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.
Uniform
I walk to find my way to office everyday through the dusty, uneven roads of Thiruvanmiyur, (Chennai aka Madras) alongside a horde of tag sporting Software Engineers. The walk and the vicinity everyday is almost the same, except when I am late and running. With an almost silent, green stretch and only tall buildings rising up, the walk is serene in the beginning.
Today again in the very next block to mine, the small beautiful boy is waiting for his "billabong high" (a crèche) cab unwilling to let go his mom's hand. Two blocks down I do not miss the pony-tailed girl in her green uniform (alongside a German shepherd) as she passes by me on a chauffer driven Hyundai Sonata.
Two boys playing on some hand held gadget in neatly pressed white shirts and half pants, are waiting for their school bus. A cute girl dressed in green and white clings on to her mom even as she is taken on a Kinetic Honda and a scary ride with her mom's timid driving and an ever-honking horn. A small, dark but cute bespectacled girl waits alone at the last building of the road, frowning impatiently, just as the geography seems to abruptly change.
The buildings are not taller anymore and it isn't silent anymore.
This father as always is in time taking four children (on some days five) and their overweight bags on a bicycle. The man who runs the roadside hotel around the corner is as usual taking at least ten children on his fish cart / tricycle to school. Groups of children in uniform, many of them barefooted, walk happily talking of things ranging from their maths teacher to M S Dhoni. Uniforms don’t look like uniforms on them, as most of them are torn, button less, patched and murky. A large part of this crowd carries UNICEF sponsored bags, dirty and filled with graffiti of their own kind. Some older guys wear better clothes, carry better bags and are on their bicycles, although it is mostly three guys to one bicycle.
Just in front of a big temple some street urchins in soiled clothes are playing cricket with a paper ball and a wooden plank, seemingly worried of their game being disturbed by the passing school children and the audience in me. A school boy coming out of the temple is talking on his black mobile phone even as an old man waits holding his car door open. I walk slowly till I lose sight of the game and the old man stands waiting, holding the door.
I am now at the bus terminus and amongst a different colour. The bus as usual is packed with bags occupying more space that the children. Some bags I think can even pull the children with them, good heavens, I never had to carry books all my life. As the bus spurts to life and drudges labouriously a lot more of the uniforms fly in from nowhere and cling on to the doors and windows like spider men.
On the other side of the road the cab for the 'Clark's school for the deaf' waits for the children. The children inside wear no uniforms, but something else is common - they invariably are smiling, staring at the windows and are wearing their hearing aids.
Just as the bus is moving out of the terminus I see a familiar sight at the cycle shop. The dark schoolgirl is at her father’s (I suppose) shop with her little sister as usual mending to her vehicles tyres. When it is over, the smaller girl gives the vehicle a push with all her might and as it gains momentum, jumps on to her handicapped sister’s tricycle waving wildly at their father.
The bus is now on the road and moving with clowds of smoke gushing out of the old vehicle .
Today again in the very next block to mine, the small beautiful boy is waiting for his "billabong high" (a crèche) cab unwilling to let go his mom's hand. Two blocks down I do not miss the pony-tailed girl in her green uniform (alongside a German shepherd) as she passes by me on a chauffer driven Hyundai Sonata.
Two boys playing on some hand held gadget in neatly pressed white shirts and half pants, are waiting for their school bus. A cute girl dressed in green and white clings on to her mom even as she is taken on a Kinetic Honda and a scary ride with her mom's timid driving and an ever-honking horn. A small, dark but cute bespectacled girl waits alone at the last building of the road, frowning impatiently, just as the geography seems to abruptly change.
The buildings are not taller anymore and it isn't silent anymore.
This father as always is in time taking four children (on some days five) and their overweight bags on a bicycle. The man who runs the roadside hotel around the corner is as usual taking at least ten children on his fish cart / tricycle to school. Groups of children in uniform, many of them barefooted, walk happily talking of things ranging from their maths teacher to M S Dhoni. Uniforms don’t look like uniforms on them, as most of them are torn, button less, patched and murky. A large part of this crowd carries UNICEF sponsored bags, dirty and filled with graffiti of their own kind. Some older guys wear better clothes, carry better bags and are on their bicycles, although it is mostly three guys to one bicycle.
Just in front of a big temple some street urchins in soiled clothes are playing cricket with a paper ball and a wooden plank, seemingly worried of their game being disturbed by the passing school children and the audience in me. A school boy coming out of the temple is talking on his black mobile phone even as an old man waits holding his car door open. I walk slowly till I lose sight of the game and the old man stands waiting, holding the door.
I am now at the bus terminus and amongst a different colour. The bus as usual is packed with bags occupying more space that the children. Some bags I think can even pull the children with them, good heavens, I never had to carry books all my life. As the bus spurts to life and drudges labouriously a lot more of the uniforms fly in from nowhere and cling on to the doors and windows like spider men.
On the other side of the road the cab for the 'Clark's school for the deaf' waits for the children. The children inside wear no uniforms, but something else is common - they invariably are smiling, staring at the windows and are wearing their hearing aids.
Just as the bus is moving out of the terminus I see a familiar sight at the cycle shop. The dark schoolgirl is at her father’s (I suppose) shop with her little sister as usual mending to her vehicles tyres. When it is over, the smaller girl gives the vehicle a push with all her might and as it gains momentum, jumps on to her handicapped sister’s tricycle waving wildly at their father.
The bus is now on the road and moving with clowds of smoke gushing out of the old vehicle .
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.
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'..
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'..
Another beautiful day
The recent rains had ravaged Chennai so much that nothing was in place or in time. One of those days my sister was coming back to Chennai from my home on a train and I was inside a bar drinking with my friends. It was almost 9 pm and I, almost drunk when my sister called me up to tell me that the train was 3 hours late and that she needed me to pick her up as it was getting late.
Even as I was thinking of ways to get to the railway station, someone who had drunk a little too much had hit my -a little too much drunk- friend. Before I could make out what had really happened my five friends were fighting out a gang of eight, I for my part ended up with more than a couple of bashes and all the excitement up my head had drained with my sweat but the smell stayed. Only after a patrol vehicle siren was heard the place became calmer. Scared of the sirens and cops, I stayed inside shivering and draining down what ever was left on my now rampaged table. After about an hour and a few anxious moments we left the bar silently in the pelting rain.
One of my generous friends dropped me at about a mile from the station. I had to walk the remaining distance in the rain and with a stupid fear that the brawl at the bar wasn't over yet. I called up one of my friends to keep myself from getting scared. A graveyard and the central jail on the way did not help the cause and I walked like an Olympian. I only breathed when I saw the glaring lights of the Central Railway station, my breath told me I was drunk and the station told me I was meeting my sister.
Waiting in a Station that was already cramped with thousands of people around in a wet pair of dress isn't something that makes you comfortable. Four coffees and a pack of Wrigley’s later I still felt I wasn't ready to meet my sister. With no empty chair in sight I couched in front of Higginbotham’s the book shop, waiting to hear about the train that was already 3 hours late. 'Tap tap' I was woken up by a man in khakis and black shoes asking for my platform tickets, it took sometime for me to realize I was lying on the floor at the central railway station waiting for my sister and the man in front of me was a cop. I did not understand his Hindi and neither did he understand my slurred English. A porter helped me - god knows why - telling the police man that I was his friend.
Three more coffees, a baby, a brawl with some one on whom I had spilt the fourth coffee, a game of cards with the porter and a magazine, managed to keep me awake till the train slowly nudged inside. I caught up with my sister who was tired from a seven hour-long journey that actually takes three hours. I stayed at least a meter away from her for the fear of letting her know that I was drunk. After waiting outside the station for about half an hour we managed to find an auto rickshaw at thrice the actual rate. I spoke very little all through the way, very uncharacteristic of me, she should have thought.
I managed to find my way to my house after dropping my sister at her house only to find knee-deep cold water covering up the whole road to my house. I actually waded to my house puffing up the cigarette I had borrowed from the auto driver and it was 2.00 am the next day when I wearily walked in to my bed happy atleast my sister wouldn't be hurt.
I woke up to my cell phone ringing to find my dear sister on the line. We spoke for sometime about my home, father, my mother and her journey as we had not spoken much the day before . Slowly we ran out of topics and she suddenly asked me if I was drunk the previous day and before I could muster an answer she hung up.
Wide awake and not knowing what to do, I looked at my watch for the start of another day. It was 9.05 am and I remembered lying on my bed that it was monday and I was already late by five minutes for a meeting at my office. and yes another beautiful day had started....
Even as I was thinking of ways to get to the railway station, someone who had drunk a little too much had hit my -a little too much drunk- friend. Before I could make out what had really happened my five friends were fighting out a gang of eight, I for my part ended up with more than a couple of bashes and all the excitement up my head had drained with my sweat but the smell stayed. Only after a patrol vehicle siren was heard the place became calmer. Scared of the sirens and cops, I stayed inside shivering and draining down what ever was left on my now rampaged table. After about an hour and a few anxious moments we left the bar silently in the pelting rain.
One of my generous friends dropped me at about a mile from the station. I had to walk the remaining distance in the rain and with a stupid fear that the brawl at the bar wasn't over yet. I called up one of my friends to keep myself from getting scared. A graveyard and the central jail on the way did not help the cause and I walked like an Olympian. I only breathed when I saw the glaring lights of the Central Railway station, my breath told me I was drunk and the station told me I was meeting my sister.
Waiting in a Station that was already cramped with thousands of people around in a wet pair of dress isn't something that makes you comfortable. Four coffees and a pack of Wrigley’s later I still felt I wasn't ready to meet my sister. With no empty chair in sight I couched in front of Higginbotham’s the book shop, waiting to hear about the train that was already 3 hours late. 'Tap tap' I was woken up by a man in khakis and black shoes asking for my platform tickets, it took sometime for me to realize I was lying on the floor at the central railway station waiting for my sister and the man in front of me was a cop. I did not understand his Hindi and neither did he understand my slurred English. A porter helped me - god knows why - telling the police man that I was his friend.
Three more coffees, a baby, a brawl with some one on whom I had spilt the fourth coffee, a game of cards with the porter and a magazine, managed to keep me awake till the train slowly nudged inside. I caught up with my sister who was tired from a seven hour-long journey that actually takes three hours. I stayed at least a meter away from her for the fear of letting her know that I was drunk. After waiting outside the station for about half an hour we managed to find an auto rickshaw at thrice the actual rate. I spoke very little all through the way, very uncharacteristic of me, she should have thought.
I managed to find my way to my house after dropping my sister at her house only to find knee-deep cold water covering up the whole road to my house. I actually waded to my house puffing up the cigarette I had borrowed from the auto driver and it was 2.00 am the next day when I wearily walked in to my bed happy atleast my sister wouldn't be hurt.
I woke up to my cell phone ringing to find my dear sister on the line. We spoke for sometime about my home, father, my mother and her journey as we had not spoken much the day before . Slowly we ran out of topics and she suddenly asked me if I was drunk the previous day and before I could muster an answer she hung up.
Wide awake and not knowing what to do, I looked at my watch for the start of another day. It was 9.05 am and I remembered lying on my bed that it was monday and I was already late by five minutes for a meeting at my office. and yes another beautiful day had started....
I wish I was..
It was inside one of the numerous hotels around my office that I first saw Loganathan - may be about 20-24 - who looked a little too odd to be a waiter. He had been serving me for a week before we stuck up with a conversation outside the hotel. I would have missed this smartly dressed lad if he hadn't come up to me himself. He was completely different from the uniformed waiter that I was used to, in neatly pressed formals and a shiny black pair of shoes.
The first few meetings were like, I did most of the talking showing off and he used to just listen with a smile. Slowly as we got along, I found out he was a lot better at talking than the trash I was doing and from then on, I started to listen. He speaks with vigour of life, failures, hope, dreams, hard work and success but with a tint of sadness when it comes to his personal life. From then on everytime someone came to me needing hope, I had the real life story of Loganathan to pull them up. Even when my sister failed to clear her first three interviews I told her the same story over lunch.
Working at a Bicycle repair shop simply wasn't exciting enough for him that one day he runs away from his home town in south Tamilnadu with about 500 Rupees in his pockets and some clothing. In his four years at Chennai he says he has spent days together without food, slept on roadsides, jumped jobs, gotten ways lost, learned to read and write, made friends and for now found a decent place and way to live. A part-time waiter he spends most of the time and all of his energy on the new marketing platform MLM (Multi Level Marketing). Being a waiter he said helps him because he had a place to stay, something to fill up his stomach (he never says eat!!) and of course he has the time to be with his business.
He works twenty hours a day taking breaks during the time he has to travel. He always moves around with a file, the first page of which says ' Loganathan - first croun ambasador of India' (actually meant to be Loganathan - First Crown Ambassador of India) in blocks. I vaguely know that the Crown ambassador is someone who is at the top of the Marketing group.
His Immediate aim he says is a six digit Income per month that he believes he would achieve by 2008. He speaks of Bill gates, Vivekananda and Thomas Alva Edison like he knew them all his life. Any good car on the road would make him smile and he would say " One day I would own a Mercedes". Every time I told him my job sucked, he simply would say, "you should either do only what you enjoy or try and enjoy what you do, otherwise you are lost". The first thing he says every time he picks up your call is "pray you get what ever you wish" and for the amount of life and hope he has, you would only wish he becomes the man he wants to be.
Very recently when he had, as usual lost his job with a hotel because he was down with fever, he refused my offer of buying him a meal even after he had spent a day filling himself up with water. Two days later he treated me with a meal as he had found another hotel to help himself out.
For someone who has not even been to middle school and someone who takes more than a minute to write down your mobile number with the worst spelling you can imagine for your name, his thoughts and ways simply baffle me. I tried to fathom, why with some education and a job I feel so insecure and he with literally nothing looks at life so differently, but in vain.
He sometimes tells me when I am frustrated, that the day he makes it big he would offer me a job that suits me and we would laugh aloud, although both of us know he is not joking.
The first few meetings were like, I did most of the talking showing off and he used to just listen with a smile. Slowly as we got along, I found out he was a lot better at talking than the trash I was doing and from then on, I started to listen. He speaks with vigour of life, failures, hope, dreams, hard work and success but with a tint of sadness when it comes to his personal life. From then on everytime someone came to me needing hope, I had the real life story of Loganathan to pull them up. Even when my sister failed to clear her first three interviews I told her the same story over lunch.
Working at a Bicycle repair shop simply wasn't exciting enough for him that one day he runs away from his home town in south Tamilnadu with about 500 Rupees in his pockets and some clothing. In his four years at Chennai he says he has spent days together without food, slept on roadsides, jumped jobs, gotten ways lost, learned to read and write, made friends and for now found a decent place and way to live. A part-time waiter he spends most of the time and all of his energy on the new marketing platform MLM (Multi Level Marketing). Being a waiter he said helps him because he had a place to stay, something to fill up his stomach (he never says eat!!) and of course he has the time to be with his business.
He works twenty hours a day taking breaks during the time he has to travel. He always moves around with a file, the first page of which says ' Loganathan - first croun ambasador of India' (actually meant to be Loganathan - First Crown Ambassador of India) in blocks. I vaguely know that the Crown ambassador is someone who is at the top of the Marketing group.
His Immediate aim he says is a six digit Income per month that he believes he would achieve by 2008. He speaks of Bill gates, Vivekananda and Thomas Alva Edison like he knew them all his life. Any good car on the road would make him smile and he would say " One day I would own a Mercedes". Every time I told him my job sucked, he simply would say, "you should either do only what you enjoy or try and enjoy what you do, otherwise you are lost". The first thing he says every time he picks up your call is "pray you get what ever you wish" and for the amount of life and hope he has, you would only wish he becomes the man he wants to be.
Very recently when he had, as usual lost his job with a hotel because he was down with fever, he refused my offer of buying him a meal even after he had spent a day filling himself up with water. Two days later he treated me with a meal as he had found another hotel to help himself out.
For someone who has not even been to middle school and someone who takes more than a minute to write down your mobile number with the worst spelling you can imagine for your name, his thoughts and ways simply baffle me. I tried to fathom, why with some education and a job I feel so insecure and he with literally nothing looks at life so differently, but in vain.
He sometimes tells me when I am frustrated, that the day he makes it big he would offer me a job that suits me and we would laugh aloud, although both of us know he is not joking.
Jones Diary
It had been an year since I saw this child like handwritting, but I did not have to open the card to really know the sender. Stupid me, I had not even bothered to remember her birthday after I had left college.
Mechanical workshops I thought were normally a 'strictly for men' area, until ofcourse I saw the huge her. Almost 5.7 and large she did not seem out of place inside my college's mechanical workshop as she carried heavy sheets of metal like she was carrying paper. Her face just had a big pair of glasses and an even bigger smile covering almost all of her face and a part of her neck.
I remember the first time I spoke to her, I was wanting a mallet and she did not seem to understand and neither did she bother to. I was so frustrated that I yelled at her and all she did was to grin at me. I walked out of the workshop frustrated and it was almost a day when I learnt she couldn't understand English when spoken or any other language that I knew. I took another day to face her and tell her a sorry in her own language. She smiled again - no it wasn't a grin this time - and gave me a pat on my back and set off to carrying the sheets.
Since I had to frequent the workshop the following weeks, I was getting my back patted a lot and started learning a new language. She taught me the alphabets and the most commonly used expressions. She, I learnt was 30+, unhappily married to someone who spoke her language -I never bothered asking his name- had no kids and lived with her parents. My pats got more frequent as we met everytime I had a boring lecture (atleast two every day), we lunched almost every day together and even spent some time in the evening before she left home.
It was somedays before I knew how to converse (I do not know if its a conversation) fluently, making odd postures and noises. I was amazed at how she could cope up with everything without saying a word. She travelled, she shopped, she worked, she fought and all that without saying a word (not that she did not want to) and She honestly hated people feel sorry for her.
Somedays when I turned my eyes away from a boring lecturer she would be standing at the windows giving me a wicked smile. Somedays she used to even sneak in to my labs and sit beside me mocking an Instructor. She hugged me -the skies would never know why- and cried the day I introduced my father to her. She enjoyed my presence so much, sometimes I felt if I was overdoing something. I loved her presence, she was full of life and had the gut to live every moment although fate had been unkind to her in every way.
It went on until It was last day for me at college, and I was surprised when one of my friends said she did not want to see me. When I found her cuddled in the basement of the workshop with her eyes wet, I broke down myself. We sat in silence for sometime, and with nothing to say, I left telling her a bye in her language- the sign language- because Jones can neither talk nor hear.
Mechanical workshops I thought were normally a 'strictly for men' area, until ofcourse I saw the huge her. Almost 5.7 and large she did not seem out of place inside my college's mechanical workshop as she carried heavy sheets of metal like she was carrying paper. Her face just had a big pair of glasses and an even bigger smile covering almost all of her face and a part of her neck.
I remember the first time I spoke to her, I was wanting a mallet and she did not seem to understand and neither did she bother to. I was so frustrated that I yelled at her and all she did was to grin at me. I walked out of the workshop frustrated and it was almost a day when I learnt she couldn't understand English when spoken or any other language that I knew. I took another day to face her and tell her a sorry in her own language. She smiled again - no it wasn't a grin this time - and gave me a pat on my back and set off to carrying the sheets.
Since I had to frequent the workshop the following weeks, I was getting my back patted a lot and started learning a new language. She taught me the alphabets and the most commonly used expressions. She, I learnt was 30+, unhappily married to someone who spoke her language -I never bothered asking his name- had no kids and lived with her parents. My pats got more frequent as we met everytime I had a boring lecture (atleast two every day), we lunched almost every day together and even spent some time in the evening before she left home.
It was somedays before I knew how to converse (I do not know if its a conversation) fluently, making odd postures and noises. I was amazed at how she could cope up with everything without saying a word. She travelled, she shopped, she worked, she fought and all that without saying a word (not that she did not want to) and She honestly hated people feel sorry for her.
Somedays when I turned my eyes away from a boring lecturer she would be standing at the windows giving me a wicked smile. Somedays she used to even sneak in to my labs and sit beside me mocking an Instructor. She hugged me -the skies would never know why- and cried the day I introduced my father to her. She enjoyed my presence so much, sometimes I felt if I was overdoing something. I loved her presence, she was full of life and had the gut to live every moment although fate had been unkind to her in every way.
It went on until It was last day for me at college, and I was surprised when one of my friends said she did not want to see me. When I found her cuddled in the basement of the workshop with her eyes wet, I broke down myself. We sat in silence for sometime, and with nothing to say, I left telling her a bye in her language- the sign language- because Jones can neither talk nor hear.
The Professor
I have seen few smarter men at his age, seventy isn't an age when soiled shoes would seriously worry you, but for this man it did. The first time I saw him, I was honestly impressed with his clean-shaven face, neatly pressed dress and shining black shoes. I was killing time at my friend Ismail's shop when he came up to me and said "Hello, I am Srinivasan, retired Professor Presidency College" before he firmly shook hands with me. Believe me with an impeccable accent that would put any 'call center' guy to shame. I thought he was there to may be pick something up from the shop but was taken aback when he asked me for a five Rupee coin for a cup of tea. Even as I was wondering about what I was supposed to do, I couldn't help but notice Ismail's disapproval of the conversation. He was already giving me hints like the old man was not in a good state of mind, simply put 'nuts'.
When I refused him the money and asked him leave the shop, he simply turned red. In a moment the old man emptied his pocket, which not only included a rich collection of coins but some heavier bills and on one of them I even thought I saw an old President of the United states.
He burst out with a string of words, (which after some home work I concluded, could be almost the filthiest you can come up with an unabridged Oxford English dictionary) but soon ended up in tears, words hardly coming out of his mouth. He proudly said his only son was in the US working for a multinational (whose name when spelt made my tongue twist to obtuse angles)and he needed no one else. He was now throwing the coins at me, yelling at me to take what ever I wanted. It took my storekeeper friend, two men from the next shop and a piece of chocolate to stop the old man. It wasn't the pain caused by the coins that hurt me (although it did that night) I somehow thought I had hurt the man. The old man left but only with a few more chocolates.
I was curious as hell about the professor and wanted to know something about him. I spent sometime with Ismail, who acknowledged the facts about the professor's son in the US. The son is married and supposedly has children but the last time he came around was almost five to six years ago although he still keeps in touch with his father through 'Western Union'(if you dont know what it is .. It is for money transfers). Ismail was largely indifferent even when he was telling me that the Professor had suffered enough anguish to get some quality education for his only son at some prestigious university in the US. Symptoms of his present condition has first appeared when the son married some one in the US and decided to settle down with Uncle Sam.
I went the next day to the professor’s house just out of curiosity, in the pretext of carrying water from Ismail’s shop. I thought his wife was too old to take care of herself, even as she busily went around with the chores. I picked up a conversation with her God knows how, and she couldn't but stop talking about her man in his prime. I left after sometime happy not just because I had a good cup of coffee but also because I thought at least there was this faithful Indian wife to stand by this man.
I almost left the house when I remembered the black cap that my girl friend had given me was inside the house. When I went back I saw her pulling the Physics Professor in a wet pair of pants to the washroom. She saw me but I pretended I hadn't seen her tears now almost on her wrinkled chin and cheerfully bid her a bye forgetting I had come to pick up my black cap.
A Dark Positive
For me this incident will always remain etched in my heart not just because it had a female playing the lead role as always.It happened when My Mom was admitted for a stroke last december at chennai.
This fine day there was very little to talk to my mother and then I had nothing to do, but roll my eyes around the ward. As my eyes went around, the third bed (My mom was on the first) I thought was unusually neat as the occupant sat on one corner looking at me and my Mom.I had seen the girl , young, in her teens, unusually thin, the bones very pronouncing and with a face that I was sure had been beautiful once. I hadn't bothered to ask my Mom about her since it isn't very strange for someone to be like her in a hospital.
Today I was curious and I asked my mom why she was in the Hospital. My Mom very casually said she had been tested positive for HIV. I thought something struck me hard on my chest. I felt a shiver run down even as I remembered that was the first time I had seen someone with HIV.I was scared to see her anymore and I sat with my back towards her.
She must have been smiling at my Mom because I saw my Mom smile towards her. Still Panic-stricken I somehow managed to look back only to see one of the most beautiful smiles I had ever seen.She stood up and walked up to my Moma's bed but stopped a little away. My Mother asked me to give her some biscuits, My face must have shown her I was scared, for she called the girl to the bed and gave her some biscuits herself. She almost grabbed the biscuits even as my Mom was telling her who I was, she only smiled at me. Mom said it was the last stages and she didn't have many days left. I too tried to smile but somehow I knew I was putting up a wretched face for I was trying to imagine how it is like to know, you only have a few days left on earth.
I lost my sleep that night but the next day I managed to give her something myself and I was almost lost when she smiled back. I also saw her father the same day who looked almost like her but for his unkempt hair and face.The next four days were the same for me in the hospital, I give her something, she flashes a smile, my mom talks with her something and she keeps smiling all through it. My Mom told me she never slept in the nights, she would simply lie down and look at the ceiling all through the night even as tears ran down her cheeks. How I wished I was capable of giving her more than just biscuits.
Next day I really was waiting for the evening to come and I even got her a small teddy. I was surprised when I saw the neatly laid but empty bed. I looked around too see if she was somewhere but only in vain. I felt my Mother's eyes were wet when she said the girl was discharged as the doctors had lost all hope and medicine was useless anymore. She would at the most see the next fortnite.
It started to choke as I felt a familiar shudder rock my body. It was sometime before I was very sure where I kept my leg. I was confused and I did not know what I was supposed to be doing. I walked awkwardly towards the bed, sat there for sometime even as my mother was looking at me surprised. I left the packed teddy on the bed and moved towards my mother. Tears filled up my eyes even as I remembered I had not spoken a word to her and neither had she.... I did not even know her name..
and to this day I am still wondering why a very weak word like 'hope' is used so synonymously with life.
This fine day there was very little to talk to my mother and then I had nothing to do, but roll my eyes around the ward. As my eyes went around, the third bed (My mom was on the first) I thought was unusually neat as the occupant sat on one corner looking at me and my Mom.I had seen the girl , young, in her teens, unusually thin, the bones very pronouncing and with a face that I was sure had been beautiful once. I hadn't bothered to ask my Mom about her since it isn't very strange for someone to be like her in a hospital.
Today I was curious and I asked my mom why she was in the Hospital. My Mom very casually said she had been tested positive for HIV. I thought something struck me hard on my chest. I felt a shiver run down even as I remembered that was the first time I had seen someone with HIV.I was scared to see her anymore and I sat with my back towards her.
She must have been smiling at my Mom because I saw my Mom smile towards her. Still Panic-stricken I somehow managed to look back only to see one of the most beautiful smiles I had ever seen.She stood up and walked up to my Moma's bed but stopped a little away. My Mother asked me to give her some biscuits, My face must have shown her I was scared, for she called the girl to the bed and gave her some biscuits herself. She almost grabbed the biscuits even as my Mom was telling her who I was, she only smiled at me. Mom said it was the last stages and she didn't have many days left. I too tried to smile but somehow I knew I was putting up a wretched face for I was trying to imagine how it is like to know, you only have a few days left on earth.
I lost my sleep that night but the next day I managed to give her something myself and I was almost lost when she smiled back. I also saw her father the same day who looked almost like her but for his unkempt hair and face.The next four days were the same for me in the hospital, I give her something, she flashes a smile, my mom talks with her something and she keeps smiling all through it. My Mom told me she never slept in the nights, she would simply lie down and look at the ceiling all through the night even as tears ran down her cheeks. How I wished I was capable of giving her more than just biscuits.
Next day I really was waiting for the evening to come and I even got her a small teddy. I was surprised when I saw the neatly laid but empty bed. I looked around too see if she was somewhere but only in vain. I felt my Mother's eyes were wet when she said the girl was discharged as the doctors had lost all hope and medicine was useless anymore. She would at the most see the next fortnite.
It started to choke as I felt a familiar shudder rock my body. It was sometime before I was very sure where I kept my leg. I was confused and I did not know what I was supposed to be doing. I walked awkwardly towards the bed, sat there for sometime even as my mother was looking at me surprised. I left the packed teddy on the bed and moved towards my mother. Tears filled up my eyes even as I remembered I had not spoken a word to her and neither had she.... I did not even know her name..
and to this day I am still wondering why a very weak word like 'hope' is used so synonymously with life.
11g, west mambalam
To travel in a Bus in chennai is in itself an experience.. and if you are caught in the peak hours, man!! you are really in for something. Many a times you pay the ticket for just one leg and one hand of yours travelling inside the bus. One good thing about the Busses in chennai is that the last row is exclusively for women, and for those who travel on the footboard you can simply drool through your journey.
That thursday morning I had my colleague's 'Pulp fiction' Cd(a 1994 blockbuster movie) to carry back to office. As usual I found a place for my left leg inside the bus and my 'Pulp Fiction' found its place on this girls's lap who was at the window as I couldn't hold it with me hanging. Two stops away the girl got down giving me my CD and a smile, that I thought I had seen somewhere.
The next day again, I had Tom hank's 'Philedelphia' (a wonderfully made movie.. take my word its sensitive and beautiful) with me and found just enough place for my left shoe on God knows who's right shoe and a place for my Cd at the window seat. Two stops down, the Bus is a little less crampier and then I get the CD from a familiar hand. Wait!! hadn't I seen this bracelet somewhere? that familiar smile confirmed it. And guess what? she even bid me a 'Bye'.
After long I thought I had seen a face that stuck to my head, she looked - may be 'Pretty'? just out of teens, not very fair, a little short, not a face that grabs your attention, but a face that lingers on..and it did with me through the day.
On Saturday morning I had Marlon Brando's 'God father' in my hands and this time I didn't forget to look at the now familiar window seat. She was there smiling as usual even as she took the CD from me. I understood I must have stamped someone more than once looking at the last row when I heard him howl at me. I thought damn! and went on as she kept giving me the smile at definite intervals. Two stops down, she squeezes out of the bus, hands over the Cd and says "Excuse me!! why dont you ever travel inside a bus? why dont you be a little more careful about yourself? " with a mock anger on her face. I was like Bah!! Nothing came out my mouth except what I thought was a stupid grin. And then she sports her trademark smile, bids me a bye, walks away..Believe me if only I wasn't late for my work i swear I would have walked her way.
Monday came and this time I took my planner (which had my visiting card on it!!) with 'Godfather III', spent more time on my dress and my hair than usual, went to the bus stop earlier than usual and waited for my (her)bus. The first bus I thought was too early for her timing. She wasn't there on the second one, the third either, and the fourth one had everyone staring at me as I went one end to the other searching for that lost smile.
It was 10.30 when I reached my office an hour late than usual tired and draining . The day was busy but still the smile managed to find gaps and barge my head. The whole week had my colleagues asking me If something was wrong and why I was late. I had no answer, except what I thought was stupid grin. Its been a fortnite since but I still miss a bus or two with that stupid hope of seeing that smile again for God knows why.
"unnai adigam ninaipathillai, anal moochu vidum tharunam mattum eno ninaivukku vanthuvidugirai" ethuvum kadan vangina kavithai than.. enge padichennu nyabagam valrale... rendu naal parthathukku enthe effectannu kekatheenge.. chumma oru kodu podamnule athukkuthan..
She..
Call it the Irony of life, harsh words on a hot summer afternoon, not in the worst sense the best fare of a first time date. But it was for me my first taste of a date on the 23rd of august, 2000. That was the first time I spoke to a cute small HER, asking her why she was dozing in the class. All I had for the answer were a few harsh words. From harsh words to casual talks, casual talks to serious senseless conversations, from foes to friends, times moved on for me. Five years since and miles away from her I am sitting here wondering how time has changed our destinies.
In these years many a times she has asked me why and how much I love her.. Should there be a better reason except that she loves me ? and it is as much as you love me.. just like you cannot fathom how much you love me.. I too cannot.. There were days when I used to wonder is this just a game of life and my age ? but when I think of her now and miss her, and when it chokes my breath, I suddenly seem to realize how much she has become a part of my life, my breath.
And here I am, writing to a no one my life's woes. Whatever, I still feel it is lovely to be loved, to be cared by someone who before some years was not even known to you!!! understood by someone you never even imagined existed a few years before!!!
It was wonderful while it lasted.. I only wish it wasn't a part of my past...
"En eruthi oorvalathil malargalai thoovungal, Aval pinchu pathangal ange varakoodum".
- en nanban oruvanoda kavithai... thanks machan!!!
In these years many a times she has asked me why and how much I love her.. Should there be a better reason except that she loves me ? and it is as much as you love me.. just like you cannot fathom how much you love me.. I too cannot.. There were days when I used to wonder is this just a game of life and my age ? but when I think of her now and miss her, and when it chokes my breath, I suddenly seem to realize how much she has become a part of my life, my breath.
And here I am, writing to a no one my life's woes. Whatever, I still feel it is lovely to be loved, to be cared by someone who before some years was not even known to you!!! understood by someone you never even imagined existed a few years before!!!
It was wonderful while it lasted.. I only wish it wasn't a part of my past...
"En eruthi oorvalathil malargalai thoovungal, Aval pinchu pathangal ange varakoodum".
- en nanban oruvanoda kavithai... thanks machan!!!
Concern
Yesterday I was at the TVS bus terminus on the Mount road wearily waiting for my bus when my eyes caught up the silhoutte of a man who was walking on the pedistrian crossing even as the vehicles were given the green. Heavens!! He is hit by a speeding car,while i was still wondering if i was really awake. He was thrown away atleast a few yards and would have been run over if only the bus behind had not stopped to a screeching halt.
The crowd at the terminus scrambled around this man who was now soiled with his blood and the mud on the road. No one really was ready to lift him, he was still breathing and adjusting his scantily clad brawn. In the mean time the car that had hit him sped away silently. A police man rushed in and forced an auto to halt even as atleast five other autos had sped away at the sight of this man lying on the road.
I along with this cop and another guy shoved (we did shove) this man in to the auto. And when the policeman wanted a mobile to reach his control room the hotspot (as one of the mobile operators christened spencers) had no mobile phones. One lone guy offered his mobile but the control room was not reachable. when the call got through there was no good response which was clear from the desperate cop's voice. The autowala who must have just crossed his teens was already impatient and telling people of his woes.
Through all this I couldn't help noticing a girl hooked on to her mobile giggling through her conversation. The police man had to get on with his work at the signal as the traffic was getting congested and the auto was stranded in one corner with the victim still wincing in pain.
The crowd grew thinner and in five minutes the auto was alone with neither the cop, nor the auto wala around. Through all the noise on the road I could hear this man inside the auto grunting and moaning with pain. After almost half an hour and the man still in the auto, like everyone else I sneaked on to a bus and tried erasing the sight off my thought.
The Night came and went and I still am not even able to clear those dashing headlights from my eyes. When in the morning I got on to my bus I could swear every around me seemed to resemble the man I had seen on the road.
The crowd at the terminus scrambled around this man who was now soiled with his blood and the mud on the road. No one really was ready to lift him, he was still breathing and adjusting his scantily clad brawn. In the mean time the car that had hit him sped away silently. A police man rushed in and forced an auto to halt even as atleast five other autos had sped away at the sight of this man lying on the road.
I along with this cop and another guy shoved (we did shove) this man in to the auto. And when the policeman wanted a mobile to reach his control room the hotspot (as one of the mobile operators christened spencers) had no mobile phones. One lone guy offered his mobile but the control room was not reachable. when the call got through there was no good response which was clear from the desperate cop's voice. The autowala who must have just crossed his teens was already impatient and telling people of his woes.
Through all this I couldn't help noticing a girl hooked on to her mobile giggling through her conversation. The police man had to get on with his work at the signal as the traffic was getting congested and the auto was stranded in one corner with the victim still wincing in pain.
The crowd grew thinner and in five minutes the auto was alone with neither the cop, nor the auto wala around. Through all the noise on the road I could hear this man inside the auto grunting and moaning with pain. After almost half an hour and the man still in the auto, like everyone else I sneaked on to a bus and tried erasing the sight off my thought.
The Night came and went and I still am not even able to clear those dashing headlights from my eyes. When in the morning I got on to my bus I could swear every around me seemed to resemble the man I had seen on the road.
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