It’s the highway to hell. Officially. There are no signboards calling it out, you’re just expected to know it and abide, or get the hell out of the way.
Every road in every Indian metro is a do-or-die dash to the finish line. There are no prizes for winning - the winner is the guy who stays alive. That’s the incentive.
“Wanna play?” asks the inviting stretch of jam-packed, smoky road with curses and loud horns renting the air – it’s a war cry: “Wanna play? COME ON then”, they say… “There’ s absolutely no space, but come on anyway”.
Assorted automobiles vie for 3 inches of space between the large smoke belching bus and the local cow. Death defying moves are made on-the-house. Red lights, stop signs, pedestrian crossing and lanes are things of the past. Don’t let them stop you from Getting Ahead.
Sign of having humanoid scruples - any dithering or an iota of fear is honked at, overtaken, cursed and sniggered out of the way. Any attempt to put your life or basic decency above the GOAL is not acceptable. ‘Get Ahead, Proceed’ yells the impatient public. ‘Make your little polite speeches and bows later on. We have no time’.
Welcome to the Indian roads – welcome to Hell. Out here, no rules apply.
When you make the decision to get on the road, you’ve automatically agreed to risk it all. Partial hearing loss, smoke inhalation, loss of limb and sanity is all part of the deal. Once accepted, the arms are thrown wide open. Senior citizens, candy seller with dog in tow, techies, college kids, fruit vendors, socialite aunties, who-the-hell-ever in whatever state of inebriation or sobriety. All are welcome. Age, gender, caste, status, time of day or night, physical condition and mental state and the weather are of absolutely no significance.
If you’ve chosen to be on the road - you’ve chosen to fight, chosen to reach point B from point A, chosen to risk it all. That’s enough. You’ve chosen life.
Welcome aboard!
Friday
Tuesday
Checked out.
I check. Every 21 st of a month at an auspicious time. Looking for an update. Its never there.
'Outer reaches of Alaska’ features. ‘Xinjiang experience who can speak Uighur’ features. Where on earth is the name of the goddamn country I LIVE in? Its just NEVER THERE.
In my lifetime I have:
Owned a goat...
And a cat with the sex drive of a rabbit - and therefore 54 kittens splattered across the length and breadth of my childhood.
Tolerated several Choms - one of whom infiltrated and became a friend.
Wore my brother's hand-me-downs till the age of 15.
Tolerated very old people give me advice at several doorsteps. Really long advice. Really slowly. And none of them were knifed. By me, ie.
So I qualify. Unconditionally and in flying colours.
But no goddamn feature. Ever.
They're right. It IS a bleepin’ Lonely Planet.
'Outer reaches of Alaska’ features. ‘Xinjiang experience who can speak Uighur’ features. Where on earth is the name of the goddamn country I LIVE in? Its just NEVER THERE.
In my lifetime I have:
Owned a goat...
And a cat with the sex drive of a rabbit - and therefore 54 kittens splattered across the length and breadth of my childhood.
Tolerated several Choms - one of whom infiltrated and became a friend.
Wore my brother's hand-me-downs till the age of 15.
Tolerated very old people give me advice at several doorsteps. Really long advice. Really slowly. And none of them were knifed. By me, ie.
So I qualify. Unconditionally and in flying colours.
But no goddamn feature. Ever.
They're right. It IS a bleepin’ Lonely Planet.
54, Gandhi Bazaar.
If I rack my brains, most of what I can remember of it is wood. The whole house reeked of wood. Wood when it bloomed, when it was burnt, when was framed, hung, drawn and quartered. Spooky wooden flooring in the room upstairs, storage rooms that smelt of pickles and stored wood, burning wood that heated the large copper boiler, wooded trees falling from which, several generations had enduring scars on varied body parts. Wood banister polished with the friction of assorted backsides sliding down it. Horror stories of children just like us who died painfully doing this Very Same Thing didn’t stop the practice. Risks of hideous deformities were taken in one’s stride.
– The wood gnarled itself into the house, spreading its roots, holding it together, breathing into every corner of it. Almost alive – listening to the slow passage of time through the black stoned corridors of 54, Gandhi Bazaar.
And there was plenty of cruelty to boot - we regularly wished each other dead, pushed each other down the stairs, abandoned the runt of the pack to run away and hide, laughing gleefully in our sleeves. Fell into wicked looking storerooms through holes in the tiled roof. Chocked on 5 paisa candies and fought over who will ride an old abandoned bicycle - 5 feet taller than the tallest amongst us. We lived through moments of impotent anger and selfless generosity. The years grew into the house and as the house grew into us – inextricable woven into all the rage and calm of being alive.
Cousins from ‘abroad’ landed in regular irregularity. Speaking in unfamiliar twangs, leaving bathrooms smelling gloriously of ‘America’, brandishing gadgets and promising to curl our hair – what a treat! We lined up before them at the crack of dawn, all heads sporting 2-inch tufts of wiry hair – the result of a wholesale summer-cut that disregards age and gender. Missing teeth, semi bald and fist fighting for first place at the salon table.
So…cousins came and left, bruises were made and healed, Enid Blyton was discovered and life was not the same again. Time passed… Summers passed into monsoons-
And that year, it was particularly vicious monsoon. People shook their heads at the rain... The wind howled and in the backyard, the amte-kai tree’s old roots groaned in the vicious wind. After much ghostly creaking and groaning through the night, it fell across the sweetwater well that contained a turtle. We ran to see it in the morning, me clutching on to a smaller cousin who in turn clutched on to his beloved blue bunny. The tree lay, sprawled across the huge backyard, the old sap from its roots mingled with the misty morning air.
Grandmothers, fathers and aunts were gathered around it – they were talking about the tree - when it planted as a baby sapling and how it grew through the years, the millions of jars of pickles it had provided. An unintended obituary for something that grew in the same soil as the rest of us and died where it was planted – surrounded by its kin. Through its monstrous size, through its fight with the lashing rain - when it finally lay there, uprooted and felled …there was gentleness in its death.
The wild monsoon passed into quiet drizzle and faded into the clear light of another day… Time passed… unobtrusive and trackless.
The little cousin with only 2 halves to his face – one half a large forehead and other half a pair of humongous brown eyes – slowly grew into the vast expanse of his face. His beloved blue bunny ceased to be the center of his Universe. He went to college.
Time passed…
54 Gandhi Bazaar is now a brand new Bank – ‘a friend you can bank upon’. And in what was the old backyard, devoid of most of the old trees is an swanky apartment. Its doors and patio is fitted with wooden panels from the old house. They look strange on the new whitewashed Asian painted walls.
I don’t go by there if I can help it.
– The wood gnarled itself into the house, spreading its roots, holding it together, breathing into every corner of it. Almost alive – listening to the slow passage of time through the black stoned corridors of 54, Gandhi Bazaar.
And there was plenty of cruelty to boot - we regularly wished each other dead, pushed each other down the stairs, abandoned the runt of the pack to run away and hide, laughing gleefully in our sleeves. Fell into wicked looking storerooms through holes in the tiled roof. Chocked on 5 paisa candies and fought over who will ride an old abandoned bicycle - 5 feet taller than the tallest amongst us. We lived through moments of impotent anger and selfless generosity. The years grew into the house and as the house grew into us – inextricable woven into all the rage and calm of being alive.
Cousins from ‘abroad’ landed in regular irregularity. Speaking in unfamiliar twangs, leaving bathrooms smelling gloriously of ‘America’, brandishing gadgets and promising to curl our hair – what a treat! We lined up before them at the crack of dawn, all heads sporting 2-inch tufts of wiry hair – the result of a wholesale summer-cut that disregards age and gender. Missing teeth, semi bald and fist fighting for first place at the salon table.
So…cousins came and left, bruises were made and healed, Enid Blyton was discovered and life was not the same again. Time passed… Summers passed into monsoons-
And that year, it was particularly vicious monsoon. People shook their heads at the rain... The wind howled and in the backyard, the amte-kai tree’s old roots groaned in the vicious wind. After much ghostly creaking and groaning through the night, it fell across the sweetwater well that contained a turtle. We ran to see it in the morning, me clutching on to a smaller cousin who in turn clutched on to his beloved blue bunny. The tree lay, sprawled across the huge backyard, the old sap from its roots mingled with the misty morning air.
Grandmothers, fathers and aunts were gathered around it – they were talking about the tree - when it planted as a baby sapling and how it grew through the years, the millions of jars of pickles it had provided. An unintended obituary for something that grew in the same soil as the rest of us and died where it was planted – surrounded by its kin. Through its monstrous size, through its fight with the lashing rain - when it finally lay there, uprooted and felled …there was gentleness in its death.
The wild monsoon passed into quiet drizzle and faded into the clear light of another day… Time passed… unobtrusive and trackless.
The little cousin with only 2 halves to his face – one half a large forehead and other half a pair of humongous brown eyes – slowly grew into the vast expanse of his face. His beloved blue bunny ceased to be the center of his Universe. He went to college.
Time passed…
54 Gandhi Bazaar is now a brand new Bank – ‘a friend you can bank upon’. And in what was the old backyard, devoid of most of the old trees is an swanky apartment. Its doors and patio is fitted with wooden panels from the old house. They look strange on the new whitewashed Asian painted walls.
I don’t go by there if I can help it.
Wednesday
Shoebox reflections
Everything I ever owned which is of value – it fits in a shoebox shoved under my bed. There is a Time and Place for things made up of nothing more than useless sentiment – under the bed is a good Place. And Time…well that’s the tricky one.
Shoebox delvings are meant for certain type of days- when the sun shines a little gentler – when the current road seems too beaten to death and its time to blow the cobwebs off on things that cannot be supported by 4 pieces of cardboard. A guided tour down memory lane requires environmental support.
So I yanked the old box out one morning.
An old postscript to ‘my little lady, from Grandpa’
Reams of angst ridden poetry in support of a current love interest.
Play tickets.
Newspaper write ups cried over and loved.
Suddenly…an email.
A sign of modernity - an email worthy enough to be printed. Proof of the early days of distrust in the transient cyber world where one click can destroy – that’s where I found him.
Immortalized in low quality jet print on file paper.
Forgotten in a shoebox.
All I could remember of the writer is this vague combination – of laughter, elaichi tea and a cheap paratha place with red plastic chairs… throw that in with some indistinct pursuit of artistic endeavor- and that just about makes the cut.
That’s it.
Nothing more.
In complete shock I realize that I can’t remember anything else.
Zilch.
There’s a sickening quality of a Hannibal Lector about Time. It creeps up on you and slowly erases, in parts, a lifetime filled with sensation and action. And one day, out comes a shoebox and you hit pause mode, turn back and it’s a wall of blackness. You’re left to grope and snatch at what was so intensely alive and all you can get … all there’s left are a bunch of dull freeze frames randomly strung together, with an insipid sepia about it.
Time wrecks havoc.
I sat there, clutching at this piece of paper …watching another day draw to an ominous close... Another day of consequence and events that will slip behind that iron veil…into the wall of Time. Unrecoverable.
Inviolable.
Gone.
"You once said to me: 'If we never meet again - it wouldn't make a difference'. But you didn't say it wouldn't matter. Do you know I understood the nuance. It was really long ago, but but did you know?"
The email ended with the day.
Shoebox delvings are meant for certain type of days- when the sun shines a little gentler – when the current road seems too beaten to death and its time to blow the cobwebs off on things that cannot be supported by 4 pieces of cardboard. A guided tour down memory lane requires environmental support.
So I yanked the old box out one morning.
An old postscript to ‘my little lady, from Grandpa’
Reams of angst ridden poetry in support of a current love interest.
Play tickets.
Newspaper write ups cried over and loved.
Suddenly…an email.
A sign of modernity - an email worthy enough to be printed. Proof of the early days of distrust in the transient cyber world where one click can destroy – that’s where I found him.
Immortalized in low quality jet print on file paper.
Forgotten in a shoebox.
All I could remember of the writer is this vague combination – of laughter, elaichi tea and a cheap paratha place with red plastic chairs… throw that in with some indistinct pursuit of artistic endeavor- and that just about makes the cut.
That’s it.
Nothing more.
In complete shock I realize that I can’t remember anything else.
Zilch.
There’s a sickening quality of a Hannibal Lector about Time. It creeps up on you and slowly erases, in parts, a lifetime filled with sensation and action. And one day, out comes a shoebox and you hit pause mode, turn back and it’s a wall of blackness. You’re left to grope and snatch at what was so intensely alive and all you can get … all there’s left are a bunch of dull freeze frames randomly strung together, with an insipid sepia about it.
Time wrecks havoc.
I sat there, clutching at this piece of paper …watching another day draw to an ominous close... Another day of consequence and events that will slip behind that iron veil…into the wall of Time. Unrecoverable.
Inviolable.
Gone.
"You once said to me: 'If we never meet again - it wouldn't make a difference'. But you didn't say it wouldn't matter. Do you know I understood the nuance. It was really long ago, but but did you know?"
The email ended with the day.
Tuesday
Of Adventure mostly...
A room grows dark. A blue light envelops it…and suddenly, through a crack I can see those simmering eyes of Galadrial burn at me with …oh so much compassion.
I can hear my brain say aloud “It’s got to be Elven”…and the rest of the thouht just fades into a strange tongue….and I realize I know the meaning of those words although I can’t understand it. … “Its got to be Elven when there is such compassion that’s never been seen before on a human face”.
Then…she lifted up her hand and from the ring that she wore there issued a great light that illuminated her alone and left all else dark.She stood tall beyond measurement, and beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful.
Those blue eyes framed in that ethereal face moved into expression…And then she's gone…the dark fades as a trashy tubelight flickers on...
... And I read the book. Now its all just in there.
That book is a part of the Life I never had…a life that peeks open through doors in dark rooms and fade with the light of an alleged Reality.
Some times, even when I don’t know it, I find myself walking down the roads on the Other side. Without knowing it, my feet took a turn at a Time warp…and ….I’m on the Road.
Rickshaws pass me by and people talk in a language unknown to me…I walk apart from the roaring crowd that marches to the rhythm that’s unfamiliar to me. … A map in my bag and I smell Adventure.
Or the banks of some sacred river at sunset….watch the faithful go to prayer at a melancholy call across the landscape…or when the sun rises a top a temple in Rajashtan.
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
The trip ends and magic and adventure sinks into the gaps between…the pages of a book.
I switch the lights on in the dark room that flickers to harsh glow of Reality.
And I read the book. Now its all just in there.
The world, someone said is divided into those who have read the Lord of the Rings and those who are going to read it.
I can hear my brain say aloud “It’s got to be Elven”…and the rest of the thouht just fades into a strange tongue….and I realize I know the meaning of those words although I can’t understand it. … “Its got to be Elven when there is such compassion that’s never been seen before on a human face”.
Then…she lifted up her hand and from the ring that she wore there issued a great light that illuminated her alone and left all else dark.She stood tall beyond measurement, and beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful.
Those blue eyes framed in that ethereal face moved into expression…And then she's gone…the dark fades as a trashy tubelight flickers on...
... And I read the book. Now its all just in there.
That book is a part of the Life I never had…a life that peeks open through doors in dark rooms and fade with the light of an alleged Reality.
Some times, even when I don’t know it, I find myself walking down the roads on the Other side. Without knowing it, my feet took a turn at a Time warp…and ….I’m on the Road.
Rickshaws pass me by and people talk in a language unknown to me…I walk apart from the roaring crowd that marches to the rhythm that’s unfamiliar to me. … A map in my bag and I smell Adventure.
Or the banks of some sacred river at sunset….watch the faithful go to prayer at a melancholy call across the landscape…or when the sun rises a top a temple in Rajashtan.
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
The trip ends and magic and adventure sinks into the gaps between…the pages of a book.
I switch the lights on in the dark room that flickers to harsh glow of Reality.
And I read the book. Now its all just in there.
The world, someone said is divided into those who have read the Lord of the Rings and those who are going to read it.
AfterGlow
Some people, I have heard…strictly a rumour… these guys….they are worried about their teeth. They go to other people who know how to heal teeth and pay large sums of money for it. It’s supposed to be some strange ritual not known to many people – LIKE ME.
Goddamn dentists – what kind of sick society would create a niche for such creatures to exist and THRIVE. Like viruses.
Goddamn dentists – what kind of sick society would create a niche for such creatures to exist and THRIVE. Like viruses.
Is it virii in plural? I hate grammar.
Anyway… this raises many questions like: What’s the deal with grammar, for instance? And famous ones like: What is the Government doing these days?
But all these are rumors. Strictly. So we will move on…
So the other weekend, I blew it on a Lighting workshop. Intense 6 hours per day for 3 days and I must admit I’m quite impressed with the whole thing. Stage lighting to recreate life – or even something quite unlike it… There’s this sense of power associated with the ability to throw light on something – and define it…artistically.
Anyway… this raises many questions like: What’s the deal with grammar, for instance? And famous ones like: What is the Government doing these days?
But all these are rumors. Strictly. So we will move on…
So the other weekend, I blew it on a Lighting workshop. Intense 6 hours per day for 3 days and I must admit I’m quite impressed with the whole thing. Stage lighting to recreate life – or even something quite unlike it… There’s this sense of power associated with the ability to throw light on something – and define it…artistically.
God, for instance was accused of it.
I remember long ago, someone said something like Nature of Imagination is esemplastic. I like words like that. It gives me the happy feeling of empathy with the person who twisted a feeling into a word.
Anyway, this Lighting workshop… it esemplasted the Hell out of my infantile ideas about Lighting. Who would have guessed…a console on top of the theatre is the seat of power.
Good stuff.
I watch the afternoon sun suddenly and think ‘Harsh white – Fresnel light. Cut shadows with backlight and Top of House’. And move on.
The Lighting workshop changed my life.
Thought Bubble
Intelligence is critical to life. In more ways than you might think.
Given that ‘more ways than you can think’ is an infinite variable scuttling around like the freakin Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle itself, it’s quite hard to peg this intelligence thingy down at a value. Its safe, it follows logically, to leave that at that secure value - immeasurable.
To have it - that one crystal clear thought – separated from the rest of the neuron generated heat- like a blissful, unconcerned, superbly crafted notion. To have that, amidst the rest of the white noise – that capacity for clarity without crutches. It’s…well…somethin’ else.
I guess I should lead this up with a wonderful instance of such intelligence, but, unfortunately, no such luck.
Given that ‘more ways than you can think’ is an infinite variable scuttling around like the freakin Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle itself, it’s quite hard to peg this intelligence thingy down at a value. Its safe, it follows logically, to leave that at that secure value - immeasurable.
To have it - that one crystal clear thought – separated from the rest of the neuron generated heat- like a blissful, unconcerned, superbly crafted notion. To have that, amidst the rest of the white noise – that capacity for clarity without crutches. It’s…well…somethin’ else.
I guess I should lead this up with a wonderful instance of such intelligence, but, unfortunately, no such luck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Subscribe To
Posts
All Comments
