December... and beyond

December’s been a month of reunions, starting, fittingly, with the grand family one, and ending, strangely, again with the not-so-grand-yet-family one. In between, the weekends, one with little lies, and other with lies, lies and damned lies, pretending to be at four places at the same time, and not in a position to relay the adventures of any one. In the midst of it all, few realizations – one of distances that weren’t as abysmal as I thought, and second, of those that aren’t as nigh as I thought, a third, a realization of people I never knew I could miss, and a fourth, of people who I thought I’d really miss. I overcalculated.

Taking names in public has never been a wont – a simple precautionary measure against being caught off-guard in an appreciative mood, as also the reciprocal.

One concert, two movies, one rendezvous and a bit of official pretext. One rendezvous, two movies, and whole lotta pretexts. One weekend, one guitar, and whole lotta booze and cribs. One rendezvous aboard a flight, one after tons of conflicting schedules, one rendezvous-in-waiting and one rendezvous not for myself, but for certain others, for whom I’ve had pretexts to the point of condemnation. One could-have-been rendezvous that never did. Few unexpected and expected calls that turned the spirits skyward, and few others – that never came, laughing my own theories about life at my own face.

And in the midst of all this, I’ve found myself not alone but lonely, not happy but smiling, not apologetic but guilty, not forgiving but forgiven. A mix and match of antipodes, self-contradicting and yet not yielding.

There’s something else I’ve realized too. In the midst of a transition from a slowly-becoming-painfully-slow bhadra life to an increasingly-becoming-live-by-the-minute bollaram life, I have gradually become the poster boy of Bollaram. And I am pretty sure I do not like it.

It’s the end of another year. Chronologically progressive but humanly regressive. Every year marks the end of another road and the fork at another crossroad. This one’s no different. Except that concerns that were fringe issues suddenly appear looming. Concerns that were looming have turned gargantuan. The year had more than a regular share of ups and downs, which is probably just a portent, but was inevitable anyway, I guess – if not this time, then some others. The timing would always appear wrong, I guess too.

I just hope I’ve learned my lessons.

And maybe someday I might actually learn to say something I’ve wanted to.

Rickety rendezvous

I was humming down the road, trying to loosen my load… well not quite, but fittingly enough, I was humming the tunes of ‘Satisfaction’ on my way to dinner, returning from another back-breaking day at work, when I was stopped by a complete stranger.

A complete, total stranger, with a family and a very pleading note in his eyes, who only asked, “bhaiya, aap hindi samajhte hain?”

I furtively looked around (a bit shamefully, I must confess) to see who all were watching me. A security guard few metres away shrugged his shoulders, helping the next car out on the main road. A few passers-by looked on for a second longer than one would normally, but walked on without a break in the rhythm. An elderly gentleman had more than his usual share of a stare, but no words followed. Bred on true Indian middle class mentality, I already knew what was coming next. I was already thinking how to frame an answer to tell him that I can’t help him, and how to sound convincing enough in the process.

And this was all before I even had a good look at him.

I turned to him again, and only then knew the reason for all the glances. It was written all over those eyes. A middle-aged man, a wife and two babies, with a story to tell. He was returning from tirupati all the way to his hometown in pune, and was stuck here on his way back with no money to spare. 220 more rupees would have fetched him and his wife a ticket home.

It was the look on his face. It was something in the eyes, close to being tearful, close to being fearful. It was something in the voice, pleading, breaking, picking up again. The misty-eyed effort to prove that he wasn’t a con, without any evidence to show for it. For a moment the onward surge of humanity became a blur, and the only clarity was that face. The whistle of the security guard and the angry response in an alien language became a part of the background noise, and the only lucidity was in that voice, in that request.

I can’t recall what I thought or concluded at that exact moment, even though it happened barely 2 hours ago. I was spellbound, not by a great eyecatching spectacle, but by a mundane request for an element of humanity. But I found myself reaching for my wallet, when, almost suddenly, I was pinched to reality.

The stares suddenly grew clearer, the whistle shriller, and I found myself again looking around, almost guiltily, to see if anyone had witnessed the proceedings in my direction, or my eventual decision. The security guard shrugged again.

I took out a 100 rupee note, and casually glanced inside the wallet to see how many I still had. I had sufficient. But something stopped me. I passed on the note to him, and said that I could only help with so much, as I didn’t have any more. He looked a bit comforted, but still hopeful. I added on to my lie by saying that I had 120-odd with me, 100 of which I gave to him, and with the rest I intended to have something to eat and go back home.

It was those eyes again. The look of gratitude that came over made me want to dig a hole and bury my head within. The thrice repeated “sahib aapka ehsaan hamesha yaad rakhenge” felt like a blow each time it was uttered. I felt too overwhelmed, almost misty-eyed myself. I mumbled something, immediately turned around and walked into Kamat to give my tortured stomach some relief.

After the muddle in the mind and the grumble in the stomach subsided, and after I convinced myself that no one, really, was staring at me when I entered Kamat, I walked back out, after 20-odd minutes, kind of hoping to see that face again in the crowd. But it was not to be seen. I glanced a bit this way and that, almost secretively, but at the same time trying hard to make it appear casual to anyone who cared to look in my direction.

The milling crowd had swallowed that face, that voice. Maybe he was a con, maybe not. Maybe I was foolish, maybe I was gullible, or maybe it was real as it was supposed to be. I felt good, but not as happy as I guess I should have, and I felt weird, but not as cheated as I guess I should have. Either way, depending on the way you look at it.

I dragged myself back home, poorer by 100 rupees, and all the time hoped that I hadn’t done anything wrong.