Very slow, drugged pluck of one thin string followed by a gust of violin’s sound brings the song to life out of a chained solitude, like a gust of cool breeze. The drugged guitar continues…
Mother mother, tell your children,
Their time has just begun
I have suffered for my anger,
There are wars that can't be won
Father father, believe me,
I am laying down my guns
I am broken like an arrow
Forgive me, forgive your wayward son
Everybody needs somebody to love
Everybody needs somebody; Faith
You know you’re going to live thru the rain
Got to keep the faith
Don’t let your love turn to hate
Keep the faith.
You know you’re going to live thru the rain
Keep the faith
Don’t you know it’s never too late
Keep the faith;
Keep the faith;
Keep the faith.
Alas! The strings broke free of themselves and no way to catch the words of music they let loose, the guitar claimed everything, and music unclosed itself from the heavy laziness it took birth with.
And so did sanjeev. He unclosed his eyes to the melody his ears entrusted.
The result was on the computer screen. Passed. He could not believe his eyes, wonder.
Bang bang bang. He banged noisily on KP’s door so that the land lady woke up on her first floor room before KP did. What is it, she asked with her head out of the window. He just had to see KP. What time is it? He has no watch.
Cell phone also left in his room in the hurry. It’s 1:00 a.m.
The main door opened with its usual sound, tweaking and funny. Sometimes like a bird’s singing.
“Friends aunty friends”, said KP. She closed the window murmuring words that were kept only to her. “When did you come back from home?” he said in a voice light with excitement.
“Only just now” Sanjeev replied back.
“So did you….”
“Yes, passed. You?”
“Made it”.
They agreed it was the time to celebrate. An hour past midnight, no place open. Nobody on streets but the police patrol car, what to do, where to go?
They sat on KP’s bed looking pictures in the yesterday’s newspaper. Sania, Sonia, Sardar, Statue of liberty, Shahrukh, Salman, Superman, sofa, sunglasses, sale…..
KP handed over Sanjeev a cup of tea, “Who needs French wine to celebrate when we have tea. Cheers”.
“To the results”
“To engineering”
“The college”
“The University”
“To us”
“To India”
“Bharat mata ki jai”, they shouted together. By now, the tea had given them a high even good French wine wouldn’t. They smoked and sanjeev praised KP for the tea. Nectar, holy nectar, drink of the Gods. Tea goes well with smoke. They smoked and drank and went back to the newspapers again until KP broke the silence:
“You know Abhi told me about this place near Kotdwar, cheap and beautiful”.
“What kind of place?”
“Hills.”
“Hills, Let’s go. Will we get the bus now?”
“The train leaves at 2:50”
Traveling at night in the general compartment means no sleep. Never so lucky to get one full berth for sleeping along the route. Finding a place to sit is lucky enough. How cold the nights can be even in the month of march in the moving train, never had an idea. It is a quiet journey, the light making buzzing sounds, all people sleeping in whichever posture they can manage to with the constraint of space, falling from one side to other until they wake up with a jerk half fallen down. The ones standing hang on to whatever object they find handy, they too sleep, and fell on the people sitting.
The girls never sleep. It is simply too dangerous for them to sleep. Wicked old men pretending to be in deep sleep (even snoring) never fail at any opportunity of making body contact with the girls. Incredibly they fall only on the side where the girl is sitting, landing their head on her shoulder, which she again and again tries to shrug away but it comes back again slowly and silently. If they gather enough courage, they fell on the girl’s lap rubbing the abraded cheek with thorny white beard on her breasts. That’s too much to take. Tharkee buddha. The bulb lights brightest just before dying.
The poor are the most comfortable, sleeping carelessly buried under the dirty blankets on the floor near the toilets. They do not carry tickets, but the ticket checker never checks them. He doesn’t want to make his hands dirty by touching them. They have already been beaten and kicked enough.
The train stopped at Najibabad. Engine shunting takes half an hour.
“Chai. Chai…Akhbaar wala. Amar Ujaala, Punjab Kesari….” It was time for tea again. It tastes different in the earthen cups, kullhars. Pure Indian taste. No Assam, no Darjeeling, just pure Indian tea, thanks to lalooji. The morning newspaper has come. Fresh and new.
“Times of India?”, asked KP to the newspaper seller.
“Don’t have”
“HT, Hindustan Times” added Sanjeev.
“No English paper”.
They can’t read hindi newspaper. They were engineering students. Hindi newspaper is full of petty local news. They want the bigger picture, national story. They didn’t buy the newspaper.
Now when all others are reading, their faces hidden behind the papers, the tharkee buddhas awake from their deep sleep, it’s so boring. They tried to talk:
“You know they say that the night is darkest just before the dawn” said Sanjeev.
“Yes, but it has another meaning” replied KP
“Forget the other meaning; let’s just see if it is.”
They left the seats staring everyone in the eye, the gesture that means “this is my seat and I am coming back.” They opened the heavy door of the train. The sky was purple already with the hint of morning. Cold wind came in and blew away the blanket of the man sleeping on the floor near the toilet. He got up and looked at them, his two white eyes like two eclipsed moons on the night of his dark face; until now he had no face. They looked back at him; he slept again stuffing the sides of the blanket under his body.
They sat at the door, legs hanging outside for sometime and then went back to their seats. The standing men who had occupied their seats vacated them at once.
The train doesn’t go up till Lansdowne. One has to change ride from Kotdwar. They boarded a jeep which was packed with people in no time. The drivers drive fast on the twisted roads. The faster they drive, more the number of rounds. More the number of rounds, more money. More money means fast payment of bank loan installments. Fast payment of bank loan installments means more money. More money means even more money, which means a new jeep and more money.
It wasn’t long before they reached the destination. Army establishments give the first clue of the town. Across the Parade ground, the strange fountain and the SBI ATM, they reached what can be called the face of the town. A boat shaped park dominates the face, with a line of shops, restaurants and hotels on one side and huge parking space for the jeep taxis on the other.
It was cold as sun was still nowhere to be seen on the sky. They went to a restaurant to have breakfast, a small place with three tables back to back parted with wooden partitions, a small room with glass door with more tables inside and a stairway that leads downwards to probably the kitchen. The waiter gave a pause between the available items for the breakfast while speaking.
“Gobhi ka parantha…amm…aaloo ka parantha….mooli ka parantha…. Breadbutterbreadjam….chaikaafi”
His mind was somewhere else; perhaps in the kitchen as he was also the cook.
They ordered aaloo ka parantha, one each for both of them which was the exact size of the plate along with tea. Sanjeev wondered how the same ingredients: milk, tea, sugar and water create such varying tastes of tea. He was sure every man in the world would produce a different taste.
They paid the bill at the cash counter
“Thirty rupees”, said the old man who was dressed all in woolens, sweater, overcoat, woolen cap as if it had just begun to snow.
“Is there any nice place we can see around here?” asked KP to the old man.
“First time here?” he suddenly looked interested.
“Yes, first time” replied KP
“Mata ka mandir hai, tip-in-top hai, fountain hai, and there is a place only 17 kilometers from here….”
“Enough thank you.”
“Where are you staying, we also have hotel upstairs.”, asked the old man in a cajoling voice.
“Well, we will be leaving today itself.” replied Sanjeev in an equal voice.
They took the narrow road next to the parking that leads to tip-in-top. The whole place was fun in itself, in a strange way. Very few people, so many trees, clear weather; it all seemed unreal, the peace in the air, the wind neither hot, nor cold, just the right temperature, nourishing the skin at the interface.
The road is long and the throat dries up thirsty before one reaches past the churches to tip-in top. The sun was finally awaken from its sleep and was beautifully placed on one of the branches behind the trees. The tree lit up in delight. They would look for the same tree in their future visits. In their impatience, they took a shortcut and landed in someone’s private property, the backyard of a beautiful house. The watchman shouted them away.
Tip-in-top is like the balcony of Lansdowne; high above the trees and hills it boasts of a (((picturesque))) view. To make the feel more real, there are rails around it. Cement benches which were constructed for seating purposes are simply too narrow to sit upon. There is a structure which stands like a podium facing towards the deep depth as if an aid if someone wants to address the hills. It is full of names: Priya luvs Sushil, Ankit ‘heart-with-an-arrow’ Meghna, toshi+Chetna and, the most interesting, Anuj Shekhawat, Delhi callboy, girls call anytime 9999765560, 9897355340 written by some desperate boy in hunt for girls. Nobody but Anuj can tell if this thing works. They stayed there for some time, still thirsty.
“It’s getting warmer here”, said KP.
“OK, let’s go to the temple”, replied Sanjeev.
They followed the signboard that read ‘Mata ka Mandir’. Which mata (goddess), they didn’t know. Out of three hundred and thirty million gods and goddesses in Hindu mythology, roughly half are matas (no unbalanced sex ratios there): ma gauri, ma durga ,ma vaishno, ma mansa, ma shakumbhari, ma hadimba,, ma mumba,……. Probably one of these.
It is not a temple, it is a monument of peace where brass bells show off their sonority in full. It is the place what temples are actually meant to be, peaceful and soothing places for god lies within peace. There was no doubt about the presence of god. Finally there was salvation; there was water.
Sitting on the branch of a tree near the temple, they smoked Navy Cut cigarettes. An army truck passed down the road, roaring its old diesel engine. An olive colored jawaan sat in it, big red L on the front windscreen. He was learning to drive. The truck’s engine has broken the silence so fragile; it breaks and unbreaks it as it travels.
Sanjeev: What did you wish?
KP: they say wishes lose the effect if you tell them to others.
“You believe this?”, sanjeev said in a sarcastic voice.
“No”, KP replied with an evil smile on his face.
“You sonofabitch, tell me what did you wish.”
“I wished….though I don’t believe much in all this….to help me make a film director.”
“Don’t worry man. I know you have the thing in you…you will be one. Just don’t lose sight of your goal.”
“And what did you wish? To be a writer?”
“No. writer I am already. I wish to be published Ha Ha Ha.”
They both laughed, their laughter echoed in all gaps and voids of the hills, breaking the silence, no, just decorating it.
They were tired now, tired of the loss of last night’s sleep and of the fatigue that sun lends between the shadows of leaves. The same truck passed again, again breaking and unbreaking the silence but silence is a veil that can’t be covered by noise for it covers everything else.
“Let’s go back”, said KP.
“No. let’s wait for the truck to appear again, then we’ll leave.”
