The Canvas of the Raining City

Summer has been my eternal favourite among seasons. I love the brilliant sunlight as it bounces off red tiled roofs, aluminum sheeted roofs, brown thatch roofs, and the invigorating breeze, suggestive of dark blue waters and sand and spray, the warm summer breeze rustling through green leaves of the plum tree in my neighbour's yard, where the sparrows and mynahs play their hide-n-seek games,  and the industrious crows are always-a-building their hasty nests. The breeze making the clothes on clotheslines flap wildly, the breeze blowing twigs and dry leaves into my room, the twigs and leaves doing a merry, dizzy dance before disappearing into unreachable corners and crevices...

All of a sudden, I espy a dark inky hue spreading in a thin line on the horizon, spreading insidiously, ominously...until I can see a massive storm cloud rushing in, staining the sky in its wake like some evil octopus, while the woolly little white lambs scurry off to distant fields. This mighty octopus is followed by an entire army of inkers, and very soon, a cold wind touches my cheeks, a distant growl breaks my reverie, and the invaders attack me with their weapons of cold, heavy, water-bullets. And I wonder if this rain will make me deliriously happy or inexplicably sad.

Sometimes, April can certainly be the cruellest month. The city hates summer by the time it is at its peak. The city squirms and sighs audibly, waving a broken hand fan, and mopping its brow. The city sweats on sultry evenings, when there is no breeze even under starlit skies. The city wakes up crying at night, when a big mosquito bites. The city wakes up to hot mornings, sweaty after a disturbed sleep, and, under a relentless sun, waits in a queue for sugar, and rice, and kerosene. The city grumbles and swats a fly, and wishes itself elsewhere. Somewhere, where it's raining. 

The first rain showers are always welcomed with open arms. Everyone loves the first rain. From farmers to city dwellers, it arrives as a blessing, a salve for the wounds that have opened on the parched earth, a relief from the despondency that luckless summers bring to ordinary man, adding misery to woe with power outages, fancy electricity bills, and that sort of thing. Why me?

That sort of thing.

But when the skies burst open one fine day, drenching my drying clothes, red chillies, and pickles, I cannot help feeling happy as I scramble to collect them all and get them home. For the duration of a mesmerized hour, I remember neither the power cut, nor the buzzing flies (both of which are very much happening at the moment), I remember neither the running shoes I had left out on the terrace the previous evening to air, nor the neighbor's kid who is prancing around in my lawn, making little muddy pools where slimy water will collect and dry into a green mold under tomorrow's sun. I do not even mind the dirty street dogs that have crowded into the entrance to my house, dripping and shaking rainwater all over the walls, traipsing around, leaving muddy footprints and a lingering smell of wet dog. I do not mind any of these things, as I stand in my balcony, watching the invading octopus army lay siege to the summer city, batter its streets ruthlessly, and bring down summer's proud bastion in a matter of minutes. I watch and remember the conquest of the spurned lover, thawing April's stony heart until it flows at my feet in rivulets, clamorously at first, and later... much later...perhaps tomorrow, with the languor of peaceful resignation, and cradling - like a mother cradling her child - yesterday's happy paper boats.

The city wakes up from the rainstorm like a drunk waking up sober on a strange street. Everything looks new, freshly painted, resplendent. Where is the drooping peepul at whose base he had passed out, mercifully? Where is the yellow shack of the chawala, with its dirty old paint peeling, and a withered wooden bench outside, where he had perched the previous evening, wondering if they'd give him something to eat, gratis?
Rip Van Winkle has woken up to a new world altogether.

What a wondrous transformation! The peepul is adorned with bright, shiny, green leaves, and tender young leaflings are sprouting from dried stubby branches! The dirty road is washed clean, as if a benevolent and super-efficient municipal corporation had toiled unceasingly at night to relay the asphalt. The old yellow shack has had a new lease of life, as if Rip has awoken 20 years in the past, not the future. Where is the cracked door post? Where are the layers of peeling paint? Where's the withered wooden bench? They're all gone, all replaced by seemingly newer, and sturdier door posts, and benches, fresher coats of paint. Drunk is the city, and drunk are all its denizens - all the animate and inanimate objects that crowd the city's consciousness night and day, winter and summer.

Of course, there's the squelching mud that squelches for days on end taking forever to dry up, and there are the mosquito larvae swimming in open drains. And there are the fat ladies in the buses who smell like washed chicken and carry pokey umbrellas that either drip rainwater all over you unapologetically, or poke you, equally unapologetically. There are the wet clothes that dry in two, even three days, and yet carry a damp smell that never leaves, no matter how much deodorant, how much perfume I spray. And there is the knee-deep muddy mix of rainwater plus drainwater plus mossy pondwater plus water draining out from terraces of people's houses, which I have to wade through, day in and day out. Surprisingly, the water does not stink. Neither does it harbor tell-tale signs of things-you-don't-want-to-know-you-waded-in. And most surprisingly, it seems to mischievously call out to the most puritan of us, to come float a paper boat in its currents - just one!

And there is also the deep, dark, dank moss that grows like a velvet carpet over wet walls, exuding a mysteriously heady smell, as if it contained the essence of tropical rainforests. And every now and then, this sheet of moss bears a small stem, a few tendrils, and a tiny, exquisitely beautiful, pale pink flower, so perfect I wonder how it survived the lashing rains. Then there used to be the giant snails that left silvery trails that Jackson Pollocked the aged walls of my erstwhile school building. They're probably still there, fewer in number, but just as active after the rain, oldies foraging under their antique shells, and complaining about the careless hordes of school brats, and the innumerable casualties underfoot. Big snails and little ones too, with little fifty-paise coin-sized shells, moving athletically among sidewalks and along wet tree trunks. While the big old boys went with a splintering crunch and left a ghastly gooey mess, the little ones crunched more deliciously, like the crunches of spicy potato wafers, or puffy golden cheese balls, or the lentil applams that my mother fried as accompaniments to Sunday sambar-avial lunches.

Not that I step on them, mind you, for they are little delicate things, intrepid and curious, and not at all shy of the proffered finger. But having moved to the topic of food, I'm not able to dwell on the fifty-paise fellows any more. Rain is tied inextricably to gastronomic indulgence. It is as if the thirst of the earth is matched by a hunger of the soul, and of the stomach, for some good, hot, piping, wholesome food. Like sambar rice, avial, spicy dry potato, and millions and millions of applams/pappadums. Or, hot, melt-in-the-mouth khichuri with the quintessential aloo bhaja, begun bhaja, and egg omelet.
Or, hot rotis and a super-hot mutton curry.
Buttery, spongy french toasts and steaming coffee.
Hot mushy Maggi.
Ginger and cardamom scented masala chai...

And all the while, a storm lashing outside, desperately dousing with icy cold water, a city that watches from windows and balconies, with a happy stomach and half-closed eyes.

Ah! I am deliriously happy. A Happy Summer followed by a Happy Monsoon. So sighing, I will walk up to my balcony and stare at the horizon, wondering if it will rain tonight...

Far from the Madding Crowd - A trip to Kasauli (April 15 - 19)

Gurgaon, in April – May, is a veritable dust-bath. It can be best likened to a sauna whose temperature controls have failed. The hectic construction activities in spate at this time result in perennial palls of dust and smoke that even fifteenth-floorers cannot seem to escape. And, trapping the inexorable heat of the day, life comes close to succumbing permanently to a dull, inactive delirium in front of the idiot box. Thankfully, the arrival of my in-laws gave us ample reason for a much-needed holiday. Having only a few days, we opted for holiday destinations that were at a driving distance of 4 – 6 hours, and uncluttered by the ever-hankering hordes of tourists. And, in the mountains, to be sure, so that we could beat the heat. That last clause considerably narrowed our options, but we were not entirely disappointed. Tucked away in the last paragraphs or miscellany columns of travel webpages on Himachal Pradesh, was a name we discovered – Kasauli.

Kasauli was built in the latter half of the nineteenth century as a sanatorium-cum-summer retreat for the British garrisons in the surrounding regions. Thankfully, it remains to this date, uncorrupted by the cankerous commercialism that has spread over most of the oases of natural beauty in this world. Located about 4 kms down a fork in the Delhi – Shimla road at an unmarked juncture, Kasauli lies hidden behind dark pine groves, away from prying eyes. So, while the great bandwagon of heat-harried tourists forged ahead to Shimla, we gave them the slip and turned down the road less traveled.

It is very easy to tick the attractions of Kasauli off your fingers, but though limited, they are by no means a meager fare. In fact, they’re the real luxuries of the world today – tranquility, cleanness, mountain breeze, wild flowers, and birdsong. An enterprising entourage of monkeys for those who grow bored of peace easily. And a short and charming Mall Road for the shopping bug-bitten. It is the place to stretch out your legs on a couch on a lazy morning, with your favorite book on your lap and all the time in the world on your hands. And no offensive honks will disturb your siesta but only the gentle trills, warbling, chirping, chattering, and other little melodies of the unseen world lurking in the shadows of the large branching trees overhead. And the heady pine-scented air to lull your senses and dispel all the aches and agues that city life is wont to give you.

We sauntered through the Upper and Lower Mall Roads, halting briefly outside the Central Research Institute, the Army canteen, and the nineteenth century Christ Church (which was closed) – all in the matter of an hour. And we were back in our rooms, panting from the occasional climb, yet invigorated and hungry. And having thoroughly explored the town and all its quaintness. Over the next three days, we made three more journeys – to Solan, Dholanji and the almost-forgotten monastery of Yungdrung Bon, to Manki Point, and finally, a last tour of the Mall road on the third day of our stay.

Day 1 – Yungdrung Bon monastery

The first journey was the longest. Solan is another town half way between Kasauli and Shimla and famous (or infamous, if you please) for its rum breweries, especially Old Monk (many cheers in the background). Another thing that Solan seemed to be famous for is button mushrooms that are found aplenty in the region. From Solan, we decided to play it adventurous, and, guided only by a few intrepid webpages on Google that mentioned the na,e, we decided to hunt for the Yungdrung Bon Monastery, about 4 – 5 kms from a place called Dholangi, in Ochchghat village. Now, only a few people in Kasauli had heard of Ochchghat, and fewer still knew of Dholanji. And only one soul, in Dholanji itself, seemed to know where the monastery was situated. To get to this place, there is a dirt track that goes down from Dholanji, wide enough to allow a large car to pass through.

After traveling miles on miles with dry, stunted vegetation around, the monastery appears out of nowhere like a multicoloured butterfly against the brown monotone of the background. It is a small, self-contained setup, providing for all the necessities required by the quiet community, including a school, a medical centre, few scattered shops, and even a restaurant or two, for the odd few (like us) who chanced upon it or found it by effort.

Painted in resplendent colors, the monastery seems to compensate for the striking lack of color around it. When we were there, the monks were chanting in the prayer hall, their shaven heads bobbing and their multitudinous voices resounding in the dimly lit, incensed hall, while a seated Buddha smiled and watched the world with his half-closed eyes. There is a certain magnetism in the world of the ascetic, with its all-forgiving, all-embracing affection, its childlike, nodding rhythms, and its sense of complete oneness with the large universe around it, untouched by the ‘sycophantic, phlegmatic, pusillanimous’ minds that inhabit it. We left the Yungdrung monastery just as the monks dispersed, clad in dark plum-coloured robes, and casting querulous glances at us. Some smiled, while the rest watched us depart, with thoughtful, world-weary eyes.

On our way back, we also saw the Vishal Shiv Mandir, in the village of Jatoli. It was perched on the slope of the mountainside, while its tall dome rose up like the crest of some rare mountain bird. 

Abandoning the idea of climbing the meandering flight of narrow, uneven stairs leading up to it, we went back to Kasauli to spend a restful evening, finishing off with an amusing dinner at a nearby restaurant. As to why it was amusing, that will make up for another post altogether!

Day 2 – Manki Point

Manki Point, or Monkey Point, but more likely Man-ki Point, is a temple. It is perched right at the summit of a hill (if you consider Kasauli to be at the foothills of this ‘hill’). The legend is that the Hindu god Hanuman (‘Monkey god’) placed his foot atop this hill on his way back after procuring the Sanjeevani plant. So, the hilltop was moulded to resemble the shape of a foot. Whether or not the hilltop is shaped thus, of course, could not be corroborated except by an aerial tour of the place, which we could not take. However, the legend does suggest that ‘Man – ki – Point’ (in hindi, meaning ‘the Point of HanuMan) is probably the more accurate (and respectable) name for this site, rather than the dismissive ‘Monkey Point.’

The second thing of importance about Manki Point is the fact that it is an Army base. The base is situated all around the hill where the temple is located, with the result that security is high, and visitors are screened thoroughly, including an identity check, and mobile phones and cameras are disallowed inside. So, I had to leave my trusty camera in our car, as we walked into the base, and along a clean, well-maintained road leading up to the hill in the distance. Everywhere around us, military colours and insignia mingled with the natural greens and browns, and the only thing to suggest anything remotely religious about the place was the faint melodies of the “Hanuman Chalisa” being played over loudspeakers along the stony stairwell etched on the hill.

At the base of the hill is a small cafeteria that claims to sell ‘dhosas,’ ‘idli,’ and ‘momo’ - an incongruous combination with the aim of attracting the motley group that visits the temple. There is also a kind of departmental store you would probably find in Thakur Sahab’s village in ‘Sholay’… the goods therein can rightly be called artifacts - brands from some bygone era which probably have exhausted their shelf lives twice over. However, coming from a sleepy hollow like Kasauli, it only seems an extension of the forgetfulness that seems to have permeated the entire little world contained on the mountainside.

Of the temple, there is not much that meets the eye. It is like any other North Indian Hanuman temple you’ll probably visit, with idols made of white marble, with shiny eyes and colourful costumes. The priest sits staring at the new faces, for his job admits of little more entertainment than that, and scooping small quantities of holy water and prasad into outstretched palms. Curious devotees enter to see the idols, close their eyes and fold their hands in prayer for a few minutes, take their prasad, and leave. Jai Shri Ram! Jai Hanuman!

Being at the top of the hill, the surroundings of the temple offer an unobstructed view of the mountainsides and the flatlands beyond. In fact, I do not remember ever seeing such a vast expanse of land stretching for miles and miles on all sides, as far as eyes could see. The view was only obstructed by a gloomy cloudiness which could have been the result of clouds, dust, or even smoke from the forest fires of Shimla, which were raging on just then.

Day 3 – The Mall

Kasauli’s ‘Mall’ stretches along a narrow cobbled lane, laid out with smooth but uneven rectangular stones, like the type you could see in the older parts of Calcutta, especially along the tram lines. Tiny, and crooked makeshift shops are stacked closely on one side of this lane, with their topsy turvy roofs of corrugated metal sheets, forming a funny cavalcade, as if dusty old men in uniform were sitting side-by-side, jostling and elbowing for space, and grinning at you with toothless grins. The funny yet somewhat sad spectacle of this so-called mall was further saddened by the complete lack of any ‘authentic’ or imaginative memorabilia that one could purchase as gifts or keepsakes from a place that otherwise resembled a figment of imagination. The vendors hawked their quasi-urban goods with near-sincere enthusiasm, pointing out their shiny faux-leather bags, Kareena-Kapoor-style harem pants, flip-flops in fluorescent shades, unenviable woolen garments, and a whole load of bric-a-brac that one will hardly bat an eye at. The only things of any worth were some wood work items that could be procured at throwaway prices, and a candle shop selling esoteric shapes and sizes in candles, packing and carrying which could bring irreparable damage to the candles themselves. I also saw in that shop a variety of brass wind chimes and bells, and, quite surprisingly, a large (and only) packet of dried chopped onions, containing, as the shopkeeper claimed, “13 kgs of the best onions available”.

We bought nothing from that shop. We stopped at a few eateries, munching on the idiosyncratic Indian pakodas and drinking tea. I even sampled a few momos, but overall, the mall proved extremely ordinary and rather disappointing. My wooden bangles, however, gave me immense happiness and a sense of peace with the world.

Return

Leaving Kasauli was somehow not tinged with the usual mellow feeling of sadness and regret that I can feel at the end of a holiday. Maybe because Kasauli was so close that coming back to this place would only be a matter of time. Maybe also because I had the contentment of having thoroughly explored it, and left nothing to the imagination. But most probably because I had come without much expectation, and I was leaving with satisfaction of having found peace among nature and among the beauty and majesty of the mountains.

The French Affair

Tucked away in a deep, shady recess of South Calcutta, lies a haven of peace by the name of Aurobindo Ashram. It is a group of modest buildings surrounded by broad leafy trees and flowering shrubs - housing a school, a playground, an open air auditorium, a meditation hall, and a few straggling office buildings, where nondescript clerks maintain records of such and such on surprisingly clean shelves.

In fact, the Ashram itself is surprising in the overwhelming sense of peace that it brings to those who enter. It is a miraculous stepping in...one minute I am in the polluted, honk-infested, and crowded N.S.C.Bose Road, and the very next, I'm walking into the scented quaintness of Aurobindo Ashram, wrapped in a dense, cool foliage, and an unmistakable air of mystery and timelessness. So many times I have walked down the corridors - long past school hours - and watched the breeze moving through the stillness. And each time, the ashram offered me something new to see, something new to know, something new to learn and discover. And it began with French.

My tryst with French and the ashram began, when I was in Class IX, a gawky, overweight teenager, who had just begun to sense the narcotic beauty of this language, and wanted to enroll herself in the courses held after school hours, in the empty classrooms of the ashram. A tall, old, man met me on the stairs as I walked to the class for the first time. I was early, and though dusk had settled into the nooks and crannies of the school buildings, there was no sign of any classes being held anywhere, and no lights except the dim yellow lights illuminating the corridors at regular intervals. The old man, balding except for a fringe of shocking white hair on the sides and at the back of his head, carried a heavy jhola that looked like it weighed a ton, and though he walked slowly and meditatively, his posture was upright, and his step sprightly. He turned and bestowed a knowing smile on me, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses, and his bald pate shining under the yellow light overhead. It was a smile that would be imprinted upon my memory in the months to come, never dulling, never casting aside its all-knowing character, and always signalling the beginning of some mirthful anecdote from his past.

He led me to one of the junior level classrooms and unlocked the door, stepping in to switch on the lights and open the windows. Another routine that was to become my ritualistic calling soon, unlocking the doors before class began, opening out windows, switching on the lights and fans, getting the chalk and dusters ready...and the rewinding of the whole ritual at the end of the class, finishing off with the clinking keys deposited into Sir's white kurta, while he slung his jhola on his shoulder and walked back to the land of Gandalfs and Dumbledores. For he was one such being himself.

Under him, our French class became like a home away from home, a club of comrades, a gaggle of giggling girls, mostly-mature matrons, and scrawny young boys, all of whom wanted to learn French for unfathomable reasons of their own. And the best thing was, there were hardly a few of us who wanted to learn French for prosaic purposes, like clearing school exams, or getting jobs as interpretors etc. We were, as it were, hand-picked by some ancient gaulish spirit, who also tinged us with his/her iridescent joie de vivre, and a touch of insanity.

There was, for instance, an itinerant South African lady who was touring the world, stopping at places only to earn money by doing odd jobs for 6 months to a year, then moving on to seek other climes. It was during her stopover at Calcutta that she was trying to do a crash course in French, though France was not to be her stop for several years to come...

Then there was a crazy boy, D, who loved French for no reason except that he loved it, and spoke to me incessantly of the overthrow of the taqht-e-faarsi, by which he alluded metaphorically to the position of French teacher at Aurobindo Ashram, a position which Sir currently held. How he proposed to do it, he never explained to me, but he seemed a man possessed by his dream of vanquishing the current holder of the taqht-e-faarsi and sitting on it himself. But of all the students that Sir had, he was probably the most genuinely respectful of the old man. D and I spent many evenings together, battling with complicated sentences and grammatical structures, the passé composés and futur antérieurs, and arguing about some silly point at length, till it became a mocking distortion of what we started out with. Then we laughed and laughed ourselves silly, connecting our successes and failures with the eventual overthrow of the despotic French monarch, that would leave us the throne and all the spoils of war (the various French books in the small library that Sir guarded most jealously)...muhahahaha...

Though D had joined much after I joined the class, there was never a distinction between our levels, and we were the same, whether we sat relearning the same lesson for the nth time under a forgetful Sir, or I took classes for the elementary level students, teaching them how to conjugate avoir and être. I did that too, and it was only the trust that Sir had in me that gave me the confidence to take these classes, despite the fact that I had only completed intermediate level myself. Sir was a child, as much as he was an old man. Like a child, he took gleeful pleasure in regaling us with stories from his childhood and youth, remarkable for the way they were entirely unrelated to the context of the lesson we were discussing. There were robbers, and wild dogs, and screaming viragos, and all the paraphernalia of romantic novels, and Sir was the protagonist of all the stories - the charming, witty intellectual, the most unique mix of brains and brawn, the indomitable victor in every fray, big or small, against robbers or rats...

And when the anecdote ended, he beamed at us with his wickedly glinting eyes, while we narrowed ours in disbelief, not knowing which parts to believe (for he had so many years behind him, and such a knack of painting pictures, we were almost transported to the scenes he described) and which not. Sir, we complained, what a pack of lies! Hotei pare naI (C'est impossible!) And he smiled at us again.

And then we'd get back to our lesson, while the valiant giant in front of us suddenly transformed into a forgetful old man, forgetting what he'd been teaching us, and starting again with the first paragraph on the first page (where we'd have finished page 4 before the story began). But none of us ever told him he had forgotten. We relearned our lessons twice, thrice, and many more times, and were always the wiser for it. And he was always the more loved, the more respected...

Then there was the girl S and the girl M. S, M, and I, we shared a great rapport, even though we were significantly different in years. S was the oldest, our didi and M was a good few years my senior. I was the youngest, the gawky, overweight teenager. S, M, and I became great friends with J, a witty young man, Sir's favorite student, and a prodigy of sorts. Smart, well-spoken, well-dressed, friendly, good-looking - he had all the qualities that could charm ladies and so he did, though, as it turns out, unintentionally. M and I were soon besotted, and while I was the nymphe, still too stupidly young to be of any consequence in the relationship woes of adults, and S, the crone (in jest, of course) too old to play these games, M was the maiden, just the right age for spurring wild imaginations and loose tongues, into spinning tales of young love. J came to teach us French (for he had a flair for languages, and had mastered French at a very tender age, taught by Sir, of course), he would come to Calcutta during the summer holidays and the puja holidays, and would take classes with Sir. Soon, I was inscribing his name all over in my personal diary.

Fateful was the day I found out that M had graduated to employing more womanly wiles - roses, suggestive cards, introducing her parents and friends to him, walks in the rain, movies together... my gawky little heart broke and swore vengeance in vain. I turned away from M and J as if they were poison, and concentrated solely on my studies, my French, and my gang of school friends. Eventually, they were forgotten, for that is the blessing of young age, when forgetfulness comes easy, as does healing of hurts.

But the hurt occasioned by that heartbreak was to heal much later, almost 7 years later, when I met J by chance, long after he had stopped coming to the Ashram, and long after I had discontinued French myself, owing to the growing pressure of education. I met him while I was doing my PG, surprised, discomfited, unsure of how to react, and yet happy in some unexplainable way. My happiness compounded as our friendship grew, and we met each other more and more often,for movies, lunches, long talks... The icing on the cake was when I was told how he had never felt any stirrings of the romantic kind for M, and how she had succeeded in making herself progressively unpleasant, till, at last, he cut off all ties from her, and asked her to go and do whatever deluded females do to themselves...Or at least, I hope he did :) In polite terms, of course. We're all gentlemen and gentlewomen here.

To go back a few years, I continued going to the Ashram even after M and J stopped coming. At that time, I was happy they did not come. Sir continued with his lessons, D and I continued discussing the taqht-e-faarsi over French grammar. We did our homework, our classwork, took examinations, and plodded slowly towards a better understanding of the language. I taught briefly after finishing my intermediate level, and Sir slowly suggested that I join Alliance to complete the advanced level, and take the examination to get my diploma. It was a difficult going - managing my classes on the one hand (I was in College at that time), attending classes at the Ashram, giving tuitions for my pocket money, and also going to Alliance. I had to let go of something. The ax fell.

I initially decided to keep visiting and teaching elementary French, at least once a week. However, that demanded a serious commitment, and Sir, all-knowing Sir, decided that it was not a great idea for me to juggle to this extent. He asked me if I preferred to finish my diploma at Alliance and then come back and start teaching again. The idea seemed sensible to me. Soon enough, my visits grew infrequent, and I stopped coming altogether, deferring it to the point when I could return with my diploma, and return with the intention of teaching seriously.

Alliance Française de Calcutta was a culture shock for me, coming from the homely environs of Aurobindo Ashram. A very business-like exterior, that led to a more business-like interior, where everything screamed French, from the light fixtures to the decorative sculptures and loud Parisian posters. It was not just the French language, it was the whole culture replicated in the brilliantly lit little rooms with their starched curtains, white walls, and modern polished seats. The music that echoed softly was French, the perfumes were, perhaps, French. The voices spoke in French, argued in French, even laughed in French. And all around, inviolate, was the feeling of alienation that seemed to surround me like some devious glue, restricting my movements until I felt suffocated, helpless, and extremely francophobic for the few months that I was there.

It was not the fault of the place. It was the fault of my expectations, my dreams that had been cocooned in the safety of Sir's brandishing swords and grand chateaus, in the familiarity induced by junior level classrooms covered in multi-colored chart papers that showed familiar things like Great Indian leaders, wild and domestic animals, multiplication tables, and origami. And now, the loud men and women who pandered to the French customs and cultures despite their rather evident shortcomings in terms of attitude, accents and grammar (well, some of them were actually good, to be honest, but a good few were pretty bad), who fluttered complacently like gilded butterflies among the poster-framed walls of the Alliance, as if their forefathers had been French all along, and they were actually French trapped in Indian bodies by a gross error of Providence - they scared me endless, and left me lost and lonely. In the four months that I was at the Alliance, I did not make any friends, and the first excuse I had to discontinue, I took it and bolted.

My excuse, however, was genuine. The classes at Alliance were beginning to clash with my college hours, and after a few honest attempts at doing both and ending up half an hour late at college every morning, I decided to not play around with my future. I quit Alliance but with a solemn vow that I would pick up French where I had left it, and see it till the very end. The language had only tightened its hold over my imagination despite all that I had been through, and I was more in love with it than ever before.

PG followed UG, and in my last semester during post graduation, I landed a plum job in Hyderabad. My joy knew no bounds. I wanted to be free, sample the pleasures of financial independence, and indeed, independence of every sort. And I had every intention of joining Alliance in Hyderabad, sooner or later, and completing my destiny.

Man is wiser only by hindsight, they say. Three years in Hyderabad, marriage, Chennai, Gurgaon... so much has happened since the days of my carefree laughter. So many things have changed, myself not the least. Calcutta itself has changed, its provincial attitude become more rigid, its shared joys and community celebrations become more ephemeral, its optimistic youth grown dark. When I return to Calcutta these days, visiting my parents for a week or ten days, sometimes, I am perplexed to find my memories not in conjunction with reality. And more often than not, a sort of sadness seems to descend upon me when I realize how much of a distance there has been created between myself and the city I have always loved and known as home...and how much of it has been of my own doing.

I am wary of reality. It is a vicious trap set by the sane, to thwart the insane flights of fancy that our minds are capable of. And it is boring, no matter how much our literatures exhort its perspicacity. No insane man can enjoy reality. And if you are bound to reality, you're bound to life as it is, and can never imagine life as can be. Not many may agree with this view. And several may think of it as escapism. I do so myself. I am an unregenerate escapist. I'd rather live believing in my own fantasies, than give in to the manacles of reality. And, I also believe that I am not the only one indulging in this blessed vice.

Un jour, vous verrez la serveuse automate, s'en aller cultiver ses tomates, au soleil...

Thus goes a song I had learned in school and sung on stage. I have not forsaken my affair with French, even though there has been so much more to it than just an attempt at learning a foreign language. And the very fact that there has been much more to this experience, makes it priceless, and will always connect me to some of the best memories of my childhood days, whenever I read a passage, or even a sentence in French.

I wonder what happened to Moulik Sir (for that was his name)... when I went to Calcutta last time, I passed by Aurobindo Ashram a couple of times, and I noticed the "learn french" board still up there. But I wonder if he is still around, or if the class has been taken over by some joker who'll make packets of French and shove it down throats, like they do everywhere else.

I wonder...but I do not have the guts to go inside and inquire...I'm too scared of what I'll find. I'd rather stand at the door and let memories wash over me like it was just yesterday that we laughed under the frangipane trees, or traced chalky lines on wooden desks...

(last two paragraphs are taken from my email to J, and are the inspiration for my post here)

A Madrasful of Memories

Yes, I have shifted base. From the ageing beauty of Hyderabad to the mystic, temple-bespeckled, jasmine bedecked, sambar-chutney city of Chennai. From Hyderabad House to Saravana Bhavan... so to say!



My first impression of Chennai was one of blandness. I was searching for something. I realized soon that I was searching for the Madras of my childhood, the Madras of the 1990s, when it was still Madras. We spent our summers here, when grandmom and grandpa were alive, living in their one-room pigeon hole, stuffed with all the wonders of the world. To my childish imagination, the cluttered bedroom-cum-living room-cum-store room was a treasure trove full of surprises. Antique radio on an antique wooden table with an old mirror from which my childish face gazed back at me. Antique wooden almirah with carved doors, which was covered with eons of dust, and where my grandfather kept his more important papers, locked and mysterious... A print reproduction of a painting of a semi nude lady (or maybe she was completely nude, I don't remember, but I remember being baffled by how beautiful her skin was, and how red her lips were)...the painting was probably a cheap memento my grandfather may have bought/collected in his bachelor days, but he not only let it stay, but actually gave it a prominent position in the living room, defying all the sanctimonious glances and whispered disapprovals of relatives and neighbors. Looking back, I think it was probably a sign of his deep-rooted disapproval of his own self. A picture of self mockery. Or who knows, maybe it was the remainder of a torturous romance during his army past, with some white-skinned beauty he met somewhere...



Hardly likely. But it was there, and very soon, it was forgotten by all except my green eyes. I still remember looking at it with some kind of a sacred dread, not able to tear my gaze away from such an outrageous piece of profanity, not able to look at it due to the indecorousness it called for. But the fact of the matter is, I remember it. Or at least, the essence of it, her ruby lips and milky skin and the pale translucence of the fabric that was draped around her thighs.



So yeah, she was not completely nude after all! Fancy recalling that last detail...



The room was a veritable junkyard of tools, working and non working electrical appliances, cans of oil and grease, and funny mechanical and electrical gadgets that my grandpa made during his spare time - lamps that spun on a wooden disc, a wooden merry go round that did something that I do not know, red colored lights and green colored lights mounted on fancy holders. And most of all, several boxes - big boxes, small pouches, tall biscuit tins, imported toffee boxes, flat plastic boxes. So many boxes that one could spend several afternoons just opening and sifting through one or two.



I was to find out when I was older that these boxes were all full of junk. Nuts, bolts, screws, rusted pins, little pieces of copper wire twisted and knotted beyond salvage, funny shaped iron ingots, small pieces of magnet to which all the rest were stuck and had to be pulled out, little bulbs with their fuses blown... none of these items could be of any use whatsoever! When I was older and the mystery of the boxes was finally solved, I wondered why he collected and stored all this junk. Just these boxes amounted to 8 of the ten odd shelves in the room. Not to mention the drawers of the tables, and the little chests stored under grandpa's bed. Stored for emergencies that never came. Stored for little theiving hands that pilfered and grabbed and made off with whatever was of any worth at all, when my grandma was dead and my grandpa dying on his bed, alone.



And not only did I find what lay in those eternal boxes, but I also found the cobwebs, the loose knobs on the radio, the switches that did not work... I found that the photo of the naked lady was frayed and discolored in patches, and the lady wasn't really as good looking as I thought. I found dead rats and roaches, little pieces of chalk which my grandfather taught me drawing with, and more and more nuts and screws scattered everywhere, in every corner and crevice, in every drawer and chest. I found that my grandpa's mattress smelled so musty I could not sleep on it without tossing. I found that I was growing ashamed of the little decrepit treasure trove that I had spent hours and hours playing in. And I was ashamed that I had been ashamed.



I found that my grandpa had eaten so much paan and tobacco that he had developed cancer. I found that all my favorite items, items that he had sworn to give me when I grew up, all were gone. Stolen, written off to relatives when he was only semi concscious, broken, lost.



And all that was left of the gaunt man, who my mom said, once made her friend pee in his pants, the man who fed 6 cats sitting in a circle around his plate of food, the man whose grey hair I pulled, in whose musty bed I slept peacefully, hugging him, the man who danced for me, to make me laugh, the man who taught me how to paint my first watercolor portrait, the man who played games with me on lonely afternoons, and the same man who could bring hot tears to my eyes with one disapproving look of his... all that was left of him was a frail man who could not remember, and could not see out of his rheum clogged eyes that his granddaughter had come to visit him.



My grandfather resisted our attempts to bring him to Calcutta with us, where we were staying at that time. He would always give an excuse. One of his best ones were, "Yes, I'll come to Calcutta soon, but I'm not coming by train. I'm taking an ox-cart to Calcutta. I'll pack my stuff and tie them in the cart, and I'll take your paati and we both will set off to Calcutta by road. It will take me long to reach, but I'll reach, nevertheless." I'd snigger and tell him I knew he'd never come. And he never did.



I reason his unwillingness to come with the thought that he was scared. The giant was actually scared within, scared of his old age, scared that he'd be so helpless that his own children will mock him and consider him a burden. He was so scared that he preferred to die alone, surrounded by strangers and scoundrels. And ironically, he did die among people who thought he was a burden, and his bedsores were a bother, and probably waited to see him go. He died frail and unloved. Except by his older daughter my mother, who cried for his helplessness and his pain, and cried for all the love and all the hate she bore him in her heart.



Mom tells me that when grandpa was young, he was ruthless and cruel. Harsh by nature, not a kind word escaped his lips in general, neither for his neighbors and friends, nor for his family. And in his vindictiveness, he used to curse his father-in-law, old and frail then, who stayed at their house having nowhere else to go. Mom tells me how her granddad bore the insults with a smiling face, and yet, I can imagine what he would have felt, old, unwanted, unloved...

Probably this is what they mean when they say it comes full circle, you reap what you sow, etc. etc. But nothing can prepare you for eventuality, whether it be death, or even old age.

I'm not able to come to terms with old age, let alone death. Somehow, for me, it is as if my grandparents are still living in the Madras of my childhood, and I have but to close my eyes to see my grandfather's gaunt frame silhouetting the door post of the old, old house, where he was wont to stand with his arms akimbo, balanced on the wooden pillars on each side. Or smell the delicious yet simple rasam and rice that my grandmother prepared, blended to perfection with ghee and fed to us (my sister and I) as we sat on the terrace on so many starlit nights...

Nothing can alter those memories, no matter how many cobwebs there may be in the dark corners, and how many nuts and screws come tumbling out, rusty, and useless.

And I realized that that was the Madras I was searching for, in this new city of Thai and Euromexican restaurants, crazy traffic lights snaking the roads till late hours, FM stations blaring foot tapping and gut wrenching westernized dappankuththu music, dancing divas P3Ps, french and german citizens singing Carnatic classical music at global margazhi concerts, and rich, fat ladies in kanjeevarams and diamonds glittering their way into halls and malls and music academies of fame...

As I walk to my modern, 2 bedroom, airy and spacious flat in Anna Nagar, I'm reminded of the dusty sand-strewn lane leading to my grandparents' little abode, and I believe that the cats must still be yawning on the porch there, the well still teeming with little wild fry after the rains, kittens still being saved from drowning in them by little boys with buckets and ropes, my grandmother still plucking scented jasmine from the creeper in the backyard, growing amidst rubble and the broken well, and gathering them into long garlands that she puts in my hair as I run out to play with my friends on summer evenings...

Oh, city, city.

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.

Of Buses and Bed Bugs

Lately, I've been traveling a lot. Especially in buses, through tiring overnight journeys between Hyderabad and Chennai. And I learnt that travel enlightens you about the world as it really is - not the proverbial 'bed of roses,' but, to stick to the same metaphor, a vertitable moth-eaten seat filled with vermin.

My first advice to someone traveling between Hyderabad and Chennai. Don't take the overnight bus.
If you must, don't take the non-AC bus.
If you still must, don't take the buses belonging to Omer Travels.
If you still, STILL must, don't expect to sleep at night.

My first reaction when I climbed into the giant four-wheeled wonder that screeched to a halt at the Afzalgunj bus depot was, why in the world did I pay Rs.500 for this joke?

I'm not kidding. The fare was Rs.500. Compare this to a sleeper class train ticket between the same stations at a modest Rs.327. If you take the 3rd AC, it comes to about Rs.750. It's a pity the train gets filled up so quickly, leaving no recourse for the emergency travelers, except our 4 wheeled wonders.

In buses, the base fare is anything between Rs.450 and Rs.500. There is no standard fare chart, so if you want it, you pay what they're asking for. And, as a rule, don't stare at the fancy pictures displayed on the walls (or websites) of these bus guys. Those were taken when the buses were brand new. Could be some 25 or 30 years ago. Check their claims of being in the market for the past so-and-so years. Add another five to it. And you'll arrive at a close approximation of the age of the bus you are going to travel in.

If it's an AC bus, chances are, it has been a little more fortunate, and a little less disheartening to look at. AC fares come costly. The base fare for an AC Volvo bus begins at Rs.700, and it can go up to Rs.1400 or Rs.1500 during peak travel seasons (Deepavali, Pongal, Christmas), when Indians are all traveling from one place to another.

Given the high fares, the public that generally books seats on AC buses is marginally more well-behaved (at least 80% of the public). Usually, they do not litter the buses, fiddle with the window latches and light fixtures, sleep on the floor, or stuff empty bottles in the spaces between seats. And, they usually find other means of employing their boredom than boring holes in the upholstery, or scratching out their love poems behind another's seat.

If they have these habits, the desist when others fix their disgusted stares rather pointedly on them.

But things differ vastly in a non AC surrounding.

Look at the picture below. Then look at the picture further below. If the one above is a normal bedbug, the one further below is the one you find on Omer's non-AC buses.

As I settled into the uncomfortable seat at about 10:30 at night, resigning myself to a noisy journey filled with voluptuous Telegu ladies singing raucously on TV, the lights went off, and I drifted into dreams.

Well, almost drifted, that is. When you are being pierced by mean pincers in the middle of the night, there is no peaceful drifting to anywhere.

To continue, I spent a sleepless night that night. Every ten minutes, I'd wake up from a fitful doze to find a mean bedbug biting into my neck, or my back, or the crook of my elbow, swollen to triple its normal size having drunk a bellyfull of my blood.

It was disgusting to even touch those vermins and rip them off my skin. But I did that, and tossed them to the ground and stamped on them. I grit my teeth for the first few bugs. Then, it became a habit for the rest of the night, and I was weeding the bugs with the deft hand of a primate...

Brought to my mind an episode of some reality show I had seen on TV. A few young people had to survive a night in a tumble-down lodge, which was infested with giant cockroaches. And mind you, I hate cockroaches even more than I hate bedbugs. And their dare was to catch those very cockroaches and stuff them into plastic packets. The team that collected most of the roaches would win eventually.

I shuddered involuntarily to behold those young women grabbing handfuls of squirming, crawling roaches, and stuff them into packets that were already swarming with more....

Looking back, I realize the truth in the saying that experience is what makes us stronger.

Ah well! So much for experiencing the soul-fortifying ordeal of tearing blood-filled bedbugs from one's own neck and arms and razing them to the ground. At least, I had the satisfaction of causing a dent in the bedbug population of Omer's super deluxe buses, albeit a small one...the size of a bedbug itself...

Future Omer travelers! Hear! Hear!! Hear!!! And let's hope we can dream of bedbug-free journeys to our loved ones in the future!

The City Never Forgets

Home away from home

What is this city to someone who has come from another place and has settled here merely due to the necessities of a career? I have often found myself pondering on this and wondering how much has this city accepted me, a stranger, and how much I have accepted this strange city that I suddenly found encroaching upon my lazy Calcuttan consciousness after 22 years of my life.

Thinking has never done much good, except when it is followed by action. Here's my act of capturing my idle thoughts about Hyderabad, what it has grown to mean to me, and what images it brings to my mind. So Lights! Camera! and Action!

I came to Hyderabad in June 2005, when I got my first job. Hyderabad. The name has a historical ring to it. In the famous 'Sound and Light' show held everyday in the heart of the windswept Golconda, I learnt, for the first time, about the history of this city. To give a short gist of the story behind the name, here is an excerpt from the Wikipedia entry on Hyderabad:

"A popular theory suggests that after founding the city, Muhammad Quli fell in love with and married a local Banjara girl known as Bhagamathi. He named this city after her as Bhagyanagaram. Upon her conversion to Islam, Bhagamathi changed her name to Hyder Mahal — and the new city's name was correspondingly changed to match it, resulting in the eponymous name "Hyderabad" (literally, "the city of Hyder")."
(For the full entry, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyderabad,_India)

A city was born from this torrential romance, and now, long long after the lovers are blended into the moth-eaten tapestry of history, it relaxes with its twin in the great peninsula of Deccan. Like a lady married for years now, the novelty and gaudiness of her brocade is now dulled, and age has chiseled out the fine lines around her eyes and her smile. Borne so many children, her girth has expanded to give her a portly appearance of a buxom matron, though still veiled in her feminine coquettry. Her laughter has no more the carefree ring of youth, but is sombre and laden with the weight of years of greiving and loss and suffering. No more a young girl, not yet the peace of plenitude and old age. It's a long life that the city has seen and is yet to see.

But yet, when the nights sparkle with festivities, she brings out her faded bridal finery and adorns herself, staining her eyes with kohl and surma, and her lips with the ancient blood red that her lovers so admired. Her arms are covered in bangles from her Choodi Bazar, golden, silver, copper, lilac, green, shining, shimmering, clinking...

Old men chewing paan hug each other, and young men make steal sly glances under canopies of little twinkling lights, hoping to extract a smile from the becoming new girl in the neighborhood. Her friends gather around her, twittering and chiding, while she, nervous in her new salwar kameez and iridiscent jewelry, hugs her bosom and stares at the starry sky with a knowing smile, knowing that she's the cynosure of the society and the only star in her lover's eyes...

And the city, the buxom matron, watches them all from her balcony, where she relaxes on a wooden armchair, her twin and companion by her side. She chews the paan and replays stories of her own youth, to her listeners, regaling them with anecdotes of how these old, respectable men of today used to gawk at her fifty years past, and pretend to stumble and fall at her feet while she walked on these same narrow streets. These same old men, now stern and austere in their spotless whites, now scolding the smart young lad for being so brazen, and sending him scurrying to the shop for more sweetmeats. Oh men, men! Always incorrigible, always unlearning their lessons. She sighs in contentment.

It's a restless evening and it ends like all other evenings. The matron must return to her repose, for another day awaits, another appointed hour of waking up and worldly woes. The city lives, laughs, then sleeps and wakes up to live some more.

But the city never forgets. For these very shiny lights and iridescent bangles will be sewn into her never-ending tapestry, and visited again on another joyous evening on the balcony, amidst festivities and frolic, when she will yet regale her audience with more stories and more...

The city never forgets.

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.