Oh, child!

A chance viewing of the National Award winning film Kutram Katidhal (Tamil) left "chinnanchiru kiliye" playing in my mind for the last whole week. It was one of Mahakavi Subramania Bharathi's most famous and moving pieces, talking about (his/someone/a mother's) love for a child. The song tugs at anyone's heart, talking about how the singer perceives the child's innocence, playfulness, achievements and small troubles.

/Odi varugaiyilE kaNNammA uLLam kuLirudaDi

Adit-tiridal kaNDAl unnaip-pOi Avi tazhuvudaDI/

When you come running towards me, my heart chills

When I see you dancing with merriness, my soul hugs you

Really, the song will force anyone to look at a child as the harbinger of love, optimism and happiness.

Except that most of us don't recognize that child anymore. In our daily strife, we take blow upon blow, and grow up to be mean, selfish, egoistic, pessimistic and cunning humans. Not all of us, not all of it and not all the time, but you do get the point. Just look at the world around you.  If possible try counting the number of people in your daily meetings and interactions who, you think, genuinely remain enthused about life.  Who are child-like, not childish, in their dealings with the world.

What happened to that optimistic, innocent, non-judgemental, non-selfish, curious, accepting and dreamer child in all of us? Seriously, what all has made us change into the beings that we are today? This is not a sympathetic post trying to rake in all that nostalgia, but a seriously contemplation on the characters we are, as we stand today. Ready to judge, misuse privilege, draw boundaries, corrupt our daily acts with false values and low motives. How did we grow into human beings that are ready to kill and actually do?!

/un kaNNil nIr vazhindAl ennenjil udiram koTTudaDi/

If I even see small droplets of tears in your eyes, a whole river of blood flows in my heart

What happened to these children that their mothers nurtured? What happened to these children without their mothers?

Perhaps a false ego of our "degrees", our "possessions", our "powers" and our "identities" pushes us farther from the child in us. We shirk away from laughing freely, clapping vigorously, running gaily, stretching an arm instantly and questioning sincerely. And children do this all the time, and with no conscious thought of who they are and where they belong.

The fascinating, promising & generous world - in the absolute sense- doesn't change much. That tiny little human could relive it all anyway.

(picture courtesy- BuddhaDoodles)

If responsibilities pile on with time and make us the tense, fierce and competitive people we are, can we choose to deal with it any other way? Of course, we can! Keep your sense of wonderment about the universe intact, you will notice how nothing can seem worthwhile of our anger, hatred and pessimism. In our heightened illusion and temporary sense of belonging, we create distinctions without seeing the Thread that strings all of us together.

Again, as we mature and grow old, the layers start to peel, the identities give away and we are in fact, children again. Wizened children.

Make no mistake- our responsibilities, our purpose is the story of our life. That cannot be given up, it does not have to be.  Tackle them with vitality and energy, vim and vigour, not with complaints and resentments. Get off the moral high ground. Drop the false sense of outrage. Banish the nagging voice of fear. Do away with the pretense. The child is cruelly punished by these falsehoods.

When I recollect, most of my happiest and memorable moments have often been in the company of children. It also made me realise what I value in human interactions- winning smiles, easy laughs, ready hi-5s and an inquisitiveness to explore and wonder aloud.

Give more, even when there is very little that you have taken. And give willingly.

Dance often, even when you have two left feet. And dance shamelessly.

Laugh aloud, even when the joke is on you. And laugh heartily.

Explore daily, even when everything around you seems mundane and tested. And explore passionately.

Breathe slow, even when time and people catch up. And breathe deeply.

/ennaik-kali tIrttE ulagil Etram puriya vandAi/

My Wholesome Happiness, You came to create progress in this world

Take Bharathiyar's words to your heart. You have come here to create progress in this world, child.

PS- A cover of the song, with English subtitles/translation, can be found here.

Travelling to Bhutan 101*

It is a postcard from a country that seems to be too good to be true. With parameters like Gross Happiness Index and the possibility of bumping into the King while shopping for vegetables, who wouldn’t want to visit this place. Stuck in the unstable and sometimes violent neighbourhood of South Asia, Bhutan is everything but that. A picture of grace, calm and beauty that is almost unbelievable just on the other side of the fence in noisy, chaotic and clamorous India.

Anyway, a group of us – 4 friends, decided to embark on a budget back-packing trip to Bhutan and we managed to do a week’s worth of travel under a good sum. Here’s just chalking it out for you, in case the bug bites you one fine day.

*This post is mainly intended for Indian citizens. All costs, rules and permits are relaxed for Indian tourists. Travellers of other nationalities will have to take a tour guide and pay a minimum fee to stay in the country every single day

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Travel Options

1.    By Air to Bhutan and back- Bhutan’s only airport is at Paro, which about 5 hours drive away from capital city, Thimphu. The Druk Air has regular flights from Delhi, Bagdogra, Guwahati, Gaya and Kolkata. Tickets are sold out way in advance. Hence, this trip would require planning at least 2 months in advance.

2.    A combination of Air/rail and road- Fly from anywhere in the country to Bagdogra airport (Darjeeling District, West Bengal) and then take a taxi or a shared cab to Jaigaon/Phuentsholing.

Take a train from any major city in the country to New Jalpaiguri station (same Siliguri city, West Bengal) and then take a taxi or shared cab to Jaigaon/ Phuentsholing.

Jaigaon is the last town from the Indian side on the Indo-Bhutan border. Phuentsholing is the first town from the Bhutanese side. They are virtually twin towns separated by the international border.

The drive to Jaigaon from Bagdogra takes close to 4-5 hours. A shared cab charges Rs500 per head and a hired taxi is anything from Rs2500 depending on the kind of car you choose. They are available right at the airport, railway station and Siliguri bus-stand.

Reaching Bhutan- One can take bus from Phuentsholing to Thimphu at about Rs 300-350 or take shared cabs at Rs500 per person or hire a full cab for the group at Rs 2500 for the entire ride upto Paro or Thimphu.

If going by bus, it is advisable to check the bus timings and book a seat at least a day in advance. They tend to get full easily and do not hold for Indian tourists who first have to get the travel permits.

3.    Within Bhutan- Travelling within Bhutan is easy via public transport, if you have the time for it. Buses between cities and towns like Phuentsholing, Paro, Haa, Thimphu, Punakha take 5-6 hours, again it is advisable to book them at least one day in advance. The buses are small, but comfortable and airy. Hence they have a lot of takers amongst locals and tourists.

Alternatively, one could hire a cab to commute between the cities at nothing less than Rs 2000-2500 per day. This doesn’t work on a shared cab basis.

While touring within a city, the local buses are not a convenient option as they don’t cover all tourist points and timings may not be suitable. There are no auto-rickshaws in Bhutan. So, you will have to hire a cab.

If one is to hire a cab at every location and then another to the next location, it will prove to be a costly affair with every commute taking about 20 minutes only but nearly 500 bucks. It is far more economical to hire a taxi for the whole/half day at prices Rs2000/Rs1500 respectively.

What we did: We converged from different cities at the Bagdogra airport, took a full taxi to Phuentsholing, (failed to book a bus) took a cab to Thimphu (Rs2000). Within Thimphu took a cab for one whole day (Rs2000) and then took buses to every other place we visited – Haa Valley and Paro. We also booked in advance and took a bus from Paro to Phuentsholing on our way back. Again, we took a full cab to Siliguri and split on our ways back home.

When- Ideally Bhutan is best to visit in Spring or autumn- that is February-March and September-October. April and November is slightly pushing it, but doable. All other periods of the year, Bhutan experiences heavy snowfall and torrential rains. It is unwise to visit the country in those months, expect if you desire to be frozen or swamped. Even roadways are clogged because of landslides or snowfall and all plans come to a halt in other months.

We visited in the last week of September, which we planned around the Tshechu Festival in Thimphu. Visiting Bhutan during Festivals also means that their government buildings and offices close down for those days- including Museums, libraries, post-offices, textile showrooms (all of which are supposed to be great tourist attractions!). Nonetheless all the monasteries, trekking trails, forts, and forest reserves were open; we had a fruitful and engaging trip.

Travel Permit: Indians do not need a visa to travel, however we need a travel permit document. The Paro airport has a travel permit office. It can be procured from the immigration office at Phuentsholing that is open from 9am to 5pm. Bikers beware, the RTO closes at 12 noon and you need a travel permit before you get your RTO permit. All tourists must show their travel permits at Phuentsholing border to progress into Bhutan.

For the travel permit, an application must be filled at the immigration office and get processed. It requires one passport size photo and a photocopy of either PASSPORT or VOTER ID (no other identity proof is accepted)! Please carry along your originals and the entire process is smooth and gets done within a couple of hours if you beat the crowd and reach there by 9 am. Or else, you are stuck there for nearly one day.

Travel permits are usually granted only for a period of one week and the tourist has to specify which all places they are planning to visit. SO, have an itinerary done in advance, and get the relevant cities ticked. You don’t want to reach Thimphu and curse your luck for not taking the permit to Haa, Bumthang or Punakha.

Food: Food in Bhutan is manageable; some places even surprise you by offering good Indian food – dal, rice, puri, paratha and sabji. However, their chief dish is a red-rice accompanied by curries- non veg or cheese-based veg dish.

Non-vegetarians have plenty of options with the curries- beef, pork, chicken, mutton and fish. Vegetarians have only potato, tomato, chillies (yes, big spicy ones!!), carrot and cabbage- of which the last two are seasonal. One also gets thukpas, momos and chowmein at almost all dhabas and restaurants.

On long travels, there will be but one stop only. So it is good sense to carry fruits or dry food like biscuits and snacks in case there are undue delays and/or the food is terrible.

Stay: Because we were backpackers and mostly staying at each of our night-stops only for a night, we almost always took only economical, budget options that were well-rated on TripAdvisor. Mostly we took 4-bedded rooms or 3 bedded rooms and got an extra mattress arranged. All the Hotels are always CLEAN. Bathrooms are CLEANER.

1.    Siliguri- Many options to stay near the Pradhan nagar area. It is walking distance from the bus stand and about 40 minutes away from both NJP station and Bagdogra airport (without traffic jams!).

2.    Phuentsholing/Jaigaon- Jaigaon sucks. Truly. Terrible chaotic traffic, bad roads leading to dusty yards and no visible street lamp that works. So opt to stay at Phuentsholing. The hotels are decent and the staff are super courteous and help you sort out the basic doubts on how to get to immigration office and get the permits done. The market is also well stocked and easily accessible here.

3.    In Bhutan- The Norzin Lam road in Thimphu has dozens of hotels. All at the same level of cleanliness, facilities and affordability. Same with Paro. Check your options here (http://www.hotel.bt/) . Most of them are reachable via mail or phone. Otherwise you can search and find them on FB. The proprietors are awfully kind and courteous even as they take maybe a couple of days to respond.

In Haa Valley, however, we took a rural homestay option just like that. No hotels there anyway. It is a gorgeous village that offers some beautiful walking trails. You could go visit other places in Bhutan if this is not your cup of tea.

All our stay options were at about Rs1500 per night. We chose Hotels that offered free Wi-Fi at least in their lobbies, made it easier to communicate to folks back home. Or else, you could always buy a Bhutan SIM at Phuentsholing just for that one week. They have incredible coverage even in the deepest of valleys and the remotest of points on the mountains!

So here’s how my itinerary looked:

Day1- Delhi to Bagdogra, Bagdogra to Phuentsholing. Stay at Phuentsholing.

Day2- Phuentsholing to Thimphu (6 hours drive after permit process.) Stay at Thimphu

Day3- Thimphu sightseeing. Stay at Thimphu.

Day4- Thimphu to Haa Valley. Homestay at Haa.

Day5- Haa Valley to Paro. Tiger’s Nest. Stay at Paro.

Day6- Paro to Phuentsholing. Phuentsholing to Siliguri. Stay at Siliguri.

Day7- Bagdogra to Delhi

There’s scope for immense variation – you could go from Paro to Thimphu and then get out from there- one could also travel to Punakha or Bumthang from Thimphu- because there is enough to see and cover.

Here’s how much my trip costed from my doorstep in Delhi to back (with flight tickets!)- Rs 15600. Not bad eh?

Reach out to me if you want any more clarifications. I have also generously spammed TripAdvisor with my reviews wherever necessary. And I insist that you make this dream a reality at least once in your lifetime. I am going back to Bhutan sometime again. FOR SURE.

PS: Photos and stories to follow in upcoming posts. Plenty of surprises, happy moments and jokes galore. *wink-wink*

The Crushing Weight of Unavoidable Love

It is almost a catastrophe when an idea bites you so hard, that there is no relief from it but to see it executed. It could also be true about the deep bonds that we forge with certain individuals. Not that we wish to see them executed, but the relentless prayer to see the relationship succeed. In a sense, we as individuals, come under the crushing weight of unavoidable love.

We are smitten. We are driven crazy. We are rendered sleepless.

We might never know why some persons, places or ideas have an irresistible pull over us.
And therein lies our greatest hint from the Universe, to go chase it.
Chase that smile, dream or scent like it was the last bus home, like it was the last drop of elixir in our transient existence.
(Photo: school boys in Kashipur, Rayagada, Odisha. I still cannot forget their smiles or mischief. Their all-embracing innocence still draws me back to their tribe.)

It is very much our own doing. No idea or person comes in our lives out of the blue. This is no Secret, this is no Cosmic Law. It is purely the logic that we attract only what we harbour. Hence, the whole affair becomes unavoidable. If one was to eat, sleep and dream of music all day long, it is impossible that one is possessed by any other idea but music. Notes float around the environs, rhythms beckon everywhere and a lyrical beauty emerges from all things in the universe. And all this is simply because music has become the very breath and soul of the person. It is quite true then, that most of lyricists end up penning melodies on the back of a matchbox or composers put together symphonies suddenly in the middle of the night. It is the crushing weight of unavoidable love.

We have carried it with us for so long. We will do anything to shed that load; which will remain a ceaseless attempt. We will yet continue to carry the weight with us.

Consider a researcher, who is at their job, day in and day out focused only on one single experiment/ hypothesis/ thesis. Several shots at the paper, multiple takes on the analysis, mild variations in the results and the researcher has to start from scratch again. Yet, if motivated enough, the researcher does it. Once, twice, ten times, a hundred times over. It is all worth the time and effort to this researcher, for they have been living under this crushing weight of unavoidable love.

We tend to get exhausted. We might succumb under the weight. Yet, is there anything nobler than pursuing that love single-mindedly and whole-heartedly?

If I were to wake up one morning and feel that this weight has been lifted off my shoulders, unasked and unannounced, I would be bereft of a need to carry on with my living. At least until I find another love, another goal, another pursuit, another relationship that can keep me alive and awake. In a way that these passions are overwhelming and deprive you of any other engagement, they are also redeeming. The security of every evening bringing more questions and the fire to chase their answers every morning, is inevitable. Even as it seems that we are anchored by these passions, we are also beautifully meandering on our own life's landscape. It is beautiful to float under the crushing weight of this unavoidable love.

We open our arms to embrace this love. We are ourselves bound tight by this love. We end up being nothing but this crushing, unavoidable love.

I find myself torn and tired trying to answer benumbing questions about life, career and relationships. I am sure many workday afternoons and lazy Sunday mornings have gone in just mulling about the vagaries of life. That is if they were not subsumed like the fuel in an all raging fire of whatever love it be. The least of objects, experiences and thoughts can trigger profound inquiries. One thought chases another, and soon the head and the heart are huffing and puffing to keep themselves relevant under this crushing weight of unavoidable love.

Every sunset, every bird call, every hoot of the train, every blink of the traffic signal seems like some cryptic code to understand what weighs upon us. It pushes me to wonder why I wake up everyday and what is it that I am following?
What is it that I am building? What is it that I am battling? What is it that I am nurturing?
The weight is unmistakable, and it only grows with time.
(Photo: sunset at Khori, Rewari, Haryana. Home for six months in the past. A part of me still lingers by those wheat fields and under that orange sky.)

I have just begun to realise what has befallen over me; the growing consequences of what I have steadily nurtured throughout my formative years. I hope that I have the energy and courage to put up with this weight. More courage than energy, for the will to survive automatically follows conviction. I pray that this beautiful confusion, your own, besots your living daylights too! There is no escape. There is only one way to handle the crushing weight unavoidable love- deal with it.

Let′s go in an Auto.

"I cannot say no. How could one say to no to women returning from work late in the evening? Pay me whatever you think is right. I really think it is unwise to leave women standing alone on the roads of Delhi". So, I gratefully sit in Rajpal′s auto-rickshaw (in Indian parlance, just auto) nearly after 45 minutes of hailing autos and bargaining for a price on a particularly terrible day for traffic in Delhi. One bus had broken down in South Delhi and the spillover was chockablock traffic jams until Central Delhi. Glad to have found a kind and considerate auto driver, I agreed to pay ten bucks more than what the meter would read at the end of the journey.

Typically in the time span that I wait for, hail, bargain and get into an auto Shahid Afridi manages to announce his retirement and return to international cricket.
(Image from the internet)

  

After the brief outburst on how women especially find it difficult to reach back home after dark, he fell silent. Rajpal came across as a man who had not been in Delhi for long. I ventured, "Are you new to Delhi? How long have you been around, driving an auto, here?" He clarified promptly, "I run a furniture shop in Kanpur. I just came to Delhi to retrieve my auto from the traffic police. I had rented it to my friend, who was booked under some charge of traffic violation. My friend couldn’t furnish the fine, so I had to come to Delhi, pay the fine and get back my auto. I really don’t know how people function in this city! Everything seems like a hassle and everybody seems to be in a hurry". I concurred with him. He continued, "My parents are in the village and they do some farming. I go to my home in the village every month, just roam around and sink in the peace. Kanpur is not bad either, but I do not think I can live in Delhi and deal with this madness everyday". Both of us shared a short, bitter laugh at the irony of being stuck in traffic while reminiscing about the serenity of the rural life. The horns wouldn’t stop blaring. Nobody was obstructing the path of the other. All of us were equally stuck and moving slow. Yet the honking wouldn’t end.

Anil Mehta, my auto driver on one of the following days pointed this out and gave an unasked for, but highly engaging lecture on law makers and law breakers in the country. Right what I needed on my way to work, at a Parliamentarian’s office! Oh, the irony again. Mr Mehta, deftly switching between Hindi and English, informed me that he has been driving in Delhi for nearly five decades now. He says that people don’t follow the rules only because the ones who set them are the worst kind of violators- the politicians and leaders. "Beti agar tum meri baat maanoge, toh main sachh batata hoon. Bharat mein sirf teen ratn they. Means diamonds, heere. Okay?" I probed him a little more; he seemed to be enjoying the company of an attentive listener.

"First- Lal Bahadur Shastri. Jaante ho?" I smarten up and say "yes, India’s second Prime Minister". "Correct. He went to broker peace in Russia and they killed him there. Woh nange aaye they, nange chale gaye. Par bahut ijjat kamaye unhone. (He came with nothing and left with nothing. But he earned a lot of respect.) Doosre they Abdul Kalam. Woh nange aaye they, nange chale gaye. Par bahut ijjat kamaye unhone. Teesre hain Vajpayeeji. Vo bhi kuch aise hi hain."

"I have seen a lot", he continued, "I have been driving around from a time when only Connaught Place, Chandni Chowk and Kamla Nagar were crowded areas in Delhi, but now you look around and see".

It almost seemed like déjà vu to me, when Shankar Yadav, another auto driver in his fifties told me the same thing just the day before yesterday. "You know", he started, "at that time only two cars used to run- Ambassador and Fiat Padmini. And there were two bikes- Bullet and Rajdoot. Ab toh tarah tarah ki gaadiyan hain. Log aise waise bhi paise kama lete hain. (People make their money through any means.) Those who are actually struggling in this country will never be able to afford any of this. I am just earning to see my three daughters do well. My son is working as a clerk already but it is in my daughters’ success that I will be able to take pride."

Shankar Yadav, from Varanasi, who says that he can understand the character of his customer just by looking at their face once.

"Daughters are really different. I am not telling that she has to study or work. But I hope that by the time she is done with her education, she knows her mettle and decides on her future accordingly". It was a breezy monsoon evening and I had just picked up a conversation with my middle-aged auto driver. We had bonded over an old 1960s song that he had been playing. It seemed perfect for a winding evening and the long, shaded roads of Lutyen′s Delhi. "Are you planning to get her married?” I asked worried. "No, that is not up to me. I strongly believe that it is in a person’s own character to do what they want in life. Depending on their maturity towards worldly ideas, their propensity to learn or earn, each one takes a different call. I will let her choose her own way out, once she is done with school". Some sagacious advice, this was. I asked him for his name, "Sant Kumar" he said. How apt!

Shankar Yadav again brought me back to the present; we were a few metres away from reaching my office. "You are also out working and away from your family. You go to work with an earnest heart and a sincere attitude, and that is all that matters". "True, true", I nodded in agreement. He added, "I like South Indians. They are honest and simple. Look at you, smiling even now. I just hope to meet nice persons like you every day". I beamed at him for offering me such a generous compliment, right in the morning. "It is also nice to find good and cheerful auto drivers like you", I returned, thinking to myself that the Universe indeed has mysterious ways of working. "We all exist with the same faith", he remarked pulling to a halt by my office, pointing to the message inscribed on his windshield. Ram Bharose, indeed.

I ride in an auto and the world rides on faith.

Bidding Goodbye

Over the last couple of weeks, I had to frequent the airport thrice to see off friends embarking on a new journey- either for their new jobs, or further studies, or just explore the world and themselves through it. In one case I just about hurried to see my friend through the gates and bid him goodbye. In the other, I travelled the entire way to the airport and then saw the friend off in great leisure. Lastly, I arrived at the departure area even before my friend did and waited to say goodbye to her.

It was in during the wait, that a casual observation of the people around me sparked a host of reflections and introspection on the eventuality of goodbyes and our complex human natures. Like islands of clarity in waters of stormy thoughts, my brain (and heart?) picked on a lot many signals in the cacophony of the departure area.

First there was the reticent son who had to leave for work. His mother, father and sister had come to see him off. The mother kept giving hugs at regular intervals, while the father just teared up a little bit and waited by the side. After the sister was given the friendly nudge and an awkward "take care", it was the turn of the father. The father gave a brief hug and both the son and the older man patted each others′ back so many times, I wondered who was reassuring the other.

Next was a young lady, in the company of her excited parents. The mother showered her with many kisses and the father hounded the passers-by to click their family photo at the gates, with the luggage trolley and the whole works. The daughter was clearly embarassed to be the centre of attention for what she hoped would be a sombre farewell. The father had only started. With the weight of a looming goodbye bearing on their shoulders, he nudged them for a selfie. He had to. They put on their best smiles, which quickly disappeared in the apprehensive eyes that just couldn′t tear away from the glass doors, even long after the daughter had disappeared into the travelling crowd.

An old couple that silently watched them all with me, abruptly got up from my side, acknowledged a goodbye with a brief nod and parted ways. The husband was taking a flight to meet his son in some other continent. The elderly woman just sighed and walked away into the distance without once looking back.

As I waited for my friend, I wondered about these goodbyes. Whether it is for durations short, long or forever, said or unsaid, on a note which is happy, so-so or sad, goodbyes are always overwhelming. I remembered some of my goodbyes, naturally and thought of all the people in my life.

There was that really close school friend to whom the goodbye was just the way of picking up the conversation next time from where we left now. Except that the distance of time and place has sealed childhood bond with only memories of the past. She is busy in her world and I am in mine.Then I thought of other goodbyes, which were naturally followed by immediate hellos, because we never lose touch with some persons. Coming to think of it, the "goodbye and good riddance" ones I have hardly experienced. (Maybe some would have saved that for me) Mostly, only because they were unsaid but understood. The heaviest of them all had to be the unsaid goodbyes.

I spoke to my grandmother quite often in the last few months of her life, she was then battling cancer. Every phone call was a slow race towards bidding that one goodbye. Nobody wants to reach the finish line here. Then I thought of another school friend and then, my father, whose time for a goodbye never really arrived, but they moved on anyway.

Like the airport, I wish life too had an acceptable emotional baggage limit. And strictly only that much should be permissible on journeys. The goodbyes are overwhelming because we are weighed by the emotion of it. The baggage does not lug us so much as the burden of waiting with it until we meet next.

Well, my friend did arrive and the customary hugs and easy jokes smoothened the process of a hard goodbye. The security net of an all-pervasive communication technology never really renders people distant actually. Yet, you should have seen the teenager group that came to see their friend off. Amidst the loud sobs, there was a ringing cheer when she was wished the best for her college abroad.

Goodbye, funnily, is just the reduced word for "God be with you". Then, we are never really on our own. Are we?

Sounds of the City

The moon travels silently from one side of the horizon to the other side, some days accompanied by stars and on other days accompanied by stares. Oblique stares of all those who wished to see stars, shooting stars and now have settled for the silent, stoic and scarred moon. Scarred yet beautiful. Just like the city that drowns the silence.

A city scarred by the blistering lights of an unceasing traffic that can only blare horns, yet violently turn a deaf ear towards sirens that douse fires or resuscitate battling lives. The roads are an imagery of rustling gravel and screeching wheels. Sparks fly, mostly of rage. More sounds infiltrate the scene. Abuses. Threats. And uncouth calling of names. The uncivilised tongues unleash a war of words, razing like saw on smooth wood. Violent and irrevocably damaging sounds abound the shifting air- the cacophony of electric drills and unstopping razing of wood, concrete and stones. The peace of the city bleeds out from its ears.

When the moon has more than covered half its journey across the horizon, an uneasy silence settles upon the city. The roads lie in a calm , that is temporary, only to prepare itself for a deluge of noises from the dawn. But in this tungsten glow, all is well on the tarred track. The trees rustle now, not the gravel, with the rare shuffling of the sleeping birds. The crickets and night insects creek carefully. A lone dog howls half-heartedly in the vicinity. Only the observant ear latches onto these sounds. The ears that belong to the eyes that wistfully stargaze on a cloudy night. And suddenly a lonely, speeding car whizzes by.

Some neighbours dull and weary trudge their heavy feet back after a long day at work. The wrought iron gates disturb the silence of the night. The hinges haven’t been oiled in a really long time. It is now their time to be noticed. During the day, the chatter of the moving couples and rushing children hardly provide the hinges the audience it deserves. Distant thumping sounds arise from nowhere. Then a light flickers on.

The bachelors in the building across have arrived or have woken up. It’s well past midnight and the jam session is bound to happen. The hesitant plucking of chords, testing of the amplifiers and a voice that cracks through the pores of the walls and the restless atmosphere. The thumping grows in pace and vigour. The party is full blown now. “Oye!”

The elderly man bangs open his door, standing in his pajamas, invites his coterie of middle aged grumbling residents and shouts a sharp word of caution to the partying bachelors. It’s his daughter’s exam tomorrow, he says. “You better watch your performance tonight. I will be sending you the tickets for the next gig. Right on the pavement.” The soon-to-be-homeless bachelors shout back with equal gusto. It’s their house. Their time of the night. Their time of their lives. “Tsk”, a tongue clicks and a head nods in disapproval.

The head was so long immersed in a novel under the warm glow of a night lamp. The soft flick of the pages being turned were the only part of a comforting night to this lady living two houses away. And now, she found voices of unknown strangers drifting into her bedroom. The night blue was already giving way to a wispy grey with traces of orange at its tail. 4 AM is no time for a shoutdown. The book is banged shut. The pillow is pulled over the ears, all the sounds are muffled. The head drifts to an untimely sleep. Yet another pair of eyes opens up.

The housewife shuffles in her sleep, hitting the corner table and letting out a howl of pain. Nobody wakes up, though. She has to run the motor at this unearthly hour every day.  For half an hour, she is lulled to half-sleep by the sound of trickling water in the pipelines. The same shaft on the other end supplies her with the reassuring, distant whirr of the motor. A soft click in an hour, the motor stops abruptly, the tank gurgles with the sound of contentment at its brim. She shuffles back to bed. Trring!

It is already dawn, the milkman comes clankering. Swoosh! The newspaper boy delivers, never at the same time every morning. In some flats, the dull thud in the balcony is the first alarm for the sleeping inmates. Soon the beeps of the clocks, the horrendous Bollywood ringtones and the irregular, but limited whistles of the cooker flood the neighbourhood. They city has slowly, but surely woken up. The wistful eyes of the night are shut tired. Now just the soft and early coos of the birds soothe the listener.

“Namaste ji!” walkers call out to other known faces struggling along the paths of the park. Some teenagers giggle looking at the ungraceful sway of pot bellies and catching the ugly rumble of suppressed burps and passing of wind. The pebbles tinker under the weight of the exercising milieu of nobodies.

Outside the park, vegetable vendors, sneakers-clad grandmas and health-conscious professionals haggle over the price of peas, tender coconut and a dozen bananas. The tea sellers hiss behind their steam of pots and the oily pan laying out butter toasts and paranthas. A lonely radio spins the morning yarn with an intermittent crackle of static. The school vans creak their way on the empty roads and signal the start of the day. Slowly the traffic builds up to a disturbing moan. Schools blare out prayers and the marching drums wake the dozing youngsters of the locality.

The gurudwara, temple and mosque are already in the second round of prayers for the day.  Somewhere the TV is on too; yet to recover from the hoarse mudslinging of primetime news the previous night. The eyes that remained long awake last night, now scurry over a document on the laptop, all blurry. Fingers quickly tap to a word limit. The usual haste of getting ready to work, and running through the dusty roads with uneven breath sets the pace for the day. The only other calming sound is the drone of the Metro announcer who lures the passenger to catchy those forty winks, unlike the stars that never appeared the previous night. The city squabbles, shrieks, speaks, sings, whistles, whispers, howls, hoots, chants, chatters and chalo chalo shaant ho jao! Before the ears adjust to the assault, it is the reprieve of silence at night again.

Longing

(I heard this compulsive piece of music on loop today https://soundcloud.com/indian-ocean-music/longing , and was compelled just to pen down something. And of course, it had to be about home. About Madras.)

For that one coffee, that wafts with the scent of my home

For that one evening breeze, that lilts my senses

For that one camphor lit, tingling with flowers adorned

For that one whiff far away, there's a longing.

Drifting towards the sounds of the shore,

Dreaming about the laughter of my brothers four,

Desperately picking up the strains of a music so divine,

Distanced simply by these chords of a longing.

Wondering what were the tastes of my childhood,

Willfully drowning in the descent of the delicacies,

Wallowing in the absence of soul food,

Wishing my palate got relieved of this longing.

Seeking the familiar contours of a leafy avenue,

Spotting the corners of the city I knew,

Swiftly settling in with the faces familiar,

Sinking in between the notes of this ceaseless longing.

Embraced by the love of a father, and a mother,

Effortlessly touched by friends living yonder,

Every part massaged by the warmth of nostalgia,

Endless, extolling, emasculating longing.