Hullabaloo

This unprecedented entry comes as a surprise … yes, even to me. I linger in a genre that I have lately come to find refuge in—traffic. This sighting takes place in the midst of indescribable traffic, yet again, only establishing my recent belief that commuting today is more movement of my thoughts than of the four wheels that take me home. This one’s deep and it’s mainly to give vent to this morning’s anger.

Disclaimer: I am going to ramble on and convert that fraction of a second’s experience into an ‘I don’t know how long’ post.

It’s Monday morning. I get up like everyone else and am all geared up to challenge yet another week of rehearsed routine. Mentally numb and physically exhausted, I heave myself out of bed – an ordeal my dog simplifies with his constant face licks, drool baths, and sometimes suffocating doggy breath. A quick shower, a meticulous wardrobe selection, a steamy hot breakfast of bacon n eggs (thanks dad) and I’m running out of the house. It’s 7:47am on the clock.

I’m in the car, a little earlier than usual and therefore a little more relaxed. The usual company and easy music – this time it’s 4 non blonds’ ‘What’s up’. I’m headed to work with heavy reminiscences of things I did over the long weekend – interesting dinners, lots of guests, exciting drives, amazing music … hmmm… I’m driven to a stage of comfortable numbness with a strange mix of adrenaline-rushed moments and weighing-down fatigue. I make a stop; a rather unexpected one, one that surprises me—a church en route.

I am not the fanatically religious or ritualistic kinds although I’ve been brought up in a family that is uncomfortably tinted with tradition. I am more the spontaneous prayer maker – one of those kinds who seeks divine intervention only when life starts swerving out of control. So I stop my car, step outside and obliviously stroll into the main entrance.

The sudden calm of the dark interior enthrals me and instantly I find my refuge. It’s been a long time since anything close to religion captivated me; this time I like the feeling though it’s more for the inanimate structure rather than anything divine. I’m surrounded by this musty odour, an eerie silence, distant footsteps of probably the sacristan and a few odd humans in the front pews. There’s a cool draft breezing through, carrying with it whispers of solitude. My back feels bare. I feel the prickly stares of some scruffy beggars sitting outside the entrance. They wait there in anticipation, hoping that the good Lord showers on me the Good Samaritan essence so that I dole out a few expensive notes. I find solace in this otherwise uncomfortable enclosure. Uncharacteristically, I kneel and pray.

If I had to describe the feeling I walked out with, I’d be pensive for a while. But now in retrospect, I’d like to think of it as a subtle renaissance within me – the birth of a new emotion – not a religious one, but just one that simply nudges those who sleepwalk through an exhilarating life…hmmm… ‘la naissance’ or ‘birth’ of yet another kind…

But then there’s also the flip side of life – very simply called ‘death’.

So I’m back in the easy comfort of my car. I continue towards my destination, more by habit than by aim. My inanimate Sony Xplode continues what it is programmed to do—emotionlessly churn out anything that’s in sequence, irrespective of the mood of its listeners.

I continue to drive in the peaceful solitude. The light ahead of me turns amber and I mechanically hit the brakes. I stare ahead at the lights, watching calculatingly as the amber turns to red. Within my frame of vision there’s this regular biker. By regular I mean the kind that habitually breaks the signal. Through observation, I’ve learnt that in Pune, breaking traffic rules is a genetic inheritance almost. It isn’t a choice or decision anymore, or is it? I sense some scope for debate there (hmmm ... thought for my next post maybe...). Moving on—Of course he sees he’s lost his turn ‘cause there’s a red staring him in the face. But just like every day, he consciously ignores it. I silently admire his skills as he desperately weaves through the cars and bikes that have already begun to make their way across from the other side. Amidst the crowd, there’s this bike carrying two elderly men clad in dhotis—one carrying milk packets to a destination I will never know, and the pillion rider majestically gesticulating and chatting determinedly over the din. The two Nehru topis that I could see from my vantage point glided so smoothly in the crowd. Somehow, the two old guys made a cute sight. Mid-way, my sense of admiration is jolted and it renovates to shock! Mr. Smartass biker, while maintaining his speed despite the other commuters, rams into the two men. Of course, the impact is nothing I would ever pen down. It’s more a subconscious choice not to get into the details, rather than temporary amnesia. All I recall is a strange shade of bright pink that catches my eye amidst the havoc. The milk never quite got to that destination, the pillion rider’s chatter was never heard again, and our bright young spark who got thrown off his bike, got up in tears and stood there desperately scouring for the scratches that could somehow justify the murder. I would castrate him right there if I had the chance. Yes, I’m not shying away from expressing the first thought that crossed my mind. It is what I thought, and I can’t be bothered that it makes me any less human. I justify my savage thoughts. I saw death.

My light turns green. I can’t move. I can’t feel the warmth of my breath anymore. My heart skipped a beat for sure. Mom turns to me and asks if I’m alright. I nod.

I can still feel the cold steel pricks of death that penetrated my Getz’ metal exterior. The constant honks behind me urge me to put the car in gear. I do so. I can’t stop; or do I choose not to? I drive past the scene, as people begin to hammer, beat, and kick Mr. Smartass. Given their intensity, I think they killed him too. I would never know. The revenge is justified in my head... or is it?

There’s this eeriness lingering in the car. It’s the feel of death. I roll down my windows, as if to release the spirits within. I shudder. A minute later, the pink memory turns to black—a colour with which I associate all things evil, bad, and ominous—death too. I need air—some good clean fresh air.

So to you, my dear reader, would this post make you think twice before you break yet another red? Think hard. My savage thought of castration still stands.