Destination India

Destination India

An American friend recently told me that he along with his girl friend was planning a trip to India. He was all agog with his wonderful plans of visiting at least ten cities in India celebrating different culture. He had already researched through various sources the places of interest, the incredibly affordable cost, the exotic menu, the calendar of festivities and other paraphernalia of mesmerizing shopping spree. I listened to him with interest, chuckling now and then, nodding to encourage him and feeling proud that I am a citizen of his dream destination.

                 During the conversation, my friend asked me how safe is India. I paused for a while and then I found myself narrating innumerable incidents about that particular aspect. I was rather pessimistic about my nation and I was only sharing the bitter truth. But truth is truth. I was not a hypocrite to paint beautiful pictures about the place my innocent but curious friend was destined to visit.

                I told him not to let his girl friend walk around at night even in busy cities without an escort. The possibility of some stranger either misbehaving with her or making away with her wallet which may contain her precious travel documents could not be ruled out. Many such events had been reported in our media. Again I cautioned him not to hang around secluded locations which might look beautiful but probable  points of larceny or ravishment of the female companion.

                Then I also shared my apprehensions over the terrorist attacks anywhere anytime. America became very shrewd and alert after the 9/11 onslaught. It could even boast of not witnessing a single such incident anywhere in its vast land. But our country helplessly watched many such attacks round the year and that too only in busy urban spots. Is it enough if  the head of our state strongly condemns such violence through the media the next day of such merciless aggression? Are the perpetrators promptly brought to book? Have we any assurances that next time this won’t happen? Unfortunately none.

                When my friend expressed his joy of riding on Indian roads on a motorcycle which he intended to buy or hire since it would give him immense opportunities to look around, I looked at his face blankly. How different our road discipline is from that of America! You don’t know when you would be hit by what kind of vehicle and that too in a place you least expected it. Our hit and run history is pretty bad. And a motorcycle is the most vulnerable vehicle on our dusty roads.

                Our talk came around eateries that served colorful, cheap and tasty food. How could I withdraw valuable tips which might save him from dangerous virus and related diseases? What about our hygiene? How safe is our water? How clean are our cooks and waiters? Less said is better. But I felt duty bound to warn him.

                Finally he talked enthusiastically about our festivals that are very kaleidoscopic. He seemed to have drunk with the country music and art, our motley artists who throng the temples and the visual treat they happily enact to thrill the foreign tourists. It was then I remembered the most recent misadventure of our famous pyrotechnics which claimed more than 110 precious lives. Who could have dreamt of such thoughtlessness? The organizers had willfully ignored the safety measures. They had disobeyed the dictates of the guardians of safety. Ecstatic crowd that pulled and pushed fell victims to bright and loud display of fireworks which attracted thousands of innocent admirers from far and wide.

                When all is said, my friend sat silently near me looking into my eyes. Then diverting his eyes he said nothing and walked away. Did I discourage an avid tourist from visiting our unsafe country? Or did I just warn him of possible dangers that lurk around the unsuspecting foreigners? The sun was gently going down on the orange skyline. I walked back home mourning those who lost their lives in the colorful night.

Thai sojourn

Thai sojourn

A four day trip to a distant but near idyllic location with two life-long friends was indeed an experience to be cherished till the last breath. Like school children we hopped from place to place clapping, sipping (cold beer), laughing louder and louder till we drew the amazing attention of gaping strangers. No phone calls, no commitments, no running around, nothing to do but eat, drink, sightsee, and breathe the blissful air of that exotic land full of fun seeking tourists that don’t bother about anyone. For the first time in my life I was out with a T-shirt and shorts. Clicking at anything funny and strange my new hand set was a link between home and me. I could send fascinating photos home instantly. The sleepless flight to and from Bangkok somehow did not bother us much. It is incredible how those Thais have tamed wild animals like tigers, elephants and crocodiles to dance to their tunes. The animals seemed to be no more menacing. A tourist even took a snap feeding a tiger cub. A very pathetic sight drew more crowds. A heavy full frown tiger was ambling in its cage which also housed three cute piglets. Only a little later the onlookers realized the fate of those piglets which were put there to be fed by the big cat whenever it became hungry. Very symbolic of life indeed. Sometimes we don’t see the peril nearby.

Reunion after 44 years

Reunion of the three musketeers

                      1969-72 was a vivacious period which laid a strong foundation for our career growth, love and admiration for English language and literature and lifelong friendship. The last is a matter of our pride and many others’ envy. The passing  period – about 44 long years witnessed unemployment, youthful cheer and revelry, marriage, occasional short meetings, children, their bringing up, their education, employment and marriage, grand children, grey hair and philosophical ruminations. It was then we seriously thought of reviving the fellowship. A stray ad that accidentally appeared on my small screen did the rest. We three met on the long corridor that connected you to the rest of the world. My previous experience in flying reassured me that we would be pampered adequately. But the matter-of-fact crew had nothing to offer except a small cup of water and that too on persuasion. Half starved, we arrived after three and half hours on the land of elephants. Sleepless, foodless and restless, we roamed all over the Suvarnabhumi airport for a visa on arrival. We thought the visa would be served on a platter, but the long queues and incomprehensible signboards took away another three hours. Well, finally we four- a nondescript stranger was included in our company by the travel agent- were ushered into a 10 seater van. Broad, clean tree lined highway did little to compensate our night long journey. A driver that spoke Thai English barely opened his mouth. Finally after two hours we stepped down on the famous Tiger park.

Mute mourners

Mute mourners

                There weren’t many people when I walked into the small church. Most of them should be around my age. Gradually, one by one, the empty benches were filling up with the same age group of men and women. And the deadly silence of the church was occasionally broken by the organist whose chords reminded us where we were. The misty blank look worn by most of us bore a thought about our calling time of drowning into the darkness. I could not help mumble those words of Pablo Neruda:

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

 Suddenly the sound of death could be heard. The white clothing hanging around the withered sleeper made the sound. They bore her. Through the window I saw the hood of the casket kept leaning against a wall, patiently waiting for its better half to be closeted soon and disappear once for all. How the long life, with its greed and ambition, love and pain, hope and despair, yearning and whimper, is compactly compressed in a six feet wooden box. And the sepulchre was a square opening through which the closed coffin went like a hand in a glove. I was told that the same space was allocated to her husband years ago. In this vast country, dead ones cannot find a decent cavity and amidst the rituals of mourning they are just unceremoniouslyly shoved into the dark hole which would be opened once again years later to house another. There wasn’t horror or fear on anyone’s face. But there was a reservation like I will await it my own way. Many questions remain to be answered. When will it knock at your door? Who will outlive whom? Who will be around? Or will there be none?

Those bus rides

Those bus rides!

 When I calculated the hours spent in the bus throughout my career, I was dumbfounded. Every working day two hours in a crowded bus for thirty one years – the figure baffles me. How I could have utilized those ill-spent hours for anything I would have enjoyed. Every morning between seven and eight it was a nightmare( or morning mare?) to me. Hurried reading of newspapers, more hurried breakfast which was thankfully made possible by my early rising wife to whom I did not thank even once and the last minute run to board the bus. The situation was made worse by a phone call or a casual visitor who obstinately wanted to know the whereabouts of someone in the neighbourhood. All my morning exercise would sometimes prove futile if the bus driver chooses to be very punctual. Some days I could see the bus vanishing round the corner with many empty seats. My desperate attempts to outsmart those drivers sometimes ended in fooling myself. The bus would never appear or there would be no seats. If luckily I found one, then my co-passenger (Oh! What infinite variety of this kind!) sharing the seat took the credit of overpowering me with a heavy body and  leaning against me shamelessly usurping my right of the portion of the twin seat. Then there are the exhausted, sleep starved ones taking advantage of my lean shoulders to cradle their heads which bore the weight of the entire body. Some are compulsive conversationists who would discuss anything under the sun. I was expected to nod every now and then to their brilliant remarks and force a smile too, if what they meant were jokes. Some flaunted their newspapers which flapped on my face during the whole journey. A few were the probing kind asking very personal questions about the occupation, salary, community and the family. My vague responses clothed in mysterious vocabulary should have confounded them. How I enjoyed their facial expressions! Rarely did I enjoy the ride with a co-passenger who did not belong to any of the species mentioned. If I happen to be the unlucky standing passenger, it is another story. I was deceived on many occasions by cunning passengers seated comfortably. They would now and then move to pickup a bag or something as though they are ready to empty their seats. Many such devils had heaped my curses on them.Less said is better.

A retired teacher's compromise with life

 Retirement is a phase of life eagerly looked forward to by some and awfully awaited by some others. Government policies which are changed more frequently than women’s attire frighten those who manage to hang on their precarious service. A casual newspaper report would inadvertently announce that the employees would be deprived of their pension from an ominous date. Some would heave a sigh of relief and congratulate themselves on their sheer luck to have escaped by a day. Others who moan that they are always on the wrong side of life once again would blame their fate. However, the monthly alert from the bank and the balance available send an aura of optimism in me. The other day when I shared this exalted sense of security with my daughter, she reacted quite differently and said that the government was very irrational. Such are the ways of the present corporate diplomacy and the supple young employees. The unfortunate lot is always on the receiving end; they would never question their friendly boss who has the audacity to send them home without even giving them a hint or warning. An organizational protest is never heard of in the private sector and all the grievances of employees are overborne by a casual sanction of a measly paid vacation or restaurant vouchers.  I remember my days in service when the slightest thrust of an unfriendly State policy would trigger a series of protests all over the state and heated talks of leaders would eventually bring in the desired outcome. Well, I am drifting away from my topic. In order to drive away the feeling of not – wanted – anymore, I forcefully engaged myself with teaching jobs through which I managed to earn one third of my pension. When questioned by my well wishers, I boastfully amplified my intention of spending my hours rather than earning my penny. The liberty of working as a part-time employee for a monthly pittance gave me immense opportunities like  a leisurely morning walk, a daily round of morning newspapers, a slow enjoyable breakfast, occasional participation in family functions, an afternoon nap and what not. I could understand the envious look of my young colleagues who toil much more than me and I secretly enjoy their longing gaze as I retreat my steps during the lunch break towards my car. As long as my health permits me to do as I like, I enjoy this phase of life before the last illness and the final exit.