesticulations that no matter how many times they were repeated, these tales of mischief would always manage to gather an avid audience. Mummy ‘s bed time tales from Aesop’s Fables, Grimms Brothers’ Fairy Tales and Mahabharata were also recounted with such aplomb that it was difficult not to picture the quixotic characters and places. Enraptured, I would listen to both sets of stories, building corresponding images in my mind while dreaming of someday being able to recapitulate with just as much gusto.

This is my first attempt to put on paper these tit-bits from the past and I hope that you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed listening to them.

It was one of those late December evenings in Gwalior when merciless gusts of cold wind threatened to freeze those who dared to venture out and cups of hot masala chai (masala tea) and pakoras were handed out to those ensconced in the warmth of Buaji’s house. Three generations of family huddled around an old heater which barely managed to spout enough hot air to warm ice cold fingers and toes. Enveloped in sweaters, scarves and shawls, we braved the sub zero temperature that night with chai, pakoras, a rickety heater and an inevitable round of storytelling. Fuelled by the sweet gingery kick of chai, anecdotes and real life incidents soon started flowing in copious amounts. Several stories branched out, multiplying like neutrons in a nuclear fission reaction.

4 brothers (my father being one of them) – the biggest mischief makers of their time- figured in more than one tale. A story of one of these brothers, brother number 3 to be precise, who will be referred to as P (a respected doctor in today’s day and age) left everyone laughing so hard that tears trickled down most cheeks. Here goes……. Summer vacations had begun and the first day dawned bright and sunny - simply perfect for all the tomfoolery already mushrooming in his head. With much effort P shook off the drowsiness which lay heavy on his eyelids and looked around to check if he was the last one to get up. As conscientious as ever, his oldest brother S was sitting at his study deeply immersed in a book while brother number 2, R was nowhere to be seen. His youngest brother, brother number 4, also known as my Dad or D, sat on his bed fiddling around in general.

‘Let’s play Hide and Seek today!!!’ exclaimed P jumping out of bed in one quick leap and landing right in front of S. Keeping his book aside, S appraised him from top to bottom and replied with great disdain ‘At least brush your teeth and drink your milk before you begin hatching plans for the day’. P turned a questioning gaze towards D who was already nodding excitedly, giving his consent for a game of Hide and Seek. Within minutes all 4 brothers were outside in the courtyard along with their friends from the neighborhood all set to kick off the vacations in style. With a whole lot of cheating and some luck P managed to avoid being the Seeker and couldn’t help making fun of his poor slob of a friend who was conned into being one. As the Seeker turned his back to the rest of the boys and began counting, the group scattered in an instant. A few crouched behind nearby stone pillars while others slinked into the recesses between houses.

P took off as quickly as his legs could take him, determined to find the most ingenious place to hide. Soon he found himself standing at a road construction site a little further away from home. The place was littered with empty cylindrical cans of coal tar (dambar in Hindi) which were almost as tall as P himself. But crouching behind one of these cans seemed too clichéd to P. Just as he was about to take off once again in search of a perfect hiding place a glimmer of an idea lit up in his head bringing a broad smile to his face. He checked the can in front of him and found it devoid of its usual content: molten coal tar. Having checked a few more cans he was convinced that all the cans were empty and would serve as an ideal hiding place.

With great dexterity P hauled himself over the can kept at the far end of the construction site and swiftly lowered himself inside. All this while, he did not take his eyes off the road as he knew that by now the Seeker would be roaming around like a wild animal searching for his prey. When he had almost sunk to the bottom of the can he happened to look down at his body inside the can and couldn’t believe his eyes. His lower body, beyond the waist, was submerged in a shiny jet black viscous solution of coal tar! ‘How could this happen?’ he thought in dismay. In his hurry, he had not checked all the cans and had assumed after looking into a few that the rest were empty as well. A little shred of panic wriggled its way into P’s heart as he sank deeper into the quick sand like coal tar. ‘This is no time to panic’, he told himself sternly. The gears in his brain started creaking and grunting as he mulled over plans to get out of his predicament

A few hours of struggle later an exhausted P heaved himself out of the can. Huffing and panting he stood on the road now but his troubles had not ended just as yet. His legs were covered in a thick layer of coal tar and it appeared as if he was wearing knee length dark black gum boots which stuck to the hot road as if they had adhesive on their soles. Slowly he inched back home as each step felt like a mile. ‘Maybe this is how it feels when one is walking on an iron road wearing magnetic shoes’ he imagined. Thoughts of super heroes swooping in and carrying him back home crossed his mind along with images of his favorite halwa-poori which painfully tantalized his fast building hunger.

Needless to say, P reached home and was received by a stunned group of brothers and friends. Not wanting to look like a complete fool in front of everyone, P began boasting about his adventures and clowning around showing off his coal tar boots. I can only imagine what must have transpired between him and his mother (my Dadiji) when she found out what had happened but I am cent percent sure that he wasn’t rewarded with halwa-poori. I am told that it took all of her patience and a gallon or more of kerosene oil to peel off the adventures of the day. In that moment all characters of this story must have been unaware of the number of times this incident was to be recounted in years to come and the generations ahead who were going to hear about it on cold winter nights drinking chai and devouring pakoras.

Yellowstone Diaries

There are dozens of places on this planet which stake claim to the coveted appellation ‘Heaven on Earth’. We even have one in the midst of the so called squalor in India – Kashmir.  But this is not a sonnet praising the beauty and serenity of Kashmir; it is a humble offering to the majestic Yellowstone national park which has all the qualities to secure a top notch spot in the aforementioned list of contenders. Spread across almost the entire state of Wyoming in North America, it is the world's first ever National Park.

Truth be told, being a greenhorn at National Park adventures, at the outset I did not know what to expect. My over- fertile imagination fabricated disturbing images of a zoo-like edifice minus the cages, dangerous wild animals cavorting unattended in the open, creepy crawly creatures slithering up my bed post in the middle of the night and mucky hike trails just waiting to spew unimaginable filth.  Pushing these dark thoughts into the deepest recesses of my mind I wore a happy smile and rallied on. My perseverance was rewarded instantly as after a rather onerous journey we walked into a beautiful condominium which was to be ours for the next few days.

Nestling in a valley surrounded by towering peaks, our abode was a little piece of paradise in itself. The fact that it was located in Paradise Valley further corroborated my analogy. As the spindly golden thread like rays of the morning sun filtered through our windows, we prepared ourselves for the quest that lay ahead. At first glance Paradise valley looked ethereal doused in a golden shimmer of tenuous sunshine. We drove past green and yellow meadows, catching our first glimpse of herds of bison chomping grass in languid contentment. As each one of us reached for the camera little did we know that this was going to be the most frequent sight during our 5 day long trip and by the end of it we were going to care two hoots for these humungous albeit misshapen creatures.

Our first stop was the visitor center at Mammoth hot springs. This was also destined to be the setting for our next wild animal sighting. An elk lounged peacefully on the grass patch in front of the visitor center, seemingly unaware of the excitement that its presence had incited. Once in a while, not unlike a movie star, it would daintily turn its tiny head adorned by a massive tiara of horns towards the excited mob of tourists as if to oblige them by posing for their cameras. What completed the pretty picture was the play of colors. The red tiled roof of the visitor center stood in sharp contrast against a cloudless blue sky and the grass in varying shades of green and yellow complemented the brown hues of the surrounding mountains. It was as if Mother Nature had used every crayon she could find in her box.

Elk sighting

A short walk brought us face to face with the pristine white Mammoth Hot Springs. The structure loomed in front of us like a giant tiered stage made of limestone. The steam rising from its belly brought memories of a colossal Hindi movie set ready for a Sridevi or a Madhuri Dixit to break into a dance sequence. The hike up the Mammoth Terrace Mountain was arduous but the view from up above was every bit worth the pain. From here we witnessed white puffy clouds shaping footprints in the form of shadows on neighboring peaks. It truly felt as if we had reached out and managed to caress the doors of heaven with our fingertips. On all four sides sharp peaks stood like strong sentinels guarding the flora and fauna ensconced in the valley’s womb.

Mammoth Hot Springs

Mammoth Hot springs was simply the beginning, a gateway of sorts to an adventure of epic proportions which was beginning to unfold in front of us. Over the next few days we explored one geyser basin after the other, each a tad bit different from the previous. One of these was the Norris geyser basin which is a vast barren expanse of white limestone with blackened dead trees dotting it. I shuddered as I took in the view because this is perhaps how our planet would look if the sleeping giant of a volcano on which the beautiful Yellowstone Park sits finally decides to unleash its fury and erupt once again after nearly 60,000 years. Every now and then we would come across a bubbling puddle of scalding hot water and mineral deposits. A strong pungent smell of hydrogen sulphide combined with the white vapor rising from these puddles made the geyser basin look like nature’s very own chemistry laboratory.

Norris geyser basin

Thankfully, next on our itinerary- the West Thumb geyser basin- did not paint a picture of doomsday. With the indigo blue water of the Yellowstone Lake as backdrop, the vivid hot water vents looked like a result of the endemic eccentricity of a painter. It was as if with bold strokes of his brush the maestro had painted dazzling, iridescent pools in an attempt to add a certain mystical vibrancy to his painting. One vent amidst many caught both my eye and my imagination. It looked like it had been outlined by thick red paint which was in reality iron ore deposit. As my gaze roved from the periphery to the center of the pool, I saw its red outline dissolve into a bright yellow lent by sulphur deposits which further melted into emerald green and clear blue right in the middle. The sheer brilliance of the colors which are attributed to both the mineral deposits as well as microorganisms called thermophiles breeding in these puddles stirred poetic sentiments within.

The colourful pool at West Thumb

I was wrong in believing that the upper limit of nature’s creativity had been exhibited at The West Thumb. The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone is art of another kind. It is a deep dent on the face of earth through which the Yellowstone River flows. With great panache the river drops down a steep face of the canyon and snakes its way through the carved volcanic red and white stone. By now a dark patina of dusk was slowly inching over the walls of the canyon as the waning sunlight faded into oblivion. Yet again my imagination went into overdrive as to me it appeared as if God was spreading a warm blanket of love and lulling his brood to sleep. Heading back we encountered a couple of fractious black bears who refused to obediently go to bed and much to the delight of camera toting tourists like us preferred gallivanting in the woods instead.  We clicked away to glory till they retreated into the forest.

Sunset at Grand Canyon of Yellowstone

We had so far seen the beauty and ingenuity of nature but we were still to experience its punctuality. Our destination for the day was The Old Faithful geyser which is named so to honor the promptness that it has been demonstrating since very many years. Like clockwork every 90 minutes the geyser explodes up to a height of 180 feet in the air. People crowd expectantly around the vent and are almost never disappointed. We watched agape as the natural fountain sent a burst of scorching water and steam high up right on schedule. It was abundantly clear to us what the river of hot magma flowing merely 4 miles below the surface of this great park is capable of doing.

Old Faithful

A bit of souvenir shopping, a motor boat expedition up the Yellowstone River, a lazy morning spent playing Ludo with the family, cups of hot chocolate, a moose walking into our backyard to say howdy, a scary moment which left our hearts pounding when our car almost went turtle, a forest fire turning one of the peaks crimson and many more exciting experiences woven together made for an unforgettable vacation. Once back home, immersed in mundane chores, I happened to hear Belinda Carlisle on the radio crooning “Oooh Heaven is a place on earth” and I floated back to Yellowstone. I couldn’t agree with her more. Heaven is most certainly a place on earth, I have seen it.