On Link Road, a stranded auto urged on by the left foot of the bhaiya of a working auto with the right foot on the breaks; they move together, side by side; share tambakoo; traffic police do not bother except when it is month's end; then, they wave down the autos; bhaiyas walk over to a policeman with a receipt book; pay a bribe, ease business; the two autos move on to a repair shop on Link Road; normalcy is restored. That's can be said to be the norm. On Adinath Marg, where me stays, the morning threw up a variant; a stationary bullock cart with two tall, white bullocks; the cart driver hollered, whipped, got down, leaned against them; the bullock cart with Kabir and Tuka on board stood unmoved; the cart driver hand-waved a passing auto searching for clients; the bhaiya and the cart driver talked for a time, do not know what; the cart driver tied his bullock cart to the auto with a girthy coir rope and got the bhaiya to start the engine; the auto whirred and fumed, but the bullocks refused to be positive; they had had their breakfast, claimed the cart driver, a fact hard to cross check (all journalists are told to cross check) with silent bulls, a bit irritated. For about an hour, the poor bhaiya tried his best, honking the auto; he could not be expected to stay the entire day with reluctant bulls; he untied his vehicle, got a client, drove off; he would not be plying after 7 today; has booked a TV chair for Rs.20 (Rs.10 for each half of the T20 game) at the Maruti Chai Bhandar of his friend; will be cheering India against West Indies. It was getting on to some urgent time as middle class women and men were driving out in cars from housing societies; the bullocks acted as speed breakers and Adinath Marg was tearing down the summer skies; koyals paused in mid-flight. The cart driver ran out of clues; Nepali gentlemen, opening and shutting gates of housing societies, were amused over the free funfair; they had nothing to do with India and West Indies but kept to themselves afraid of a patriotic middle class in Tricolour pants, shirts and sarees. Something the same can be said of the bullocks. For months now they stand up as me set our for morning walks, munch dry grass for breakfast, set out without a bath, dragging twisted rods down Link Road. Today it is not so. Kabir and Tuka slid out, patted them, sang dohas and abhangs into their ears; the white bullocks nodded in appreciation; that was not what their owner wanted. With the okay of their owner, Kabir and Tuka, freed them of their yokes. They squatted, went into a deep meditation. Me rushed to the window. Adinath Marg is empty. No, not a dream. What's it?
Thursday, March 31, 2016
No, not a dream
On Link Road, a stranded auto urged on by the left foot of the bhaiya of a working auto with the right foot on the breaks; they move together, side by side; share tambakoo; traffic police do not bother except when it is month's end; then, they wave down the autos; bhaiyas walk over to a policeman with a receipt book; pay a bribe, ease business; the two autos move on to a repair shop on Link Road; normalcy is restored. That's can be said to be the norm. On Adinath Marg, where me stays, the morning threw up a variant; a stationary bullock cart with two tall, white bullocks; the cart driver hollered, whipped, got down, leaned against them; the bullock cart with Kabir and Tuka on board stood unmoved; the cart driver hand-waved a passing auto searching for clients; the bhaiya and the cart driver talked for a time, do not know what; the cart driver tied his bullock cart to the auto with a girthy coir rope and got the bhaiya to start the engine; the auto whirred and fumed, but the bullocks refused to be positive; they had had their breakfast, claimed the cart driver, a fact hard to cross check (all journalists are told to cross check) with silent bulls, a bit irritated. For about an hour, the poor bhaiya tried his best, honking the auto; he could not be expected to stay the entire day with reluctant bulls; he untied his vehicle, got a client, drove off; he would not be plying after 7 today; has booked a TV chair for Rs.20 (Rs.10 for each half of the T20 game) at the Maruti Chai Bhandar of his friend; will be cheering India against West Indies. It was getting on to some urgent time as middle class women and men were driving out in cars from housing societies; the bullocks acted as speed breakers and Adinath Marg was tearing down the summer skies; koyals paused in mid-flight. The cart driver ran out of clues; Nepali gentlemen, opening and shutting gates of housing societies, were amused over the free funfair; they had nothing to do with India and West Indies but kept to themselves afraid of a patriotic middle class in Tricolour pants, shirts and sarees. Something the same can be said of the bullocks. For months now they stand up as me set our for morning walks, munch dry grass for breakfast, set out without a bath, dragging twisted rods down Link Road. Today it is not so. Kabir and Tuka slid out, patted them, sang dohas and abhangs into their ears; the white bullocks nodded in appreciation; that was not what their owner wanted. With the okay of their owner, Kabir and Tuka, freed them of their yokes. They squatted, went into a deep meditation. Me rushed to the window. Adinath Marg is empty. No, not a dream. What's it?
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