My friend and colleague decided to drop me home after office hours last evening. Following a sudden downpour, we were forced to take shelter at a BMTC bus stand for while. Our travel was smooth and my “Schumi” (for Schumacher style of driving) friend was driving through the busy road by cutting and squeezing through the heavy traffic. He remains cautious when I’m the pillion rider.
I had an opportunity to glance at the vehicles beside our scooter at a traffic signal - one of the busiest crossings of south-west Bangalore. Suddenly, a hawk-eyed motorist, after crossing the positions of the traffic cops (generally, it was retiring time for the cops), raised his accelerator and sped off.
Though my friend was provoked by this unlawful act and wanted to take action, I prevented him from doing so telling from behind that we have a whole lifetime to reach our destination.
A dimly lit Sumo caught my eyes. Vermillion smeared, Ganeshji was seen resting peacefully in “abhaya mudra” (fear not), over the dashboard under a garland of dead flowers. I also saw four others with a tired look, eagerly waiting to call it a day, except the driver. The drivers work overtime to earn a few extra bucks (work hours directly proportional to the money). At times, they are at the steering wheel for 18-20 exhaustive hours. These industrious drivers, when they get the odd free time in between drops, have their lunch and take a nap.
A fatigued middle-aged person sitting beside the driver was attending a call and was probably discussing about tasks to be completed with his project team, or conversing with his partner to round-off things, which needed his immediate attention at home.
It seemed he was desperately trying to quickly close the conference call and rest a little bit before resuming his routine work. The other three sitting behind him were from the “Generation X”. One of them was audibly disconnected (courtesy ear plugs) from the outer world as he was absorbed in enjoying music by ‘nodding’ his head periodically and relaxing after a hard day’s work. Thanks to easy availability of appliances like I-pods and cell phones, there is no need of carrying their heavier cousin (better known as Walkman).
While wondering how easy it was to disconnect oneself from the world, I noticed the person who was sitting beside him was also visually disconnected, either sleeping or meditating. A friend of mine says that the “Best time to meditate is when you are commuting”, I tried implementing the same, and as a result, I ended up snoozing during my return journey. Anyway, I found this as a better way to relax and I practice it till date.
Believe me, a quick nap is as refreshing as having a bottle of cola on dry and thirsty day. The last person sitting beside the window was attentive. He didn’t want to ignore anything that was happening around him as I could see his weary eyes catching glimpses. Unfortunately, he caught me observing. I am sure he must have wondered as to why I was looking at them with curiosity.
Merely in the two minutes of waiting at the signal, the whole world revolved around me with so many things taking place. While I was still thinking about the scene, I reached my destination. I was dropped, but I couldn’t drop this view that lingered in my mind long after that.
A quote by Donald Curtis is relevant today – “Relaxation means releasing all concern and tension and letting the natural order of life flow through one's being”
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Fond Memories
The best days of my life (as a kid) that I treasure most were those that I spent with my grandparents. As my father was in a transferable job, we had to shift from city to city every 3-4 years. The pain of leaving behind friends and relatives is unbearable. After couple of transfers, I learned to withstand the agony of leaving behind near and dear ones.
Memories of that summer are still fresh when my father announced as soon as he came back from office, “We are going to Bombay. I have been posted out.” I could foresee best days of my life coming to an end; meeting my grandparents from almost every month would be restricted to only two months during my school summer vacation.
Every year I used to eagerly wait to get promoted to my next class so that I get my new books to read. This year, I earned the unwelcome bonus, too – new place, new people, new school, new teachers, new uncles and aunts. I was like a seedling transplanted to an unknown environment, anticipating growth. We shifted to our new accommodation in Bombay (bustling city even during early 80s, two-wheelers were strict no on roads). Gradually, I began settling down in the new city in the midst of unknown people.
First thing in the evening, after coming back from my school, I would enquire whether Ma (mother) has received any letters from Dadu (grandfather) or not. Often, my desperation for his letters used to take me to nearest mail despatch section (inside the campus). His postcards had a unique look, neatly written using blue ink fountain pen (some of us might have seen but not have used), which reminded me how upset he was when I mischievously replaced his fountain pen with another ballpoint pen. His postcards were like bag full of gifts for me – they had information about every small thing I was attached to in my village. Starting from my fishing tool (unattended), about the little calf, the plant we jointly planted and watered. His letters, albeit brief were sufficiently detailed that after reading them I could exactly imagine and predict when and around what time he must have written a particular letter.
During next two years I could sense the expectancy and anticipation waning. Not the least because I was growing materialistic with the city, but I guess age was catching up with him. Now, he would manage to complete his letters over weeks and sometimes, even months, unlike earlier days when they were so much more frequent. At times, the completed postcard slept in between pages of his diary as he forgot to drop it in the mailbox.
All kids look forward to the month of May because for most of them last day of annual examination falls in that month. But for me it was the time that I did not have to wait for the postman for letters, instead only wait for the train to reach Kharagpur railway station. My fun days were again back, even if it was only for next 50 days. My grandparents were like genies who fulfilled all my wishes – protected me from scolding, beating (courtesy my parents) even if I did something wrong. Granny gave me the liberty of choosing what I wanted to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and everybody was supposed to eat the same. Today, I wonder how I kept myself absorbed in my own world of wonders that included sprinting behind the calf, plucking mangoes and dates, chucking pebbles at ducks near the pond and in between sneaking into granny’s kitchen, expecting some sweets. No sweets? Never mind I will be fine with fresh sugarcane jaggery.
As the village had no electricity, every evening neighbors and relatives would gather and share their stories of the year gone by. And it was the time for me to quietly slip into vicinity of my grandfather, listen to his stories from the past and retire under the quilt of his warm affection.
As all good things come to an end, so also my two-month stay with my grandparents. The days had gone by so fast and it was time for my return journey with the sweet taste of jaggery and even sweeter memories of the vacation lingering in my mind and consciousness. Again a long wait for next year May.
How right Horace Mann was when he said “Lost, yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever.” The only difference was that his two golden hours and sixty diamond minutes were, in my case, two golden months and sixty (almost) diamond days.
Memories of that summer are still fresh when my father announced as soon as he came back from office, “We are going to Bombay. I have been posted out.” I could foresee best days of my life coming to an end; meeting my grandparents from almost every month would be restricted to only two months during my school summer vacation.
Every year I used to eagerly wait to get promoted to my next class so that I get my new books to read. This year, I earned the unwelcome bonus, too – new place, new people, new school, new teachers, new uncles and aunts. I was like a seedling transplanted to an unknown environment, anticipating growth. We shifted to our new accommodation in Bombay (bustling city even during early 80s, two-wheelers were strict no on roads). Gradually, I began settling down in the new city in the midst of unknown people.
First thing in the evening, after coming back from my school, I would enquire whether Ma (mother) has received any letters from Dadu (grandfather) or not. Often, my desperation for his letters used to take me to nearest mail despatch section (inside the campus). His postcards had a unique look, neatly written using blue ink fountain pen (some of us might have seen but not have used), which reminded me how upset he was when I mischievously replaced his fountain pen with another ballpoint pen. His postcards were like bag full of gifts for me – they had information about every small thing I was attached to in my village. Starting from my fishing tool (unattended), about the little calf, the plant we jointly planted and watered. His letters, albeit brief were sufficiently detailed that after reading them I could exactly imagine and predict when and around what time he must have written a particular letter.
During next two years I could sense the expectancy and anticipation waning. Not the least because I was growing materialistic with the city, but I guess age was catching up with him. Now, he would manage to complete his letters over weeks and sometimes, even months, unlike earlier days when they were so much more frequent. At times, the completed postcard slept in between pages of his diary as he forgot to drop it in the mailbox.
All kids look forward to the month of May because for most of them last day of annual examination falls in that month. But for me it was the time that I did not have to wait for the postman for letters, instead only wait for the train to reach Kharagpur railway station. My fun days were again back, even if it was only for next 50 days. My grandparents were like genies who fulfilled all my wishes – protected me from scolding, beating (courtesy my parents) even if I did something wrong. Granny gave me the liberty of choosing what I wanted to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and everybody was supposed to eat the same. Today, I wonder how I kept myself absorbed in my own world of wonders that included sprinting behind the calf, plucking mangoes and dates, chucking pebbles at ducks near the pond and in between sneaking into granny’s kitchen, expecting some sweets. No sweets? Never mind I will be fine with fresh sugarcane jaggery.
As the village had no electricity, every evening neighbors and relatives would gather and share their stories of the year gone by. And it was the time for me to quietly slip into vicinity of my grandfather, listen to his stories from the past and retire under the quilt of his warm affection.
As all good things come to an end, so also my two-month stay with my grandparents. The days had gone by so fast and it was time for my return journey with the sweet taste of jaggery and even sweeter memories of the vacation lingering in my mind and consciousness. Again a long wait for next year May.
How right Horace Mann was when he said “Lost, yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever.” The only difference was that his two golden hours and sixty diamond minutes were, in my case, two golden months and sixty (almost) diamond days.
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