Chapter XVII: The Charminar Memory

“Shouldn’t have I grown a little wiser?” The question rose from the abysmal unclean nooks of my mind like the dungeons where Gollum in the Hobbit dwells, and splashed itself across the foreground. Never had I before caught a speeding bus whose route I didn't know. Never had I not known what to tell the conductor as he approached me with his sheaf of tickets, a metallic puncher to mark my start/end-points and a ubiquitous black bag that conductors all across carry. It’s the bag that always has enough change in it that, sadly, the conductors never have enough courtesy to shell out.

As I let the question immerse itself back to the gloomy waters from where it had emerged like an assuaged sea-beast, I gulped loud. I had been in the middle of nowhere having just dropped my friend for an exam by taxi at some college whose name is like Harman Baweja  . Utterly forgettable.

The nervous lot of examiners began fluxing towards the just-opened gate, and as I cut heroically through the multitudes in slow-motion, I caught sight of an APSRTC bus emitting dark smoke out of its rear pipe, all ready to leave. I told my mind to shut up and I entered it.

But I also had a choice. We always have a choice, don’t we? But mine was as dull as a dry-day. It was to stay in the vicinity of the college that bragged of the plethora of IT companies that visit it by putting four big boards of the number of students placed on its entry wall, along with whistling emaciated guards and a few surrounding shops that only bluebottles flitted around. Now hanging three hours at a place that reeked of urine was hardly anyone would want to spend a Sunday like.

Gaining consciousness, I realized that the conductor, not used to meeting puzzled passengers of this degree, was beginning to lose patience. I, myself, was at a loss of thoughts. His piercing stare, repeated enquiries and my fit of haste finally found words. I asked him to drop me on the main road, out of the village that the college was in. From there started the first of the many auto-rickshaws we slid our behinds in and out of. 'We' is me and another friend who got in on the bus with me, clueless. 

It all made me slightly happy inside. I was silently beaming. This tiny adventure of roaming around some rural area of Hyderabad on my own was giving me a high. I was adrift, gloating in the new-found high. Suddenly my stomach made noises which could no longer stay unnoticed in the rickshaw now. My hunger grew just as high as the high I was feeling.

It was 9AM and all the false hopes of finding a good eating-joint in the middle of nowhere worsened my towering appetite. After a few futile calls to Just-Dial and a stroll across the cross roads, my heart beamed with glee as the letters KFC in red stared back at me. My legs could outrun an antelope then, I tell you. It was my oasis in the middle of a desert. And just like an oasis, my wish to eat there disappeared. It was an illusion. A mesmerizing mirage. Its shutter was down and my fast-beating heart sulkily sank in my empty stomach with a thud.

I again had a choice. We never run out of choices, do we? Hotel Sitara’s restaurant was on the floor above. And was OPEN. "It's better than the dusty putrid surrounding of that college", I comforted myself. The restaurant’s ambience was better than the notions I entered it with. The religious Telugu soundtrack filled the air, and a group of varied-shaped people crowded the breakfast counter.

We both sat in more quiet area. The manager, who could easily be cast as one of the rogues in Home Alone series, welcomed us and asked how many plates we would use. Another question! This one awoke the monster from within the green lake of cheapness, a trait too typical of Indians. Frugality? Practicality? Whatever! The eight-legged monster’s tentacles never easily part with cash, do they? My semi-conscious immediate reply was “Just ONE will do”. 

A good read and you never feel alone!

The waiters witnessed me re-appear at the counter the most number of times, perhaps. I ate ravenously like the shark from JAWS, relishing all the famed South-Indian breakfast. I refilled. I re-ate. We shared. The remnant of the time till the exam ended was passed at the restaurant with our respective books. It was there where I dived in “magic realism” of  Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children. And it has still got me engrossed. The other was Jane Austen's Emma.

Borrowing from Rediff.com’s review of Deepa Mehta’s film by the same name “I've come to know two kinds of book lovers. The first kind constitutes of ardent fans of Salman Rushdie who have, over the years, devoured his novels and short stories -- deconstructing the liberal dose of magical realism in his stories and inhabiting the extraordinary worlds of his protagonists. The others have despaired endlessly over not being able to read through any of his books (Rushdie is widely known as one of the most complex writers of his time).”

It’s a delight to read his words and the worlds of the characters he conjures. Far more delectable than the combination of colourful chutneys I had just gorged on.

As we got ready to leave, the manager well acquainted with our "plan" now told us which way was the EXIT. Damn! Some might find that rude, not us. We didn't take offence. While paying the bill and not dishonoring the ingrained cheapness, I extracted the exact change out from my pocket. No tips, that means? This made the manager ejaculate “Change bahut hai sir ke paas!!” with a sinister lifeless smile. This blow too I sidestepped with an equally  lifeless smile. Why? Because eating for three, paying for one – it was like a small mission accomplished. My healed heart and stuffed stomach remained unaffected by his words’ acridity. They just cared not.

Finally, the trio reunited after the exam and headed on to Koti from where we’d catch an auto-rickshaw whose driver was too generous with the advices. “Keep your phones held tightly.” “They aim at your wallets.” “It’s gonna be crowd-y.” “It is no Taj Mahal but it is not no-good.” He was referring to my reaction on seeing the Charminar for the first time ever. Because what my eyes saw and what my eyes had imagined did not quite conform to each other.

Before embarking on getting to Charminas’s top, we stormed the busy street to buy Hyderabad Pearls instead. My friends were leaving for Punjab in two days (something I envied and took eons to stomach) , so getting pearls for their family seemed rosy.

At first, we got duped by a Sardar traffic-cop who used the Kada in my wrist to establish kinship among us and then in his pleasant Punjabi-less tongue directed us to a pearl shop that had rather prohibitive prices. Instead of helping us get to genuine pearls, he used us as bait to bilk extra rupees. Perhaps, his getting born and brought up down south has snatched away every ounce of being a big-hearted “Punjabi”.

I am what Greek princesses must look like.

But then I really got victimized! What was promised to not last longer than 30 minutes, took them 3 hours of selections. T-H-R-E-E! God tell me, how difficult is it to choose from things that all look alike? This time, just like the conductor, my patience withered out. My heart bruised again, all its excitement drained out. My stomach grew noisy again!

But another look at the Charminar made me forget the unease all my organs were at. Its beauty ousted the hurt, its magnificence silenced the noises. One would want to remain immured forever to its timeless beauty. The deafening noises, the outrageous honking and the beggars incessantly pulling on your t-shirt asking for alms, all ceased to exist. We were confined to its sight!

Through the long queue for tickets to see the monument from inside, we started to climb. Right in front of us was a Firangi couple. After having shamelessly displayed the cheapness at the restaurant, we were up for another effrontery. Some of our antics included:

A)Ogling

B) Talking loudly as if we are the only English-speaking Indians

C) Disparaging the monument that had us spell-bound a few moments ago

D) Grimacing at the graffiti

E) Belittling anything Indian that was mentioned

F) Sighing with pleasure at every breath the Firangi girl with skin like egg-white breathed [for me]

G) Sighing with pleasure with every step upwards the big guy with big pecs took [for the girls]

And to our luck, we had a corpulent aged lady before us who was climbing really slow. So all of our drama did get its run-time, but perhaps never got acceptance. I know we need to get a life! Well! After that lady fell once, we resumed the rest of the drama in a gripping fear of falling like dominoes and collapsing under her shapely posterior. Then we concluded that Newton’s rather questionable III law is not as universal. Our foolish actions were not bearing any fruitful reactions. Not even one Firangi glance.

 Interestingly, the fruit that our actions really bore was rather unwanted. And gross! After getting insane pictures clicked at Charminar’s top when we descended to the ground, we had one pigeon leave a little treat on one of our heads. I wonder if that pigeon was observing our silly machinations! Had Newton’s spirit conspired with the pigeon? This time my stomach hurt and my heart was inundated with the echoes of laughter. It was quite a scene. The victim seemed indecisive, confused whether to laugh along or weep right after strangling the fucking bird.

Thus we amputated the rest of our trip to the nearby palaces and a museum. After all the drama, our stomachs had grown noisy again. We hunted the city changing bus-after-bus to find the nearest Mc Donald’s. Looking a little worse-for-wear, we ate the day’s second meal amidst noisy kids and pretentious teenagers, before returning to Pocharam Village.

That was one weekend that’ll stay in my memory for quite some time. 

Presently, besides the extremely exacting job (sniff sarcasm here!), Midnight’s Children is also keeping me busy. It's pulled me under its gossamer of beautiful expression and inspiring style of writing. All I need to do is put on a jazz record like the one below and vanish in another world like smoke in the air..

                            

Chapter XVI: Love, Faith and Resentment

This dates back to the first week of January '13, three days after our tiny torrent of joy arrived. My youngest sister's baby boy. I was visiting my parents who were staying at my elder sister's. I had to see them and share their happiness. 

The crescent moon raced along my window seat, battling all the gnarled leafless branches that tried to bar the magical conversation it was having with the tiny white eyes gazing right at it.

I was in the mini-bus I had hopped in at Paradise Circle, Secunderabad with two bags placed carefully in my feet. One big and one small. It was taking us all Mumbai-bound passengers to its multi-axle bigger sibling that would consume us all and belch us out in Maharastra. In about 12 hours.

The  smell of sulphur dioxide carried by the gust of wind that sneaked in from the thin rectangular opening in my window pushed its way through the thick strands of nose-hair that only recently had started playing peek-a-boo with every eye that held sight of them. The mini bus has braved it all for years. Everything. The Smell of SO2. Getting hustled by puny species of automobiles. The Pollution. The Rush. The Rage. The Madness.

Inured to the sameness, the less-luxurious, younger sibling honked its way through a sea of automobiles, semi-constructed pillars that will in near future bear the burden of speedy metro rails and some auto-rickshaws that scurried impatiently like a rodent. These auto-walas racing against someone only they can see, sharply cutting through other seemingly invisible vehicles, making space wherever they can penetrate the front wheel of their only source of income are so  accustomed to the surrounding rage that they evoke a mouthful of foul language from the other commuters so effortlessly.  My mini-bus gaily overtook them. The autos made her seem less "mini". Regaining confidence, it sped smoothly through the undying spirit of a big city and the restlessness at its heart. The smoke, lights and noise that usually define a club's dance-floor filled the very old, uneven roads of Hyderabad. These roads were the city's own dance-floor on which many come and go, some dance well and safe, some aggressively as if trying to prove a point while others too drunk to hold composure jostle and crash, taking an innocent dancer down with them.
 

The mini-bus presented us just out of Hyderabad on a gas station where its older sibling's womb was getting loaded with everybody's baggage. I submitted my bags too. One big and one small. Then I sank in my seat, letting a sense of complacency take over. And bam! It dawned on me. Having bragged about my organizing skills umpteen times to my pals here, I let them have the last laugh when despite the multiple lists I made (about the things to be packed or the food that had my tongue wagging), I forgot something they know I have a tough time without. My Earphones! Yes, the garish blue Panasonic ones. 

The moment I settled in the bus to Secunderabad, they visited me in my mind, a vision of them lying quietly on the edge of the centre-table, lonely and submerged in their own futility. The hands that usually after untangling them would make them part and stick each of them in a dark hole that they vomited unlikable noises in. Yes, those hands were now covering my ears to save me from the destruction Bol Bachchan could have caused. The conductor found it appropriate to entertain the lot with the movie but that callous prick failed to acknowledge the only passenger brooding in the front seat, refusing to let a laugh out for the loud, utterly-predictable, pedestrian humour. It's amazing how all Rohit Shetty movies have his stamp on them and how equally and immensely I hate them all.

Right when the credits rolled in, I began to prepare myself to recover from the damage done by the effeminate out-of-work Abhishek, the cringeworthy Ajay, the very manly Archana's veshya act and  Asin's innate ability to look and sound irritating in every movie without putting in much effort. 

I had never missed my blue earphones that bad. I pledged to never be apart. I cursed my stars. I cursed my carelessness. I cursed the conductor. I cursed his choice. I cursed Piracy. I cursed the first person who ever thought of bringing televisions inside buses. Soon I had in my face Salman who sported a moustache and performed bollywood-action so convincingly beating the bejesus out of every crook in the frame. Thankfully, my winks of sleep protected me from witnessing the downfall of a dangerous villain ironically named 'Bacha Bhaiya'. 

The few days I had to spend with my parents and sister's family in Mumbai flew by faster than a whizzing flock of busy honeybees that fly for a bed of flowers full of nectar. I'll remember this visit for the eye-opening, faith-shattering trip to Shirdi and Shani Shignapur that extracted every sliver of feeble faith I had, absorbed it, trapped it in an abyss and eventually purloined its life.

We had the online passes meant for those willing to shell out money, which would grant us the chance to be a part of the prestigious 'aarti' of a milky-white idol of an aged man adorned with a golden crown. 

He was like a rock band’s lead vocalist. Only carved in stone and lifeless. With his own posse of portly pandits as his back-up singers. The hysteria grander than that of the Rolling Stones. The mute rockstar and his super show, fed on faith of his frenzied fans not balling their fists up in the air with excitement but clapping synchronously to the notes hit by the backup singers. The fans sang along. For them the hymns were the greatest record ever. Unbeatable tunes.

It was his show and HE was the audience too. He just sat amidst the clamour. At peace. Full of himself. Silently snickering at the hullaballoo. Mocking everyone consumed in the menial earthly tasks of winning him over. Deriding his back-up clan from whom he stole the show without parting his lips, who sang their lungs out but only he garnered the credit.

The hymns were sung passionately in an unknown language, as if the passion would bring the old man to life; as if it was their first performance ever and their only one to please the old man and ask for his forgiveness. Forgiveness because they had bartered their souls for something that the entire world is slave to, something that is as omnipresent as their god- it's the greed, the filthy power of money. Big idol, big benefits.

I somehow like the smaller bands better. The ones in which the same mute lead-vocalist performs the routine without moving a muscle in a much much smaller room. And the big posse is replaced by a tired-looking pujaran beating the soap out of her husband’s frothy mundu in front of a dingy room which is all she can claim to call her home. Small idol, small benefits.

The solace here is unmatchable. There’s no big production show, just a silent tête-à-tête with the mute rockstar’s minute version.  The big production only causes discord and dislike. The real essence is here. It lies within. The essence that the histrionics of the big-production show overshadowed, rises here and fills the heart up. Now takes place what the big show couldn’t spark. An effective dialogue.

The big shows tire me. Because it's all become a nasty business, a way of milking money off someone's faith. Faith so testing that some even start by foot kilometres away towards the temple. What do they intend to obtain from it? To whom are they proving a point? Is enduring pain the only way to mend oneself? Masochism for salvation? Are they doing it for redemption? Is this what they think would erase their array of misdeeds and give them a fresh start? No, this pain and discomfort won't even win them a look longer than a microsecond of the lifeless idol crowded by crazed fans of someone they've only heard stories about. Crazy!
 

Talking about crazy, Shani Shignapur has Lord Shani's vigilant eye over the village that
should be more famous for its sugarcane production. There are no locks anywhere, not even in the banks. Everyone sleeps with open doors, unlatched rooms, unbolted verandahs of their unguarded houses. For whoever dares to deviate suffers his wrath. Faith so strong or faith gone wrong?

The only thing good that yielded out of the trip were my mother's clear pearly tears when I dedicated Rahman's Lukka Chhupi for her. After the six minutes of Rahman and Lata exchanging verses, we both were left sobbing at the thought that how can all the words freefalling in our heads for months be sung out to us by someone else so beautifully.

Right then in the rickety hired Toyota Innova, a mother and her son had their moment. A moment that no one else paid heed to. A moment that went unnoticed.

That hammered their hearts. One young and one old. 

That resonated with their love. So selfless. 

That mirrored her worries. Resurfacing fears. 

That reflected her concerns. Of his well-being. 

That depicted his helplessness. The catch-22. 

That spoke of his respect for her. Deserved and undying. 

That lay bare the hole in his life. Stark naked. 

That conveyed his acceptance of the new turn of things. Its ugly truth. 

That created ripples in the wild ocean that time had tamed. Made it restless again. 

That hummed the symphonies of their hearts out. One young and one old.

A moment that in his make-believe world he lives every moment. A moment ephemeral but for eternity would last.