Growing old

When do you know that you have grown old? Is there a definite time, a particular stage or an age, the crossing of which makes you old? Or is it relative? Here, we make a small study into the matter:

1. Greying of hair and more importantly the beard: The most obvious physical manifestation of ageing and which can be and which is practically dismissed nowadays as being the result of a variety of contributing factors and not merely age.

2. There is a stage in life when you are the youngest one around. The youngest one in the group, often bullied and sometimes loved. Then you are the youngest in your class. You are the youngest to scale many heights at such tender age. Then age begins catching up. You graduate to a 'dada' (elder brother) from 'bhaiti' (younger brother). The status quo remains for sometime after which the number of people you call bhaiti increases exponentially compared to the ones you call dada. Then suddenly you graduate to 'Uncle'. It starts harmlessly enough. Some child sitting on his mother's lap on the adjoining seat in the bus calls you that. And then slowly, it becomes a recurring phenomenon occurring at an alarming rate! And when married people call you by names like 'dada' uncle etc., then it becomes outright scary!

3. My extended family is quite large. The family tree spread over almost seven generations is confined to a small area. This gives rise to certain intricacies. I remember an old man whom I saw and mentally made a note to call grandfather addressing my grandfather as 'grandpa'! That meant he was my elder brother. I was okay with that. But then I realised that he had two sons and even grandchildren! What did that make me? I felt ancient at the tender age of eight.

4. You see a college going student of the female species with attractive features. You follow her movements and are staring in rapt attention when your companion scolds you-"what the hell are you staring at? If you had married at the right time, your daughter would have been this age." Slightly off the mark, but true nevertheless. Sigh!

Growing old has its advantages too, nevertheless. But the memories of times gone by, of youth, of a carefree existence are hard to forget. Thats why we probably don't want to age, don't feel like giving way and that was why probably Bryan Adams sang 'Eighteen till I die'!

Broken Rear View Mirror

I had a fall today
And broke the rear view mirror.

I hadn't realised then
But later I realised
That many things had broken
When that mirror broke.

No bones, thankfully
I assure you.

First to break was my heart
Shedding tears over the mangled 'beast'

The cracked shard with its thousand pieces

Driving through the riff.

Also broke with it
Memories of many a pretty face
Glimpsed though for only a fleeting moment.

It also broke my wallet
And I am already broke!




PS: Post no. 101 :)

November Rain

Its November. And its raining. Plus, Axl Rose is crooning (?) in my ear the famous song from which this post derives its name.

There is nothing to write about. Nothing except the rain. It has been raining (almost) steadily the last two days. All kinds of rain are on offer. 'Cats and Dogs' rain, 'steady downpour', 'in-your-face rain', 'from-the-side rain', 'drizzle', 'guzzle' 'bamboozle'. 'Rain with lightning', 'rain without lightning', 'rain with/without thunder', 'rain from above', 'rain from behind', 'dripping rain', 'gripping rain'...

When it rains, one gets wet. And the roads get muddy. Your bike becomes muddy as do your jeans. Your shoes change colour. Hell, even the face doesn't escape the fine shower of dirt escaping from the rear wheels of a passing truck or bus.

The dust gives way to mud. The steady tap of the raindrops on the helmet is accompanied by the squishing sounds made by the tyres on the mud. And the splash of the puddles. And the frantic manoevering to escape the flying sprays of 'airborne mud'.

The red coloured mud is the worst. Its too slippery. And the Public Works Department (who never do anything beneficial for the public) use it to cover up the potholes. It is fine during dry days but rain turns it into a slippery mass of accident-causing stretch. My broken left rearview mirror is a souvenir of one such encounter.

And it gets cold when it rains. The paddy gets destroyed too (I'll leave this for knowledgable folks to explain and elaborate). Cases of asthma and COPD predominate in the hospitals. The total number of cases are low (today's count: four). Multicoloured, warm clothes on sight everywhere. Warm, inviting fires by the roadside and at homes.

The warmth of your bed, the inviting sight of the blanket. A book in your hands, music in your ears. Ahhh!

See you later!!!

A creature called Man

I was on my way from Pengaree to Digboi. In a crowded sumo. Hemmed on one side by a fat, smelly bloke and the protection of the flimsy door on the other, I hung on bravely. Thirty minutes, and all will be over, I told myself missing my trusty scooter which was languishing in a garage in Digboi scheduled for some much needed repair.

Some flashy new hindi song was running on the stereo and the driver was probably driving in sync with the music, deliberately (it looked thus to me) picking up potholes and making us bounce around. It was like a mad dance inside a confined space to the tune of a fast number.

All of a sudden the vehicle stopped. "Who in hell wants to take a leak now?" I thought mentally adding up the agony of opening the door, getting out and getting jammed inside again just like cattle been herded unceremoniously inside a pen. Add to that the loss of buttock space that the body had made for itself bringing it to a certain comfort level and the renewed efforts necessary to search for that same level again. But wait! No one has made a move. What happened? I look ahead and see a big, dark form on the road ahead, completely blocking the path. The elephant was playing around with a gunny bag with some rice in it, probably part of its loot from a raid on some neighbouring house in the village. It doesn't pay any attention to us, immersed in its game of 'twirling the gunny bag with the trunk and bringing it down to the ground'. (I hope the longish name befits the stature of an elephant and provides it legitimacy). The passengers were shocked. Many started praying. The person next to me was muttering the 'Hanuman Chalisa'. The other passengers asked for the elephant God's benediction. The driver lit up some incence sticks. The whole vehicle was enveloped in something indescribable- a mixture of religious fervour and of overwhelming fear. I was afraid too, specially considering my window-seat status. I too joined in.

After what seemed an eternity but which was actually a period of time approximately fifteen minutes long, the great beast moved on and disappeared into the bushes. No one knows whether that was the result of our 'religious appeal' or simply his getting bored with 'that silly game with the long name', but our road was clear. The passengers rediscovered their voices, the driver his song and me the bumps of the road.

Hardly two hundred metres down the road, the vehicle screeched to a stop. Caught in the glare of the headlights in the darkening gloom was a deer. It seemed startled and was frozen like that for a few seconds. 'Catch it!' someone shouted. 'Deer meat is really tasty' shouted another. 'I wish we could somehow capture or kill it', yet another voice shouted. Obviously you can't catch a deer sitting inside a Sumo wedged tightly one top of another, nor can you outrun it and neither can you kill it without any means at your disposal. The deer disappeared in the dense vegetation as soon as it had appeared.

Those two small incidents, spread over a distance of two hundred metres and a time of twenty minutes, gave me a remarkable insight into the human psyche. Looking at my co-passenger whose bottom overflowed over more than half of the four seats with the others (including me) wedged into the available space, I could just think about the oft repeated phrase-"Size does matter".


(Based on a true story told by Sharma Uncle)

Greybeard

Standing in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection, I was aghast.

They were there, all right. Tiny ones, barely visible but present. Try as I might and will them away, they wouldn't go. Repeatedly, I shut my eyes tightly only to find them there upon re-opening my eyes, glistening slightly as if making some lewd joke at me. The dying rays of the setting sun caught upon them and traveled to my shocked eyes providing a visual stimulus that started many a chemical reactions in my body and which probably terminated on reaching my mind producing a state of shock.

There are many things that may shock people. Bad news, extreme emotions, surprising revelations and the like. Only today did I realize that two tiny strands of glistening grey hair were also capable of providing that same response.

Its difficult to describe what I thought at that instant of time, whether I thought anything or not. On retrospection, I think it was probably the feeling that it was a reminder of sorts that time was running out that caused my startled reaction. Time to achieve something in my career, to pursue my interests, to do something worthwhile. All of it running out with me unable to do anything till now.

I am no stranger to grey hair. My hair started greying when I was in the seventh standard. Its not difficult concealing grey hair. Apply some dye or some colouring agent and voila! You are good as new, or maybe slightly different (if you use a colouring agent). But grey beard? How do you hide it?

I don't like shaving frequently and am no daily shaver by any means. And its difficult colouring your beard when you are going to shave it off in two-three days time exposing the glistening grey underneath. And I don't prefer longish sideburns too otherwise I could have got it dyed.

On the other hand, does it really matter that my beard is growing white? I am still the same person, with the same desires and wishes (the only difference being that they have been scaled down to fit my prospective budget and social standing). Decidedly older (and with grey beard to show for it:)) but in no way different or incapable. And aren't young girls supposed to be more impressed with older and mature looking guys?

Well, its for time to decide and tell (maybe I can also tell it through this blog) whether and in what way this grey beard, of which the two strands are just the sentinels, shall affect me, my thought processes and my life. Hopefully, it'll be for the better.

Amen!


(Inspired by Harishankar Parsai's 'Pehla Safed Baal')

Hot and Cold

Note: A reproduction of a Roald Dahl poem as recited to me and a friend by PP in a seedy bar in Shillong.

A woman who my mother knows
Came in and took off all her clothes.
Said I, not being very old
"By Golly gosh! You must be cold."
"No" she said, "Indeed I'm not,
I'm feeling devilishly hot!"


--Roald Dahl

MOTORCYCLE DIARIES

The journey: From Jagun to Kathalguri, a distance of 63 kms

The Vehicle: ‘The Beast’, a 150 cc black Bajaj Pulsar

The Pilot: Village Daktar Vinay de la Serna

The Co-pilot: His thoughts and his shadow.

The aim: to enlighten the populace about the goings-on within and without a great mind


I commute to work. From Jagun to Kathalguri. A distance of around 63 kms. I like the journey. Not so much for the view it affords as for the time I get for myself, alone with my thoughts. Thoughts that arise following some visual stimulus, transport me to a distant time and memory, thoughts that swirl in my mind leaving me sometimes elated and sometimes depressed. Thoughts…

The key is in the ignition. ‘The Beast’ roars to life. Gears change. I am on my way.

Not so far ahead I see the Sukapha Communion Archway. Memories evoke. Memories of someone dear. A meeting here. Never knowing what would follow. Times spent walking together along the dusty road listening to the non-stop chatter, the playful dance of the eyes, the heavy gesturing with the hands. The road is metalled now and she is far away. If only I could follow this road and not take the turn I have to take…

Schoolchildren. Walking along the road. In blue and white. That was what we wore in our time. Makes me feel old. Maybe I am old. I remember old times. Old friends and classmates. Amar, Kancha, Rajeev, Toto, Mintu, Radhe, Saten, Rakesh, Raju, Rasto, Ranjan, Brikesh, Yang, Aroona, Priyanka, Jitu…Old flames too…I wonder where they are. Both friends and flames.(I am not partial J)

A pretty girl zips past on a scooty. I get distracted. Should have spent more time in the present, I say to myself as I see her disappearing figure in my rearview mirror.

I cross some more familiar landmarks- a bank, a bazaar, a dilapidated cinema hall named after an American General after whom the road I am traveling upon is named. I overtake a few vehicles, let others pass, content at going at my own pace. I reminisce.

I reach Lekhapani. I see two somewhat new landmarks that I have already earmarked as possible questions for any quiz I get a chance to conduct. Hope it is soon.

A bump brings me back again. The stretch from Lekhapani to Ledo is under construction, full of potholes, partly gravel, partly mud. Its dusty when dry, muddy when wet. No respite either way. And if you are traveling in the wake of a truck, you don’t need a ‘buri nazar’ to have your ‘muh kaala’. It automatically is.

The stretch is somehow crossed. An inviting stretch of road lies ahead. ‘The Beast’ simply flies. An autorickshaw passes too close by. I swear. As Vinay Pathak says in ‘Dasvidaniya’ ‘Nayi nayi gadi li hai na, gaali bhi apne aap aa jayegi’.

Ledo bazaar. Seems slightly more crowded today. Maybe its bazaar day. All roads lead to the bazaar. As do the people. Thelawallahs, grocers with their wares on bicycles, autorickshaws. Even cattle seem to be headed that way. There seems to be a larger than normal crowd near the peepul tree. A continuous blowing of the horn combined with some skilful navigation gets me past and I take a breath of relief.

I reach a railway crossing. The speedbreaker slows me down. These monstrocities should be named ‘speedbumps’ instead. I remember reading somewhere that speedbreakers must be made according to certain specifications. Whatever they may be, they were certainly not consulted in making these monstrocities upon the road.

Some more familiar landmarks later, I reach Margherita. Named after an Italian princess- Princess Marguerite. Interesting how the name of an Italian princess came upon to be imparted to an Indian town in a British colony thousands of kilometers away. I wonder whether the Princess was even aware of the existence of such a place and what her reaction was to this piece of news.

I pass the market and the bus stands. I cross the Dehing river. Another railway crossing. This time I have to wait for the train to pass. A pretty face in the window. Was she looking at me? Looked like it. I was once on a bus going parallel to a train almost at the same speed and guess what? I was looking into the face of a pretty young thing and she into mine! Sadly, will it as I might, my bus had picked up speed and she was gone!

The barrier has lifted. Vehicles are surging ahead. Trying to get ahead in some rat race. A horn blares behind me. I move. A little distance ahead, I take the turn that will take me to my destination.

I move parallel to the Dehing river for sometime. There is some sort of a ‘ghat’ there. Must spend some time there on a free day.

More speedbreakers. Shyam cinema hall. A poster of a Salman Khan starrer that I missed. I actually am besotted with the lead actress’s twin assets as well as her chubby face ;). Alas! She is not even there in the poster! Sigh!

The landscape has changed. The urbane surroundings have given way to traditional tribal huts on both sides of the road. Vegetation abounds. The shadows are slightly chilly than the sunnier stretches. Winter is coming.

I take a turn and the vista suddenly changes. I am always mesmerized with the beauty of it. The road snaking its way forward, green paddy fields on both sides with a slight tinge of golden on top, the blue of the sky in the distance, interspersed with one or two shady trees is really a sight to behold. I feel like stopping and just sitting there but who can afford to do that?

I reach the memorial to a certain political leader. He was campaigning in the area for an upcoming election, I am told. Following a thunderous response to his election meeting, he was returning via this same road probably dreaming about a post in the cabinet, a ministry of his own when a hail of bullets hit his convoy. He died on the spot and someone else probably lived his dream- cabinet, ministry, flashing cars and all. All he got was some sandalwood that lit his funeral pyre. The futility of life impresses yet again upon me as I zoom past the memorial.

Lush green tea fields on both sides of the road tell me that I am nearing Pengaree. I have to take a right turn ahead and continue a further ten kilometers upon a road under construction to reach my destination.

Pengaree wasn’t the same ten years back. This whole area was a hotbed of militant activities. Following the surrender of a certain ‘battalion’ of the outfit, the activities have decreased, if not ceased altogether. Still, the road isn’t considered too ‘safe’ to travel alone. Only the last day, a car was held up and looted somewhere in the area. I drive past Pengaree. Two youths on a bike overtake me. The guy at the back looks back at me and says something to his friend. He continues looking at me off and on as I follow them. I become suspicious. Dacoits? Maybe. How does one know who is what? Or what one has in his mind? I let them put some distance between us and follow at my steady pace, a tad nervous.

I enter the forest reserve. Once I cross it, I am through. The portion of the road here is metalled too. Makes for a nice ride. Its only that this is an ‘elephant corridor’ and elephants routinely make use of their path during the winter months.

I stop. I have to take a leak. And I want more distance between myself and those two ‘nasty guys’. As the engine is turned off, there is silence all around. I can hear insects creaking, wind rustling in the trees- all those sounds associated with a jungle. It may be an auditory hallucination but I hear something that sounds to me like an elephant trumpeting. My work is done. I don’t waste any further time admiring the scenery. The Beast flies on.

I cross the two guys a little way ahead. Waiting for me? Suspicions rear head again. Still, they can’t catch me now. I am out of their reach. ‘The Beast’ is stronger, the road is good and I am almost home. Sorry, I am almost hospital.

I can see the tin roofed roadside store that is positioned just in front of my hospital. The road is a bit uneven here but it’s not far. The houses of the village loom on both sides of the road, the school is a bit further up the road and I can see patients waiting.

I turn into the hospital compound, find a shady spot for The Beast and enter the hospital.

Two hours later, I am back on The Beast. A new journey beckons. A new adventure. A new train of thoughts. A new experience.