I was alive once. Now, I just do Real Analysis.

A yellow Butterfly passed me by. A second, and a third. Butterflies in a decidedly Un-Butterflyly city. Like three pages from One Hundred Years of Solitude carefully preserved in a yellowed textbook. I glanced at my watch – math lecture would start in five minutes. One of my favourite lectures, yes. But the Butterflies were too beautiful.

In the end, I chose Real Analysis over three quivering drops of joy.
In the same way that I often choose bluegrayblue over purplegreenyellow, smug assumptions over doubt, and human company over solitude.
Almost bewitched by beauty. Almost, but not entirely.

In the hour-long lecture, I was counting Butterflies in my head. Onetwothree. Three yellow Butterflies inside my head. Butterfly-lover in a decidedly Un-Butterflyly city.
Like a lost cloud hovering over No Land.
Like a pair of sneakers belonging to a man with No Legs.
Almost bewitched by Butterflies. Almost, but not entirely.

Halfway through the lecture, it started raining. Happy crystals of infinite beauty fell down toward the earth, colliding violently with a Sea-less city. Puddles of shattered crystals accumulated on the ground. Nature’s apology for absence of the Sea.

I thought about my three yellow Butterflies. They must’ve been out there somewhere, fluttering yellow Butterfly wings in a charming Butterflyly manner.

I, on the other hand, was trapped in an hour-long Butterfly-less world.

It stopped raining when the lecture ended. I rushed downstairs to a noisy crowd and No Butterflies. Raucous people in a decidedly Un-Butterflyly city. Acquaintances, not quivering drops of joy.

Real Analysis could’ve waited. Next time, I’ll choose to be bewitched. Entirely.

Delhi was drenched

I woke up at six yesterday. It was raining outside. Delhi was drenched. A familiar smell stared at me—the smell of Mumbai, of childhood, of a different life.

I stood on the balcony looking out at the cloud-covered sky—familiar, yet strange. And then, I heard the song that the rain sang. The song of the sea. The song of a happy land. The song of nostalgia and heartbreaking joy.

I stood there for a long time. The rain left. Delhi dried itself in the scorching sun. The fleeting vision of Mumbai evaporated in front of my eyes. I was left alone, in a dry land, wondering how many times will I have to leave Mumbai.

The old man at the bus stop

The bus was yellow and light greenish-blue in colour. ‘Delhi Transport Corporation’ was written in blue letters on the yellow-coloured horizontal band that was painted across its length. It seemed to be a very old carriage. It tilted slightly to one side, and made a deafening noise as it moved threateningly on the road. It looked as if it would fall apart any moment. Some windows were missing from the windowpanes. Long stains of tobacco ran down the side of the bus. Small brown-coloured spots of mud were sprayed, onto the bus, near the tyres. The tyres were big and dirty. I looked at them spinning around rapidly, slowing down gradually, and finally coming to a halt in front of the bus stop. People erupted into a loud noise. Colourful loud noise. I wondered why they felt the need to talk so much. The ones who were unaccompanied turned to their phones. Everybody wanted to talk to someone. Well, almost everybody. The old man sitting next to me was silently gazing down at his feet, holding his walking-stick with both hands. He seemed to be lost in thought. My interest was aroused. I wondered what he might be thinking about. What could be his story, his take on things, his political opinions? What did he think about those people? What did the bus that stood in front of us mean to him? Was he there to be alone, or was he there to feel like a part of society? Or, like me, was he there just to observe the people and the city, and to walk around and watch the celebration of life?

People were jostling to get into, or out of, the bus. A tall, skinny guy wearing a black shirt was being pushed around as he tried to board the bus. He almost dropped his bag but, somehow, managed to hold on to his cell phone. He was shouting into it. A fat man right behind him had a tattered paperback in his hand. I wondered how he would read it inside the bus. The bus was packed with people. It looked as if it would burst open soon. I chuckled. I looked at the old man, almost expecting him to laugh too. He didn’t. He looked sad. He was an odd sight amid all the happiness and liveliness of the city. I didn’t watch the bus drive away—I was busy watching the curious old man. He had small eyes behind the big glasses he wore. Sparse white whiskers covered his heavily-wrinkled face. He had gnarled, fragile-looking hands with papery skin stretched over brittle bones. He smacked his dry lips often. His head was covered with white, wispy strands of hair. He needed a haircut. He raised his head to look at me—he must have realised that I was looking at him. I smiled at him. He smiled back at me. He was beautiful. This is the real celebration of life, the face of this man, I thought, my God for the day. I looked at the people around us—they were all so eager to reach somewhere, waiting impatiently. Nobody looked at that beautiful creature sitting silently, alone, at the bus stop. I looked at my watch. It was time to go home—I had to submit an assignment the next day. I got up from where I was sitting. I looked at him one last time. The beautiful sight filled me with happiness. As I walked back home, I realised that I was singing—people were staring at me. Wait till you see the old man at the bus stop, I thought.

I often ramble through the city’s streets, watching people and enjoying the liveliness of this charming place. This piece is on a man I saw a couple of days ago.

The Guitarist

The sky was wrapped
In a robe of soft clouds.
The forgotten scent of a newborn sun
Lingered yet in the young air.
A sound reached my ears:
The music of his guitar.
On the green grass he sat,
A solitary figure,
Lips curved in an enchanting smile.
Into his eyes gently fell
Unruly locks of hair.
Long, thin fingers moved over his instrument
In an ecstatic dance.
The joy of his heart they released forth,
Clothed as the notes of a happy song.
The wind sang in bliss.
The clouds thundered as if
Praising the skilfully played piece.
My ears rejoiced to hear
The colourful, joyous notes.
My heart leapt with joy,
And danced to the music
That filled my soul.
Uncounted, time went by;
I cared not if ages had passed.
He played the last note
That for many minutes lived
In the speechless air.
He rose, and turned to leave.
The performance was over.
Rain fell upon the earth
In a gentle applause.

Children and Men

Small children, merry and bright;
They do not know wrong from right.
Tirelessly plotting to cause
Harm to each other.
Small children, so innocent;
Yet they cannot do without
Scowling and grumbling,
Pushing and screaming,
Rushing and fighting
To get hold of the same toy-
And superficial men follow suit!

Never had I known

Never had I known sorrow of deprivation, till the day
I saw a small, starved child of seven
Carrying heavy sacks of grain.

Never had I known contentment, till the day
I saw the same penurious child
Eating stale, mouldy bread with relish.

Never had I realized the value of my liberty till that day.
For, those who roam free beneath the sky
Know not how it is inside a cage.

The crescent moon

Happily I roamed in the busy marketplace.
My sight fell upon an old man
Quietly making his way home from work,
Carrying a briefcase,
His head held high with dignity-
Scorning all the pity he attracted.
An empty shirt sleeve dangled loosely by his side.
Yet that did not impair his pride.
With grace and elegance he walked on,
As if, unaware of all the eyes that followed him.
I lifted my gaze and looked at the night sky
And beheld a beautiful sight:
A proud, shining, crescent Moon!

On Mumbai

Monsters of metal fly atop filthy tracks.
And, within clanking bogies,
A thousand odours fuse with the moist air.
Smell of rotten fish, the odour from nearby sewers,
The stench of human perspiration, and occasional whiffs of hot vada pao
Merge effortlessly with the salty air.

At the station, I behold chaos.
White collars, starched saris, umbrellas, plastic wallets and iPods;
People struggle to move in every direction.
From afar, they all seem one: an avatar with many heads and limbs
Struggling to simultaneously climb into and out of the metal monster;
And, weaving in and out of its many doors, embracing it.

On the road, I sense impatience.
Cars, BEST buses, two-wheelers, and hackney conveyances-
All wait to move. Traffic jams on pot-holed, rain-beaten roads.
On the sidewalk, pedestrians hustle by
To their destinations. Half-running, shouting into cell phones, Eating on the way to work, treading the tobacco-stained ground.

The sea crawls up towards the city and
Injures itself on the tetrapods, the angry rain hammering its head.
Water tears apart from water; the nearby road gets drenched.
People crowd around happily to get soaked.
Another wave rises up and falls down on them, like a mother tossing
A light fabric lovingly upon her children’s heads in play.

Worshippers of a subordinate God

A solitary figure stood by the traffic signal, begging for alms,
Draped in scaly skin that barely covered her bones;
With sore eyes that pierced the veil of reality
And gazed beyond at happy lands; moving
Thin lips that covered the stained teeth, and,
Uttered pitiful soliloquies; covered
In untidy hair- sprinkled with dust-
That curtained the painful expression on the young face,
Sweeping all over it, flying in the air in unsubtle dissension;
Muddy hands wrapped around a rusted begging bowl
That shook in the rhythm of the crude song-
A song that rang over the impatient horns.

At length she was joined by another one,
And together they begged, tugged at men’s sleeves,
And scratched closed windows; a perennial river gushed
Down the dry cheeks, washing away the dust.
They silently prayed to God for a day’s meal.
Then they moved around the waiting traffic,
Looking for help unforeseen.
Then they cried, screamed, praised the Lord, and
Stared around helplessly- calling upon a generous heart.
Their God had failed them; they retreated and
Sat on the dirty cloth that lay sprawled on the pavement.

The scene was a mere shadow of the Indian reality.
Many lie abandoned and forsaken-
Cast off from the richer society like weeds- left
To live in the dirt and dust;
Punished for an unforgivable crime: being poor.
Uncared for by men and the Highest God;
Born to live a meaningless life and to die in the end-
Worshippers of a Subordinate God.

On a sunflower

She stood ‘neath the sun, caressing its yellow light;
A lovely smile she did aim at my heart.
And then, swayed gently with the wind
To a silent symphony that escaped her smiling brown lips.
Ah! There was she; she: a creature of beauty.
She danced and waltzed in her own Universe,
And, I? I learned what it is to love.