Narrowest winding roads, long forsaken houses - still romancing the past, the moon prancing around in its silver satins and I bathed in sheer bliss.
My never-ending affair with the sea- the cajoling and the caressing. The intriguing beam of the distant lighthouse.
And the silence outside that rushes in through the restlessness, to awaken the silence within.
Faith is a very general word. One can have faith in, most obviously - God, religion, ideologies, relationships, love and destiny. But funnily enough, the most faithful to us is Death. So, why not have faith in life itself, while we live? Why not live and laugh and love and eat and pray and dream and jump and hug and have faith in whatever it takes to make this life worthwhile? Because in the end, the most faithful is Death.
Scorching hot. My skin burns like fever. One could fry an egg on the tarred road, if one wanted to. And I, being a 'smart-ass', am cruising around on a two-wheeler, once again, this summer, cursing the heat, nonetheless. And then suddenly something happens, something that reminds me of why I still love the Indian Summers. And why I would choose them over the London winters anytime and even over the London summers maybe. Its that sense of smell - the smell of dry mud, when a shower of water hits it carelessly, with a garden being watered, on a lazy Summer Sunday afternoon. Somehow, the most undermined of all five senses, this smell, the smell of wet mud, is one that lingers on, bringing with it an excitement that I somehow cannot put into words, but makes me want to linger. It makes me want to wait for the gentlest of a breeze, to brush past that branch outside my window and cover the grey of the road with the yellow blossoms of Summer.
"I came to London. It had become the centre of my world and I had worked hard to come to it. And I was lost. London was not the centre of my world. I had been misled; but there was nowhere else to go. It was a good place for getting lost in, a city no one ever knew, a city explored from the neutral heart outwards until, after years, it defined itself into a jumble of clearings separated by stretches of the unknown, through which the narrowest of paths had been cut. Here I became no more than an inhabitant of a big city, robbed of loyalties, time passing, taking me away from what I was, thrown more and more into myself, fighting to keep my balance and to keep alive the thought of the clear world beyond the brick and asphalt and the chaos of railway lines. All mythical lands faded, and in the big city I was confined to a smaller world than I had ever known. I became my flat, my desk, my name." V.S.Naipaul
Life comes to this sudden standstill, Bringing along with it a certain emptiness. You don't know where you are heading to, What the closed fist of nature will reveal when opened.
It feels like standing at the sea, On a beautiful, golden evening When everything seems so perfect, so right.
The wet sand clings to your feet, Leaves indifferently with every wave The same wave that once personified exhilaration, ecstasy and profound peace.
The frothing, foaming waves catch you at unawares, Holding your hand, inviting you to step into the sea Your naivete makes you easy prey, Unaware of the dangers that lie beneath its vast, inviting surface.
Sometimes you stand back, Hoping to make a conscious decision. But then chide yourself, Realising, The sea continues its motion rather condescendingly Your presence lies unnoticed Another speck of sand......
Hands held, under the yellow streetlight on a long drive; endless. Hands held, round the corner, more alcoholic, than the beer that flows at the pub. Hands held, at the cafe, having their own affair to the jazz in the background.
Her fingers entangled in your fingers. Her fingers wrapped around your fingers. Her fingers dancing to their own music,making love, engrossed in your heartbeat.
Hands, strong and powerful. Hands, soft and sweet.
Your fingers intertwined around hers, across the setting sun, the splashing waves. Your fingers protecting hers, wet in the drenching rain. Your fingers holding hers, tight and warm, and tiny snowflakes.
Holding each other, committing to each other, making promises to the heart.
They have their own conversations -hands, conversations for a lifetime.
I don’t remember the first time, when my mother put all her trust and my tiny hand into his big palm. But it was then, at that moment, when we formed a bond for the next thirteen years, for life.
I remember distinctly, however, the times, when he used to so effortlessly, pick me up like his own child, and put me on the back seat of the auto-rickshaw. The way he used to drive us to school, so early into the morning, all orange, pale and foggy. And when the little bumps in the road, made us fly off our seats and hit our heads’ against the iron rods, the way we yelled out at him – Kaka!!! And he perched, to one side of the driver’s seat, jostling for space with our bags and tiffin boxes and water bottles filled with water to the brim, spilling water everywhere; responded to our shouts and screams with a just a smile, never saying sorry, never going any slower.
And then when we reached school, he used to put our school bags onto our backs, adjust our nametags, and tell us to be good.
At the end of the day, when the school bell rang, I used to run like crazy, out of the school gates, to always find him there, waiting under the scraggly cherry tree. And then dumping my bags, into the rickshaw, I used to wait patiently for everyone else to come, the elder girls always coming in the last. And that was the time when kaka asked me about my day in school, while the only one thing I was concerned about, was getting to sit in the corner seat till the time all the girls came back.
When the monsoons came, kaka bundled up the auto in a sea of bright yellow tarpaulin. I am sure from the outside the auto appeared like a big yellow amoebic blob, all its insides fighting, pushing, poking against it skin, trying to find the tiniest of holes, to let the rains and its heavenly smell filter in. And when we reached school, white canvas shoes filthy brown, to find a board declaring a holiday, we troubled and coaxed kaka, to drive us around a little more in the rains, before he dropped us off home.
After every exam, he was the first one with whom we celebrated the beginning of vacations. He used to drive us all the way to Sarasbaug, to treat us to orange cola candies. And that cheap little, watery candy brought us so much joy. Little pleasures in life.
And as I was growing up, my place in the rickshaw also changed, from the back seat, to when my legs no longer allowed that, onto someone’s lap to finally my day of glory, in the corner seat. But one thing that remained unchanged was kaka and his loving care and patience. Teachers are always given credit for being parents at school, but I would want to say here that, Kaka has been more than a parent, tolerating our tantrums asking him for chillar to eat paapdi chaat, accommodating our running late almost every morning andbringing us home early from school when hurt or sick. Kaka has stood by us through exam fears, all the tension, nervousness, and fights at school, evening sports practices after school and the works.
I know he is yet doing the same thing, ferrying kids to school and bringing home young adults. And through tiny blog of mine, I hope to express my love and respect for this man, this silent observer who has been an inseparable part of my childhood.
