I look at the endless queue of streetlights on Shanti Panth from one of the many windows of the crammed DTC bus where i sit privately, observing silently the surroundings, and my thoughts. They cast their soft yellow rays on the dark sleepy roads; roads which wind around like a world too preoocupied to look up and notice the tireless effort of the stars who brighten their concrete ebony nights.
The arrythmatic drawl of the DTC bus gives me a sense of disorientaion, as if im doomed to travel endlessly without a destination. The jerks of the bus allow my body to dangle forwards and backwards. I recieve this abuse in an unquestioning resigned state, almost agreeing with it. I want the bus to keep on moving for i am settled and though somewhat uncomfortable, in a patient pensive mood. I have known journeys to have that effect on me. They set in motion a series of unconnected thoughts; some triggered by the constantly altering scene at the window, while others just waiting for a moment of privacy.
As I heave an unhurried breath and continue to look at the calm and calamity of nature through my window, i glance at a young man at the Chanakyapuri bus stop. He is scrambling through the crowd to catch the 680 in which i sit. He wears an official double-knotted tie which stands out like a sore thumb on his trivial half-sleeved informal shirt. He looks quite ridiculous, actually. He has a bag that hangs haggardly due to the thrustings and jabbings from the crowd, on his lean side. He needs a haircut, i observe, and a shave. The crowd rushes past, over and through him towards the bus, and he fails to make it in for the bus is already tilting to one side with the weight of its passengers. The bus stops at the stop for less than a minute and as if like an old lady with arthritis getting up from her bed, starts again. I turn back to look at the young man. He stands with his now ruffled hair and haggard bag, with a sense of a totally wasted effort, and in the midst of the small dust storm that resulted from our bus, waits listlessly for the next one.
I dont know whether i am supposed to but i dont feel like feeling sorry for him. As i said, i am in a patient settled state. I resume my forwards and backwards rhythm and soon forget all about that man with an official tie. My own discrepancies and everyday struggles cloud my mind as the sky outside my window is overcast. Like a journey that will lead nowhere, i keep forming intricate patterns of thoughts in my mind. I look at the crippled beggar at the traffic signal, and feel a sense of empathy. Not only do i feel the poverty, i feel the handicap, to supercede my indignant position. Richness visits as an illusion of ample alms, mostly leaving me with a wretched realisation of my own inertia.
I think of love as all do at some point in their lives, as some do in all points in their lives.
I am thinking of an impossible dream that sits up propelled on its bed, waiting to sleep, waiting to be realised before even venturing into the vicinity of any further realisations. But something won’t let me dream my dream. It’s as if i must sleep with my eyes wide open like that mythological King who was cursed to die in his sleep.
With some effort, I heave another breath, instead of several short ones, and Judy Garland sings in the earphones plugged to my ears,
"Somewhere over the rainbow
Blue birds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why..oh why can't I?
A rain-drenched breeze meddles with my hair and heart as the bus picks up speed and turns a corner... I change the track to a less depressing one... The bus is emptier than usual now and everyone is drowsy around me. It’s not everyday that you get to sit alone in the bus without any mullered male figure pretending to not rub his presence into yours until you shift uncomfortably in your morsel of the tight space and try to deny him the silent and shameless euphoria as best as you could. I slide my legs down a notch in my seat, fold my arms, and tilt my head to the left, in alignment with the leaning of the bus, and rest it on the sill...
I know if I close my eyes I will soon give in to this rare comfort and doze off to sleep, which is something I avoid, for I don’t want to wake up looking into the eyes of strange men hovering over me, having taken me to the recesses of the city to probably be held for ransom, or raped, or both. So I shake myself up into my seat, put an upbeat track and sit uptight pretending to be alert when all I want to do is close my eyes and let the Devil care. I disallow myself unwillingly the luxury of such becalming foolishness. My eyes are heavy with tiredness and defiance; the many crimson furrows on their edges are like the fissures on the road on which the bus uncertainly carries its weary body. The patience with which i began, and bore the journey till now, begins to abandon me.
I am wearing my narrow-bottomed jeans which are much in vogue. As my forced discipline turns into crankiness, I pull at the tight ends of the jeans and stretch their mean mouths, which appear to be feeding on me all of a sudden. I want to change into my skirt which I can picture lying folded in my cupboard, I picture myself in it, breathing and twirling freely. But home is still another world, a far dream.
I feel like a neglected child whose mother forgot to feed her and is off to a kitty party. I want some one to help me change into something easy and soft, then take me into their arms, caress my face with a warmth that my cold cheeks have not yet encountered, which therefore might even burn them, and rock me gently forwards and backwards, forwards and backwards, forwards and backwards, and put me to a deep sleep...
My eyes brim up with the very thought of such gentleness, softness and love. I dont want the responsibilty of this maturity. I think of that limbless beggar at the red light with a piece of cloth spread in front of him.
I wonder how many deep breathes away is my stop. A couple of minutes later, I finally reach the Central Secretariat metro station, the Lutyen’s Delhi is a sigh to behold. Lush green foliage surrounding neat smooth roads, the overwhelming Parliament house looking straight into the eyes of India Gate at the distance. Add to it a light drizzle and the setting sun, and you can not suppress a sigh at the wonderful amalgamation of nature and the intelligence of human design.
I get down carrying a heavy bag and heart. The metro is unusually crowded for the Jahangirpuri to Central Secretariat line has been extended to Huda City Centre. I squeeze myself in the metro which at times appears to me to be the symbol of an absent-minded mankind, technological grotesqueness and an impossible insufficient existence. I think of a catroon series I loved to see on TV as a kid, Jetsons, who lived in the outer-space and worked under oxygen globules...with space-scrapers and flying saucers zooming past and many blinding blinking lights and gadgets and other technological hurly burly.
I wish to go outside in the rain and trees from the stench of air-conditioned technology in this confined stuffy space. I am getting worked up and nauseated, thinking of simpler times before mobile phones, and metro, and an evolved consciousness. I feel like an adult which I scarce let me feel and I feel burdened with an unknown responsibility, probably my own. The bag on my shoulder is heavy with my lunch, my books, and other useless knick-knacks. I shift my weight from one leg to another impatiently and still have about 18 stations to cover. All I can think of is soft clothes and warm hands on my cheeks and begin to feel like an unappreciated housewife.
I look around at the crammed human race in this compressed artificial space. I avert my eyes in annoyance, unable to avoid them. The lanky boy with his headphones plugged in his ears taps his feet intermittently; the old man with the salt-pepper hair with his white sports shoes and white kurta-pyjama staring at his wrinkled hands seems like an old street dog past his prime, the fat girl with red cheeks and a ridiculously body-hugging t-shirt is like a prisoner in her own body, the middle-aged man in the formal corporate attire with his blackberry is like a robot... You all are empty and you are blind and you all are ill. And if it was for me I would have this entire metro along with me in it blown in...
“Excuse me, do you want to sit?”
I am interrupted by a young boy. He has a large set of curious eyes that cast a soft gentle light on my concrete pale face. I think of the Shanti Path street lights. I think of the stars. I am already palpitating being stopped short in the middle of my frothing invective on mankind. The tired yet insistent frown on my forehead evens out as I look at him. He must’ve seen me massaging my neck and shifting my weight from one leg to the other uncomfortably.
I look at him, taken aback, as he waits for an answer unlike the rest who are waiting for my denial so as to pounce on the golden seat, while staring at me in bewilderment. Suddenly it feels as if my hard bitter carapace has melted and lies in a pool of water on the metro floor. I fumble for a second or two...and at last give him a stingy yet polite smile saying, “Thank you so much, but I can stand”.
And then, i could.
