Missing Delhi - Again

I feel like going to Delhi. It will be so nice there just now - the beginning of winter, the faint chill in the morning, Diwali just around the corner. Yup, I'm going to miss Delhi much more in the winters than in the summers.

It's hard to realize that Delhi is still going on without me. Every day, people must be going about their humdrum Delhi lives like I used to - stand at the bus stops I used to stand at, wait for the buses I used to wait for, take the metro to college like I used to, curse the heat as I used to, make plans to meet friends at Dilli Haat or Priya or Anzal's, or go to Kamala Nagar or.. Gosh, there's that feeling in my stomach again, the one I love and hate at the same time, the bitter-sweetness of nostalgia.

I don't miss college: I promised myself that I wouldn't, and I don't. But I miss the Delhi atmosphere. Delhi was the first city I fell in love with, the first city I half-discovered for myself, the first city whose pulse I thought I knew, though I suppose I was aware even then that I was wrong: there are so many Delhi's that it's impossible to know even half of them.

The best thing about Delhi is that she will take in anyone. Anyone can find some spot for themselves, in some part of the city, in some community or the other. Delhi will not accept you easily; you will be made to go through her initiation rituals. Whether you find them rigorous or not depends upon you; God knows I went through a trial by fire. Strangely enough, each Delhi you discover requires you to go through a different ritual, but each of these Delhi's brings you closer to the core of the city, so it's like peeling away the onion skins one by one, only there's no end to this particular onion.

I just went through all my Delhi posts. Darn, now I really am nostalgic. I want to go back NOW. I want to do street-shopping. I want to eat at Wenger's. I want to travel on the Metro. I want to go Sunday shopping with my parents to C. P. I want to make plans to go for lunch to Noodle's or Momo Point in Kamala Nagar. I want to travel by DTC buses. I want to haggle with auto-wallahs. I want to peer into the fog for the morning U-special (Ah, U-specials!). I want to go to Deer Park for a walk. I want to feel the wind in my face while travelling by bus on the Delhi roads. I want to see the red stone of South Block; the President's House, India Gate. I want to do the college-home commute once more; no, many times more - once by U-special, once by the Metro, once only by bus. I want to spend an afternoon at Dilli Haat, watch the dusk come on, see the string of balloons going up into the sky, see the colours, hear the plaintive wail that guy with the musical instrument makes. I want to see kites being flown from roof tops. I want to lie on my bed and watch through the window as aeroplanes come in to land at the airport. I want to drink banta for five bucks at Sarojini. I want to see fruits and vegetables lit up by yellow light at street markets. I want to travel in a bus by night, watching the people outside. I want to return home from shopping, loaded with bags and bags of clothes. I want to relive the laughter, the jokes, the friendship.

Strange to realize that all these things are in my head, that all of them can never be again, that even if I go back, I will be a different person, so all of these things will be different. My house was emptied, someone else is probably staying there now. The sunlight will be the same, the wind, the noise from outside, but all those rooms are furnished that way only in my memory now. How strange.

Sunrise at Dimna Lake

Nine bikes - one ride in the darkness, through narrow winding roads, braving potholes and speed breakers, to watch sunrise at Dimna Lake.

I'd been to Dimna Lake twice before. The first time, I slipped and fell in, and my mp3 player died on me. The second time, I spent an entire day inside it, and rediscovered the joy of being at ease in water, letting it take over my body. This time was different again.

There were nine bikes and sixteen riders. I was riding behind Ninja, which was good, because I'd ridden with him before, and I didn't worry as much as I would have with someone unknown. Though my biggest anxiety, I have to admit, was that I would fall asleep on the bike; we'd gone out for dinner the night before, and I'd slept at three, to wake up at four.

We started off at four-thirty, with the aim of making it to Dimna by sunrise. The whole ride took less than half an hour, even with stoppages, so the more experienced among us were dissatisfied. But for a novice rider like me, it was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life.

Out of the b-school, and off through the mostly empty roads of The 'City' to Mango Bridge. And then riding through the darkness of the winding roads, surrounded by trees on both sides, and the looming deeper black of hills half-seen, with only the blurred red lights of the bikes ahead to keep you company. There was wind, and cold, but I didn't feel it much, because of the sheer exhilaration of travelling at high speed in a bike through the darkness.

Dimna at dawn is an amazing sight. The lake and the surrounding hills are grey, and fog hangs heavy on top of the water. It curls around the trees on the surrounding hills, and makes them look like graveyards with tall grave-stones. When we reached, the light was just starting to flow in, and the grey lightened by the minute. There was a black irregular shadow on the water, under the fog, but I couldn't figure out what it was, and then someone enlightened me - it was the reflection of the hills above, black against the lightening sky.

We walked on to the dam, and I reminisced about my disastrous fall into the lake. The world was lightening slowly, but we wondered if we would see a proper sunrise, because of the fog. The sky was a multi-coloured haze, the red at the horizon fading into grey. It was beautiful. The fog was lifting slowly. Wisps of it were travelling about the water. Watching the phenomenon was a skin-crawling experience, because it looked like a purposeful battalion of newly-dead souls, passing over to the other side.

People kept taking pictures of everything, trying to capture the moment, the beauty of the place, but it was quite impossible, of course. And as an aside, I think they were so busy trying to capture the moment that they lost out on the actual enjoyment of it.


There were people practising yoga on benches by the path. We asked one of them to take a group pic. And just as the photo-taking session ended, Shivi looked up and said, "Ah, there's the sun. Finally!" And indeed, there it was, a pale orange thing wreathed in fog. But it slowly came up, and the orange deepened, until it looked like a blood red coin hanging in the sky. It was reflected in the water, too, twice over, so that there were three suns.

A few minutes of watching the sun and clicking pictures, and it was time to go back. The ride back home was faster, and scarier - more traffic, more people, more pot-holes. It didn't bring the same level of exhilaration as the night ride, but I'd enjoyed myself so thorougly that it didn't matter; I was content.

Here's a pic of the people who went, minus me and a classmate, because we were the ones clicking.

How It Feels

I walk on endlessly, along the lonely surface. All is quiet. The river beside me makes no noise as it flows along. Its depths are too deep, perhaps. The sand is silver, it rises gently to my right. I am alone. I have been alone many times before, yes, but not lonely. Not this lonely. Before, I knew of people who cared for me, who walked with me in spirit. Now - I am alone, truly alone, cut off from others. And I regret it, I regret it because I know that it was I who cut myself off. Others reached out for me, I ignored them. I hastened away, determined to not need them. And now they have turned away, they care no more. Even if I reached out now, even if I beseeched them, would they hear me? Would they want to?

The river beside me is so silent I do not know if it is flowing or not. I do not want to look into it, I know what I will see. Not the stars in the cloudless sky above, no. I will see faces, memories. I will see the people I cast off, the people I wish would surround me now. And they will invite me down, and I will go with them. I will drown in my memories. I must not.

There is no concept of time here. I do not know when I started walking, or when I shall stop. Perhaps I have stopped before, perhaps I have started again. There is no beginning here, no ending. My consciousness begins and ends with this desolate place, this silent river, these silver sands, this starry sky. I would be nothing if I were not here.

Nothing changes, how ever much I walk. I yearn for a friendly face, a call of greeting, but I am alone. No footprints on the sand, nothing to tell me that I am not alone. I wish I could be certain that there are people who know that I exist, that I am here, that I suffer. But if I could be certain of that, I wouldn't be in this place.

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Black and White, Inverted

Thiridon surged on ahead to the cliff edge and stood there with his arms spread wide open. "We can go back now, brother!" he turned back and shouted at me joyfully. I was similarly elated, but more mindful of the spears and stones following us. I stood there on the cliff top and looked out over the blue sea below. A spear whizzed by me. I turned back and smiled at the White Barbarians chasing us. Their faces were pink with exertion, and their eyes red with malevolence.

I turned back to the sea and took my tunic off. My wings, proud and black with steel grey glints, sprang forth and oh, what ecstasy it would be to be able to use them again. No more would my feet cut and bleed over sharp stones.

More spears and sticks passed by and fell down, down into the sea. Thiridon and I flexed our wings, and then sprang into the air. Oh, the joy of being in the air again! We flew for the clouds, and the White Barbarians gasped in amazement. Our black bodies glinted in the morning sunshine, and I enjoyed the contrast we made against the white fluffy clouds. All White need not be evil, after all.

Grief

I can't deal with the grief. It's as if my mind, travelling down a dark road, knocks against a giant stone of grief. It twists away and tries to go down lighter paths, to places where there is still sunshine, and birds, and flowers. But the light always turns to darkness, and the paths always return to the grief. And each time my mind knocks against it again, the knowledge, the implications, the pain is almost as bad as the first time. And again and again and again, my mind twists away and tries to escape, but it can't. Numbness is the only escape now.

I heard this in a song once - I wonder if I have done enough good deeds to be able to meet you in another lifetime. Fare thee well, friend.

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Principles

I'd just put the stack of test papers on the table when the lights went off. Damn, I'd forgotten that the load-shedding was from seven to seven-thirty this week.

"Sharade!" I called. "Do you have the candles?"
"Yes, come out to the veranda. I've lit them here so that the children can study."

The test papers would have to wait. I went out to the veranda. Sharada had lit the two big candles and placed them on the half wall. The children were seated on either side, reading from their text-books. They both had exams the next day.

I hitched up my mundu and stepped out into the front yard. The moon was almost full, and cast a silvery shadow on everything. I paced the yard, from the veranda to the gate. Actually, I hadn't built a gate as yet - the house was separated from the unpaved public road only by a fence of tiny sticks. A gap in the fence was the entryway.

Our little yard was bright with the moonlight, but the road, tree-lined on both sides, was dark. I dared not go out there, for fear of stepping on a snake. Other families on our street were sitting outside too, to escape the heat. They fanned themselves with newspapers and talked of the day's happenings. I listened to the low murmur of their voices and wondered what they would do if the load-shedding suddenly stopped one day and they had no half-hour window in which to unwind.

The candles cast a flickering light on the children's faces as they studied. They slapped at the mosquitoes occasionally. Sharada sat on the other side of the half-wall, hugging her knees to her chest, staring at nothing. Her red nightie was blue in the moonlight. I wondered what she was thinking.

"Did you switch off the TV?" I asked.
"Yes, I think so," she replied automatically, not looking at me.

I sighed. Ever since we had moved here, she had done nothing but complain. She didn't like the house, she didn't like the village, she didn't like the neighbours. She didn't like the village school with its crumbling walls and its dodgy roof. She complained that having to move just before the exams would affect the children's performance.

"It's not like they're writing the SSLC exams this year!" I had shouted at her, exasperated. "What do you expect me to do, woman? I've been transferred and there's nothing I can do about it!"
She'd started crying then, and as usual, my anger had died in a flash and been replaced with helplessness.
"You could have done something about it. You could have looked the other way."
I had no answer. We had discussed this before.
"How many times, Renjith? How many times do you expect me to pack everything up and follow you?"
"As many times as.." I'd started, then stopped, unable to remember what I'd been about to say.
"As many times as it takes for your principles to erode," she had said cynically. "Because trust me, that will happen some time or the other."

I thought now of my principles. Because of them, my children had already studied in five different schools in five different cities. They had never quite learnt to call any place home. My wife had stopped unpacking anything except the essentials, because there was no point.

And now we had landed up here, in this peaceful little village. It was in the backwaters, and there were canals everywhere. The children went to school in the morning in a little boat. There were coconut trees and mango trees and jackfruit trees and neem trees and banyan trees. The people were nice and cared about you. The wind always carried the smell of cold water and when it rained, the raindrops played out a rhythmic orchestra on the banana leaves. It reminded me of my childhood home. I had been sent here on a 'punishment transfer,' but it felt like Heaven to me.

As for Sharada - I knew I could convince her. I would bribe her with the hope of a home. She was looking for stability, and I would offer her that. There couldn't be too many underhanded things going on in this tiny place. And even if there were - even if the local rich man mended the school roof so that his son could pass the exams with flying colours, or if the Principal was a bit careless with the school funds - well, one could always compromise. No compromise was too big if one got Heaven in exchange.

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Episode XXIII

There was no milk in the fridge. Sarala opened the window and shouted at Raju, "There's no milk. Shall I make the tea without milk?" "Hmmm," Raju replied, deep in his newspaper. She knew he hadn't heard a word of what she'd said, but she didn't want to go to the corner shop just to get milk for his morning tea. He certainly wouldn't dream of going.

She made the tea and took it out to him. Raju took one sip and spat it out.
"What kind of tea is this?" he asked furiously.
"There was no milk, so I thought.."
"Don't you know I don't like tea without milk?"
This wasn't true, he had drunk tea plenty of times without milk, but that had been before.
"I did ask you," she said defensively.
"When?"
"Just now. I asked from the window."
"Don't lie! You just want to make my life living Hell!" Raju said. He threw the cup on the ground, where it broke into three pieces and lay like a fallen bird, bleeding the brown water into the earth. He gathered up his newspaper and strode furiously away.

Sarala stood there, blinking furiously in an effort to not cry in front of the neighbours, who would all be behind their twitching curtains watching this daily episode of the neighbourhood drama. After a while, she bent over and picked up the broken cup. It was white with blue flowers and a golden border, part of a set that had been gifted to her by her parents for her wedding. The tea set had survived the first eight years of her marriage unscathed, but not the last two. This had been the last cup.

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