On the banks of Ganga.

Ganga gushed by noisily. Annoyed by how men were trying to tame her. She tickled and teased the little stones in her path, coaxed them to flow with her. They saw the lovely Ganga. Some of them heartily agreed and others were persuaded. She tickled and teased and coaxed. With the bigger ones she was different. She lashed out at them and crashed into them. They were challenged. How dare they stand in her path? Her swells and sways shook them. Creamy white foam tried to wave peace flags around them, constantly, pointlessly. They saw the ferocious, angry Ganga. She lashed out and she crashed into. 

And now men were trying to tame her. They brought in their petrol giants that whirred and whistled. They worked all day and all night and built grey walls around her. She mocked them. She was black and she was white but she was not grey. They loved her when she was white and pure and loving, they took dips in her to purify themselves. They lit giant Aartis to appease her. They prayed and wished and built temples and loved her. But then they had seen her angry and black. When she was unleashed. Even Lord Shiva’s careful restraint had not been enough. She had evilly crashed into them. Their giant cement jungle lay in ruins, their carefully constructed lives were ruined in moments. She diluted the colours that they had drawn on her banks, yellow and blue and grey and pink, she had challenged their walls to stand and she had run through them unchallenged. There was no yellow and blue and grey and pink anymore, just the black watery angry eyes of Ganga and disappointed, angry, and afraid eyes of men. Afraid. She had rejected their Aartis and prayers, so now they were building their greys around her. “Let us tame her!” they said and brought their machines and mountains of grey. “Let them try”, she smiled gently as she gushed by noisily.

The cold February winds of Uttarkashi blew the Ganga spray onto the banks and the Sun played hide and seek from behind the clouds as he walked by. He fell in love with rivers and talked to them and heard the call of the mountains, or so he claimed. His dark green shirt billowed in the wind, like a triumphant king’s flag. His black aviators were tucked in inside his t-shirt, which had Batman staring out of it. His much worn, dusty dust coloured cargoes hugged his legs. He walked like the Earth belonged to him. His shoes had tasted the water of Narmada and the dust of Mumbai. They had feasted on the sands of Kanyakumari and the snow of Himalayas. They had pressed the accelerator pedals as his vehicle flew through the roads of Kutch and had squealed underneath his feet at innumerable airports. They had been stomped on in Dadar railway station and muddied in the Shivaji Park dust whirlpools. They had Starbucks coffee spilled on them in Connaught Place and they had smelt the smell of masala doused dahi vada in Indore. His shoe knew beef and pork and chicken and fish, dal and paneer and gobi and aloo, raw and fried and marinated and grilled, rum and vodka and beer and whiskey. His passport had stamps from the places he had seen and smelt and known. His laughter was a booming trumpet announcing his joy and his lit up smiling eyes had crinkles for company. He talked of places he had gone to, people he had met and forgotten, and things that he had seen and done. His eyes looked like they had seen, and knew. They darted and dashed and soaked in the sights, stowed them away in deep corners, stashed away in neatly arranged folders in his mind, for reference, to talk like a man who knew. He stared ahead, meeting every eye that met him and walked like the Earth belonged to him.

Her hair was a neat ponytail. Her colourful salwar was hidden by her grey sweater, only she knew her colours. She had knit them herself. She had fingers for knitting, her mother always told her. The same cold wind shook her thin wiry frame. The same Ganga spray kissed her face gently making her blush deeper. She didn’t talk to rivers, or mountains. Her feet moved with measured and strong steps, mountain woman steps, firm and soft, hard and gentle all at once. Her eyes were fixed on the road, once in a while she look up to meet known faces. She folded her hands at known faces “Bhaiji Pranaam” “Didi Pranaam”, her soft voice was barely audible and Ganga took her fair cut from every noise in her vicinity anyway. She had never left her home town, not even to go to Dehradun. The plains were dangerous. Dangerous men and dangerous things lurked in every corner. The men of the plains would do anything to make an extra buck. Not like the men of the mountains. She had been told. She was afraid. Her laughter was the pitter-patter of a summer rain, it was the March time snowfall softly falling and fading away quickly in the warm sun. The town didn’t have a Tandoor! Shangri-La Hotel owned by Damodar bhaiya served continental and Chinese when the tourists were in town, with skin white as milk and an English that she could never understand. She didn’t even own a passport. Her warm shy eyes scanned the crowd for people she had to say pranaam to. They barely met the eyes of strangers. Kids from her computer class ran up to her and she messed up their hair. Her hands, hardened from the daily struggles of the mountain life, were gentle on the little kids as she swooped them up to kiss. Cold wind trails and sweater dust sculpted momentary sculptures, gifts to gravity, lost for ever, as the kids travelled in the air, safe in her hands. The street outside the computer classes was filled with laughter, her soft snowy laughter and the maddeningly joyous laughter of children. She stopped playing and walked in. Her eyes didn’t seek anyone and her steps were firm and strong.

He walked into her little office. He asked her about the classes. She told him about the classes. He asked her about the kids. She told him about the kids. He nodded his head knowingly and smiled with approval. His eyes lit up and his crinkles came and went. Her lips curved into pretty arches and her musical voiced sang and swam. He asked her if she had travelled anywhere. She asked him about his travels. He spoke of love and wonder and smell and taste. She spoke of her fear of travel and of her small town. He spoke of strangers. She spoke of friends.

A little bird flew out of its nest and fluttered its wings. It fell a few feet and then flew away. The roar of Ganga muted the songs that it sang. It longingly looked back at the nest but kept flying. Another little bird peeped out from the nest and wondered what the big bad wide world held for it but stayed put.

His eyes seeked her eyes out. Blazing confidence met soft and shy and quietly strong. He wished for her life and her innocence. She wished for his life and his stories. Ganga smiled.

He smiled and walked out, like the Earth belonged to him. She sighed and went back inside teaching her children, her steps were firm and gentle. And Ganga gushed by noisily, annoyed by how men were trying to tame her.

An Incomplete Love Affair.

The first time I saw her was from the window of a train. Chugging along at 150 kmph in the midst of nowhere in Gujarat. Coetzee’s Disgrace lay forgotten on my lap and music played into the ears, ignored. Distractions. I had my head on the glass window and the world outside flew by in a blur. Fumes from the IRCTC tea cup swirled and fumed and shouted to be consumed. Loud, colourful Gujarati’s chatted in tongues unknown. My deep thought face was glued on firmly as I zoned in and out of semi-consciousness. And then suddenly, there she was. She was like this thin, fragile girl reading a book and sipping a cup of coffee. Alone. Hand on chin. Engrossed. Thin. Fragile. Calm. Short hair sliding and covering her eyes. Slide-Fall-Tuck in-Slide-Fall... But there was something about her. You know when she looks up and shakes her hair and you get a look at her kohl lined wild eyes. Her magnetic, powerful eyes. Her coaxing, inviting, daring you to make a move eyes. Her breathtaking eyes. My wide, admiring, hopelessly lost eyes. The train rushed through a bridge swinging and swaying and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. A few metres past the bridge, half hidden in bushes half showing, was a yellow board with her name on it. River Narmada it announced.  I turned around and our eyes met again. “Would you?” she seemed to ask, daring me. Oh, I was hopelessly in love already.

What I wouldn’t give to jump off a bridge and be lost in her at that moment!

The second time. I walked shirtless and shoe-less onto the ghat and there she was again. Flowing. Rushing by without a bother. Untamed. The brutal March Sun bore down on me and red hot cement burned my feet. The Maharaj thrust a metal pot in my hand and asked me to fill it up with water. I walked alone towards her. Little children begged for money as their mothers waited and watched from afar. Hawkers sold coconuts wrapped in sequined red cloths. Maharajs preyed on men offering to help them pray. Women washed clothes at one end of the ghat. Sadhus prayed to the Sun God and chanted sacred mantras half immersed in water. Cows walked along. “Zyada gehre paani mein mat jaana. Tairne jaane waala nadi nahi hai!” The Maharaj’s voice echoed in my head. Do not venture too deep, it is not a river you can swim in. I looked at her and looked up at the Maharaj, head covered in scarf, flustered. “Jaldi”. Faster. I pulled my white dhoti up to my knees and stepped in. First step. Cold. She wasn’t ignoring me anymore. Second step. Cold, fast, shimmering waters played above my ankles. Cajoling, playfully dragging me along. Third step. Knees. Pulling you away. Oh. Irresistible. Fourth step. Wet dhoti. “One more step and I will take you away” she whispered. Her playful kohl eyed eyes. Magnetic, powerful kohl eyed eyes. My tired and weary and teary eyes. I splashed her on my face and filled the pot. “Another time.”  I whispered and meant it with all my heart. And she knew I did.

“A bath in Ganga purifies you. A drop of Yamuna’s water washes away all your sins. The sight of Narmada purifies you.” The Maharaj had informed me, full of surety. This I would like to believe.

The third time. Crank-Crank-Crank. The diesel engine on the make shift motorboat spluttered to life. Coughing and panting and struggling to shake off the inertia. The wizened old boat man smiled a toothless smile at me as the engine got up and running and settled to its loud machine gun ratatatat sound routine. And off we went on our quest to get lost in her. Ratatatatat. Finally. “Kahan jaaenge? Kya irada hai?” he enquired. Where to? What intentions? I didn’t know. “Thoda ghumao. Phir nahane layak koi accha jagah jaenge?” I offered. Let us go for a spin and then take me to a place where I can take a bath. He nodded knowingly and started singing loud Gujarati songs. His face was a dried river bed. His beard flowed conically into a beautiful sharp end. His haunting voice rose above her splish splash and the boat’s ratatat. 

This is the sangam he pointed out in between. Narmada, Orsung and Gupt Saraswati… We were deep inside her and I was lost. At the Sangam water whirled and whirled and made pretty dimples on her face. Dangerous, inviting dimples. We spluttered to a stop and he dropped the makeshift anchor of the makeshift motorboat and took out his beedi roll. “Ye acchi jagah hai. Main dekh lunga. Aap tair lo.” This is a good place for a swim. I will watch out for you. “Dhik hai kaka!” Okay, uncle. The toothless grin again. The dry riverbed in his face drying a little more. Deep drags from the beedi. The riverbed turning into whirlpools in his cheeks from the effort. Puffs of smoke. The riverbed reappears. Loud singing. I was down to my trunks now. Ready for her. Finally. She smiled and winked and swirled and danced by and our eyes met. Her kohl lined powerful eyes. My smiling excited eyes. I took a deep breath and dived into her.

“I have you now!” she laughed loudly as she swept me away. “Yes you do! And there is no one happier than me about it!” I laughed with her. She pushed and pulled and tugged and tossed. Playfully. Effortlessly. I let her. Her cold embrace ran through me. I could see and touch her river bed. Colourful. Pretty little pebbles littered in a beautiful random pattern. I was breathless. And we laughed together. Euphoria. Breathless euphoria. I emerged far away from the boat and swam back. I had her now. And she had me. Narmada. Feisty. Powerful. Lovely.

This love affair is not over. Definitely not.

Fever.

Running water, gurgling like a small happy baby. Splish splash of water on the face. The trusted Casio on his hand slowly ticking past 1130 on a Tuesday morning, getting wet. All the dirtied, with slowly deposited dust, men’s beauty cream sachets caught in the splish splash. Wet. Splish splash splish splash. He looks up at the mirror. Not a happy face. Red eyes. Dark over-sleep circles under the eyes. Red eyes. Feverish eyes. Under-eye circles mingling with the childhood scar under the eye. Big under-eye circles, socializing with scars. Illicit. Unacceptable. The high society of the face disapproves. Palm cupped in from of the face, he directs morning breath onto his face. Ugh. Beer and morning smell mingle. Ugh. Nobody approves, not even the scar and circle approvers. He runs his fingers through his hair. Dry. Now wet. Slowly receding hairline. Inching. Slyly plotting, unobserved. dy/dt=m. Bastard. He absentmindedly scratches the two-day beard. Splish splash. Brushes his teeth. Good upper line of teeth. Like his father’s. Crooked lower line. Like his mother’s. Polishes the brushing off with a good swig of mouthwash. Anti plaque it promises. Lies. Hand cup again. Pepperminty breath smell mixing with fever smell now. Pleasant. Lynyrd Skynyrd singing of Alabama on small twin USB speakers connected to a phone. He feels his forehead. High temperature. Lymph nodes. Swollen. Nasal cavity. Blocked. Breathing. Weary and ragged. Goddamn fever he mumbles. He pushes the mirror on top of the stained dish. Click. It swings outwards. Medicine cabinet. He picks and chooses. Paracetamol. Feels temperature. 650 mg. Good. Cetzine. Erythromycin tablet. Swig and gulp. Swig and gulp. Swig and gulp. Him. Me. Bachelor. Engineer. Self-medicator. Work skipper. Feverish. Click. Splish splash splish splash. He turns off the tap. The gurgling baby is asleep. Happy sleep.

Axl Rose wants you to take him to Paradise City. Outside, someone called his friend a sister violator. Sister violator and friend laugh together. Someone is a crazy fucker and a sister violator says sister violator. More laughter. He slumps on his bed. The wobbly fan wobbly-ly rotates. Hot air. The phone buzzes. Axl Rose waits. The buzzing stops and Axl Rose resumes. Well wishers wanting to know how he is. Concerned mom wanting miscalls every hour to ensure that he is not dead. Pretentious people pretending to care. A connected world. Far too connected, far too concerned. He can’t sate everyone. He has his favourites. He calls his mom and replies a few. Axl Rose is done now. His fingers brush the arrow. Grace Slick sings. Seductive.

He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. Someone and his friend are inventing new violations outside. Gross. Fun. Guilty. Gross. Fun. Laughter. Sleep descends. Like curtains in a show. Velvety, with fringes. The characters bow. Only the flashy lightbulbs on the sides flash. The lights come on and everyone leaves. But backstage, the show goes on.

Backstage. He is thin now. Scrawny. Scrawny little boy. Kicking stones. Reined in, because he’s holding her hand. No, holding her finger. With a beautiful gold ring with a black stone. The stone rotated in it’s hold. Reined in like him. But moving. Kicking and punching. His mother and him. Everybody knows them. She nods at people. “Doctorinte aduthu povuva”, she says. Going to the doctor. He has fever. He looks up at them. Normal hairline. Close cropped hair. Little soldier. Red eyes. Fever eyes. He smiles and sniffles. Good front teeth, just like his father’s. They walk past the local grocery store, past the STD booth, past the petrol pump, past the tyre puncture shop, past the cycle repair shop, past the goldsmith’s. “Doctorinte aduthu povuva”, she tells everyone. Smiles and nods and sympathies. The little boy smiles. The black stone in the ring rotates. Reined in, both of them.

She is pretty. Not thin anymore. Motherly hips. Elegant. Head held high. Easy smile. Graceful. Social. Classy. Not concerned about him. Proud and sure of herself and her family. The housewife. Family runner. Has a dressing sense about her. Beautiful. They reach the clinic. He sniffles. She wipes off snot from his nose. Hand kerchief has pink flowers and frills. Girly, like Susan’s from school he thinks. Sniffle, wipe, sniffle, wipe. “Oh stop it, we are here now!” Sniffle, rough wipe, no sniffles.

A blue walled building greets them. Doctor Ramachandran’s Homoeopathic Clinic it announces. Bold red letters on a white board, and the plus sign which is mandatory for anything medical. There is a foldable board announcing the same outside. Dr. Ramachandran and Dr. Vijayan R, the board announces, followed by long acronyms singing of their academic conquers in the field of Homoeopathy. Opera music, to the sound of sad violins, shattering glasses, making people happy, and sad. We were here to meet Vijayan doctor. He was gifted, people said. A healer. People from far far away came for his appointments because of this reputation. He was a tenant at my mother’s sister’s house so we could get appointments any time. So here we were, to meet Dr Vijayan, the healer. Sniffle, wipe.

The doctor comes out of his room to see off his patient. “Ah chechi, vannolu”, he says (Ah elder sister come in). Haha. So we go in. He is short. [5’ 2”-5’ 4”]. Yes, square brackets. He smelt of santoor powder and had the sane, good natured laugh of a sane good natured man. He left his mothers hand. The ring breathed. The stone stopped turning. Abandoned. “Come, sit here”, Dr Vijayan says pointing at the steel chair smiling his sane, good natured smile. It is his favourite part. He runs to the chair, reserved for the patient. High chair. Like a bar stool. But he didn’t know what a bar stool was then. Dr Vijayan feels his forehead. High temperature. Lymph nodes. Swollen. Nasal cavity. Blocked. Breathing. Weary and ragged. His shirt is lifted and the cold stethoscope touches naked skin. Shiver. Dr Vijayan smiles at the boy “Oh it’s nothing chechi, only a small fever. It will be gone in two days. I’ll give some tablets though.” The boy smiles at Dr Vijayan and looks at his mom. She nods, well done son, nod.

Dr. Vijayan goes behind the curtains to prepare the medicines. Sweet little white balls in a transparent bottle to be had thrice a day. Four at a time initially then three then two as the fever recedes. If it doesn’t go away in three days then come back. The brown curtain is dusty, the wind makes it crack like a whip. Dust particles are thrown off. Inertia lost. The cream Ajanta clock on the wall moves slowly. Tick tock tick tock. Samuel Hahnemann’s photo on the wall, sitting comfortably alongside Mahatma Gandhi, Karl Marx and Lord Ayyappa, smiles back at you. The father of homoeopathy, it informs you. Saamuvell Haahenehmahnn, the little boy whispers to himself. His mother smiles. The doctor returns and gives him the bottles. “Sheri Vijayan, nammal poyittu varam”, she tells him. Okay Vijayan we will go and come back. As if we all look forward to coming to homoeopathic clinics. Doctor Vijayan smiles and comes out to wave goodbye. The santoor smell stays with us for a while. Then it is lost in the wind. He is holding her finger again. The black stone twists and turns. Stones are kicked. Nods. Smiles. “Doctorine kandu”. We’ve seen the doctor.

An alarm goes off. The curtains go back up. The show starts. The lights dim. An application made by a Russian is asking him to go attend a Production Meeting. Stupid thing doesn’t know he is a work skipper. He rubs his eyes and looks in his Casio. 1555 it tells him. Grace Slick stopped singing for him a long while ago. Kids are playing outside. The violations have ended. Family time has begun. 12 calls from a concerned mother and a million messages. He sates the people first. He gets up, stretches and walks to the bathroom. Red, fever eyes stare back. The circle and star are still at it. He mumbles a few obscenities. He remembers the homeo tablets and the santoor smell and the pepper water that was waiting at home. He remembers the gold ring and the black stone and the gaudy paint on the clinic walls. He remembers Susan’s handkerchief. Splish splash splish splash. Swig. Gargle. Spit. Click. Swig. Gulp. Check smell. Marilyn Manson is now telling you that some of them want to abuse you. Splish splash splish splash.

Place.

She was nervous as she heard the approaching footsteps. She was awaiting his return, but afraid that it was someone else. Her nervous eyes sought him. And when she saw him her eye lashes battered and she laughed. Nervous laughter. She was happy and relieved that it was him, that he had returned, that he hadn’t given her away to someone else, that it would be his warmth that she would feel tonight. She had been afraid. He hadn’t come for days and many times she wondered if she had lost him forever. But there he was.

His heart jumped when he saw her. He felt special. The knowledge that she wanted him more than anyone else lit up his face. He had gone away and had seen many like her but then she was special, there was no competition. She was the one. The only one. He was tired; twelve hours on the road don’t do good things to your body. He cosied up and smelt her smell, drank it in, it was familiar, God he missed it, it reminded him of all the good times they had had together. It gave him a high. She was cold and soft… satin. He hugged her tight, like he never meant to let go again, and she hugged back, like she understood what he was saying. He nuzzled her, tickling, she laughed and twitched but let him do it. He knew that she liked it. He cuddled her and closed his eyes as she slowly massaged him to sleep, warmth slowly spreading through his body. Winds howled outside and the big bad world awaited him come morning, but as he slowly lost consciousness he thought….

…There is no place like your own bed.