"Zindagi ka safar, hai yeh kaisa safar. Koi samjha nahin, koi jaanaa nahin..."
An old Indian film pays homage to the eternal journey of life. Life is but a collection of experiences. All the colours we impart to it, good or bad, are our perceptions. In the end, life's what we make of it to be. Life, a sexually transmitted disease or life, the evolution from darkness to light...
"Please fasten your seatbelts and remain seated until the indicator goes off. The lifejacket is stored right below your seat. Please wear the lifejacket on instruction from the crew..."
The airhostess had been doing it for God alone knows how long. Her obvious distaste for the exercise was showing clearly. With much difficulty in holding a neutral expression, she explained in sign language the automatic message that was broadcast as the plane was taking off. Security protocol meant that the drill had to be done. Wonder how many people actually regarded the drill with attention...
A large metal tray wheeled across the aisle selling sandwiches, aerated juices and other little tidbits for those who deem fit to eat somewhere near Heaven. It was a time for those like me, to be snoozing. Wherever the eyes'd open, measured straight lines, little dots of colour speckled the otherwise uniformly brown landscape. Wonder how'd the landscape like the feel of these "decorations" on its surface; but hey, earthquakes are a way for the landscape to shake them off.
At 1000 AM, the sun was beating with a ferocity it'd show at noon in Bombay. There were the birds of prey going about their business basking in the sun, and those others who had business just escaping from the sun.
The dusty little town
A highway town is a class apart by itself. Its pride of uniqueness and subjectivity lies in the fact that across the length and breadth of India, every highway town bears resemblance to some other or almost all highway towns, unless of course the geography itself is completely different. Peel off the layers of language, culture, religion and everything else that renders a unique colour, and you'll find the common cement that these towns share among themselves.
Flies. They're everywhere. On the floor, on the doors, on the table, on the glass, and of course the dining plate. Make fuss and a face at them and you might as well starve yourself to death. They're not just flies. They're citizens of this place called a highway town and deserve to be accorded respect as much as you'd accord to a "civilized" bipedal. Gently whisk them away whilst you eat and they'll linger around patiently, waiting for you to be done, to gorge on what little remains of your meal. Hardship demands tough measures. A little highway town is the last place that's catering to your every whim and fancy. You either survive and learn to coexist or head back to the surreal reality you call your city...
The north-western flank of India harbours what is locally known as the Thar Desert. Rajasthan bears the brunt of it whilst Gujarat tries to share a slight little part of its weight. Our town earns its merit, its fine dust from the desert winds blowing southward. The dust is but desert sand...
Desert sand like river sand, has a unique way of getting into shoes. If you fervently pray for the dust to keep away, they'd come all the same. Just grin and bear with it and the feeling of it won't be that bad.
Shit happens:
"Shit happens when it has to happen, where it was supposed to happen, and when you were least expecting it..." -- Murphy's law
When it comes to traveling, i consider meself one of the better gifted ones when it comes to luggage. A backpack usually carries my load for a lifetime's existence be it in Neverland or Newfoundland, but official visits demand niceties. Perfume, pressed clothes, books, laptop, ties, things that pretty much had nothing to do with me nor would ever be found on my person (or my backpack for that matter) in other situations and circumstances, but...
Carrying niceties meant carrying adequate protection, sophisticated protection. A number protected Masterlock that locks forever after two unsuccessful attempts at opening. Hours before the journey began, i set the password that i'd remember to store in my mobile phone. Screwing the dials with sleepy eyes, i'd secured the suitcase firm. It'd take a lot to break open a Masterlock. The Masterlock was the equivalent of Winchester (the famous gun that won the Wild West) when it came to locking.
After sundown and a tiring day at work, i tried (what would be a series) opening the suitcase to slip into something more comfy (formal clothes aren't really bedtime friendly). The password was 456, and that's what i entered. Presto, the clasp comes undone and my case's open for all Heaven and Hell to see, right? Wrong...
If you remember i was dopey eyed (if not sleepy) while setting the password for the lock, and there seemed to be, what can be classified as a f... up while setting the password. Somewhere someplace something had gone wrong. Heaven burst open with a clap of thunder and lightning and a hazy but brilliant form of light seemed to be saying something. It was only much later that i understood Murphy's famous laws were being rendered upon humanity, upon me, on the ordained day...
"Cut the fucking thing open, i don't care!"
"But sir, this seems like an expensive lock, why do you want to cut it? You won't be able to use it again. Why don't you ask the missus for the password?" A genuinely frank look would have been at that moment difficult to find anywhere else except there. The bell boy was a boy of reason and was taught and trained to be careful with money. Die if you may but don't be wasteful with money was a way of life he and his people followed. Money and i never did share a homely relationship. To make things worse, the boy thought me to be an arse to want to cut the Masterlock open, and wanted me to ask my "wife" for the password.
"My dear boy, i've set the password myself and i know the lock's shut up forever because i've fucked up one time too many. So just cut the lock and clear the place..."
Filing away with a metal cutter, 20 minutes later i was a free man and an unkind soul in the eyes of the bell boy for having wasted good money and not having listened to my "wife".
The local flavour
Highway towns have a little something of everyday niceties and necessities of the city (including premium tobaccos) and Himmatnagar was no exception. If it wasn't for Gujarat and its abhorrence toward spirits, Himmatnagar would have undoubtedly had some fine local liquor to satiete the truckers and highwaymen who lived briefly in Himmatnagar (in addition to the locals).
"Daal, rotli, baati, shaak" Handpainted signs and printed signboards proclaimed the message alike. In these parts, this was the staple diet and was undoubtedly something that'd taste best. When traveling with other people, curiousity toward savouring local flavours does not go down well when others in the group are keen to have more "modern" food. Whatever...
The moon was shining brightly and she was out there, waiting. There were others but everyone engrossed in the art of making the mouth move but shed no words, in other words masticating their dinner. The clothes were the giveaway and those who noticed looked at me for a while, including her. Wearing shorts revealing my legs in a traditional and perhaps conservative highway town was not looked upon very favourably. It's not often that men are whistled and cheered upon for exposing their not very delicate and hairy legs!
It was business time for her and she looked at me longingly. This'd be a good start for the evening but i had other things in mind than a quickie with a streetside courtesan in rural India (must we forget we're traveling for business and such deeds will not be looked upon favourably in addition to exposing hairy legs...?)
The place where everyone "knows" everyone
Walking along the road in search of an ATM (yes the phenomenon is not as rare a sight these days as it once used to be), the hour was getting late and it was well beyond sundown. If nothing, it was dinnertime. In a corner of the town, an ATM was discovered and the deed accomplished (not as much as for me as for a friend). The walk back to the hotel would be well over 20 minutes. Heck! Why walk when rickshaws ply? And the quest for a rickshaw began in earnest. The security guard of the ATM, evidently a local was a man of no small means. At the sight of a green box on three wheels, a quick shout and some garbled words in rural Gujarati (being a linguist does not render one with the gift of understanding rural accents) and what was a rickshaw with passengers suddenly turned into an empty one ready to take us back to our hotel. As for the passengers, they simply alighted and didn't necessarily disappear into thin air, but nonetheless, the guard was a man of no small means...
As i'd earlier hinted upon, highway towns also have some of the city's niceties. This time it was indulgence time at a local thaali restaurant. For those not acquainted with a thaali, this is the Indian equivalent of a full course meal complete with hors d'oeuvres.
After much time spent without much noteworthy experience...
Flying back to Mumbai was a little bit more interesting than the journey to Himmatnagar. My neighbour sharing space with me adjacent to the window of the airplane wanted to break the radio silence with a joke. A pity the joke was on me and further attempts at conversation only ended in full stop sentences.
Immediately upon takeoff, the man began praying fervently. I knew the prayer he was chanting and if i'm not wrong was my co-religionist (doesn't go to say anything about my practicing it), and was also, a native speaker of Tamizh (Hooray for the Tams!). He seemed to be a wee bit spooked with the flying experience and kept chanting until we touched ground. I was more content with my fate (whether it meant landing safely or turning to toast in mid-air) and was having more grievance with the Amazon Kindle Ebook reader. Apparently, the reader would not show certain pages from pdf documents from spurious sources (perfectly useless when all your documents are classified and cannot be traced back to source).
That was about all the adventure and melodrama midair and by 1800 hours IST, the airplane landed on a Friday evening which saw a young man walking out into the sunset tuned in to music...
 |
| Moving on... |
"Please fasten your seatbelts and remain seated until the indicator goes off. The lifejacket is stored right below your seat. Please wear the lifejacket on instruction from the crew..."
The airhostess had been doing it for God alone knows how long. Her obvious distaste for the exercise was showing clearly. With much difficulty in holding a neutral expression, she explained in sign language the automatic message that was broadcast as the plane was taking off. Security protocol meant that the drill had to be done. Wonder how many people actually regarded the drill with attention...
A large metal tray wheeled across the aisle selling sandwiches, aerated juices and other little tidbits for those who deem fit to eat somewhere near Heaven. It was a time for those like me, to be snoozing. Wherever the eyes'd open, measured straight lines, little dots of colour speckled the otherwise uniformly brown landscape. Wonder how'd the landscape like the feel of these "decorations" on its surface; but hey, earthquakes are a way for the landscape to shake them off.
At 1000 AM, the sun was beating with a ferocity it'd show at noon in Bombay. There were the birds of prey going about their business basking in the sun, and those others who had business just escaping from the sun.
The dusty little town
A highway town is a class apart by itself. Its pride of uniqueness and subjectivity lies in the fact that across the length and breadth of India, every highway town bears resemblance to some other or almost all highway towns, unless of course the geography itself is completely different. Peel off the layers of language, culture, religion and everything else that renders a unique colour, and you'll find the common cement that these towns share among themselves.
Flies. They're everywhere. On the floor, on the doors, on the table, on the glass, and of course the dining plate. Make fuss and a face at them and you might as well starve yourself to death. They're not just flies. They're citizens of this place called a highway town and deserve to be accorded respect as much as you'd accord to a "civilized" bipedal. Gently whisk them away whilst you eat and they'll linger around patiently, waiting for you to be done, to gorge on what little remains of your meal. Hardship demands tough measures. A little highway town is the last place that's catering to your every whim and fancy. You either survive and learn to coexist or head back to the surreal reality you call your city...
The north-western flank of India harbours what is locally known as the Thar Desert. Rajasthan bears the brunt of it whilst Gujarat tries to share a slight little part of its weight. Our town earns its merit, its fine dust from the desert winds blowing southward. The dust is but desert sand...
Desert sand like river sand, has a unique way of getting into shoes. If you fervently pray for the dust to keep away, they'd come all the same. Just grin and bear with it and the feeling of it won't be that bad.
Shit happens:
"Shit happens when it has to happen, where it was supposed to happen, and when you were least expecting it..." -- Murphy's law
When it comes to traveling, i consider meself one of the better gifted ones when it comes to luggage. A backpack usually carries my load for a lifetime's existence be it in Neverland or Newfoundland, but official visits demand niceties. Perfume, pressed clothes, books, laptop, ties, things that pretty much had nothing to do with me nor would ever be found on my person (or my backpack for that matter) in other situations and circumstances, but...
Carrying niceties meant carrying adequate protection, sophisticated protection. A number protected Masterlock that locks forever after two unsuccessful attempts at opening. Hours before the journey began, i set the password that i'd remember to store in my mobile phone. Screwing the dials with sleepy eyes, i'd secured the suitcase firm. It'd take a lot to break open a Masterlock. The Masterlock was the equivalent of Winchester (the famous gun that won the Wild West) when it came to locking.
If you remember i was dopey eyed (if not sleepy) while setting the password for the lock, and there seemed to be, what can be classified as a f... up while setting the password. Somewhere someplace something had gone wrong. Heaven burst open with a clap of thunder and lightning and a hazy but brilliant form of light seemed to be saying something. It was only much later that i understood Murphy's famous laws were being rendered upon humanity, upon me, on the ordained day...
"Cut the fucking thing open, i don't care!"
"But sir, this seems like an expensive lock, why do you want to cut it? You won't be able to use it again. Why don't you ask the missus for the password?" A genuinely frank look would have been at that moment difficult to find anywhere else except there. The bell boy was a boy of reason and was taught and trained to be careful with money. Die if you may but don't be wasteful with money was a way of life he and his people followed. Money and i never did share a homely relationship. To make things worse, the boy thought me to be an arse to want to cut the Masterlock open, and wanted me to ask my "wife" for the password.
"My dear boy, i've set the password myself and i know the lock's shut up forever because i've fucked up one time too many. So just cut the lock and clear the place..."
Filing away with a metal cutter, 20 minutes later i was a free man and an unkind soul in the eyes of the bell boy for having wasted good money and not having listened to my "wife".
The local flavour
Highway towns have a little something of everyday niceties and necessities of the city (including premium tobaccos) and Himmatnagar was no exception. If it wasn't for Gujarat and its abhorrence toward spirits, Himmatnagar would have undoubtedly had some fine local liquor to satiete the truckers and highwaymen who lived briefly in Himmatnagar (in addition to the locals).
"Daal, rotli, baati, shaak" Handpainted signs and printed signboards proclaimed the message alike. In these parts, this was the staple diet and was undoubtedly something that'd taste best. When traveling with other people, curiousity toward savouring local flavours does not go down well when others in the group are keen to have more "modern" food. Whatever...
The moon was shining brightly and she was out there, waiting. There were others but everyone engrossed in the art of making the mouth move but shed no words, in other words masticating their dinner. The clothes were the giveaway and those who noticed looked at me for a while, including her. Wearing shorts revealing my legs in a traditional and perhaps conservative highway town was not looked upon very favourably. It's not often that men are whistled and cheered upon for exposing their not very delicate and hairy legs!
 |
| Just as beautiful... |
It was business time for her and she looked at me longingly. This'd be a good start for the evening but i had other things in mind than a quickie with a streetside courtesan in rural India (must we forget we're traveling for business and such deeds will not be looked upon favourably in addition to exposing hairy legs...?)
The place where everyone "knows" everyone
Walking along the road in search of an ATM (yes the phenomenon is not as rare a sight these days as it once used to be), the hour was getting late and it was well beyond sundown. If nothing, it was dinnertime. In a corner of the town, an ATM was discovered and the deed accomplished (not as much as for me as for a friend). The walk back to the hotel would be well over 20 minutes. Heck! Why walk when rickshaws ply? And the quest for a rickshaw began in earnest. The security guard of the ATM, evidently a local was a man of no small means. At the sight of a green box on three wheels, a quick shout and some garbled words in rural Gujarati (being a linguist does not render one with the gift of understanding rural accents) and what was a rickshaw with passengers suddenly turned into an empty one ready to take us back to our hotel. As for the passengers, they simply alighted and didn't necessarily disappear into thin air, but nonetheless, the guard was a man of no small means...
As i'd earlier hinted upon, highway towns also have some of the city's niceties. This time it was indulgence time at a local thaali restaurant. For those not acquainted with a thaali, this is the Indian equivalent of a full course meal complete with hors d'oeuvres.
After much time spent without much noteworthy experience...
Flying back to Mumbai was a little bit more interesting than the journey to Himmatnagar. My neighbour sharing space with me adjacent to the window of the airplane wanted to break the radio silence with a joke. A pity the joke was on me and further attempts at conversation only ended in full stop sentences.
Immediately upon takeoff, the man began praying fervently. I knew the prayer he was chanting and if i'm not wrong was my co-religionist (doesn't go to say anything about my practicing it), and was also, a native speaker of Tamizh (Hooray for the Tams!). He seemed to be a wee bit spooked with the flying experience and kept chanting until we touched ground. I was more content with my fate (whether it meant landing safely or turning to toast in mid-air) and was having more grievance with the Amazon Kindle Ebook reader. Apparently, the reader would not show certain pages from pdf documents from spurious sources (perfectly useless when all your documents are classified and cannot be traced back to source).
That was about all the adventure and melodrama midair and by 1800 hours IST, the airplane landed on a Friday evening which saw a young man walking out into the sunset tuned in to music...
