"Oft In The Stilly Night
Ere Slumber’s Chain Has Bound Me
Fond Memory Brings
The Light Of Other Days Around Me"
It is but with a cane, that I walk today.
Bent, stooped, tired. Casting a wary eye on the beastly Corporation Garbage Trucks driven by maniacs, who have an uncanny ability to discover the elderly and trample them down. Wonder what the headlines would be if it happens to me “Garbage Truck Runs Over Garbage” … ?
I walk every morning. On this stretch between Highland Park and Abhishekta. And I think. And I remember. Days gone by. Moments spent. And I smile. Rarely, but I do.
My reverie is suddenly broken by the desperate honking of a car. And disoriented that I am, I look wildly around for a Corporation Truck.
But no, today is my lucky day. It is just a white Maruti, belonging to the neighborhood driving school. With a young boy on the wheels, under the watchful eye of the instructor. I move aside, giving him way and a toothless grin. And I know I look hideous without the set of teeth. But I will have to wait till the next month before I get a new pair. My son’s dog “Poopsy” has lived up to his name a few days back, on my dentures which had fallen on the floor.
But no, today I will not let anything depress me. The boy carefully turns the vehicle to the left and moves ahead towards Garfa.
And I remember. Days gone by. Me, in his position.
It was one balmy afternoon after my Xth Standard Board Examinations, while I was vacationing at my grandfather’s place along with my cousins, that the sudden realization came that we should learn to drive. And who better to approach than the ever agreeable grand pop!
I learnt driving in my grand pop’s beat-up Ambassador, along with 4 of my cousins, in his farmyard in Bihar. We had as our instructor, Pandeyji, the loving shepherd of a motley flock.
Pandeyji’s first words will forever remain etched on my mind, ”Gaari mein teen kisaaam ki aaail (oil) hote hain …. aanginee (engine) aaail, baarike (brake) aaail auur gear aaail. Paaani hotein hain do kisaaaaam ki, Baaaterri (battery) aur Radiataar”.
And he thus used to go on and on, describing each and every aspect of driving from each and every angle. His voluble ramblings often made us wonder whether it was my granddad’s ploy to get us off his hair. I had always been a little suspicious of his more-than-immediately acceding to our request.
Trouble with Pandeyji was that he singularly refused to give the controls of the car to us. Resultantly we either used to either sit in the car subjected to his verbal assault or used to gaze longingly at the tractors plying through the fields, with small boys on the driver’s seat. Oh! How we wished we could drive straight into the sunset on such a tractor. Our daydreams used to take a sudden beating when we used to be aware that Pandeyji’s was asking us a question. “Gaari chalane ka samay, idhar udhar maat dekho …. Sidha dekna aaur peeche dekna … nahin toh keya naaaatijja hoga ? ” Jolted out of our dreams, as we were, we used to stare at him and smile foolishly. And he used to reply “Haaaaspitaaaal”.
And as is usual for people of that age, our enthusiasm soon had a decent burial. And it was not until end of college that I enrolled in a proper driving school and learnt to drive.
"The Smiles, The Tears
Of Boyhood Years
The Words Of Love Then Spoken
The Eyes That Shone Are Now Dimmed And Gone
The Cheerful Hearts Now Broken"
I plod on. Weary. Akin to Thomas Gray’s “ploughman”.
I remember people who were dear to me and are no more. I can distinctly remember the way my grandmother used to smile, an iconic lady, resplendent in glory, despite the age of 97, when she left for heavenly abode. I remember the way my father had broken down at her demise – the only time that I had seen him shed tears. I remember Sanjay, I remember Debashish, I remember Sougoto, I remember all of them – my school mates, who have all gone, one by one.
I remember Bhutuu, my Man Friday, while I was growing up, who used to convey by a mute look, a warm lick of his tongue, much more than words ever could. I remember Bhuutu fighting with me for my father’s attention. Bhuutu is no more. He has left for the ‘happy hunting grounds’ eons ago. And as my father was burying Bhuutuu beneath one of the Debdaaru trees in our home, I remember how I had promised that I would never ever again keep a dog.
I remember Ranjha, my pet shrink, my friend, my bouncing board for ideas. Vivacious, well read, confused and a woman with a golden heart. Did you know, despite being in Vienna for the last 32 years, and that too as the Dean of a Counselling School, she had maintained contact with me ? The last time she had come here, she had even visited me. And with a box of chocolates too.
The chocolates are still there. She is not.
"I Feel Like One Who Treads Alone
Some Banquet Hall Deserted
Whose Lights Are Fled, And Garlands Dead
And All But He Departed"
I turn homewards. The city is waking up slowly. The vendors have started setting up the stalls in the Garfa Fish Market. The sun peeps out and it promises to be yet another hot, humid day in May. I plod on. Wearier.
I ring the bell. I know I would have to wait till my daughter in law feels that she has kept me waiting at the door long enough. The door opens. It’s my wife. Painfully traversing all the way across from the tiny alcove that we call our room.
I look at her. She looks at me. She says “Off to your morbid thoughts, old man ?” I don’t even deny. She knows me better.
We go to our room, stealthily. Amidst the fear of waking our daughter in law up. I know she has come in late after partying yesterday night, celebrating her son’s coming first in class in the final examinations. He is now a grown up boy. Studies in Class I.
I sit on my bed. My wife puts on the kettle for the morning tea. I look at her. And I forget all that I have reminisced in the last hour. She never fails to lift up my spirits.
As I sit wetting the biscuit before I swallow it down, I decide that I need to stop these morning forays into ‘thoughts’.
I sit. And I think. And get lost. Must be age. Catching up.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
On Kuurchi, Sunshine And Happiness ..
Who / What is Kuurchi, you ask.
Kuurchi is a streak of sunshine that only I have. Yes, only me.
Kuurchi is someone with whom I walk every morning. Through a lush green field, with dew dropped jewels strewn all around, with the sun, yawning and peeping through the leaves of the yonder trees.
Kuurchi is a pair of doe-eyes that only I have. The moment I look at them, life picks up beat, nothing seems un-attainable. Existence becomes a touch of ecstasy.
Kuurchi is someone who drapes herself in a paaka holud ronger taater shari, with the achol tucked in the waist and the cadence of the anklets heralds her arrival. The lock of hair across her forehead swings to and fro, as she busies herself in the kitchen.
Kuurchi is someone who tunelessly hums “Amaro Porano Jaya Chaay / Tuumi Taai / Tuumi Taai”, as she fluffs up the pillows and empties my ashtray in the bin, religiously counting the buds to see if I have sneaked in a couple of more puffs in the night without her the wiser.
Kuurchi is someone who tidies up my work table and when I yell that I am not able to find the cigarette cover where I had written some stray thoughts ten days back, she calmly opens the 3rd drawer and hands it to me, with a twinkle in her eye, as if to say “This is the reason why I tidy up things for you. I make myself indispensable, so that you can’t even breathe without me.”
Each facet of Kuurchi’s being is an ensnarement, from which there is no release. But I do not wish release. I wish to stay entrapped forever.
Kuurchi is the one who points out to me on most days “You are wearing a blue sock in your right and a black one in your left. Will you please grow up ?”
Kuurchi is the peace that has been elusive to me for eons together.
And when I ask her how much she loves me, Kuurchi answers “You ask how long I’ll love you / I’ll tell you true / Until the twelfth of never / I’ll still be loving you”.
And every time I look at Kuurchi, I am filled with this strange feeling of contentment which says that had it not been “her”, I would have missed the boat. Completely.
Kuurchi is the name that I call my wife by.
PS :
My wife told me today morning “Why don’t you write something about me in your blog ? Why is it that you always speak of so dark a thought?” I was brushing my teeth and I said, amidst a mouthful of tooth-paste “Sure, I will write something about you” She puts on that I Am The Most Innocent Of All face (that I so dread) and adds “But you have to write something nice, ok ?” I swished my mouth clear of the tooth paste and told her “Look, there are 3 things that you cannot bribe in this world .. (a) Camera (b) Microphone and (c) Pen”.
I was not given my morning cup of tea. This piece assures me of my dinner tonight. What all an honest man has to do to earn a square meal a day.
Kuurchi is a streak of sunshine that only I have. Yes, only me.
Kuurchi is someone with whom I walk every morning. Through a lush green field, with dew dropped jewels strewn all around, with the sun, yawning and peeping through the leaves of the yonder trees.
Kuurchi is a pair of doe-eyes that only I have. The moment I look at them, life picks up beat, nothing seems un-attainable. Existence becomes a touch of ecstasy.
Kuurchi is someone who drapes herself in a paaka holud ronger taater shari, with the achol tucked in the waist and the cadence of the anklets heralds her arrival. The lock of hair across her forehead swings to and fro, as she busies herself in the kitchen.
Kuurchi is someone who tunelessly hums “Amaro Porano Jaya Chaay / Tuumi Taai / Tuumi Taai”, as she fluffs up the pillows and empties my ashtray in the bin, religiously counting the buds to see if I have sneaked in a couple of more puffs in the night without her the wiser.
Kuurchi is someone who tidies up my work table and when I yell that I am not able to find the cigarette cover where I had written some stray thoughts ten days back, she calmly opens the 3rd drawer and hands it to me, with a twinkle in her eye, as if to say “This is the reason why I tidy up things for you. I make myself indispensable, so that you can’t even breathe without me.”
Each facet of Kuurchi’s being is an ensnarement, from which there is no release. But I do not wish release. I wish to stay entrapped forever.
Kuurchi is the one who points out to me on most days “You are wearing a blue sock in your right and a black one in your left. Will you please grow up ?”
Kuurchi is the peace that has been elusive to me for eons together.
And when I ask her how much she loves me, Kuurchi answers “You ask how long I’ll love you / I’ll tell you true / Until the twelfth of never / I’ll still be loving you”.
And every time I look at Kuurchi, I am filled with this strange feeling of contentment which says that had it not been “her”, I would have missed the boat. Completely.
Kuurchi is the name that I call my wife by.
PS :
My wife told me today morning “Why don’t you write something about me in your blog ? Why is it that you always speak of so dark a thought?” I was brushing my teeth and I said, amidst a mouthful of tooth-paste “Sure, I will write something about you” She puts on that I Am The Most Innocent Of All face (that I so dread) and adds “But you have to write something nice, ok ?” I swished my mouth clear of the tooth paste and told her “Look, there are 3 things that you cannot bribe in this world .. (a) Camera (b) Microphone and (c) Pen”.
I was not given my morning cup of tea. This piece assures me of my dinner tonight. What all an honest man has to do to earn a square meal a day.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
11.45 PM Church Gate Local
**August 21, 2005**
Companies vociferously proclaiming their wares in between the movie premiere “Hum Tum” in Sony TV.. or is it the other way round ? Screens fleeting across the idiot box. Larger than life. More so in the plasma screen draped across the living room wall. And me; sitting on the weather beaten bean bag in the corner, beside the foot-on. Thoroughly detached. Clinical. The room looks like a quaint tavern, with a Chinese lamp being the solitary source of light, high up on the wall. The old coffee mug with the letters ONLY US, a witness to brighter sunnier times, sits beside. Stained with coffee lines. Dregs lying low at the bottom. Looking at me balefully asking me to get a grip on life. On myself. The air around is blue with cigarette smoke. (And my doc says 'quit smoking' to which I nod with sincerity writ large all over my face) The ashtray, a gift from someone special, a long time back, threatens to overflow with extinguished buds. Classic Ultra Milds filter tips; slender, graceful and white. The stained crumpled ends end jarringly. Euphemistic of life.
Rani's mother in the film says that at least she had Rani to accompany her in her loneliness. Someone is needed in everyone's life. To care for. To be cared for. Is it ? Must be. Dunno.
Weekends are a torture.
“Hum Tum” would run itself out. Just like the two other movies in different channels since 2 PM. Since the time I parked myself on the bean bag. The stupor broken only to get up and make myself a fresh mug of coffee or to light a fresh cigarette.
Sudden bursts of distraction. In the form of Mandira Bedi promoting a talent show that she is hosting (Uugh .. How many more idols does India need ?). Total makeover, a long way from the 'noodle-strapped' (there you are, my meager contribution to the reams of paper written about the (in)famous 'straps') Mandira that we (would like to) know about. Speaking haltingly in Hindi. Or for that matter any language that she speaks. But then who cares, what and how she speaks. Eye candy that she is.
They say that being alone makes one weird. Does it ? Dunno. Don't think so. But then, a lunatic is the sanest individual. To himself, that is.
Weekends are a torture.
Rani and Saif are married in a church. Oh wait. No, it’s the other couple. Confusion prevails. A myriad of light within the church. A myriad of emotions. Within me. Naah. Am detached. Clinical. (Where have I heard these words before?) Memories of the long haired 'Sardarni' seen (read “feasted” upon, with eyes that is) yesterday in Club Escape fleet by. Great looks. Great clothes (whatever there was) Great body. Complete wanton-ness. An untamed wild spirit encased in an exquisitely civilized body.
A haze of smoke. Loud music. Bare flesh. And me. Wooden. With two left legs. Leaning against the padded pillars. The ice-cold Fosters warm now. With the heat emanating from the dancing, writhing masses of flesh all around. Me lost ? Yeah. In my best efforts at foot-tapping and swinging to the noise (sorry, music) around. Much to the chagrin of Indira, who tries her level best to teach me how to set the dance floor on fire. Poor she. Little does she know that she fights a losing battle.
There you are. Me. Rambling and repetitive. Slipping from one topic to the other. Each signifying a further step downwards into the dark forbidden cellar. Life somehow has become a long dark night with a few comatose hours thrown sporadically in between.
Weekends are a torture.
2 pigeons sitting on the window grill. Cluck-clucking to each other. One of them (definitely the 'he') tries to be amorous, giving the 'she' love bites (or pecks) all over. The 'she' gives 'him' a stern look. But presently those flashing beady eyes softened themselves just like a mother eagle when her bruised eaglet breathes. And 'she' tells 'him' to go slow. To love instead. In a more dignified, calmer and subtler manner. In a manner that speaketh of trust and sincerity. In a manner such that no one else is aware.
"In spring when the woods are getting green
I will tell you what I mean
In summer when the days are long
Perhaps you will understand the song
For this must ever be a secret
Kept away from all the rest
Between you and me."
Shucks !!! Even the 'he' pigeon is not alone.
"Apni apni kismat hain sab
Jeesko jo saugaat mile
Unko moti saath mile hain
Humko khaali seep mile" .. (Ghalib)
Tired. I want to go home. These eyes burn. The heart disgruntled with life around. I want to go home. Home; a little green valley surrounded by greener jungle-draped hills. My town, dotted with tiny homes and a few humans. No pollution. Trees. More trees. More and more trees. A peacock imperiously cruck-craws its propriety over the soothing lushness around. Siliguri. Pretty to the eyes. Silent to the ears. Lost to the world.
The 11.45 PM Church Gate Local gallops by the tracks just outside my window. Chasing away the running-nosed, worm-filled protruding stomached, lice-haired, rickety child who had just sat down on his chosen spot beside the tracks to relieve himself.
11.45 PM... Time to order food. It's Pizzas today. Have decided to try PIZZA HUT. Mallaika Arora and her 'freshness' have impressed me.
Companies vociferously proclaiming their wares in between the movie premiere “Hum Tum” in Sony TV.. or is it the other way round ? Screens fleeting across the idiot box. Larger than life. More so in the plasma screen draped across the living room wall. And me; sitting on the weather beaten bean bag in the corner, beside the foot-on. Thoroughly detached. Clinical. The room looks like a quaint tavern, with a Chinese lamp being the solitary source of light, high up on the wall. The old coffee mug with the letters ONLY US, a witness to brighter sunnier times, sits beside. Stained with coffee lines. Dregs lying low at the bottom. Looking at me balefully asking me to get a grip on life. On myself. The air around is blue with cigarette smoke. (And my doc says 'quit smoking' to which I nod with sincerity writ large all over my face) The ashtray, a gift from someone special, a long time back, threatens to overflow with extinguished buds. Classic Ultra Milds filter tips; slender, graceful and white. The stained crumpled ends end jarringly. Euphemistic of life.
Rani's mother in the film says that at least she had Rani to accompany her in her loneliness. Someone is needed in everyone's life. To care for. To be cared for. Is it ? Must be. Dunno.
Weekends are a torture.
“Hum Tum” would run itself out. Just like the two other movies in different channels since 2 PM. Since the time I parked myself on the bean bag. The stupor broken only to get up and make myself a fresh mug of coffee or to light a fresh cigarette.
Sudden bursts of distraction. In the form of Mandira Bedi promoting a talent show that she is hosting (Uugh .. How many more idols does India need ?). Total makeover, a long way from the 'noodle-strapped' (there you are, my meager contribution to the reams of paper written about the (in)famous 'straps') Mandira that we (would like to) know about. Speaking haltingly in Hindi. Or for that matter any language that she speaks. But then who cares, what and how she speaks. Eye candy that she is.
They say that being alone makes one weird. Does it ? Dunno. Don't think so. But then, a lunatic is the sanest individual. To himself, that is.
Weekends are a torture.
Rani and Saif are married in a church. Oh wait. No, it’s the other couple. Confusion prevails. A myriad of light within the church. A myriad of emotions. Within me. Naah. Am detached. Clinical. (Where have I heard these words before?) Memories of the long haired 'Sardarni' seen (read “feasted” upon, with eyes that is) yesterday in Club Escape fleet by. Great looks. Great clothes (whatever there was) Great body. Complete wanton-ness. An untamed wild spirit encased in an exquisitely civilized body.
A haze of smoke. Loud music. Bare flesh. And me. Wooden. With two left legs. Leaning against the padded pillars. The ice-cold Fosters warm now. With the heat emanating from the dancing, writhing masses of flesh all around. Me lost ? Yeah. In my best efforts at foot-tapping and swinging to the noise (sorry, music) around. Much to the chagrin of Indira, who tries her level best to teach me how to set the dance floor on fire. Poor she. Little does she know that she fights a losing battle.
There you are. Me. Rambling and repetitive. Slipping from one topic to the other. Each signifying a further step downwards into the dark forbidden cellar. Life somehow has become a long dark night with a few comatose hours thrown sporadically in between.
Weekends are a torture.
2 pigeons sitting on the window grill. Cluck-clucking to each other. One of them (definitely the 'he') tries to be amorous, giving the 'she' love bites (or pecks) all over. The 'she' gives 'him' a stern look. But presently those flashing beady eyes softened themselves just like a mother eagle when her bruised eaglet breathes. And 'she' tells 'him' to go slow. To love instead. In a more dignified, calmer and subtler manner. In a manner that speaketh of trust and sincerity. In a manner such that no one else is aware.
"In spring when the woods are getting green
I will tell you what I mean
In summer when the days are long
Perhaps you will understand the song
For this must ever be a secret
Kept away from all the rest
Between you and me."
Shucks !!! Even the 'he' pigeon is not alone.
"Apni apni kismat hain sab
Jeesko jo saugaat mile
Unko moti saath mile hain
Humko khaali seep mile" .. (Ghalib)
Tired. I want to go home. These eyes burn. The heart disgruntled with life around. I want to go home. Home; a little green valley surrounded by greener jungle-draped hills. My town, dotted with tiny homes and a few humans. No pollution. Trees. More trees. More and more trees. A peacock imperiously cruck-craws its propriety over the soothing lushness around. Siliguri. Pretty to the eyes. Silent to the ears. Lost to the world.
The 11.45 PM Church Gate Local gallops by the tracks just outside my window. Chasing away the running-nosed, worm-filled protruding stomached, lice-haired, rickety child who had just sat down on his chosen spot beside the tracks to relieve himself.
11.45 PM... Time to order food. It's Pizzas today. Have decided to try PIZZA HUT. Mallaika Arora and her 'freshness' have impressed me.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
** Sometime between 2006 - 2007**
Mintaka,
Sleep was an elusive factor last night .. As usual ...
When will I be able to drive the 'ghosts' away !!!
And as usual when this happens, I drove off in the morning .... Had intended to go to my favorite haunt in the Palm Beach Road in Belapur. But somehow ended up in the Borivli National Park. Its a reserved sanctuary, very densely populated with trees. I was telling you about this place yesterday night .... "waha pe leopard milte hain" .. Remember? This place is another of my favored places where I just sit down and think or sometimes take a walk up the desolate path meandering in between the trees ... Na, don’t worry, the 'big cats' won't get hold of me ... I carry more 'poison' than them ...
Whenever 'life' itself seems a little too heavy, I take a walk in this desolated stretch of greenery. Trust me, there is nothing as fulfilling as walking such.
And do it alone if possible. If there is someone along with you then you become obligated to talk with that person, listen to that person and entertain him / her. You would not be able to savor the beauty of nature unless you are alone.
Remember that nature is the only friend who would never ever ask you for anything in return for the things that she gives you aplenty. And that is the only reason that I too, whenever I get the time, go and spend some time alone in the Borivili National Park or the Arrey Colony. The perfect balm to a tired and wounded mind.
If on an evening when all around you is golden in the setting light, you take a walk along the tiny trails of the Borivli National Park right before the turn for the Kanheri Caves, you will find that the trail meanders into the deep forest. The tender touch of the setting sun has lightly touched the green all around. Deep forest. Broken by intermittent strands of 'clearings' caused by the felling of trees. And through these clearings if you look up, you can see the land slowly climbing up to the hill that houses the leopards and some tribal villages.
If you look around you carefully you will find some more dusty trails which seem to vanish suddenly like the stray thoughts of a senile old man .....
Your solitude would be suddenly broken by the cedantic advent of a tribal woman scarfed in red with a basket full of wares to sell in the local market ... or the surprisingly determined steps of an old man with an axe in his hand as if he wants to cut and tear apart everything that is new and young ... his way of protesting against advancement ....
So many thoughts would suddenly cram into your mind .. and vanish suddenly ... to be replaced with another set .... You would be reflecting on so many memories that had warmed your heart, angered you, landed you into trouble, ended up tearing you into pieces .. and even the fondest memories of childhood when you had been up to some mischief and looked at your dad with guilt writ large on your face ... and your dad had smiled indulgently and forgiven you .... All these thoughts would rush into your head ... and surprisingly leave you fresh ... Surprising but true ... Trust me, I know ...
And while walking on the eastern direction for around 15 minutes you would suddenly find yourself atop a small hillock .. And your whole existence would be filled with dread and gloom ... I have named this hillock the "Land of Tears" ... If you reflect deeply, you will realize that in each and every of us lie a "Land of Tears" ... where there is only gloom, desperation, agony, angst and pain ... where very existence becomes a liability .... and you feel like blowing 'life' away in one go .. akin to the sudden gust of wind that blows out the last 'dia' that is burning near your main door ..
But wait ......
Take a few more steps, cross the "Land of Tears" .... and you would come across a stretch of land which is the so lush green that you have never seen such a spectacle in your whole life ... a stretch where it is flowers galore ... wild unseen flowers, vibrant .... intermingled with patches of plantation that the locals have managed ... painting a picture for you so rich in texture that you have never ever experienced hitherto ... a picture that makes you want to live .... makes you feel strong enough to overcome all adversity in life .... makes you feel like sheltering the 'dia' (that I talked about in the last paragraph) and ensuring that the slightest un-bridled wind not touch it ... makes you feel like standing up tall and breathing with gusto the air all around ... as if it is the elixir of life ... makes you want to live ... and let live.
Now here is the paradox. It is at times like these that you would actually yearn for someone's company ... Trust me ... a stray unknown unseen bird would suddenly flutter out of nowhere and sit impatiently on one of the flower stalks and look at you .. those fast darting looks ... as if to ask you why you have come alone .. And then suddenly would flutter away, striking its tiny wings in a flurry ... And your need for solitude would vanish along with it ..
You would desperately yearn for his company, assuming again its a 'he' :-) ... he with his strong determined stride would be complementing your soft and measured walks ... You with the customary softness of a female would be striving for his more masculine existence .... Your impatient eyes akin to that of a scarlet minivet (only if you go in the rainy season though) would try to find out his thoughts ... But trust me, you wouldn't talk .. neither would he ... And despite the fact that you two would be all alone, you would not want any physical intimacy between the both of you at that instant ... you would be savoring the emotional quotient more ... You would just be filled with a warm feeling that this is the 'man' you have chosen to spend your life with ...and that you are not alone .... you would have a subtle feeling that had you married someone else, you would have missed the boat ...
You would feel like the queen of the wilderness and he, your able and attentive student .. you would want to show him the various nooks and corners that you have discovered in your earlier exploits ... you would want to show him the tiny tadpoles that dart around in the crystal clear water of the tiny brook that tears the National Park in two .. you would want to show him the tree in which you had seen the huge beehive the last time you had been around .. you would want to make him hear the gurgling sound of the water as it takes a sharp bend in its course ...
Life would be one fantastic journey .....
Try it ....
More often than not, I am able to discern a sad note around you ... I know its tough staying alone ... No one knows it more than me ... But don’t feel sad re .... There's so much to live for .... so much to cherish ... so much to learn .. so much to admire .... so much to traverse ...
As for me, the journey continues ... as ever ....
Mintaka,
Sleep was an elusive factor last night .. As usual ...
When will I be able to drive the 'ghosts' away !!!
And as usual when this happens, I drove off in the morning .... Had intended to go to my favorite haunt in the Palm Beach Road in Belapur. But somehow ended up in the Borivli National Park. Its a reserved sanctuary, very densely populated with trees. I was telling you about this place yesterday night .... "waha pe leopard milte hain" .. Remember? This place is another of my favored places where I just sit down and think or sometimes take a walk up the desolate path meandering in between the trees ... Na, don’t worry, the 'big cats' won't get hold of me ... I carry more 'poison' than them ...
Whenever 'life' itself seems a little too heavy, I take a walk in this desolated stretch of greenery. Trust me, there is nothing as fulfilling as walking such.
And do it alone if possible. If there is someone along with you then you become obligated to talk with that person, listen to that person and entertain him / her. You would not be able to savor the beauty of nature unless you are alone.
Remember that nature is the only friend who would never ever ask you for anything in return for the things that she gives you aplenty. And that is the only reason that I too, whenever I get the time, go and spend some time alone in the Borivili National Park or the Arrey Colony. The perfect balm to a tired and wounded mind.
If on an evening when all around you is golden in the setting light, you take a walk along the tiny trails of the Borivli National Park right before the turn for the Kanheri Caves, you will find that the trail meanders into the deep forest. The tender touch of the setting sun has lightly touched the green all around. Deep forest. Broken by intermittent strands of 'clearings' caused by the felling of trees. And through these clearings if you look up, you can see the land slowly climbing up to the hill that houses the leopards and some tribal villages.
If you look around you carefully you will find some more dusty trails which seem to vanish suddenly like the stray thoughts of a senile old man .....
Your solitude would be suddenly broken by the cedantic advent of a tribal woman scarfed in red with a basket full of wares to sell in the local market ... or the surprisingly determined steps of an old man with an axe in his hand as if he wants to cut and tear apart everything that is new and young ... his way of protesting against advancement ....
So many thoughts would suddenly cram into your mind .. and vanish suddenly ... to be replaced with another set .... You would be reflecting on so many memories that had warmed your heart, angered you, landed you into trouble, ended up tearing you into pieces .. and even the fondest memories of childhood when you had been up to some mischief and looked at your dad with guilt writ large on your face ... and your dad had smiled indulgently and forgiven you .... All these thoughts would rush into your head ... and surprisingly leave you fresh ... Surprising but true ... Trust me, I know ...
And while walking on the eastern direction for around 15 minutes you would suddenly find yourself atop a small hillock .. And your whole existence would be filled with dread and gloom ... I have named this hillock the "Land of Tears" ... If you reflect deeply, you will realize that in each and every of us lie a "Land of Tears" ... where there is only gloom, desperation, agony, angst and pain ... where very existence becomes a liability .... and you feel like blowing 'life' away in one go .. akin to the sudden gust of wind that blows out the last 'dia' that is burning near your main door ..
But wait ......
Take a few more steps, cross the "Land of Tears" .... and you would come across a stretch of land which is the so lush green that you have never seen such a spectacle in your whole life ... a stretch where it is flowers galore ... wild unseen flowers, vibrant .... intermingled with patches of plantation that the locals have managed ... painting a picture for you so rich in texture that you have never ever experienced hitherto ... a picture that makes you want to live .... makes you feel strong enough to overcome all adversity in life .... makes you feel like sheltering the 'dia' (that I talked about in the last paragraph) and ensuring that the slightest un-bridled wind not touch it ... makes you feel like standing up tall and breathing with gusto the air all around ... as if it is the elixir of life ... makes you want to live ... and let live.
Now here is the paradox. It is at times like these that you would actually yearn for someone's company ... Trust me ... a stray unknown unseen bird would suddenly flutter out of nowhere and sit impatiently on one of the flower stalks and look at you .. those fast darting looks ... as if to ask you why you have come alone .. And then suddenly would flutter away, striking its tiny wings in a flurry ... And your need for solitude would vanish along with it ..
You would desperately yearn for his company, assuming again its a 'he' :-) ... he with his strong determined stride would be complementing your soft and measured walks ... You with the customary softness of a female would be striving for his more masculine existence .... Your impatient eyes akin to that of a scarlet minivet (only if you go in the rainy season though) would try to find out his thoughts ... But trust me, you wouldn't talk .. neither would he ... And despite the fact that you two would be all alone, you would not want any physical intimacy between the both of you at that instant ... you would be savoring the emotional quotient more ... You would just be filled with a warm feeling that this is the 'man' you have chosen to spend your life with ...and that you are not alone .... you would have a subtle feeling that had you married someone else, you would have missed the boat ...
You would feel like the queen of the wilderness and he, your able and attentive student .. you would want to show him the various nooks and corners that you have discovered in your earlier exploits ... you would want to show him the tiny tadpoles that dart around in the crystal clear water of the tiny brook that tears the National Park in two .. you would want to show him the tree in which you had seen the huge beehive the last time you had been around .. you would want to make him hear the gurgling sound of the water as it takes a sharp bend in its course ...
Life would be one fantastic journey .....
Try it ....
More often than not, I am able to discern a sad note around you ... I know its tough staying alone ... No one knows it more than me ... But don’t feel sad re .... There's so much to live for .... so much to cherish ... so much to learn .. so much to admire .... so much to traverse ...
As for me, the journey continues ... as ever ....
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