A Bus Journey

 The Trins school bus truly is a strange thing. Snarling through the morning mist, it suddenly pops into view down the highway, tinted purple windows reflecting the faces of gawking locals, men and children alike. In a country where the word “bus” conjures memories of suffocation and sharing intimate space with all sorts of folk, the Trins bus is eerily empty. On the days that the air conditioner-a dust, aging plastic hulk set in the back- actually works, drafts of cool, vaguely anti-septic-smelling air assault you the moment you step in. After you find an empty seat to sit on (they are all empty save one), you pull a book out of your bag, straining to read in the blue-filtered morning light as waves of fatigue almost instantly wash over you. As the bus works its queer magic, you find the book slipping out of your hands. The incessant roar of the old diesel engine and the shrill honking outside keep you from nodding off entirely, but you enter a twilight between true sleep and wakefulness, a kind of trance. Slowly, you become one with the bus. Your hair merges with the cool glass panels, so much so that a slight bump on the road will give you the feeling that your hair is being ripped from the scalp, all at once. Your feet melt into the steel flooring, warmed gently by the latent heat of the right tyre pushing hard against the road, as if it were a lover locked in an armless, unending embrace with its beloved.

By now, the bus seems to have left behind all normal time frames. As ages, seconds pass by, bizarre echoes of the translated Turkish novel you were reading whisper strange phrases about finding meaning, reading faces.

The ordeal (and it is indeed an ordeal, a test of one’s patience waiting for the timeless, of waiting to arrive at a destination beyond all horizons, past the bounds of infinity) is over only when the conductor’s insistent shaking wakes you up, his mask of impatience belying the countless times he waited for you at your bus stop, forgiving you for oversleeping, having homework, being sick, and just being lazy. As you finally step out of the bus, the vibrant and loud sounds, colours, scents of the outside world nauseate you; hit you like a slap on the face. The now quiet hulk of the bus waits behind, patiently waiting to take you on another journey beyond space and time.

Fate

Bleak. That was about the only word which could describe my world right now. Everything was drained of colour. I stared into nothingness, the pain aching to the very core of myself. As I came closer and closer to her, the pain would increase. I was drawn inexorably towards her and could do nothing to prevent it. A voice within asked Is it really worth it? If you want to hurt yourself, there are so many easier ways to do it. Don't you understand? But another one, darker replied: No, you want this pain. You enjoy it and you are going to smile as it rips apart your flesh and grinds your bones to a pulp. What could I do? I was sinking into that hole, as if into quicksand, and I knew not what was on the other side of it.
I looked up at the sky and asked, “God, why is this happening to me?” He ignored me. I asked again, “What have I done to deserve this, God?” Still He was impassive.
In rage and desperation, I shouted “You sick, perverted bastard! Do you enjoy watching me suffer? Do you like it? Is that why you are doing this to me!?” Finally, He turned his head down towards me and spoke with a voice rumbling with the echoes of thunder. “Listen to me, and listen very carefully. For any happiness I choose to grant you upon this earth, you must bear ten times its weight in sorrow. This is the only way that you can realize how precious it is, how I can take it back from you again in the blink of an eye, leaving you with nothing. You will take it for granted otherwise, this I know.
She will reject you again and again and again. She will ignore you and she will get angry at you for no reason whatsoever. If you truly love her, you will take the silences and harsh words in stride. If you truly love her, then when she says no to you for the thousandth time, you will ask once more, for perhaps her tongue may slip on the thousandth and first. It should not matter to you in the slightest if she is within arm's reach or on another continent. You will wait not for a day or a week, but for months, years, decades if you truly love her. If I made this easy for you, you would take her and her love for granted. You would never realize their full worth and you would exchange them like a pair of clothes, once they were both old and worn.
Let me tell you this-you are not choosing an easy path. Ask yourself for once “Do I doubt my faith in her?” Ask yourself seriously. If you do not feel that you have the strength to make it down this path, then step off of it now. But know this, if you truly love her and ignore this path, you will forever be dissatisfied. You will be dissatisfied as a boy, and you will grow up to be a dissatisfied man. You will age into a dissatisfied elder and when your ashes are finally scattered in the Ganges, your soul will not rise up. It will drown itself in the murky waters, seeking an escape from the regret. Know that I reward faith generously. This winter may last for years and years, but if you can endure it, know that spring will blossom, and that summer in its rich greenery will be yours. You will get what is yours if you have but the faith and perseverance. You will see the light. This is the truth.” And with that, He turned away from me, to once again contemplate His cosmic mysteries. It was then that I realized it: It was not a hole I was falling into. It was my very fate.

Eulogy for the gods

One of my first poems...it's been quite a while :)


‘Tis truly a sad day for the gods of yore,
When Zeus and Jove, lords no more,
Are swept away by industry galore.
When Quetzalcoatl asks not for blood sacrifice,
But lies dormant at the bottom of a rocky precipice.
When the breath of Amaterasu slows,
And archer Yu lays down his bow.
Forever it seems, as the winds blow.
‘Tis truly a sad day for the gods of yore,
When Vishnu and his seas of milk,
Are washed away by hoardings of gold and silk,
When Nataraj stumbles and Fate takes a tumble,
‘Tis truly a sad day for the gods of yore.

The Thundercloud’s story

There he comes again, the bastard! That bloated, puffy black monster…

The sky is a deep blue today, the air so clear you could pull a glass through it and drink it right down. Except for him. Don’t you see him, crouching like a malcontent astride the horizon? He wants to ruin everyone’s day, of that I’m sure. Look, he’s getting closer and closer. And bigger.

We all know what a thundercloud does, don’t we? One of natures saddest…and most irritating creations. When he comes, he’ll cause a ruckus in the middle of the night. He’ll cut your electricity supply. If he’s in a bad mood, he might just zap a few rich golfers back at Golf Links. His ugly, bloated face turns the whole sky black… all in all, not the kind of fellow you’d want to befriend.

But really, is destruction all he’s good for? I’ve heard that everything in the world comes in shades of grey, some just a darker shade…

When the wheat fields in Punjab and Haryana cry out for water, doesn’t he come running with all speed? And if in his haste he spills some water over our big cities, can we really blame him? He’s only trying to help after all. When children in Africa call out for a single sip of water, more precious to them than all the diamonds in the world, who answers their prayers? Do they not look up in awe and gratitude at that hideous black splotch in the sky?

We people used to love him so much… The Aztecs would skin their own brothers and sisters, wear the skins and dance about, just to get his attention. They knew he was the only reason their crops grew. The only reason they were still alive…but what about today? Rain rain go to Spain come again another day? And if they could, they would drive him out, even from Spain because he makes it less comfortable for their precious tourists. Where is our gratitude for him, our savior? What does that say about us as people?

It speaks eloquently about just how shallow we are. We can’t help but look down on someone if he’s dark, squat, and ugly even if we depend on him for our very existence. We call him a nuisance, we isolate him, make him a pariah.

 Unwanted by all.

But think for once, could we really live without the thundercloud? There are some places on this earth which so tried his patience that he abandoned them. The Atacama. The Sahara. The Antarctic. In those places, the blue sky reigns, but she is a cold mistress. She hasn’t a care for those who live beneath her, and in due time, all life below her would die out if it wasn’t for the thundercloud. We talk about her beauty so much that it’s become a cliché, but like all beautiful women, the clear blue sky is black at heart. Our dear thundercloud may not look quite so appealing in contrast. Sure, he is rough around the edges. Of course, his complexion is not awe inspiring. He can be tedious and loud at times, but he has a heart. Before he leaves, he shares what little he has with him. He drizzles his very lifeblood over our hills and valleys that we humans may prosper, and when he finishes, he departs, little more than a wisp. He never asks for anything in return. He’s never jealous of his beautiful sister, but we pay him no heed.

For once, can we not welcome the thundercloud with open arms and smiles on our faces? After all, he is our true lord and savior, the one who sustains all and never asks for anything in return.

A Start?

I don't know why I am writing this now. For god knows how long, reading a blog, any blog, leaves me with a tear welling in my eye, the taste of a dairy milk chocolate, and the faintest scent of lemon in the air. They say love smells of roses, but to me, it smells of lemons, cleaner, sharper, harsher. When grasped too tightly, the thorns of a rose may cut your palm, drawing rivulets of blood, but only a lemon's sting can draw the tears from your eyes. The scent of lemon lingers for days, weeks, months, an insubstantial whisper, fleeting as a glimpse of woman through a harem curtain. For months and months, I had wandered in the darkness, my heart blinded, with only the vague promise of an eventuality after her silence ceased, to keep myself on my feet. It made me think a lot. It made me write, as I never had. The taste of chocolate and the scent of lemon can make you do a lot of things. Perhaps it's time now to share what goes on the recesses of my mind when I'm in a reflective mood. Perhaps something interesting lies there. Perhaps not.