A Million Delhis

It was an uncomfortably hot night. Delhi was an island in a sea of humid air, barking dogs, impatient feet, bright street lights and faint recollections of boring TV commercials.

The burning stars, some of them hidden behind wispy clouds, seemed to be vaporising slowly in the heat. The moon had disappeared; a warm breeze seemed to suggest that it had evaporated off the sky. It had stopped raining. The streets were still wet. Everyone around me seemed to be in a hurry. I stood still for a moment, and gulped in the humid air.

I had stepped out to get away from the world of laidback smell of the air conditioner, hour-long phone conversations, and tiresome monotonicity. I looked around — a thousand scattered reflections of my own face stared at me from shop windows and puddles of rainwater. It was like walking inside a thousand-sided glass ball — light threw at me lifeless, two-dimensional imitations of my body from all directions.

I trudged on through rivers of gossip, concrete, muffled yells of children coming from houses, and hysteria. I cursed the chaos.

I walked toward the metro station at a slow pace. A wave of commuters passed me, staring curiously. Was it so obvious that I was searching for another city far away from this sea of noise and confusion? Was a teenager, roaming around aimlessly at night, a rare sight? I was trying to get away; I was a culprit. The stares seemed to be unfriendly. I lowered my eyes and stopped walking. The night was filled with the squeal of a train pulling away from the station.

I looked around once more for something that perhaps never existed, sighed, and turned away.

A few minutes later, I saw a beggar. Seeing me, she stopped on the other side of the road. I searched in my pocket for money. She immediately came toward me and lit up when I handed her a ten rupee note. I turned up the volume of my iPod — Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony drowned out the noise of the kid arguing with his mother a few feet away from where I stood.

I took a turn into another street. It led me back to the Metro station. I stood at a dark corner, looking into the distance. No one else was near. Silence enveloped me. Light from a few apartments reached out to me across the distance. I smiled at that other Delhi that I had set out to discover — the Delhi that was a delightful mixture of silence, peace, and after-rain smell. Suddenly, I realised that Delhi was, at once, a million different cities. And they were all there, within me: noise, silence, blinding lights, darkness, boredom and discovery. I looked up. The stars seemed to wink at me.

Appears in the Capital Letters section of Outlook Delhi City Limits’ latest issue. Feels good to write for people who actually allow you to post your article to your blog. Meh.

I miss you, my love

Your kiss, years later, lingers still
On my trembling lips;
Doomed am I
To a lifetime of love.
Concrete, neon, plastic,
Tetrapods in the sea,
Dreams and disasters—
Memories of these, and
My love for you, haunt me.

A thousand miles away,
In a dry land,

I am damp inside.

This one’s on Mumbai. I wrote it a few days ago, when it was raining in Delhi.

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.

It was a beautiful place

To a crowded street
My love led me.
And there he stood
As if
Enchanted.

He said it was
A beautiful place.

I laughed at him.
He looked at me,
And smiled.
I met his ardent gaze
And, suddenly,
The busy street became
Beautiful.

I’ve been in love with crowded streets since that day.
I wrote this poem in June 2005. It’s one of my favourites.

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.

(An old, withered hand in mine)

An old, withered hand in mine
Is my last memory of him.
He rode away on the wind.
I was ten. Confused.
I shut the door to my room.
The silence within the walls
Dried my tired eyes.
It sang to me songs of solitude.
My ears got drunk.
My tongue forgot
The colour of its own voice.
I was a captive in my room.
Visions of years. They danced by.
September knocked upon my door.
I realised that
I wasn’t afraid of September anymore.
I looked back. I looked at myself.
Thought set me free.
I opened the door to my room.
The sea that lay within
Came out, a drop at a time,
Over breakfast.

Of methyls and rings

It was raining outside. I strolled up to the shelf where chloroform was kept and looked out of the window behind it. Clouds. Rain. Clouds. Droplets dangling from the leaves of the nearby tree. Clouds. Rain. Slam! You are in the chemistry laboratory, I told myself. Return to your place. Caffeine extraction, remember? Under normal circumstances, the word caffeine would have been enough to grab the attention of the coffee-lover in me. (Anyways, why would anyone try to extract caffeine from tea leaves? I’m still trying to figure that out.) But I was in the chemistry lab, and the thing I was supposed to extract caffeine from was making horrible gurgling noises from inside the conical flask. Half an hour ago, I had immersed tea leaves in water and had mounted the happy party on a flame. It had now transformed into thick chocolate-coloured goo that was giving out a very unpleasant odour.
“I’ll never drink tea again!” T whispered into my ear.
I stared at the flask in front of my eyes. “Look, T, my flask is doing a funny dance. Or maybe it’s just scared of old me, poor trembling mess.”
“Turn the burner off, you idiot. It’s done.” T hissed back at me, angrily.
What a freak, old T! Can’t a person even joke in this place, I thought. Anyways, I had to add lead acetate, sulphuric acid, chloroform and other stuff to the thing in the flask, and I had to heat it, like, a million times during the whole procedure.

One last time, sugar. There’s your water bath. In you go. (Don’t smile, perverts. That was my flask I was talking to. Now it might sound all relaxing and indulgent, but the water bath in question was a stupid little container which you are supposed to fill with water. A beaker, whose contents are to be heated, is then placed inside the water bath.) Ten minutes later, I had labelled my flask and placed it on a shelf. See you next week, jerk. Ciao!

Silence had fallen upon the class. Very unusual. Dr. B cleared her throat. The message was clear: she’d give instructions about what we’d be doing in the next practical period. She stood up, strolled over to the board and wrote “caffeine” upon it. Very clever, lady! Impressive! All this time, I thought we were making coal tar. She looked at the blank faces in front of her.
“What’s the structure of caffeine like?” She asked.
Silence.
“Chemical name, anyone?”
Silence again.
I tried to recall the name, but how much can you expect from a dysfunctional brain pooped by smelling foul things in the laboratory for three hours?
“Vasudha, what is caffeine’s chemical name?”
Great, I thought. Why me? God, are you listening? No, of course He wasn’t. He was probably just staying out of earshot of any unfortunate soul stuck in the chemistry lab that might ask him a question about caffeine. Wouldn’t that, like, ruin his image? Smart guy!
“Vasudha!” Dr. B’s voice brought my thoughts back to the lab.
“Er… ma’am, it’s trimethyl something. Sort of two rings, joined together, and three methyl groups.”
She looked at me in a demeaning manner. Gulp!
“1,3,7-trimethyl xanthine” she wrote on the board, and then she drew the structure.
“Hey, it does have 2 rings and three methyl groups.” M murmured.
T turned around to look at him. “A student in the eighth grade knows more chemistry than both of you put together.” She hissed at us.

“Maybe you should write something about it and post it on your blog.” M suggested when we came out of the lab.
“But, what’s the point? Nobody would read that.”
“Look, nobody reads anything else that you write, too. Vacations mein likh lena. Besides, you must write about how they torture us here with chemistry. I mean, this is a physics course. What’s the use of studying chemistry?”
“You’re right, dude. How can chemistry be of any use to us later? We’ve learned enough chemistry crap in school already. We don’t need more of this trimethyl stuff.”
“It’s 1,3,7-trimethyl xanthine, Vasudha.” T interrupted.
Grrr!

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!