The bus ride from Monachil to Granada was marked by the panoramic view of the hills of Sierra Nevada. The colorful corners cut across the street which twisted and moved like a serpent. The homes, like little crayon boxes, were stacked one above the other, on the hilly terrain. It was like the white city of Nerja, just a little more colorful, and slightly less spicy.
The bus ride from Monachil to Granada is marked by corners like these, repeated until the destination.
I was caught in a state of trance looking at the map, trying to memorize the path to Calle Elvira from the bus stop. I was glad and anxious to go around without the GPS. The next bus to Monachil would leave in 2 hours and that is all the time I had to go to Calle Elvira, procure what I came for, and make my way back to the stop. When we got down at Granada, everyone else started moving towards Alhambra, while I crossed the bridge and continued forward to the Plaza.
I almost forgot about you.
As I thought.
But I will not give up on you yet.
Let’s see if we can get along.
Nothing but the blue sky from now on.
But what about the storm?
The overcast skies. Clouds storming in.
An angry gargoyle staring at us.
Let’s see if we can find calm in the storm, once again.
I don’t understand quotes.
They seem nothing more than just a few wise words.
Just as I don’t understand rhymes.
I cannot relate to it at that level.
We are the exceptions, of course.
The minority does not decide the nature of the society.
But we have always been firm believers in destiny.
Nothing could have been better. Nothing would be worse.
The balance will always be restored.
A complex game of probabilities.
Permutations and combinations of everyday life.
From the choice of coffee to our beliefs and ideologies.
A maze without a hero. Or a villain.
I almost forgot about you.
As I thought.
I see you peeking from the shadows.
The quest for clarity. You thought you almost had it.
Do you? Let’s see. Let’s see if we can still get along.
I will not give up on you yet.
Have you ever felt numb? I mean, the peaceful kind of numb? When you are glad that there is no thought running across your nerves. You feel and understand the things as they look. Take them for that face value and nothing else. Look around you and there is no particular direction you would rather go to, or not go to. Everything feels the same.
I stood right next to a broken bench. The blanket of rain and mist had taken over the place. The grass looked fresh as ever, the birds chirpy as ever. I looked at the lake, staring back at me from far away. I felt numb, looking at it, as everything in the surrounding settled down. I had just arrived at this place and I wanted to do nothing but to sit down and look.
I was lying in my tent. The rain had picked up in the last half an hour. It was getting cold. I peeked outside the tent if the lake has risen. But it was too hazy to see that far. This place reminded me of my village. How everything came alive when it rained. And also how everything became quiet. I laid on my back, closed my eyes, and decided to live in those memories for sometime. It started a chain reaction, and I kept on jumping from one memory to another, in an attempt to find something I had been missing. I remembered a few things, alright. But I also understood that there were so many gaps created along the way. I remember that one incident when I fractured my leg, and a few incidents in that timeline. I remember how getting into a new school everywhere was so tough. It is only the initial few days that I remember. It feels “fun” was not a part of my primary curriculum.
I opened my eyes. It was almost dark. The candle had almost burnt out and crickets and fireflies had took over the place. It was dark, yet the place shone with enthusiasm. I could hear a cuckoo singing somewhere in the distance. It sounded tired, but calm. I lit another candle, rolled another sunshine and went across yet another trip into my mind.
The birds had started making their way back home. I had sneaked into the fields. It was cooler there. I could see sunlight quickly receding towards the horizon. It was my favorite time of the day. Fresh from the afternoon sleep, I set for my destination. I had to come back before it was dark.
We had our summer vacations. And as a ritual, we were spending it at our Nani’s village. Most of my profound childhood memories are marked by this place. It was so beautiful and unpredictable. There were so many things that fascinated me. The fields beyond the mango farm was one of those things. I liked walking on the ridges of the irrigation canals. They connected the entire farm. I looked at the sky. The hues were shifting with every passing moment. All the different shades of red. I rushed forward as I crossed the jackfruit trees. It was the end of the farm, faced by a mini jungle of Bamboo trees. They made all kind of noise when the wind blew hard. The constant shatter and struggle, and yet they survived together for years. There was a hill to be found if you went a little deeper in the trees. Everyone at home told us the stories of snakes infesting that hill and how it was completely forbidden to go the Bamboo trees. I promised myself to keep that adventure for another day, and made my way around the trees. I kept walking for 10 minutes when I finally reached the fields.
It was a vast plain. There were patches of green and brown, stretching all the way to the horizon. A railway track cut across far away. A serpent was sliding over it. We called it “Paanch Pachhis ki Gaadi” (train of 5:25). It was one of those elements that made this place I used to so look forward to. Marching forward the field, looking over the few farms that appeared and faded away, I walked with the train whistling in the background. I could see that Babool tree. The lonely tree that stood in the west. With the Sun setting in the background, I imagined the tree with the Halo. Can trees have Halo? Though I was rushing towards the tree, it was not the tree that I was most interested in. It was the Maina’s nest on that tree. A raw structure of brown pulp, devoid of any green, the tree protruded out of the ground like a huge thorn. A thorn that was home to someone. I found it so ironic when I first found the place. But I realized later what it really was.
Everyday, as I make my way from home to office, I see a guy in a dusty, torn, black uniform, with a cap on his head, blowing a whistle after every 5 seconds. He stands at the exactly same place, a few inches from the divider, staring into the abyss, whistling. I have been seeing him do the same for the past 2 years now. At first, I mistook him for a security personnel. But as the time went by, I realized that there is a lot more to him than it meets the eye. Many times I wished to take a pause and see where he goes. But I did not intend to make him uncomfortable. Everyone living in that area seems to be used to his presence. No one bats a eye at the pointless continuous whistling. No one seems to believe that this could be changed or he needs some help. He seems content and focused. I wonder how long would he continue doing the same. I wonder what was his story.
About a 100 meters from where he stands, is an assembling point for police. I ride through a sea of cops in the morning, all of them sporting a smile, chuckling at each other’s jokes. Few years back, when I encountered a cop on my way, I used to get nervous at the very sight of him. Even when I had all the documents, I still got worried. Why? Because I had seen and heard many unpleasant stories in my childhood, involving police. Story of power, arrogance and torture. Stories of innocent people harassed, who approached the law rightfully. But that doesn’t hold true anymore. This city has changed my outlook. Now when I see them, I feel safe, not worried. Seeing them daily, on my way, is a part of routine. A very happy part.
On my route, I encounter busy signals. The one manned by multiple traffic cops and still not running efficiently. People here are, inadvertently, impatient and angry. And then there are a few crossroads, where no one follows the signal, and still there is no hustle. People here are more empathetic than others. Who are these people? The angry ones and the calm ones. Are they different? Not at all. The same red light which irritates you in the city, seems to lose its purpose when you are traveling. The object holds no significance. The situation does. Some turns will bring a smile to your face while the others were dampen your mood. You just need to keep riding, waiting for your happy turn.