Ever felt like..

I was lying on a pile of fine gravel looking at the dark starless sky. My legs hurt and I felt something big inside my pant pockets.

We must have started from Chennai at about 7.15 pm that day. Muru and Param were on a Yamaha RX 135 and I was on the pillion of Vicky's black Pulsar 150 cc, it was our friend’s marriage the next day. The traffic kept a check on the speedometer until we were on the national highway. We filled gas at about 10 kms from the start and had the Yamaha checked for air.

At about 25 kms the Yamaha had a flat tyre and we had to push it a good distance till we found a repair shop. While the vehicle was attended to I found a shop that sold cold beer. I bought two bottles for just the pillion riders, Param and me; the two beers were divided in to 4 equal parts.

After some distance the highway was looking clean and tempting, we were soon touching the 80 kmph mark. There was a gentle drizzle, I lifted my hands up, let the cool air strike my face, mmm... bliss. In a few minutes the dial was showing 85 kmph.

"On a dark desert highway, Cool wind in my hair..." I was whistling the Eagles number with my hands still in the air when we touched 90 Kmph, ever felt like God? I did.

All through this we were trailing the Yamaha and Vicky on his first long ride was enjoying every moment. The Dial now read 95kmph.
I thought I saw a 'take diversion --->' sign a few feet away and when I turned straight, I heard Param shout "shit ..", the Yamaha was in the air.

The next Instant I too was..

I was lying on a pile of fine gravel looking at the dark starless sky. My legs hurt and I felt something big inside my pant pockets.

I was on the speedometer, the rear view mirror of the Pulsar inside my pant pocket. I couldn't move for a long time, my heart was racing and my mind was crowded with thoughts. I desperately tried to move, I couldn't. After sometime all three of my friends were standing around me, I smiled and Vicky helped me stand.

"Cigarettes please " It was me..
"Can I call the ambulance ?" it was Param
"ungo... ", an obscenity, Muru. We laughed and heartily.

I had fallen on the Pulsar, Vicky a little away and Param on Muru. Only Muru had a helmet on, the helmet had cracked. The fine gravel had cushioned us to only a few bruises. The Pulsar was half inside the pile of gravel, its blinkers gone, scratched all over and the gear lever bent to an awkward angle. The Yamaha's blinkers too were missing, the break pedal was shaky and the helmet had to be disposed.

Vicky was struggling to ride when we started, my legs hurt and we sat down on one side of the highway. Param was giving my legs a massage when I heard my mobile ring. It was my friend in Chennai, after a minute of my silence he disconnected. I kept the phone beside me and continued to wince.

Five minutes later we were on the road again, the speedometer read 45kmph, Param was riding the Pulsar. After a while I thought I heard my phone ring, I searched for the phone and we turned back. Just about a kilometer on the way back, it started to rain. An hour of searching my mobile only drenched us.

We reached the Marriage hall at about 12.15 am, the next day. When Vicky woke us up in the morning, it was 7.30; my friend had been married for two hours. It was a Thursday and I was supposed to be at my office, we spent the day at Muru's home. We started back in the evening, with the speedometer reading 65kmph, it was warm and sunny.

After a while, dark clouds cast the sky, there was a gentle breeze and the traffic seemed thinner than the previous night.

I looked at the dial it read 80 kmph, ever felt like God?

Another night, another place, another journey

Stranded drunk in a railway station in the middle of the night was not a new thing for me. I tried ‘India today’, Sidney Sheldon, coffee and grapes for company. That night I had neither the choice of trains nor the class I was supposed to travel, all I had was a general ticket to Bangalore in my shirt pocket. The Nizamuddin express that was supposed to come in at 10.30 to the Miraj Junction was, like the ticket vendor said, ‘as usual late by about two hours’. When the train came in at last one general compartment was looking like a gas chamber of the nazi period, packed to the maximum. People were everywhere, on the benches, on the luggage rails, on the floor and at the door. Another compartment was already latched from inside, knocks and bangs on the door evoked little response from the mostly Muslim, burka clad inmates who went on with their squabble. The compartment I had to get in had some space for only my legs just beside an old woman who was comfortably lying on the way to the washroom also in a torn old brown burka. I looked in to the compartment to see so many burkas and kufies (white caps) that, for a moment I thought if Muslims were really a minority in India. I must have stood in the same posture for about an hour until I felt my bag was weighing me down. A thirty looking man, with a black baseball cap, helped me stuff the bag under a bench. By now some boys looking no older than teens and sitting at the door started sharing a pack of tobacco, I wanted to say something, but then I remembered I was drunk. The boys were now speaking in Urdu, and their names said they were all Muslims. I muttered “Muslims”, it must have been loud because the black cap was smiling at me. The black cap asked me something in Kannada, I replied him back in the broken Kannada I knew. We spoke in Kannada for some time of which the only thing that I understood was I never knew Kannada. The winds were too cold now and the doors had to be bolted and almost the whole compartment was sleeping except the few of us who were standing. My new friend made some place for me so that I could crouch while he stood. I was dead tired and I must have slept for over an hour in that position. I felt someone waking me up, my friend was sitting on the upper berth (can it be called one??). He was calling me from there, while I was still crouching. We were in some station and more importantly some of the burkas were getting down. I climbed on to the seat and sat down with him. Thirsty I took my half-full water bottle and was looking at it when something on the label stuck me. The label read “Durga – distilled water”- for battery use only”, I felt sick in my stomach. There was another man sitting to my right holding a small, may be a few months old baby girl. I bent down to look at the girl and his watch, it read 3.00 am. I slept and woke up again to something pulling my hands and I did not sleep again. The baby was almost out of her father’s hands precariously moving and trying to hold on to my fingers. I tried waking him and he was sleeping like he hadn’t slept for years. I picked up the girl and started playing with her. She was beautiful and didn’t mind playing with me, while I lost all my sleep falling in love with her charms. After about an hour of playing she probably was tired of me and she started wailing waking up everyone except her father. Her mother who too was in a black burka was surprised and quickly apologized before taking my sweet heart away. My friend beside me was also awake and I started complaining about the way the Muslims were, he seemed like he was very intently listening to me but never said anything. Not that I had anything against Muslims, I told him, it was just the day and he was seeing it all. At about 5.20 he silently closed his eyes and I think he prayed while some others in the compartment began their Namaz, facing east. Nothing eventual happened until the morning when I had to catch another train to Bangalore from Hubli. When the train stopped at Hubli, my friend simply said, “run” and started running with his baggage. I had to find my bag, my sneakers before I could run and when I reached the other train it was already half full. I walked the length of the train and a hand from one of the bogies startled me to a stop, my friend was sitting inside grinning; there was an empty seat for me in front of him. This train wasn’t as crowded as the first and I could even lie down for a nap. I woke up, brushed and had my breakfast and went to sleep while my friend was sleeping through all these. My friend woke me up with two fresh packets in his hand for breakfast; ashamed to admit I had had breakfast, I had to eat again. I must have looked like I was starving before I met him because through out the journey he fed me with anything palatable. For a moment I even had a fear, if he was tricking me in to something. When the ticket checker came in, I found a Muslim family traveling free because one of the guys was a railway employee. We again had a topic and I did most of the talking while he listened with the same intent. Before long it was afternoon and we were in Bangalore and had to part ways. Although we had spoken a lot, I knew nothing of him personally except he was from some place called Chinthamani road. I didn’t want another anecdote of mine with a stranger and no name. I asked him his name and he did not reply untill we had reached the entrance of the Bangalore junction. He smiled, shook my hands and said, “My name is Abdul Razzaq and Jasche, it was nice knowing you”, before joining the crowd and fading away. For the second time that day, I felt sick in my stomach.

NH4

Two hours had passed when my friend tired of showing up his hands asked me do it. With the traffic dwindling and every passing vehicle considering us another lamppost, I lost all hope. On a highway of an unknown town at 11.00 pm with a heavy baggage and a little knowledge of the local language I somehow was convinced I was going to spend the night under moonlight. We were stranded on the Bangalore-Kohlapur highway NH4 as we had missed the last Bus to Bangalore from Kohlapur. I half-heartedly lifted up my hands waiting for a miracle to happen when a vehicle slowly came to a halt in front of us.

It was a Truck and I actually felt myself smiling for the first time on that fateful day. After some negotiations with the Truck driver who wore a black shirt, we finally got inside the truck only to hear them talking in my own language. I was elated to take over from my Hindi speaking friend who had helped me all the way. We were happy but a little scared because it was all happening so easily and the truck carrying onions, my friend and me had already started. A heavy wallet with both of us did not help the cause either. I jotted down the truck number on my mobile and we planned to keep vigil in turns.

It was my turn and I was trying to keep myself awake when just about a kilometer down I saw a board that read ' Bangalore -> 620 Kms ', I lost all sleep. Life definitely is a cycle or why would I, who had traveled to Pune by a flight, on the way back be sitting on a wooden plank inside an old truck that carried onions? In the three hours that followed I saw my sleeping friend hitting his head about on almost all the walls of the cramped cabin. We had to speak loudly in the cabin, to beat the old engine's roar, which not only helped us hear but also seem to keep the driver awake. He kept talking all the way of his boss-the man with the black shirt, his recent marriage and of his Mother.

Traveling in the dark at 40kms/hr, which I later learnt helped them keep up the mileage I thought I was seeing the moon and the beautiful star-studded night sky after a very very long time. We stopped after about 75 kms for what was just the first one of the several tea flavours that I had to taste in the 24 hours that followed. It got colder through the night and the pit stops increased as the driver stopped frequently to keep himself awake with tobacco, cigerettes, water and tea. I woke up after having hit myself to an Iron bar and I realized I must have dozed off after having spent five hours on the wooden plank. I crouched to a corner of the already occupied bed and slept for about an hour before a terribly cold breeze woke me up. The visibility was near zero, with thick fog filling up the road and the truck moving at less than 10 Kms/ hr.

I fell asleep again and woke up only when the driver called me for another cup of tea and another round of his boosters. My friend who was supposed to keep awake was leaning on to the drivers seat and sleeping. When we got back to the truck, I could see the horizon clearing up a little and the sun was slowly coming up. I don’t remember a time when I had watched the sun come up, I was not going to miss it, I kept myself awake with one of the driver's possessions. The Truck was traveling southeast facing the sun, the scene looked like a picture postcard and I was missing my camera.

I fell asleep on the unkempt bed with my friend keeping up the vigil now and the other driver taking the wheel. Traveling on road definitely has its own vantages, I woke up after about two hours to see the beautiful green landscapes of North Karnataka and I was sorely missing my camera now.

We stopped to freshen up and I had the breakfast of my life, in a hotel that looked like it was directly taken out of the sets of Black hawk down. Nothing special was on the menu and everyone seemed to be eating the same dish. Unkempt hair, stained teeth, soiled shirts and pants and smiling faces – is all you will need to describe a truck driver. Talking to a few of them in the broken Hindi I knew I sensed Irony; they ferried apples from Himachal, granites from Gujarat, onions and cashew from Pune, vanilla and pepper from Kerala and many other things that only fall in the budget of the shiny part of India.
The lone telephone booth was crowded with anxious husbands, fathers and sons (our truck driver included) wanting to let their family know they were safe. When we were leaving I slipped and hurt my cheek trying to climb the truck, may be I wanted to stay a little longer in that cramped, dirty place.

The day journey was a lot different; I was now able to see the scenic landscapes as we drudged still on the 50-kms/hr mark. I lost count of the number of crushed, burnt out, mangled trucks on the way, of which both the drivers never talked about or seemed to pretend they had never seen. On the way we tasted some fruits, which I had not even seen or heard of, drank murky water, which surprisingly tasted good and did every other thing that for long I had considered unhygienic.

After having traveled 622 kilometers inside a 3m X 1m cabin for 18 hours and 34 minutes, we got down at Bangalore tired, dirty and cramped. One of the drivers was sleeping; we did not wake him up, for he had driven for most of the journey. The black shirt pocketed the money I gave him without counting. We just said a bye and the truck slowly started as we stood and waved at just the onions. When the truck was around the corner the black shirt – we never asked his name and we just called him Bhai (meaning brother)- stopped for a split second before he went on his way. The last thing I saw of the truck was the words National-Permit painted in black on the back of the truck.

I am going on a Jet Plane..

Just before a fortnight I had been to an airport for the first time when my friend's, friend's uncle had left for Germany. I had watched in awe as every flight took off, for more than two hours before I reluctantly left almost forgetting the reason I had been to the airport. And then one fine day I was told by my Manager that I was going to fly, thanks to a delay in the schedule of my work- I was left with little time and they booked me an air ticket.

I got to the airport finally for my first air travel after what I thought were the two longest days of my life. The one-hour that I had to spend at the airport, after a dark but smiling cute girl gave me the boarding pass, seemed even longer. My friend and I sat right in front of the status display waiting for the flights schedule, while my head ran to the days when I had tried touching a flying aircraft.

I was sipping a cold coffee when the status of the Aircraft that I was supposed to board suddenly moved on from SCHEDULED to NOW BOARDING. Like two school, children we ran to the gate 2 only to hear a big man with a even bigger moustache asking us to tag the luggage. We ran back to the counter to get the tags attached and the cute girl at the counter did it smiling. We ran again to Mr. big moustache, who promptly put our luggage in to a conveyor and led me to another man who checked me with what looked like a badminton racket.

When I returned to pick up my luggage, Both our boarding passes were crossed by Mr. Big moustache because I had a wire cutter inside my bag and my friend had a pair of scissors inside his. We ran again to the counter, had our bags screened and thrown in to another conveyor. And just as we started to run back to the Gate -2, I turned back for one last glimpse of the cute girl, she wasn't smiling anymore. The Big moush let us both in and we walked in to the gate to a waiting bus and a frowning driver.

The Mayhem inside the Airport had made me forget I was flying and only when the bus was nearing the Aircraft I actually felt the occasion. Two smiling airhostesses waited at the door inviting us as we both walked in barehanded. I walked a little faster than my friend and captured the window seat only to find myself sitting exactly by the wings of the Aircraft. The airhostesses then instructed us of how to use the seat belts and the emergency oxygen masks. Three of them demonstrated it so rhythmically that I thought the sequence was choreographed.

Ten minutes later the Aircraft started to move, slowly at first, a lot faster two turns later and before I could feel it had picked up height bringing all the blood from my head to my stomach. I had a pain in my neck when I looked straight having watched my city grow smaller and smaller. After about ten minutes of savouring the moment, the height and the airhostesses, I asked for a cup of coffee and I got a glass of hot water, a packet of sugar, some instant coffee and milk powder.

Lucky me, I was making coffee at some dizzy great height in the skies. I had just mixed up the milk powder and the coffee when the plane slightly shuddered pulling down an airhostess and my sugar sachet to the floor. Chaos followed as everyone wanted to know what was happening, the airhostesses lost their smile and panic showed on most of the faces. I started to sweat inside the air-conditioned cabin as I held on tightly on to my handrest beside my friend who was mumbling a prayer silently. Another shudder of the aircraft and there was silence in the whole of the till now noisy flight, except for a very beautiful small girl in a black dress who was enjoying the shudder jumping on her mother's lap.

The Pilot Sumeet (and from no where I got this image of Captain Smith of the Titanic in my head) was on the address system asking the crew to get back to their cabins and assuring us there was no problem and it was just another air pocket, what ever that meant. In a few minutes the air pockets returned to haunt us, the small girl returned to the peak of her voice and my creeps returned to my stomach. I had to pull my window shutter down to keep myself from panicking, when I looked out of the window and at the wildly arching wings. Things got smoother in a few minutes, the crew were on their feet smiling but the small girl started to cry as I tried to concentrate on my now sugarless coffee.

There was an audible sigh of relief inside the plane when the pilot announced the landing and asked us put on our seat belts. After two swings and two more shudders in the air, the aircraft started to descend and the small girl was jumping again. Only when the aircraft came to a screeching halt, my pulse rate started to descend and I found my breath and the sugar sachet.

When it was time to get off the two airhostesses stood again at the doorway thanking us for flying their airlines and the only one I saw smiling back was the small girl in black. And Before I got in to the airport I saw the hostess who had fallen down soothing her bruised shoulders, while somewhere in the vicinity I heard the Eagles sing
'Some dance to remember Some dance to forget'..