PROUD OF YOUR KHICHDI.......?

The language that we now use to communicate with our fellow beings and express our thoughts and feelings can at best be called a khichdi mix of English, Hindi with a dash of vernacular carelessly thrown in. But if we are asked the simple question whether we actually know our language, the answer, I suppose, will be an unabashed no. We glibly blame it on our cosmopolitan upbringing; we take pride in saying that we speak the common man’s language which is easily understandable; we give examples of such other words which have come to be used and adopted in the course of time but do not strictly belong to that particular language, e.g., bazaar in English, bus in Hindi, ijjat colloquially used in Bengali taken from Urdu word izzat so and so forth.

Blatantly hyped and extensively used by our media (TV News, Serials, Chat Shows Reality Shows etc.) this mixture of languages has become our notional language. With the exception of a few like Mr. Bacchan who prefers to use unadulterated version of whichever language, Hindi or English, he chooses to speak in, most of the times, our ears are assaulted by this “mixed babble” which has become our colloquial dialect. We pick up what we hear. This dialect has also invaded journalism, literary works, broadcasts (FM) etc. AIR is an exception. But who tunes in to AIR nowadays?

In this context, I remember an anecdote - my father’s childhood friend whom we fondly called Jethu (Tauji), was perturbed when his son who was settled abroad wrote to him that his Bengali friend and his British wife would be calling upon him for dinner. Jethu was known to be a close fisted person and would count every penny before spending (he left a fortune for his grandchildren!). But this time he was not worried about money. His only concern was how to communicate with the lady and whether he would be able to understand her diction. Jethu was an extremely well read person with a penchant for the theatre and the most embarrassing habit of vocalizing his political views (generally anti-establishment), loudly, to the shock and chagrin of the audience at large. He spoke English fluently but with a strong Bengali accent.

Finally the guests arrived. The much dreaded dinner happened to be a peaceful event. The next day when we asked Jethu whether he could understand the lady’s accent. He gave an impish wink and said it was the other way round. It was the lady who found it difficult to understand Jethu’s much refined English expressions!

Another example: our family physician Dr Sengupta was an affable soul with a florid smile. He belonged to East Bengal and spoke the dialect of the region fluently. So did his wife, a simple, middle aged woman who basked in the glory of her grand children. One evening in one of the community gatherings, we almost fell off our chairs when the lady on request, went into raptures and recited lines from Shakespeare ex tempore in perfect English. Later we came to know that she was an English graduate from an esteemed institution of pre-independence time.

Simple people leading simple lives with a love of language!!

Some of my learned friends have pointed out that borrowing words from other languages is a common phenomenon world over and is a part of cultural intermingling which enriches and enhances vocabulary. Agreed! When we cook we too put in a number of ingredients to garnish the dishes but at the same time we know the taste and flavour of each of the masalas that we are putting in. Stretching the same example to this issue my humble submission will be that before preparing the assorted linguistic gourmet we should have enough knowledge of each of the lingual ingredients that we lavishly throw in so that if one day if we are told to prepare a simple, unadulterated version of daal chawal in one language, we should not cut a sorry figure.

My grandfather used to say that proficiency in one language automatically facilitates proficiency in other language(s) because the underlying nuances are the same. Instead of hiding our deficiencies in several languages (Hindi, English and Vernacular) under the garb of a cosmopolitan tongue, shouldn’t we brush up our knowledge (read language) a bit?

We are fashion savvy, net savvy, tech savvy, mobile savvy, computer savvy and so on and so forth; can’t we also be language savvy? Or is it too out dated a concept?

SHOW ME THE RULE

I hold a Citi Card (Visa) and have been using it regularly for almost past ten years. As such, I have not had any problem with the Card or with Citi Bank with regard to any of my transactions till recently. The story goes like this….

I had made a few purchases worth Rs. 2000/- on the card. The Statement against the said purchase was mailed to me on time. But due to various preoccupations, I missed the mail. The payment therefore could not be made on time. I realized this only after the receipt of the subsequent statement which was as it is of a hefty amount.

I decided to make the entire payment (outstanding as well as current) then and there without waiting for the due date which was somewhere in the middle of next month. However, while making out the cheque, I realized that the bank was charging me an interest @ 3.35% (40.2% annually) and a Service Tax @ 10.30% presumably on the default payment over and above the fixed late payment fees. But the amount reflecting towards these was exorbitant and did not fit into the calculation. On enquiry, I was told that the interest and Service Tax were charged on the current balance (the default as well as the current taken together).

I was appalled and sought to speak to higher authority. On being connected, I explained the problem. The girl on the other end informed that it was the policy of the Bank to charge the interest and Service Tax on late payment on the current balance as mentioned overleaf (ref. bill). I wanted to know whether the bank was charging the exorbitant interest and tax amount on the presumption that the customer would not be paying the current outstanding as well. I challenged the rule and told her that the Bank could not penalize a customer before the commission of the offence.

I had expected a prolonged debate on the issue but the girl acquiesced quite promptly and agreed to waive the interest and Service Tax on the current balance. But of course, I had to pay the same on the default amount. I agreed and the matter was settled.

This made me think. Had I not questioned the rationale behind the rule, I would have been taken for a ride. Also, every written rule is not law and cannot be enforced down the customer’s throat. Though, I am not preaching non compliance to rules, it is also a fact that we should not blindly follow a rule just because it is written under the heading “Terms and Conditions”. We should understand the logic and reason behind the rule. Perhaps certain rules are also made to intimidate the chronic errant customers.

Also, we, as customer, must also know how far we can challenge a rule or throw our weight around. Had I asked for a total waiver of late payment fees including the interest and the Service Tax, it would have been tantamount to taking advantage or asking for too much. Though, I suppose I could have, based on my flawless track record of ten years. But somehow I felt that I needed to pay some additional charge so that it would keep me on my toes to henceforth not to miss mail alerts and make payment on time

A WHIFF OF SMOKE

Last summer would have just left behind pages of scorched memories but for a few frugal bouts of drizzle, which could almost be counted on finger tips. Monsoon bade a hasty “sayonara” leaving the Capital huffing and puffing in the scalding, seething heat, which soon gave way to muggy days and nights, unbearable and exhausting. Then suddenly one fine evening, dark, demonic clouds appeared on the horizon and whimsically decided to unburden on the parched cityscape. The Met Department was taken unawares but hastily regained composure soon and proclaimed it to be an unexpected reversal of the monsoons. Sighs of immense relief escaped from millions of Delhites and condensed into more clouds which kept on pouring incessantly for days and nights.

On one such drenched late evening, I was just about to retire to bed when there were repeated, urgent knocks on the backdoor. I hurriedly opened the door to find two rain-soaked figures happily grinning and beckoning me to come out quickly – my brother-in-law and nephew. I did as bidden and was propelled outside. My front balcony opened to a strip of space which was a sort of no man’s and at the same time every man’s land. I had placed a number of flower pots and planted a few trees there. To prevent water logging, which it was prone to, I had cemented the portion too so that it formed a kind of unfenced, rectangular table, a few inches high. I called it my “garden”, a misnomer that is. My kitchen and drawing room windows opened to it and the awnings thereon partially shaded the so called “garden” from rain and sun.

Here under the kitchen awning were nine miniscule, wet pups entwined and shivering. These were born of two mothers in the colony park adjacent to our flat. The mothers had gone in search of food when the rain started. The mothers generally dig the ground into oval shaped bowls which form a cradle for their new born and wherein they remain till they are able to crawl out and wander around. The bowls and the park itself had filled with water due to heavy rainfall almost drowning the pups. My brother-in-law and nephew had heard their weak squeaks of help from the floor above and had rushed to save them. Where best to keep them but the place where they were laid now! We were thinking how to feed the pups and keep them strong when the mother arrived, at first scared not to find her children where she had left them, but was soon relieved and united with the estranged ones. The pack ensconced themselves for a week or so in my “garden”.

We are a family of animal lovers and often in our urge to help the stray ones we put ourselves in such predicaments wherein our self imposed responsibility gets converted into a dilemma. The pups grew healthy and strong day by day; the mess and stench of their “growth” permeating the whole flat creating the most unhygienic condition which an entire Sanitation Department would have fallen short if summoned to sterilize. But we were handicapped and knew not what to do till the rains stopped. Then one day the sun shone bright and the mother herself carried the pups back to the park. But the story did not end there.

The brood was still our neighbours! We witnessed them grow up into sturdy, grateful mongrels. Soon they came back with a vengeance to repay their life savers. As a token of gratitude, they destroyed my plants, chewed away the barks of the trees, tore the moss grass and in general wreaked havoc in my “garden” so much so that I had to put up iron grills to fence the table. But the worst was yet to come.

As they grew up, only two were left out of the pack of nine – some wandered away, some were picked up and some just did not survive. Both the survivors were bitches - one with a shiny black coat and a white chest. We fondly named her Kaalu. The second one was of a light brown shade, very adventurous and fidgety by nature. The latter would often disappear for weeks and suddenly appear one day like Jack in a box, play around awhile and then again vanish into thin air. Both were exceedingly fond of my pet, Mr. Snow Boot, an Indian mix breed. Their fondness for Snow became the source of all my problems.

Kaalu was a permanent fixture around our flat and would playfully follow, nudge and tickle Snow as soon as he was out on his early morning walks, especially when, he was at his most disadvantageous position, i.e. while emptying his “leaky cauldron” or answering Nature’s call. Snow would, understandably, get enraged and growl, shoo and chase her. I’d pull Snow by the chain to prevent him from hurting Kaalu. In this tug of war, I was the most aggrieved one. Snow is a big dog and controlling him when irritated is very difficult. One day, while keeping a control on a vexed Snow, I got a terrible cramp in my leg which tormented me for days. On another day I fell headlong on the road while Snow happily ran after Kaalu. The situation worsened when Kaalu was joined by her sibling, the light brown one. I decided on quick action.

One morning I placed a bowl of milk in the “garden”, lured Kaalu in and latched the grill gate from inside, closed the front balcony door so that Kaalu was locked in the “garden”. Now the miscreant was trapped and would not be able to follow us! I left with Snow by the back door. We followed the same routine every morning. First few days, we could hear Kaalu whining and yelping in protest. Later, she resigned to the “new system” and often after coming back I would find her stretched in the “garden” lazily admiring the morning stars.

Morning walks were becoming a peaceful event when one day the brown one popped in to say “hullo”. That day I placed two bowls of milk, lured both of them in and followed the same ritual before going out with Snow. My new prisoner seemed restless but I ignored. We took an unusually long route and came back more than an hour later to find Kaalu sitting patiently and waiting for us while her sister was gone.

I was surprised. How could she escape when the grill gate was locked? The height of the grill and the gate was such that once locked from inside it could not be opened from outside. It was, therefore, out of question that the dog had jumped over the fence and scooted off. 5 o’clock in the morning was like midnight for the block residents. So, no Good Samaritan was around to offer a helping hand. The night guards would not dare do such things and I had noticed that they generally kept a safe distance from stray dogs. The car cleaners were by then up and about but were too busy finishing their job before the hustle and bustle of the day started. Therefore, they would not bother to waste much time to help a street mongrel in her escapade. Nevertheless, I was pretty sure that there was somebody around as my nasal antennae had picked up a whiff of cigarette smoke in the air!

An uneventful week passed by before the brown one appeared once again. I followed the same routine. As usual, when I returned, Kaalu was alone and a strong smell of cigarette puff wafted through the “garden”! This bothered me. Who could it be? Did he have any other ulterior motive or was just driven by sympathy towards a caged soul? If altruism was the driving force, then what made the invisible philanthropist partial towards the brown one? Why not Kaalu too? I thought of lodging a complaint with the Block Security, but in the absence of substantive evidence, apart from the cigarette smoke, I felt a little stupid doing so. My foremost concern was burglary. Perhaps, somebody was keeping a tab on my movement and had vicious plans in mind waiting to be put into action in an opportune moment.

However, the morning walks were indispensable and could not be put a stop to. The next time, I locked in both the siblings I made it a point to come back quickly. Snow also appeared to be in no mood for a long walk and did not object to an early return. As I approached my front yard I found the brown one in the quirkiest of pursuits. Her hind legs were placed on the rim of a stone pot close to the fence and forelimbs were on the edge of the grill. She was, supported by the plant pot, trying her level best to heave herself over the grill and was half successful as she swung precariously, almost half of her body dangling over the top of the fence. I was relieved and at the same time worried. I now knew how she managed to escape but in the process could either break my expensive pot or hurt herself as the fence was too high for such canine acrobatics. I opened the grill door and coaxed her for a more dignified departure. As she left, I deeply inhaled the clean, clear morning air and felt a bit heady thereafter.

As the day broke in, I rearranged the pots in the “garden” and removed them from the fence so that there was no next time for Ms. Brown to indulge in her gimmicks. She happened to appear the very next day, frisky and frolicsome as ever. I followed the same game plan and was out in a jiffy with Snow. The early morning breeze was soothing though there was a bit of a chill in the air. Both I and Mr. Snow were in light spirits and completed the stroll in a gay trot. We might have taken a little longer than usual in our relief and happiness. When we returned Kaalu was sprawled on the cemented floor happily snoozing. But Ms. Brown was nowhere around! How come? Had I not removed the pots on which she balanced herself to jump over? Yes, I had. The pots were still there where I had placed them away from the grill. They were heavy and could not be displaced easily. Then how did she manage to go scot free? The answer was right there! In front of my nose! My eyes watered as I stared hard at the shadowy “garden” and around helplessly while a thick wisp of cigarette smoke hung in the early morning breeze burning my lungs and nostrils.

"DABANG" RETOLD

I am a late latif. Things have happened late in my life for which I am supremely responsible as I have done things late in life. So, it is no surprise that I watched Dabang late yesterday evening when everyone else has already seen, reacted to, dissected, de-glorified and discarded it without an infinitesimal pause or pinch of qualm. But I cannot reject it as just a “C” grade movie and the incorrigible that I am, have the audacity to sit down to write a review on a delectable cinematic feast which has by now turned stale and sour.

Running the risk of being criticized as an iconoclast, I’d say Dabang presents a chunk of reality from which we turn our faces away everyday in search of a Utopian contentment which is too idealistic to exist. A horde of negative characters – a stepfather (Vinod Khanna as Prajapati Pandey) who does not naturally like his stepson (Salman Khan as Chulbul Pandey), a stepson who understandably hates his step brother(Arbaaz Khan as Makkhi urf Makkhan Prasad Pandey) whom his father has a congenital weakness for, a harassed, asthmatic mother (Dimple Kapadia) who having remarried by choice, acts as a referee between the brawling stepson and stepfather, a not so innocent village damsel (Sonakshi) saddled with a drunkard, “natural” father (Mahesh Manjrekar) for whom she is ready to embrace spinsterhood as there is nobody to look after him, a hoodlum (Sonu Sood as Chhedi Singh) who brazenly misuses his connection with the State Home Minister (Anupam Kher) and runs illegitimate thekas and openly resorts to gundagardi. A Minister unhappy with his henchman gone out of control and wants to bring him to books but does not know how.

Dark, shady characters emanating unhealthy vibes which permeate two and a half hours of cinematic treatment! So what best can these characters do but indulge in unhealthier deeds contaminating the viewers minds. The unhappy Chulbul grows up to become a police man of questionable repute and resorts to, needless to say, all sorts of corrupt deals and rebellious moves which incur his father’s wrath in increasing measures till he kicks him out of his house after his mother’s death. The deglamorized Dimple, the mother, spends her entire life doing the balancing act within the family till she is asphyxiated to death by Chhedi Singh. The weakling, Makkhi, loots his brother’s money to give to his would be father-in-law, a school teacher, who conforming to the misrepresented image of the clan, leads a hand to mouth existence. All this rigmarole because Prajapati Pandey is keen to gain a hefty dowry off Makkhi’s marriage to clear his debt burdens and be comfortable in his old age! Chulbul naturally (what best can a corrupt cop do?) enters into an under-hand-arrangement with the politician, (the Home Minister), to “downsize” Chhedi Singh. In turn, Chhedi Singh instigates his would be father-in-law, another corrupt cop (Om Puri), to remove Chulbul from the face of this earth and the pawn in this vicious game plan is Makkhi, Chulbul’s younger brother! A succinct summation of today’s reality which our eyes and ears are too accustomed to see and hear in Newspapers and News Channels, perhaps off reel and print too. And anybody who refutes that is reliving a myth with all its inveigling contraptions - either the media is dishing out “soaps” or Ram Rajya has been successfully instituted in our country to the fuming frenzy of the Jehadis.

Now, what do I like best in this very-close-to-reality plot and predictable twists and turns of the usual story line – there is no Ram like hero and Sita like Devi in the whole movie. There is no love lost between the two siblings. The step son is more overpowering than the natural son, in spite of the father’s presence. The sons are not dying to sacrifice their lives for the sake of parental love, familial bond, each other etc. The father is not getting all dewy eyed on the “mera beta” theme, be it natural or step. The villain is not always having the upper hand over the bechara hero and vice versa. The hero does not have a miniscule bit of the curve of the m of morals and is a goonda of matching calliber. No respect is shown for social rituals or obligations as Chulbul unceremoniously shoos away the mourners and gets married to his “sweat”-heart soon after his father-in-law’s demise that too in the same mandap put up for his stepbrother’s marriage (Is the director forewarning what mera Bharat mahaan is heading to?). There is no moral of the story and nobody is looking out for any. Everything is an arrangement of convenience – the relationships, the compromises, the gory deeds, the gorier repercussions et al and such is life, my friends, isn’t it? If we care to take off our rose tinted spectacles of illusions and cogitate!

Now, what I do not like about the movie, which is very little of course (?). Although Director, Abhinav Sinha or Anubhav, or whosoever it is, does a crisp job, or should we give the credit to the script writer and the editor, my discerning eyes could still detect a few chinks in the armour. (1) Why is Prajapati Pandey’s house in a perpetual ramshackle state – the wash basin is synonymous to a dirt bin and the plaster peeling off the stain smeared walls? In twenty one years, couldn’t he find time or scrape a saving to get his house white washed? (2)If, yes, then how come his wife so conveniently flaunts expensive cotton and hand woven heavy silk sarees? (In some of the shots, she looks positively conscious of her attire which lets a jarring note intrude into a positively serious overture!!!). (4) Why is that a ‘seasoned’ cop like Chulbul Pandey not able to figure out that his mother has not died a natural death and that it’s a murder? (5)Why is that the “jhandu balm” scene invariably reminds one of the “namak ishq ka” sequence from Omkara? Though, with a vital difference – while in the latter the hero does not lapse into jhatkas and thumkas and Bip Basu cannot, even as she may try hard, shrug off her urban sophistry, Malaika Arora Khan, does not leave anything to imagination!!

Coming to emoting, Salman Khan rules the roost. From the lift of an eyebrow to his shiny shoes, he lives the character. My heart went out to Dimple Kapadia, a mother with a difference!! Vinod Khanna, I think, gave one of his stupendous performances as the hateful stepfather, understating his histrionics - disapproval and dislike for his stepson - to an award winning height, which reminded me so much of his “Achanak” days when Gulzaar re-invented him from the rut of villainy that he was wasting his time in. Sonakshi is underutilized but I stole glimpses of a promise there!! Last but not the least, Sonu Sood, as the quintessential village goon (inspired by Pappu Yadav?), is a complete surprise package from the Badjatiya brand of the all-patience and benevolent boyfriend image that he was wallowing in, in his last flop. Again a restrained show of vile debauchery and venomous foul play here! Arbaaz Khan is forgettably passable. Sajid Wajid duo does a good job in the music department and the songs are in absolute sync with the bawdy milieu. I also liked the rugged brown palette that follows frame after frame insinuating broadly the wretchedness of semi-urban lives, the rustic tints of the characters, the unforgiving balefulness in relationships and the unmitigated dolefulness of familial dilemma and tugs of war that emerge out of unfulfilled wants and expectations and raunchy bawdiness which may be mistaken as intervallic comic relief or gaiety. Not to forget the interceptions of black and white to underscore retrogression or mulling over the past, is a fruitful attempt at infusing aesthetics and subtlety into a coarse, commercial venture.

In the final analysis, Dabang is not all that richshawwallah bhayya stuff that we are making it out to be. This is the only movie in which the violence, and there is quite a good measure of it, does not stand out like an ugly mole on a stretch of flawless skin. In short, the actions jell well with the story, backdrop, characters etc. What best can you expect from a pack of disgruntled, misguided and dying to quickly-earn-a-few-extra-bucks youth who did not grow up mugging up the Jatak Katha or such other moral scriptures by heart? The message of the story – corruption and other anti social acts have major psychological undercurrents and stem from unhappy childhood and family feuds and factions and are not outcomes of human greed and susceptibility to temptations, as was till now propagated by the opinion gurus in the market. In fact, Dabang, to me, is a milestone movie of Indian, especially, Hindi Cinema! It is the only and only movie which has opened the gateway for such other movies to flock in (considering the box office success), in recent future. Soon there will be a long queue of formula – one films shorn off all sentimental hypocrisy, hog wash, eye wash and all other kinds of bathing pleasures which submerge the spectators in over melodramatized cascades of lust-free love, altruistic care, religious fraternity, unity in diversity, familial piety etc. etc. for almost three hours and which the viewers are stupid enough to put their faith in and search around outside the plush ambiance of the PVR, where the exact opposites enjoy a gala freak.

Pros – Banes of life and society uninhibitedly brandished by a bevy of brawny men

Cons – Cynical snowball of harsh inhumanities which seems more commonplace

than hard hitting.

UNCLASPED THOUGHTS

A broken twig

A chunk of life

Wrapped in an autumn leaf

A tilted moon

A jilted sky

A pair of leaking rainy eyes

A poignant plea

A splendid serene

Ethereal dream of clinging bliss

A sultry noon

A brazen sky

A winding path of molten ash

A chiffon spread

A placid morn

A breeze with a haunting song

What do I choose?

What do I pick?

An autumn leaf

A tilted moon

A jilted sky

Rainy eyes

Poignant dreams

Ashen path

A hissing morn

A singing breeze

Or

Just a neglected

Broken twig

A CASKET OF LOVE

A grey, disheveled sky carrying the burden of clouds like an evil scowl! A dismal morning lending a dark, somber hue to the surroundings! The trees droop with the weightlessness of the raindrops heavily plonked on their leaves and the clumps of colour, which were carelessly strewn around a day previous, have taken an ashen form. I feel dull and sit by my study window and stare at the abjectness of a world. A world gone pale in the rains! It’s dark inside the house too. I have deliberately not switched on the lights. I can hear the kitchen’s palpable sigh - my refusal to go in and wake up the pots and pans and put the gas stove on to make the early morning tea.

I just sit listlessly on my own. Such colourless, vigourless mornings make me nostalgic in a sad kind of way. Draining me! De-energising me! Enervating me! So much so that I am converted into a zombie! A lazy, apathetic mule that refuses to budge even if prodded and poked the hardest.

All the unhappy memories come back and crowd my room in such a manner that the pillows, beds, chairs, tables, sheets, mattresses and all other odd assortments, everything, pulsate with a solidified grief. A lament flows round and round the closed walls and settles somewhere inside my heart and does not lift again till very late after a lot of shaking, shivering and shuddering. The burden may get off my chest but its remnants linger on for days and weeks and sometimes months. I push it away and it pulls back my soul in a wretched manner, at the same time, vigorously churning the pain and agony inside with an invisible spoon creating a nauseous feeling, as though a fount of charred dreams is about to spurt into a cascade down the marble floor. Anguish has a stronger gravitational force than will.

It is in these moments that a pair of eyes haunts me. Eyes with a repressed smile! Eyes heavily hooded carrying a mystery in its lashes! Eyes coal black deeply embedded in a rugged face. Eyes that never spoke much but gestured you to follow a hazy dream for light years. Eyes that cringed on the sides when a boyish smile widened the lips. Eyes which ignited many new emotions hitherto unknown. Well, those eyes never left me alone. They would always be watching and spying on me in broad daylight as well as in the womb of the nights spent sleepless on cold pillows. Eyes that scanned me inside out so much so that there was nothing left to hide. Eyes that never betrayed any emotion but just a smile which could mean anything and everything. Mischievous eyes which compelled one to make mistakes.

Years rolled by wrapped in expensive falsifications not because I incurred debts but because I wasted emotions – waves and waves of them in gullibility and inexperience. When a simple middle aged woman introduced me to her husband, not face to face, just gesticulated across the road towards those eyes, I was broken into so many innumerable pieces that even God must have resented his idea of infinity.

Enraged passion mixed with a strong measure of vengefulness is the most vitiating reaction. As the venom spread life became dysfunctional. The only thought that overpowered all other thoughts of day and night was how to alter the situation to my benefit. Mundane realities found a single focus, though destructive. In such times, it is very easy to forget one’s own self in a labyrinth of unnecessary questions whose answers stare in the face but are conveniently overlooked in a fit of brooding melancholy and self pity. The whole process was detrimental to sanity.

The mediocrity and malfunctions of a middle class existence are balm and boon to regressive aspirations and a mind gone astray. The question of survival forcefully brings one back to earth. Conventions and customs enforce one to find solace in the daily monotony of making both ends meet. The amount of struggle and strife involved varies in degree as well as in kind. Soon life took its myriad paths of boredom and haste and I was saved from committing a ruthless crime.

A light footstep awoke me from my reverie. I turned back to look into a pair of another eyes. Eyes which talked freely and took liberty of castigating me at times. Eyes which promised tranquil days and nights. Eyes which laughed openly at my fallacies and hugged me in a warm embrace when I rejoiced or won over a tide. Eyes which made fun at my chronic clumsiness. Eyes which were always there with me strengthening my convictions and courageous decisions at infrequent times. Eyes which never brewed or invited storm. Eyes which embalmed my ancient wounds with a loving caress. Eyes which have accepted me with all my immature follies and amorous digressions. Eyes which were now smoke filled not because they were distant but because the hands held a steaming cup of tea.

As I took the cup and sipped in the comfort and calm, I could feel the violent upsurge receding quietly to a deep, cavernous recess somewhere beyond the realms of my tread or trespass. As the warmth of the hot beverage coursed through my veins and arteries, it was a comeback to the now...a peaceful, sated present. The baleful intrusion of bygone woes...the torrid torment was tamed… at least for the time being.

THE FLOWING BEARD

I take a Chartered Bus from Office back home. The bus cruising by the side of our Office Complex takes to the main road to rush off towards the Outer Ring Road. In this route, we pass by two heritage monuments (a Tomb and a Fort) and other places of historical importance too.

The Tomb and the Fort mesmerize me (perhaps because of the historical legends attached to these sites) and often staring at these I am transported back in time... I wonder how these monuments would have looked or what the ambiance would have been during those times when newly built. I could hear the clatter of horses' hooves on the uneven paths or the heavy rumble of the wheels of the coaches or tongas trundling by the tomb towards the Fort (about a few kilometers away). I’d imagine a few shops lining the bright red brick walls (now moss ridden and bearing a dilapidated air) selling artifacts in keeping with the grim sanctity of the tomb. Broad shouldered horsemen gracefully galloping by and veiled, demure ladies frequenting the premise! The slanting rays of the setting sun bathing the monoliths with a dying golden sheen and the mystique music of the evening azaan (there's a mosque nearby too) floating in the air and mingling seamlessly with the melodious musings of the shahanai being played at the nahabat khana of the fort welcoming the dusk. The drawbridges of the Fort would be up by then and the mashaals would be burning in their scones, throwing bizarre shadows on the half lit roads, as I'd be speeding past, not in a heavily curtained buggy, but in the khatara that we call our carrier depositing us home!!! (So much so for imagination)

Our bus stops right in front of the tomb for a few minutes as one or two passengers alight or board at that junction. Often, I’d see a short, slightly built figure standing right in front of the tomb, one hand gracing the railings of the garden encircling the tomb, the other casually holding a neatly folded snow-white cloth piece which I presumed was his cap. His quaint attire and appearance were both eye-catching. He always wore a white robe like dress which fell in light folds on his feet almost moping the grounds. A long chain of dark beads dangled from his slender neck almost till his waist. His complexion was not fair but a mixture of pink in a pallete of white. A diaphanous sheath tightly pasted over fragile bones! His hands were soft and well manicured fringed by delicate, pointed fingers. His finely chiseled facial features went very well with his physique, as though it could not have been anything else. But what attracted me the most was his long silvery beard that flew unclasped in air, matched by a bouquet of silky mane of the same hue, which frilled a shiny bald patch in the centre of his perfectly round head, and billowed down his back in joyful disarray. On hot muggy days, I would wonder how he maintained his long tresses without getting entangled in the mesh. Rain, hail storm, the man would be standing there in exactly the same posture, keenly looking around, a sparkle lighting his emerald green eyes in the dying evening sun and a thin smile playfully hovering on his petal like lips. He would be absolutely immobile, only the deep gaze, taking in the frenzy and fracas of the congested pavements and roads, almost electrifying in its intensity and creating a magic magnetic field around his inert form. Our eyes never met but I was sure he knew I watched him.

My friend happens to board the bus from this very stop. By the time, the bus reaches the tomb, it is quite full and my friend has to cover the distance till destination mostly standing. On rainy evenings, it is worse. He often complains about the rush and crowd, but due to paucity of alternate transport, he has no choice but to opt for this bus (nicknamed chariot), in the long run.

One rainy evening, as the bus came to a halt in front of the tomb, a sudden onrush of rowdy passengers, almost pushed my friend right behind. For one moment, I thought he would miss the bus. The strange figure, till now in inertia, was watching the mad crowd pushing, jostling and shouting at the entrance. My friend gave up and gestured to me that he was quitting the bus. As I was sitting right next to the window, I craned my neck out and told him that he better took this one as there was no other transport available thereafter. He gestured helplessly at the fierce crowd and told me it was quite impossible. I still persisted otherwise I knew he would be stranded for the night. My friend, as a last try, joined the struggling boarders. There was almost a fight brewing up in the race for who could get in first.

Suddenly, out of the blue, the man in the white robe triggered into action and came right behind my friend and placed a fragile hand on his back and gave a slight push. And as he did so, my friend just melted through the crowd like a spread of butter on a piece of hot crackling toast and lo! He was inside the bus. I grinned at him as he threaded his way through the standing throng and came to stand right next to my seat. I looked up and smiled, “Thanks to the old man. Had he not helped, you would not have been able to get in." My friend stared at me with beady eyes, his jaws almost dropping to the floor of the bus, "Which old man?" He asked perplexed. "That old man who stands everyday in front of the tomb..." My voice trailed into silence. A frail, old man who almost floated in air! How could he push my friend so hard that he simply waltzed through that stampede without a crease on his shirt! I was just going to reason that out in my head when I heard my friend say "But I was alone and the last one in the crowd and there was nobody behind me..."

The next evening, I left office early to grab a window seat. As the bus careened through the congestion and came to a stop in front of the tomb, I saw him. He was right in front of my window looking directly at me for the first time! In fact, to my utter surprise, he took two steps forward till he was quite close to the bus, nay, my window. His glassy eyes lined by curly white lashes were a deep blue today or was I imagining? His smile had an odd quality about it. I stared at him almost in a hypnotic trance. He looked deeply into my eyes or somewhere beyond, I don't know, but a flash of a second swished by and his left eyelid drooped on his crystal gaze and the silky lashes came to rest peacefully on his creaseless cheeks for an infinitesimal moment at the same time his smile deepened...the old man winked...h-e p-o-s-i-t-i-v-e-l-y w-i-n-k-e-d...

Before I could collect my composure, our driver had changed gear and the bus glided past the tomb. I pushed my head out and looked back but could not see the old man in the midst of gathering darkness and the horde of vehicles and pedestrians.

Thereafter, my bus has stopped every day on the same spot in front of the tomb. But I have not been able to locate the man with the flowing beard again...