The Tale of Two Cities

(this is an old one, created on Monday, October 22, 2007, 10:55:05 AM, but posted only today)

Nearing midday, roads choked with cars and motorcycles, commuters in a frenzy to reach their offices and shops before their employers notice the delay…a city in its normalcy. Everything goes just as planned, turning and swinging with the precision of a mechanical clockwork mouse, not a toe out of line.

Hyderabad never ceases to amuse me. Standing in queue (of cars, mind you) in the long stretch between Punjagutta and Nagarjuna circle, I watch the massive cement columns and girders of the fatal flyover right beside me. Just a month or so ago, this newly constructed flyover, which had not yet been completed, came crashing down in a shocking incident, killing 15 – 20 people and damaging several others cars and buildings in its wake. The city was ablaze that night, with cries of people and flashes of camera, as the rescue efforts surged to retrieve the dead and the dying from beneath the rubble. The night wailed and howled.

Just a month ago, and now, all that reminds us of the grim tragedy are the abandoned concrete columns of the fallen flyover. Work has not commenced, and no one seems to be in a hurry. The wondrous public, who praised the corporation’s initiative and looked eagerly to the inauguration of the flyover, today this public pretends it is not there. People stare at the columns but seem to look beyond them, as if they never existed. No one wants it done, no one wants it gone. It’s just not there. An abandoned Ozymandias.

And so, the city has moved on. Even the dead have been mourned and done with. Now we need to get back to normal, to go about our own ways and earn tomorrow’s bread and butter, salt and rice. We have tomorrow’s celebrations to look forward to, new clothes to buy, new homes to settle into, new careers and new roles. The promise of the new, of change and growth, of youth and mirth. Where is the time for lamenting? The city has dried its tears and so shall we.

Today is the day after Vijayadashami. Vijayadashami, or the ‘victorious tenth day’, marks the quintessential victory of good over evil, in Indian mythology. Somehow, all the gods and goddesses decided that this is the day when they’ll undertake a massive effort to liberate mankind of its persecutors. Ten days of celebration are past, several demons have been killed, and we’ve moved on. Today is the eleventh day.

As I look out of the window of my car, I can perceive a special fragrance in the air. I know it and I recognize it, but it had no name. What comes to my mind was the phrase ‘post-pujo.’ I’ll explain this. ‘Pujo’ is the name given in Calcutta (the city of my childhood), to the ten-day celebration of Goddess Durga’s victory over the evil buffalo-headed demon Mahishasura. To anyone visiting Calcutta, I’ll recommend this holiday season. If you thought Calcutta was all slum, pollution, and traffic, you should see the city adorned for this occasion. The slums, the sludges, the autos and rickshaws, they get touched as if by a magic wand, and are infused with beauty and happiness. For these ten days, there is only light, only the auspicious sounds of the ‘dhak’ and the ‘dhol,’ only the sweet fragrances of the ‘bhog,’ the ‘rasagullas,’ ‘chamchams,’ and the ‘mishti doi.’ The sweet smell of perfumes, incences, and flowers, that the deity is lavishly adorned with. There is no aberration, it’s picture perfect.

And when Pujo’s done, what’s left is the quietude of satiation. The city wakes from a pleasant slumber, and stretches in its post-pujo lassitude. And as the memories of the light-filled nights come flooding back, there’s sadness, and there’s the promise of return, and most of all, there’s the lingering fragrance of celebration.

I’m brought back to my journey to wherever it is that I’m going to, in Hyderabad. As the wind whips my face, I can smell the same fragrance in the air now, the scent of happy memories, though past. It’s vivifying, and it brings to mind the peaceful repose of a city, amidst its traffic and its falling flyovers, its terrorists and backpackers, its slums and its splendor. Serves to remind that life goes on, I guess.

The tale of two cities is the tale of all cities.