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.