To Stephen Flanagan, my friend, who made me feel that I can write too...
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That times resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
-Eliot, T.S. 'Preludes'
Eliot talks of the city in lines that leave indelible marks on the imagination. What is this love of the city that makes people write so much about it? About its splendour, about its decay, about the drama of desire and hate played out in every lane and every alley, every moment of the day? Surely, it must be an addiction. For the city dwellers are lotos-eaters too, and they might sojourn into the silences of the suburbs, lose themselves in the raptures of rural pastures, but come back they must. Mason wrote: 'Come I may, but go I must,' but he wrote this of travel, of relinquishing stagnation. To use these very lines to convey an antithetical feeling... I can travel the world for months on end, but I must go back to the city, its roads with their 'insiduous intents', its mazes that lead somewhere all the time but nowhere in the end. It is an addiction.
One crisp and rather overdone Saturday, I walked out into the sun with the intent of going to my Arabic class. Normally, I take an autorickshaw to the lady's house and another back, not walking too much. A hot day in Hyderabad is hot, to say the least. I am assuming the bold font will do the trick. Well, not that there is any other option--even 'scorching' seems like a feeble epithet.
So, there I was in an auto again, winding my way through the ghostly 'hills' of Banjara Hills (I wonder how it would have been when there were real hills here) into one of its deepest recesses, where, in a large, airy, but decrepit house, a bespectacled, going-on-50-something lady reads out the holy Quran and teaches her students to translate the text. I dont do anything of the sort. I have just managed to learn how to recognize and pronounce (the latter being the more difficult task) the arabic alphabets. Arabic and Sanskrit, I remember reading during my undergrad years (four years back), are among the oldest and most cumbersome languages in the world, given their grammatical and phonetical intricacies. I had always wanted to learn arabic and this chance was a godsend.
The house stands in the middle of an old colony of conservative looking houses, a colony named Hyder Manzil. What greets you when you enter the collosal, corrugated iron gates is a feeling that you have gone back in time...way, way back. There are trees as old and as tall as Jack's Beanstalk - monstrous crows and ravens perch at their tops, cawing raucously in the stillness. My teacher's house stands at the end of a rickety lane that slopes upward and culminates on their front yard where the sunshine falls lazily, bouncing off their red-tiled roof. A huge car coated in dust slumbers in the yard. I have often wondered if they ever take it out. Now, I am quite used to its comforting presence, an oddity that has merged into the larger picture after years of effort by standing immobile through rain and shine. Not that I have been going there for years... I'm a newbie. But it feels like a long time in that aged house...even the air and the sunshine seem to talk of many many years of silence and the chanting of the Quran.
I digress... to come back to my little story of the road, I left the grand old house by 1:00 p.m. and walked upto the road. It was still. 1:00 p.m. is a time when the city sleeps, lulled by the heat. Old people take their noon naps at home, dogs curl up in ditches or under shady trees and dream of succulent cuts of meat... Offices whirr lifelessly to the tunes of keyboards and air conditioners. The occasional bus roars on the road with its windows like the hollows of sunken eyes. The road. I had a long arduous walk till the road. Hyder Manzil is snuggled deep in a recess in Banjara Hills. To get back to civilization, I decided to walk. Not out of choice but rather out of necessity since there were no auto rickshaws available.
It was a long walk I had on that crisp, overdone Saturday afternoon. The road sloped up from Hyder Manzil, towards the next intersection. From there, a right turn opened out into the main road. The incline was gentle, flanked on both sides by small shops and tumbledown shacks. There were no trees lining the road... only occasional thorny bushes and stumps. The sun beat down on the road directly, and upon my head. The first five minutes had me heaving and puffing. I could hear my heart thumping with every step that I forged ahead. It was loud, loud in the stillness that surrounded me. For everything else was silent. Asleep. Closed for the afternoon. Deserted. Discarded.
I wanted some water. There was not even a single tap on that road that seemed to stretch for ever and ever. It seemed to me the longest climb I had undertaken. Not that it was long in reality. I had been walking only five minutes. Maybe ten. I still had another five minutes to go.
But the road seemed to melt and seethe with tar under my feet. I felt trapped, as if I was treading over a humongous jam-covered toast. I felt old in my limbs...as if the senility of Hyder Manzil had crept in unawares and accelerated my age by some twenty years. Or, as if the ghosts of that place wanted to drag me back with their long yet invisible, withered fingers, threading them more closely about with every step I took that led me away. The road looked on unmoved into the skies like an Indian mystic looking at the hot coals upon which he must walk. I looked resolutely at the intersection. For me, it was the only hope, the pitstop that I must make it to before I collapsed.
Some ten metres short of the intersection, I spied an auto standing ahead. It was empty. But I wanted to sit inside its shady interiors for a bit before I trudged on. But I discovered that I could not walk straight anymore. I staggered a couple of steps. Behind, I heard a volley of shouts and a host of motorcyclists passed by. Hooligans. A couple stopped to ask me if I needed some help. Their leers were unmasked. I prayed that they would pass without threat. Thankfully, they did.
I remember wondering how it felt in a desert. This pain compounded milliontimes. And the hope of respite diminished by another million...Better to die by poison than by this pain.
How I got home is unimportant and I do not want to write it. I did get home, since I am alive to pen this account. But what matters to me is the walk. Does it have a meaning beyond itself? After all, it is just a walk. On a hot day, on a dry road, without a handy bottle of water. A fifteen-minute climb upon a gradual slope to the main road. Something that everyone must have done, one time or the other...
So what made it so powerful as to leave such an impression upon my memory? What made the image of the road so crystal clear that I can still see it when I close my eyes? The sharpness will diminish and the image will merge into the past as my arabic teacher's car...but it gives me comfort, just like the car did. Comfort and a sense of survival. A sense that I made it through that journey till the end. Isn't that what every road brings us? To our destination. To the welcoming comforts of a home and a loved one. To news that we have been waiting for. To the conclusion.
And when we reach, we forget the road. We forget the journey and delve into the comforts of the conclusion. Like the comfort of a conclusion, had I written how I found and auto and went home to drink ice-cold lemonade in front of the TV. But I eschew this forgetfulness, no matter how much bliss it brings. I relive the sense of survival everytime the image of the road flashes in front of my eyes. Daffodils on a shore could not have given the poet more satisfaction than that journey gave to me. Saturdays come and Saturdays go. And yet, I relive my memory of the road.
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That times resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
-Eliot, T.S. 'Preludes'
Eliot talks of the city in lines that leave indelible marks on the imagination. What is this love of the city that makes people write so much about it? About its splendour, about its decay, about the drama of desire and hate played out in every lane and every alley, every moment of the day? Surely, it must be an addiction. For the city dwellers are lotos-eaters too, and they might sojourn into the silences of the suburbs, lose themselves in the raptures of rural pastures, but come back they must. Mason wrote: 'Come I may, but go I must,' but he wrote this of travel, of relinquishing stagnation. To use these very lines to convey an antithetical feeling... I can travel the world for months on end, but I must go back to the city, its roads with their 'insiduous intents', its mazes that lead somewhere all the time but nowhere in the end. It is an addiction.
One crisp and rather overdone Saturday, I walked out into the sun with the intent of going to my Arabic class. Normally, I take an autorickshaw to the lady's house and another back, not walking too much. A hot day in Hyderabad is hot, to say the least. I am assuming the bold font will do the trick. Well, not that there is any other option--even 'scorching' seems like a feeble epithet.
So, there I was in an auto again, winding my way through the ghostly 'hills' of Banjara Hills (I wonder how it would have been when there were real hills here) into one of its deepest recesses, where, in a large, airy, but decrepit house, a bespectacled, going-on-50-something lady reads out the holy Quran and teaches her students to translate the text. I dont do anything of the sort. I have just managed to learn how to recognize and pronounce (the latter being the more difficult task) the arabic alphabets. Arabic and Sanskrit, I remember reading during my undergrad years (four years back), are among the oldest and most cumbersome languages in the world, given their grammatical and phonetical intricacies. I had always wanted to learn arabic and this chance was a godsend.
The house stands in the middle of an old colony of conservative looking houses, a colony named Hyder Manzil. What greets you when you enter the collosal, corrugated iron gates is a feeling that you have gone back in time...way, way back. There are trees as old and as tall as Jack's Beanstalk - monstrous crows and ravens perch at their tops, cawing raucously in the stillness. My teacher's house stands at the end of a rickety lane that slopes upward and culminates on their front yard where the sunshine falls lazily, bouncing off their red-tiled roof. A huge car coated in dust slumbers in the yard. I have often wondered if they ever take it out. Now, I am quite used to its comforting presence, an oddity that has merged into the larger picture after years of effort by standing immobile through rain and shine. Not that I have been going there for years... I'm a newbie. But it feels like a long time in that aged house...even the air and the sunshine seem to talk of many many years of silence and the chanting of the Quran.
I digress... to come back to my little story of the road, I left the grand old house by 1:00 p.m. and walked upto the road. It was still. 1:00 p.m. is a time when the city sleeps, lulled by the heat. Old people take their noon naps at home, dogs curl up in ditches or under shady trees and dream of succulent cuts of meat... Offices whirr lifelessly to the tunes of keyboards and air conditioners. The occasional bus roars on the road with its windows like the hollows of sunken eyes. The road. I had a long arduous walk till the road. Hyder Manzil is snuggled deep in a recess in Banjara Hills. To get back to civilization, I decided to walk. Not out of choice but rather out of necessity since there were no auto rickshaws available.
It was a long walk I had on that crisp, overdone Saturday afternoon. The road sloped up from Hyder Manzil, towards the next intersection. From there, a right turn opened out into the main road. The incline was gentle, flanked on both sides by small shops and tumbledown shacks. There were no trees lining the road... only occasional thorny bushes and stumps. The sun beat down on the road directly, and upon my head. The first five minutes had me heaving and puffing. I could hear my heart thumping with every step that I forged ahead. It was loud, loud in the stillness that surrounded me. For everything else was silent. Asleep. Closed for the afternoon. Deserted. Discarded.
I wanted some water. There was not even a single tap on that road that seemed to stretch for ever and ever. It seemed to me the longest climb I had undertaken. Not that it was long in reality. I had been walking only five minutes. Maybe ten. I still had another five minutes to go.
But the road seemed to melt and seethe with tar under my feet. I felt trapped, as if I was treading over a humongous jam-covered toast. I felt old in my limbs...as if the senility of Hyder Manzil had crept in unawares and accelerated my age by some twenty years. Or, as if the ghosts of that place wanted to drag me back with their long yet invisible, withered fingers, threading them more closely about with every step I took that led me away. The road looked on unmoved into the skies like an Indian mystic looking at the hot coals upon which he must walk. I looked resolutely at the intersection. For me, it was the only hope, the pitstop that I must make it to before I collapsed.
Some ten metres short of the intersection, I spied an auto standing ahead. It was empty. But I wanted to sit inside its shady interiors for a bit before I trudged on. But I discovered that I could not walk straight anymore. I staggered a couple of steps. Behind, I heard a volley of shouts and a host of motorcyclists passed by. Hooligans. A couple stopped to ask me if I needed some help. Their leers were unmasked. I prayed that they would pass without threat. Thankfully, they did.
I remember wondering how it felt in a desert. This pain compounded milliontimes. And the hope of respite diminished by another million...Better to die by poison than by this pain.
How I got home is unimportant and I do not want to write it. I did get home, since I am alive to pen this account. But what matters to me is the walk. Does it have a meaning beyond itself? After all, it is just a walk. On a hot day, on a dry road, without a handy bottle of water. A fifteen-minute climb upon a gradual slope to the main road. Something that everyone must have done, one time or the other...
So what made it so powerful as to leave such an impression upon my memory? What made the image of the road so crystal clear that I can still see it when I close my eyes? The sharpness will diminish and the image will merge into the past as my arabic teacher's car...but it gives me comfort, just like the car did. Comfort and a sense of survival. A sense that I made it through that journey till the end. Isn't that what every road brings us? To our destination. To the welcoming comforts of a home and a loved one. To news that we have been waiting for. To the conclusion.
And when we reach, we forget the road. We forget the journey and delve into the comforts of the conclusion. Like the comfort of a conclusion, had I written how I found and auto and went home to drink ice-cold lemonade in front of the TV. But I eschew this forgetfulness, no matter how much bliss it brings. I relive the sense of survival everytime the image of the road flashes in front of my eyes. Daffodils on a shore could not have given the poet more satisfaction than that journey gave to me. Saturdays come and Saturdays go. And yet, I relive my memory of the road.
