An Indian Road...

Under the shadowy shade of a series of trees lining the road, I am standing on the pavement waiting for my cab. Buses, trucks, small cars, scooters are moving democratically over the road. Every vehicle is trying to proclaim its existence through a distinct sound, trying to gain attention and telling the world: Here, I am. But under the groans and puffs of bigger buses and trucks the voice of smaller vehicles fades away; they are merely a moving figure then, a dot in front of a bigger circle.

Sun is ruthless and angry today, but I am protected by the sensitive shade of trees. Sometimes I wonder what will happen if all these trees are gone.

Still some time left for my cab to reach, I plug in the microphone cable in my latest Nokia 5800 mobile. Remo Fernandes, the famed singer of the O Meri Munni…Munni Munni Babe number, diverts my attention from the squeals, coughs, and screeches of passing vehicles. But I am playing a different song of his. It starts in this manner:

{A fusion of different instruments}

Lyrics:
Yeh, kaisa mor hai…rukna na chahe mann
Peeche murna bhi muskil…lekin mane na mann
Ankhon main tufan sawalon ka…dil main jawabon ki pyas
Lakh pukare parchahiyan…mujhe chalna hai Suraj ke sath
Aja sanam ush ujale ko choo lein…sochey tu kya?
Mere hathon main chalna akela…toh mujhe kar de fida

My black leather shoes gently start striking the earth surface. I notice some ants moving. I stop.

Suddenly I notice that the road is filled with such chaotic romance that I desire to witness every minute happening.

I look at the drivers, riders, and passengers in bigger vehicles. All lost in their world, doing their respective karmas. But only passengers have the privilege to do anything. They can talk to other passengers, ogle at the beauties in the bus or dispersed around the road, or daydream.

In Indian roads, cycles and scooters were omnipresent at one point of time. During those times, it was easier to cross roads. You saw a scooter or cycle coming and you’d not even think that it could in any way be a danger. The cycle rider used to tinkle the bell, but you would show him your right hand, gave him a stern gaze and cross the road like a lion. But now some sort of expertise is necessary. Today’s time requires that you exercise your eyes a bit before crossing the road. Only after many left-to-right and right-to-left rolling of your eyeballs and a few quick permutations and combinations in your brain, you cross the road. And that too like a sheep.

Suddenly I see an attractive girl on the other side of the road. Wearing tight black jeans and white shirt, she emerges from the DDA buildings. She tosses her silky, shampooed hair, making them float backward. Her fair skin shines under the clear sunlight. From her demeanor, it seems she is aware of her attractiveness and she is aware that people around are watching her—from the buses, autos, small cars…and from the helmets on scooters. She is conscious of the attention— every moment. She is carrying a subtle smile, a smile that she has learnt to carry since she grew younger. Boys must have fluttered around her—in school and colleges, around her mohalla, in shops. She must have received thousands of greeting cards, several calls from so-called-lovers. She may even have fallen for a few, the ones who were consistent in their expressions and who could promise a glint of romance in their eyes. The smile on her lips, which energizes her whole body, assures her every day that she is in demand. Swaying her body as if a feather floating in the air, she walks toward the Bus Stop and soon merges with the rest of the crowd.

I see toward my right. A cow is standing at a distance—a silent and peaceful cow. She seems to be in her own world, not at all interested in the hustle-bustle around. I realize she is munching on the waste from the nearby dustbin. Her motive is over and now she wants to experience the other side by crossing the road. She waits for the vehicles to stop, but they don’t. Finally, she starts to cross the road without caring for the moving traffic. Buses groan, scooters tweet, and small cars blare their horn. But the cow crosses the road unperturbed and with the same peace and dignity, maybe thinking—to hell with you all assholes…you mechanical robots, you’ve eaten all the grass and trees around…you selfish creatures…because of you I’ve to dig my head in dustbins…you drink my milk and prepare that wonderful tea using my milk in the morning…haven’t your parents ever told you the importance of a cow in Indian setup. Fuck off! Let me cross the road.

And she crosses the road with her large impassive eyes. Vehicles move…

Remo Fernandes is on this line now:

Chalte jao chalte jao....are you ready?
Yaa (background artists)
Keep all moving…keep all moving

Suddenly a crow flies over my head, casting its moving shadow on the road, and perches over a wall on a house at the other side of the road. It rotates its head around, adjusts some food between its beaks, flies back to the tree and lets out its caw caws. Maybe he is telling the house owner: You paunchy rabbit…you threw a stone at me yesterday…now see I’ll eat all your pickles one by one even if I’ve to visit a doctor later on.

A small sized, as round as a football, and chocolaty colored kid—wearing a Sando and a Bermuda— distracts my attention. He carries a polythene bag, which he wants to throw in the dustbin on the other side. He waits for the traffic to stop, but it doesn’t. So without waiting much he throws the bag toward the other side of the road with the intention of hitting the dustbin. But the bag splits into two pieces, one part hitting the dustbin and another finding way at the center of the road. A policeman, who is normally sleeping in his one room cabin, suddenly emerges from there and waving his oil-polished stick asks the boy to remain standing where he was. The boy shivers and wants to run, but remains standstill. Policeman twists his ears, gives him gyan, lets the boy open his strangely white teeth, and creates a terror for some time before letting him go. Policeman is happy. His task is over, of punishing someone. The half-split part of the polythene remains where it was. Some passing vehicle will crush it and then only will it be known what is inside.

A maroon colored Qualis screeches in front and from there a few hands wave in my direction: my colleagues. They smile. It seems they noticed me lost somewhere. I smile and look at my shoes, over which a thick layer of dust has taken residence.

Remo Fernandes is on this line now:

{Salsa type music}
Sabalaba biba boom
Baba biba boom
Para pira param pam boom
Yeh yehe

What is it that keeps me moving?
It’s a beat in my brain…its’ a rhythm in my soul
It’s tirkit mann main
Tirkit mann main
Tirkit mann main
Tirkit mann main....

Chalte jana…chalte jana
Are you ready?
Yeah…keep on moving
Beep Beep.
Yeahhhhhhhhhhh…

I open the back door of Qualis, sit inside, and shake hands with colleagues. Qualis groans, trembles, and zips on the road.