Of maturated rivers and resurrected bridges

As I sit cubby-holed in my office, the rain pours down outside in lashes, and I am caught on the wrong foot as always, this time by not getting an umbrella. And while I am not exactly taxing my brains out at the moment, I can’t help but think of a statement I read somewhere –

Don't burn bridges. You'll be surprised how many times you have to cross the same river.

I was traveling down the Bridge on the River Kwai last weekend, and it struck me again. Kept hammering, begging me to take notice.

With each passing day, the reality and the world around me, ceases to be a remnant of its predecessor, and it hits me again. I’ve been searching for a reason, and now I think I know why.

It is a lot to do with the way I have been delving into my past days, seeking people, being sought for. The bridges I thought were burnt, the bridges I thought were buried for good, have shown signs of existence. And I did not have to probe too deep, most of them were found to be still in good condition, covered by the muck and grime of 6, 7, 8 years.

A phone call from the past, marking the caller as still alive. Won’t say I was ecstatic, but yes, it felt good. Nice to know that the bridges I thought were burned down, were resurrected, and not altogether by me. The slime that I thought would take time to rub off, the muck that looked like it had hardened, was flimsy, and did not require the extra effort envisioned. Maybe it is the answers, the convictions, the explanations that one gives to oneself. It was as ephemeral and just as transitory, as permanent and just as unchanging I had previously thought. There is only one reality, and that was not the one I had conjured.

A trip down the same bridge, above the same river revealed that much hadn’t changed, the stones and mortar that made the bridge in the first place are still very much the same. The river is different now – more aged, more mature, with a swagger of adulthood, as against the naiveté of a childhood, but then, that is the way it is supposed to be, I guess.

The truth struck me, when I was told that of all people I was in the best position to keep bridges intact and reinforce them from time to time with the bricks and stones of memory. It couldn’t have been truer! I thought and thought. And then the statement came back to me again, almost with a vengeance, this time willing me not to take notice.

Another reality as I have known stands to get altered today. This time permanently so, and this time it is here to stay. To a shape which won’t be altogether indiscernible, but rest assured, would be different. Tomorrow, and the day after, as the shape will get murkier still, retaining the original semblance is going to prove a tougher challenge. Fortunately or unfortunately, the bridge doesn’t stand on a single column. As does the onus for the support.

Memories remain. The stone and the mortar. The reinforced concrete. The columns of support. As well as the tool for cleaning up the muck and the grime of time, of space, of obsolescence. And beyond.

Life on a strip of land 7 km long...

… and infinitely wide, but the width is hardly your concern. BPL to BCM, BCM to BPL. Back and forth. Over and over again. This Saturday, and the next, and the one after. Sometimes in the middle of the week. Sometimes on a Sunday.

Sometimes impromptu. Sometimes as per plan. Sometimes to get supplies. Sometimes to find some peace of mind. Sometimes to cross the bridge. Just for the heck of it.

Sometimes to stuff yourself. Sometimes to Geets. Sometimes to Venks. Sometimes for booze. Sometimes for chocolates. Sometimes for, well, just good old Sundays.

Sometimes in the fading orange sun on a winter Sunday evening. Sometimes in the blistering weekday summer afternoon wind. Sometimes in the glittering Ursa Major pointing the way on a clear Saturday night. Sometimes in a cloudy dusk on a weekday evening, when the boundary between a day and its end are blurred. Sometimes looking for an ambience to quote, but it is the normalcy, the mundane-ness of the environs – the sun, the river, the wind, the clouds, everything – that is abnormal.

The temple bells start their rhythm somewhere in the back of your mind. The chipper blares at your left. A truck begins its ritual ride into the projects gate, condemning a set of logs to their destiny. Another of the locals walks to the middle of the dreaded crossing, oblivious to the incoming traffic, just as he is oblivious to the English prayers for Rooney’s timely recovery. A big red bus emerges out of nowhere, followed by a blue one. Left behind is a sea of human faces, a sea of feelings, opinions, expectations – waiting, moving, milling about.

You chose to walk down the bridge, rather than take the auto, just like a day in the past. Vehicles whip past, as the warm wind blowing across your face, just as they did on that day too. A beggar sits there, the good arm outstretched, just as he did on that day too.

The road is one long stretch. But it forks at the Ambedkar statue. A couple of shops beyond, a barber to the left. You take the all important turn where you see the bright lit billboard, just as you always do, and it is the end, just like it always is. Because that just about marks the edges of the strip.

Strip that is 7 km long, and yet camouflages ambitions that are miles high, though confused and muddled.

Rime of the ancient pulp maker

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Bhadrox! (sigh!)