The fables of the one legged rider - Style

It is early hours if the morning, with a slight mist in the air. It is the month of january in a north Indian city, and those of us who have witnessed it, this was no time to be outside the warmth of one's bed.

A lonely auto-rickshaw, the only means of communication that available at this hour, was moving briskly along a clean, smooth and deserted road. One side of the road was the state university, silent and huge. On the other side were the houses of people who could easily be classified in the upper strata of the city, with multiple sedans standing in the open parkings that people prefer in these regions. The houses themselves were nothing short of princely bungalows.

The rickshaw driver, after taking a few extremely sharp turns, that apart from scaring the wits out of the passenger, also managed to amaze him at his own competence, though he knew he would not have dared any such thing if the roads were not deserted; he reached the lane the passenger had asked him to move to, and with a few further directions from the passenger, they reached their destination.

The rider, handing the driver his promised Rs. 40, got his luggage down with amazement in his eyes. He was expecting a locked gate, instead he found his entire family coming out, ready to leave for somewhere he definately didnt know. His first reaction was of shock, and worry, because it was quite uncharacterstic of everybody to be up together so early, but a close look at their merry faces had told him that nothing was wrong, but then, where were the headed?

He soon find out, that he happend to drop back home, at one of the Holy days, and everyone was headed to the nearby temple. Not to much of a relegious person, the rider weighed whether to go along or not, and finally decided too, just to be with everybody.

With continous chit - chat on the way, the rider moved inside the temple feeling it was a little too close to their place. All of them entered the magnanimous campus, most with their hands folded.

A special prayer had been organized by the Pujari Ji, and there were quite a few people present to attend it. Not being a very relegious person himself, with a much greater belief in science, which automatically contrasted with relegion, the rider soon lost interest in the prayer. The fact that he didnt understand much of it for it being in sanskrit might have added to hi disinterest. He started off with his favorite activity of observing others.

The group consisted of all kinds of people, of different backgrounds, age groups etc.
There was a mother holding a small baby in her lap, sitting in her corner. The baby seemed to be awake but peaceful, the mother smiling. A small lean kid, was moving around the campus, lost in his own merriness, and could not have cared less. There were old men and women, in their sixties and seventies, mostly retired, with grey hair, and lost in memories. Then there were not so old people, working men, women, housewifes, incharge of their households, all dressed smartly. There were also a few younsters, like our rider, some a little disinterested, others greatly devout. This was as vivid an assortment of people as any.

While the "pujari ji"'s prayers were about to come to an end, a few regulars at the temple went about distributing a few musical instruments, a "dholak" etc. A typical indian instrument, two metal plates tied together with a string which gave a distinct ding on striking upon each other, was in such abundance that within minutes, almost everyone had one.

By the time the prayers were over, the man siting with the dholak started playing it, and singing a popular hymn which was known to everybody in the country. Moments later, he was joined by a couple of ding sounds. Soon, a few other joined the chorus of the hymn. Withing minutes, everyone was in on it.

The rider, could beleive the effect the symphony was having on him. Although he didn't have any intentions to, he couldn't stop himslef from joining in with one of those instruments.

The rider thought to himslef, once the hymn was over, that what amazing effect it had had on everyone around. The baby was smiling wildly in his mother's lap, the kid was also looking at the deitie's idol, inspired it seemed. All the other grown ups, which the rider felt included him, were so relieved of all their worries, problems, issues, everything, by merely being able to come together in such a fashion.

With the proceedings over, he started walking back towards outside, amazed. He suddenly remembered that he was limping, the limp being much more pronounced than in later years, as the wound was still quite fresh. It is then that he realized, that astonishingly, he hadn't even remebered his pain during the hymn.

He wondered at the power it had possesed, turned back, looked straight towards the idols, and said in his mind," Kuch bhi kaho boss, maan gaye, Style to hai aap me!"

And with this new definition of style in his mind, along with his family, he rode on!!

The fables of the one legged rider - Choice

The rider, is sitting in a local train, moving from one suburb to another, of the fastest city in this country, our financial capital as they call it, our dear Mumbai.

The crowd is so immense that the rider can see little more than the sweaty shirts of the two people standing in front of him and the train's roof.

His station is about to arrive, and he manages to reach the passageway between the two doors, getting to hear some not so pleasent words on his way, because of having acccidentaly pushed so many people, not that it was possible to reach there without doing so anyway.

Without worrying about the pleasentries, and happy that the tough part was over, he stood, waiting for the push to come.

And come it sure did, as it always does in a local, where you never have to get down, the crowd makes you do it for you.

Amidst the thousands of people rushing out of the station, the rider, a small notebook in hand, started moving towards an automobile plant nearby that he had been visiting for a few days .

Inside the plant, he went about finishing his work, as this was his last day here, and he was ready with most part of the report he had to submit a few days later.
In the last hour or so, with his work done, he was sitting on the floor , in a small clearing on the plant floor, amidst the loud din that goes on because of the machinery, so that no one can talk to another human, even if they wanted to because there was no chance anyone would hear him. He was looking at all the workers, going at their tasks, faithfully, without fail, again and again and again, for as long as he could remember.

At the same time, he thought of the fishermen, who go to catch fish, day after day, casting the same nets, in the seas around, enduring all the waste we throw in near the costs. The women who sold these fish, sitting all day in that uncomparable smell., the janitor, who cleans our office floors everyday, taking all the dust in his nostrils, doing the same thing..again again again, taking the tiring local to their jobs, with less free space than a fly would need to pee in, again again...forever.

The rider had once heard someone say, that with time, these people get used to it all, and actually started liking it. Well, that someone hadn't been to any of these places more than once for sure, so the rider thought.

Listening to the din, the rider wondered, there was no way anybody could ever like this, or even get used to it. That much he had realized working in the plants for the limited period he had. Then why do these people keep on going at it??

The answer came to him when he saw a worker's son sleeping in a corner. These men had made their choice, the choice to have a family to go back to, to try and provide or them, and "live" whatever semblance of life they could manage. And these jobs, were the best opportunity they got.

And in this huge country of ours, many dont even get that, and so these men are happy they got atleast this!

The rider just then got a call from his boss, that its time to go.

Wondering that was it really a choise these people got, and what of those who were worse off, he "rode" out of the plant.

Weird Thoughts - Continued

Weird thought about a bookmark
I had just finished a book called Wheels, while on my way back from work, and was wondering where to put the bookmark "in" now.

I kept it aside for use in my next book, and it is then that I wondered, what would it be like, to be a bookmark.
To be in touch with so many books, for such long periods, and then part, the moment the reader is done with the book.

I believe every book would leave a certain kind of mark on it, a small scratch, a little fold, an ink mark where water had spilled on the book with the book mark in it.

How would the bookmark feel, while looking back at all it's marks it had collected over the years.
And then I wondered, isn't a book mark a lot like us??..

We meet so many people - our books, have relationships, become friends, create memories - our marks, and then move on in life, without knowing when we will come across the same books again.

Or may be a bookmark is like a philanderer, who has small - term relationships, with many women (or men at times, if you know what I mean), and then moves on, with no marks, no guilt, no feeling whatsoever. And may be someday, the reader would forget it, inside a book, and that would be the philanderer's marriage, and it will stay there forever if that book was never retrieved.

But such a bookmark, would always look anew, since it would have no marks from the books in the past.

Ans somehow, I have never seen a used bookmark, which looks anew. The marks are always there.



Weird Thought about Buses and Bathrooms

What is common between buses and bathrooms, apart from the facts that they both start with a "B", and that in both places, people are often present, sitting in a relaxed manner, and some are known to fall asleep in both places.

I figured it is the fact that I keep getting all of these weird ideas in these places only.

But you know, it might have to do with the fact that my head is idle at both these times, since one doesnt use it much while sitting alone in a bus, or well you know, at the other place :)

The fables of the one legged rider!! - The Rider

A maroon rickety mini-bus, a S- shaped crack running across it's windshield, merging into yellow coloured lettering at its top, in a local dialect, unreadable to an outsider, meanders to a stop on a road which would make our normal road bumps feel like a chocolate does to a woman.
A tall man, dark, heavy, climbs down, along with a few other locals, carrying a black backpack. The man walks with a slight limp in his right leg, noticeable to none but a highly trained eye.

In this little remote village, where most people make their living out of coal mining, life is just as it always is on any Thursday morning. A train loaded with coal is moving at a snail's pace alongside the bus stand, and a few skimpily clad children are running along it, seemingly enjoying their routine game. To the man's right is a "thadi", an assembly of a few bamboo poles, a mesh of unused fodder supported over a rickety structure of discoloured bricks. Two men, in yellowish vests that originally would have been white and dhoti are having a reddish drink in a small plastic cup. The drink incidentally is a mix of tea leaves, salt, sugar and hot water, and only those who have tried it will be able to tell you that it is worth every penny of the 2 Bucks it costs, and much more.

On a small platform ahead, in front of closed shops, a small kid, wearing unkept clothes, his nose running is toying his way with a cycle tyre and a stick, as many have and will after him, on Indian streets. The shops are closed, because in this part of the world, holidays happen on Thursdays and not Sundays. Our man from the bus, manages a small conversation with the kid. not understanding his language, to ask if there was any place around where he can sit for a while.

Once the tall fellow has found a seat, he opens his backpack and takes out something mysterious to all others around. For a while, he sits and fiddles with the mysterious thing, tapping its fingers at it as though by doing so, suddenly that little mysterious thing will respond, and in some ways, it does.
He seems like he is just about done tapping when he looks up and realizes that everybody who was doing anything around him is surrounding him, and it takes him a while to realize that the reason is his mysterious possession.
Amidst all this ruckus, one of the yellow vested men, having a glum look on his face, manages to utter for words; " Ye laptop hai kya?"
The man agrees, and lets him have a look at it, which results in a grin on his face, and a queue behind him.

By the time the people around have lost interest in the mysterious "thing", another man arrives, carrying a backpack, dressed in formals quite like the tall fellow. They greet each other, and decide it's almost time to move on to work. But before moving on, the new guy stops for a smoke and the tall fellow looks on, at a weird murky off white drink being served in one of the many "thadi"s around. He tried his luck on insistence by the locals, finds out it has run out, as the drink is nothing to his taste, and the locals, for them it is a part of routine breakfast, share a laugh about it all.

Over the next two days, the two men finish their work in the region, which incidentally is also the home town of the second guy.

At the end of the second day, the tall fellow is standing at the bus stand again, with a book in his hand, reading. A school kid asks him if he is an English teacher. He shakes his head negatively, but secretly wonders that may be, just may be, he would be, someday!

The rickety bus arrives, and people start running towards it. The "thadiwallas", who have become his friends by now, usher him to run too, and he runs, with his backpack and book, or rather manages to run, trying his best to hide the limp. Miraculously, he also manages to get in the bus ahead of everyone else, which seems to have been the purpose of all the running as there are limited seats and only one bus that goes out to the city.

He waves his hand to all his new friends, and the bus starts meandering again, alongside the coal train. Minutes later, the ticket collector arrives, and acknowledges, as by now, he also is friends with the stranger. After a little banter, he moves on, collecting his money. One old man, frail, wheatish, greyed hair, lines on the forehead is sitting in one corner of the bus. When the collector signals for money, he hands out 11 Rs., upon seeing which, the conductor asks for another 2. What ensues is a tussle, which is almost as routine in these parts of the world as waking up in the morning. The old man keeps arguing that the fare is only 11, while the ticket collectors arguments are just ugly rants, conveying he won't settle for it.

The tall fellow has been looking up from his book and observing the two. At one point, he figures he could just give the collector the 2 Rs. and end it there and then. But the moment he is about to do it, he realizes that this would hurt the old man more than it will help him. To him, it is just not about 2 Rs.; it is about justice, fairness and above all pride, of having earned that money, working, even at this age, pushing his frail self. And it is this pride that is upheld when he fights with the collector. When the Collector moves on, the old man and our tall fellow, look at each other, and the tall fellow, nods, trying to communicate that he understands why the old man did what he just did. Though languages are many, communication can always find many ways. The old man smiles back.

The tall fellow, sitting in his corner, wonders, what all one gains in one's lifetime, relationships, experiences, these little smiles, those friends at the bus stand he may never see again, the people in the queue, the yellow-vested fellow whose reputation in the village would have grown, because he knew what the mysterious "thing" was and a lot more, and how quickly does all that get left behind. He wonders, if this is what life is all about.

This tall fellow is our rider.
Riders, there are many, of cars and trains, and the others. But there are few, who travel in buses, wander in markets, amongst people, observing them. These are the ones that find a place in fables, because though they ride no machine, these men ride on time, which takes them to newer and stranger places, amongst still stranger beings, such as all of us are.

The rider descends from the bus, in a busy market street, and rides on!!