Just A Few Grudges, And Certain dreams

The winds start to get a little bit stronger now. I am awake to a sight of trees, wildly swaying by each other and the almost angelic sight of raindrops touching down upon the naked parched mud. They say that when it rains really well, you can sense the gods above in heaven are happy. The pond starts to glimmer slowly, as the rain falls, in shades of silver and white. The geese cackle and the swans raise their necks in the way only they can, exuding the utmost feminine grace. It feels good as the wild breeze, almost sarcastically sometimes called as 'gentle' blows on my face in the early hours of the morning. Well, if you call 10 AM early in the morning, that is.

My mornings to the office have not always been like this. Day in and day out, I wake up to the familiar sight of the watchman sheepishly sitting in a corner, trying to catch his tiny bit of sleep. Queues are lined up at 5 in the morning to catch the first bus to work. One cannot help but to think of this sight as a grand stage, as persona after persona, inches in its own artistic glory. The line is neatly stacked up bit by bit, with actors on the stage and the instinctive expressions on the face. You cannot fake that. It's the time when a guy actually goes to work. Bodies shove each other, with marks of disgust and a funny sense of acceptance etched together on their faces.
I know, being in the city does that to people. I also empathise the almost magical affection every guy has in this city with hope. And perhaps, that is the most stark part about living in a city. The hope.


"Apko Jaana kahan hain?"


His pipe is almost a brownish shade of black. It looks worn out, but classic. The tobacco looks understandably, half filled. The whorls and the frown above the eyebrow indicate he is probably in the fag end of his life. But what really strikes you more than anything else, is the nonchalance written in the face.

"Voltas.... Yantra Park... TCS"

"Baitho"

Shared rides in the suburbs are not exactly the greatest bonding sessions. Well, not to me anyway. Inside the rickshaw, we look like 3 different men on 3 different crossroads of life, though the expression on each face is markedly different. The old man continues to puff away endlessly on his pipe, his hollow eyes almost continuously staring at an emptiness. I look upon that same emptiness with a sense of confusion, trying to infuse life into this moment and to an extent , succeeding. The rickshaw driver is just another guy trying to beat the Mumbai rains, as his broken down shutter keeps reminding him from time to time.
In the silence, I hear a whimper.

" I am not sure if I really like this city anymore. The clogged roads, almost choking with human life. puddles filled with brown impure water. " At this moment, occurs the first of many pauses that are to come in this monologue.
"Dirty Stained Mud"

The rickshaw has now stopped to a signal. From the far corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse and consequently avoid the sight of gypsies rushing to sell umbrellas. Their umbrellas come in various colours. What is most haunting about them is the sight of their eyes, as one comes across the image of almost a perfect circle of uknown blue. Their umbrellas however, come in various colours. Ironically, none of them actually open it during the rains.

"Do you know why I really like my pipe so much"

"No, but I'd like to ". Probably the only words I actually said during the entire conversation.

"It's old, worn out in parts, and the colours are starting to fade. But that's what makes it all the more beautiful"

"Where do you live , son?"

"Back over there." I point. But the hosue is already lost somewhere in the concrete jungle with windows closed, signifying each one of them is already out and earning a living.

" I own a bungalow in Nasik Now. Completely deserted. The streets are eerily silent, and I do feel haunted. Not a soul runs through the streets, and in the evening , even if somebody does come along, it's a bunch of people who I really cannot understand"

"Why do you live there then? "

The old man smiled again, and went back to his pipe and his reverie. His eyes were almost blank now, drawn in, but still staring at absolute nothingness.

" To see the stars again"

After what is possibly the longest period of silence so far, the droning engine of the rickshaw comes to a halt.
“ I get down here”
“Pleasure, Son.”

Every day, the one thing that runs around in the energy of this city is a desperate search of identity. A million faces run through our wavering memory each second, as identities are formed and redrawn.



We never exchanged names. Just a few grudges and certain dreams.