Musings on an Indian Train

When you travel in a train in India, the journey is always replete with many challenges, events and experiences. The biggest challenge, according to me, remains that of luggage. Indians tend to carry a lot of luggage, unnecessarily so, though an alternate belief is that we carry our town and state wherever we go. It’s a tough task to enter the train when the doors are all stacked with tons of bags and suitcases of those whose journey is coming to an end. It reminds me of that commercial floating on the TV during the Commonwealth Games, Indian Rail, Desh ka Mail. If you are fortunate, you board the train on time but a bigger challenge awaits you inside – where to put your own luggage? By some sheer stroke of ingenuity, some people manage to fly their luggage in and chain them to all the luggage hooks in your compartment before even you can locate your seat. When you ask them to make some room for your luggage, you get to hear the famous line with Indianness imprinted all over it, bhaisaab, thoda adjust kar lo na. They invariably have kids with them for whom they do not need to buy the tickets, meaning they are going to share the seats with the little ones. Most of us do adjust, out of our generous nature or out of the fear of inviting frowns from fellow passengers. It’s impossible to fathom what is more stretchable – our tendency to ask to adjust or our tendency to adjust? When adjustment is not an option –if you are one of those who wanted others to adjust – we piled the luggage on the seat, eating out the sitting and sleeping space.

Another frequently asked favor is to trade your seat with someone. The great Indian family is so big, and the births are allocated in such a way that not all family members get seats in same compartment. We love to travel with kins of our family and friend-circle, even if the journey is only going to last overnight. And there is no limit to how much the family can extend! During one train journey, I exchanged seats with 3 different people within 10 minutes of boarding the train. One family was so huge and their seats were so widely scattered that they took another two hours to gather their clan in one place. I settled in my seat, finally! So did I think! I saw a kid sitting in the seat opposite to mine. Her brown hair was tied in two little ponytails behind her head. The deep-set eyes and curled lips made her nose look bigger than it actually was. She glanced at me with that look when you are not sure if you can trust the other person. I smiled, just enough, and she laughed. The friendship was established. Before I could dwell more into that newly-found affinity, her father came calling, asking me if I could exchange seat with his relative. The trouble was that his relative was in coach S1 while I was in coach S7. I hesitated since it involved walking inside 6 full coaches with luggage. Besides who knew how many more such requests awaited me there. His pleading continued. I had to yield in the end and one more family was united, what if only for the journey. By then I came to know that the kid in the opposite seat was not a girl, but a boy! These days you cannot tell the difference really.

But for all their shortcomings, the Indian train journey provides the most conducive setup for a mind which has some inclination for philosophy. As Mihir says, saari duniya ki philosophy books ek taraf, aur bharatiya rail ek taraf. If you think deeper, the reason for it is that Indian trains are so slow! You are sitting idle, you keep looking at hamlets, towns and farms, mountains and rivers, all patched up in the fabric of this multi-cultured country and sewed by the network of thousands of stations. Compare that to the trains in European countries or US or China, which run at 150kmph or more than that. You can only see those blurred images floating past in jiffy and crowding your mind with more images. Philosophy feeds on an idle mind and idyllic scenery. Once I was just looking outside the window. From behind the window, it appeared that the world was divided by artificial lines drawn by the horizontal iron bars of the window. The sky was separated from the hills, which in turn were separated from the trees. The trees were separated from the grass on the ground. We humans are given to divide the world in our quest to classify and simplify everything. At that moment, the train stopped, waiting for a signal to turn green. I stepped out of the train, and the picture presented itself in the whole. There was no division. Everything was connected. The world became one grand orchestra where everything and everyone had something to play…and sometimes you just have to play nothing. That day onwards, whenever I encounter myself in a hopeless situation or find my role insignificant in an event of life, I relive those moments and rescue my mood from deep slump.  

No journey is complete without giving a thought to distance. I always feel that distance is more when I am going to a destination than when I am coming back home. Perhaps like time, even the distance -and space -is also relative. Einstein famously defined relativity as, “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT'S relativity.” I guess our notion of distance is entangled with notion of time. Otherwise why would you have a unit of distance with the name light year? In the matter of hearts though, the concept of distance is even more fascinating. Sometimes the distance brings people closer to each other. Conversely, at times, too much closeness separates them beyond any hope of reunion. Like a Bolywood song’s line goes, jyada najdeekiyon me hote hai dooriyon ke ishaare. Poets are, in a way, scientists whose research topic is the human heart and emotions.

Then you always meet some people who inspire you in some way or make your day or simply introduce some good side of humans which you failed to notice till now. In another journey, I was waiting for the train to start. A beggar suddenly showed his face from outside the window and asked for money. His face evoked pity in me. As a matter of principle I do not give money to beggars because there are even business racquets running around begging and you can never tell if someone is a genuine beggar or in business of begging. I turned away from him. Just then I saw the person in the opposite seat taking a 10 rupee note out of his shirt pocket,  making rounds of it on his son’s head and giving it to the beggar. By no means it looked as if he was from a well-to-do family. He was there to see off his wife and the child. From his khakhi shirt, I assume he was an autowala. He was laughing and playing with his son and making light fun of his wife. He was happy and loving. I did not understand what drove him to such generosity. May be love makes people generous. Or he just understood the value of 10 rupees and how it could help the beggar. Poor people are rich in hearts anyway.

On the same journey, I was fiddling around the next day. It was afternoon and I had no intention of having lunch inside the train. Though the train food stops short of it sucks, it is never tasty to call for second eating. A waiter came asking if I needed food, and i just glanced above, all prepared to say no. But the words escaped my mouth! The broad, innocent and unpretentious smile he carried over his face was overpowering. The grin was so wide, I thought even his grey moustache was also smiling along with it and it made his eyes sparkle with delight. It was kind of smile which made you believe the world is in perfect order. I ordered the food, not for the sake of food but to see him smiling again. Remembering that face makes me smile even these days. Some faces have that positive effect on you. And that is the promise and potential a train journey always holds.  

The City of Dreams

The city of Mumbai always seems different. The country within a country. The paradoxes, which are so much part of every day Indian life, are accentuated to grander proportions like the ever-rising skyline in the city. The city where the most of the autowalas are young and the most of the taxiwalas are old. The rich and poor walk the streets of this unending city side by side. It boasts of the country’s richest citizens as well the largest slum in Asia. The dazzling Bollywood keeps churning over-the-top, larger-than-life masala movies while the dark underbelly of the city holds its own with its unspeakable and unimaginable enterprises.  One comes to the city dreaming of sleeping in a king-size bed and ends up sleeping on a roadside pavement. One spends his full life dreaming of a palace in a one bedroom flat. Dreams -born…battered…shattered…crashed like the wavelets crashed into the stones lining the Marine drive and reduced to tiny pieces…born again. When I got down at the CST(erstwhile Victoria Terminus), my eyes were sparkling with one such dream – the dream of finishing my first Mumbai Marathon in my target time of 4 hours and 30 mins. Though I am not a complete novice in the marathon circuits, this was going to be my first globally recognized marathon, an IAAF(International Association of Athletics Federation) Gold event.  To run in a city which never falls short of producing exciting encounters was a long time desire. Speaking of dreams, while taking a walk towards Marine drive in the evening before the marathon, Gopal put his wisdom hat –he does that often- and came up with a gem of a quote, We do everything twice: once when we dream about it and second time when we actually see its manifestation in reality. It was time to do it again!

The soft early-morning breeze caresses me as I walk towards the start line. The voices are beaming in an expectant air. Azad Maidan is getting filled with runners from all over the country and world. We click a customary pre-race picture. It also happens to be our first 12m12m marathon and everyone is hoping for the impressive start. Just before the flag off, Prakhar wishes everyone Personal Best. Only with the benefit of retrospection will we come to know and appreciate how genuine and hearty it was! As we start from the CST towards Flora Fountain, I see some enthusiastic runners sprinting their ways to the front, shouldering fellow runners aside and causing some discomfort. The dawn has not broken yet, so the halogen street lamps show us the way. As I near Marine Drive, the smell of the sea lights my heart. We take left towards the Trident hotel. From Trident, we take –turn towards Girgaon Chowpatty. Regulars are taking stroll along the Marine Drive, otherwise there is not much activity except the marathon. The city never sleeps, but the citizens are still nestling in the comforts of their beds. A group of children is performing Marathi dance to cheer the runners on the way. Another group is singing melodious Bollywood songs. Going little further, a Punjabi group is performing Bhangra dance. All the while, the speakers set up by the Radio Mirchi, one of the partners of the marathon, are playing the marathon anthem. From Girgaon Chowpatty, we head towards the Peddar Road. I overhear a shop owner telling to his bemused friend who cannot figure out why we are running that this is an annual affair and runners will come back on the same road in an hour! Not so soon, my friend! Not before at least another two hours. I complete my 10K in around 50 mins, and feel positive of achieving my target. The sun slowly lights up the sea as we move towards the Haji Ali Dargah. I hear chirping and notice the presence of the birds which I thought never existed in Mumbai before. A group of birds take dip into water for early morning hunt, before others join in, same like the people do here. I remember another gem uttered by Gopal: If you cannot beat it, join it.

As I reach near the INS Trata circle, we are joined by the half marathon runners, who have started their pursuit from Bandra. The road is almost blocked. I slow down, unwillingly, to find my way out of the crowd. After about a couple of kilometers, the crowd withers out and the road is all again mine. Running in a road race in a city of 20 millions make you feel like an emperor for the day. People clap for you, support you on the way, there are security cops all around and you just keep marching towards your finish line. The spectators are increasing in the numbers on the way as they wake up to the news of the marathon. The street is getting narrower, and the rush of spectators only make it look more so. I observe an aged person watching me from the window of his first floor house, staring directly into my eyes. Those eyes speak of hope and delight.

I finish the half distance just then, as the two hour mark is approaching. After the Bandra Fire Brigade Station, my garmin announces two hours mark, and the distance I covered is 23 KM. Suddenly there is temptation to do it in less than 4 hours as there is only 19 KM left to cover. My legs start moving faster, but the moment I enter the Bandra Worli Sealink, The reality hits hard. The gradual climb is not helping, as well as the fact that we all are exposed to the sun directly. There is no shade, no tree-cover. I try to gather my spirits and strength, but remain wanting. I stop running and start walking after 24 KM. The sealink is about 7 KM long, and I slow down considerably there. The 4 hour temptation still looms large, and I try to run with vigor but give up almost instantly. On a side note, the marathon is a blend of ancient and modern, as it covers some of the colonial monuments as well as the modern veins of lifeline of the city. The end of the sealink takes near eternity to reach, but once it’s crossed, there is new lease of life in the legs. I speed up for a while, and again return to walk-and-run after a KM. The route from here is same as we took in the morning, in opposite direction. The Peddar Road is now a sea of humanity as people from all ages and walks of life reach out to runners. Children, dressed in colors and nature of help, line up with chocolates and biscuits and bananas and oranges and smile. I take a glass of water from a kid and he just runs away to bring the next glass. A cute 5-year old girl is so happy when I take chocolate from her that she cannot stop talking to his parents about it. They also try to clean the road off litter if a runner happens to throw some on the way. I understand now why it is so easy to fall in love with this city. Those who come here becomes part of it, and the city part of them, and if they ever leave, unwillingly so, they leave their inseparable part here. The famous spirit of Mumbai is at its exaggerated best.

When I re-enter Marine Drive, after some 38 KM of run and walk, the festive mood is all over it. The Dream Run is going on and some 20000 people have thronged to participate. The seaside is occupied by different bands, most notably the Indian Navy band, and dance groups and everyone is singing and dancing and cheering. There is sea of runners on the road and the spectators on the side as if to challenge the Arabian Sea. For a while I forget that my legs refuse to move because of the surrounding extravaganza. Mohan greets me there – he has already finished his half marathon in less than 2 hours – and prod me to go for sub-4 hour finish. By then my garmin shows 3 hours and 54 mins and there is still 3 more KM to go. I give up of finishing in less than 4 hours, but still is on course for less than 4:30. I keep waving at the Dream Run runners, many of them running for the charity purpose. After crossing Flora Fountain, I dash off for the finish line. As it comes near, the muscles pull stronger, albeit with pain. The voice of the spectators rise with every step I take and that gives me extra fuel to do more. In a flash, the finish line is crossed, with an impressive timing of 4:10:31, my personal best. I have lived a dream. The body takes rest on the wall of a nearby building, but the mind celebrates gleefully. And another seed of dream is sown in that most fertile land…

The ‘Perfect’ Birthday

I am generally not very ecstatic about my birthdays. I don’t consider them very special or exciting enough, except the fact that I get to talk to the most of my friends on the same day. It is not that I don’t like to celebrate, or shy away from throwing parties. I just don’t think that only a birthday is a special day. Everyday is a special day, in fact every moment is! Nature doesn’t act any differently on these so-called special days like showering one with flowers or money! Only way it makes you feel special is by your friends. Biologically there are always some dying cells and new-born cells to replace them instantly, so theoretically one dies and is born every moment. Psychologically you are born with new understanding every moment. So it is uncharacteristic, as well as amusing, that I am very excited about my birthday this year as I turn 28. There are a couple of reasons for that, one founded in literature and the other in mathematics.   

What I found in literature : My office friends gifted me Thomas Hardy’s classic Far From the Madding Crowd on my last birthday, but not before I treated them for lunch. Lousy friends I have. Love them all! I have a firm belief that every event and every thing has some significance in your life. That day I could not comprehend what significance this book would have in future. I did not get chance to read it until just before my following birthday. The description of certain farmer Oak bemused me and made me eager to wait for the day when I turn 28. It reminds me of myself. Here is that apt and very beautiful passage:

“He had just reached the time of life at which "young" is ceasing to be the prefix of "man" in speaking of one. He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family. In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor.”

What the mathematics provided : Pythagorean Brotherhood was fascinated by numbers – Pythagoras proudly declared that Everything is Number – and among the numbers, they were after the very special and rarest numbers, called the perfect numbers. A perfect number is a positive number whose divisors exactly add up to the number itself. The first perfect number is 6, because 1, 2, and 3 are its proper positive divisors, and 1 + 2 + 3 = 6. The next perfect number, adding to my excitement, is 28, because 1 + 2 + 4 + 7 + 14 = 28 :) In other words, the perfection is achieved not when there is nothing to add, but when there is nothing to remove. These perfect numbers comply to that definition because adding the divisors just make the same number again, nothing more, nothing less.

The perfection of 6 and 28 is also acknowledged by some cultures who observed that the moon orbits the earth every 28 days and who declared that God created the world in 6 days. When I was 6, I was too young to appreciate this perfection and the next perfect number is 496, which I will not live to see unless I am blessed with immortality. So 28 remains to be the sole celebration of perfection in my current life. Let there be celebration galore!

The Silence of the Lamb

One of the finest scenes of Yash Chopra’s memorable movie Silsila comes when Dr. Anand (Sanjeev Kumar) and Shobha (Jaya Bachchan) are chatting in the doctor’s clinic. Both of them are aware of their spouses’ clandestine affair. The good-natured doctor advises Shobha to exercise her right and plunge into action. In return, Shobha asks him, “Aur raja kya kar rahe hai?”, referring him as raja, and obviously showing dissatisfaction over his lack of action. That moment the palpable pain and helplessness over his face is enormous. He is drowned in silence. Whenever I see Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh, I am reminded of that scene.

The recent unearthing of some corruption scams have been quite uncomfortable for the PM.  The two most striking ones are CWG scam and 2G spectrum scam. They obviously have dented the image of the country on the global front. Together they might reveal the graft of 200000 crores. But the statistics only does not reveal the true nature of wrongdoing.  What is really unnerving is that these scams had gone on for many years, right under the nose of the PM. By no means, I am accusing him of graft. To his credit, even his staunchest enemies would not dare to blame him for corruption. He is incorruptible, and that is given.  It is not possible that he was not aware of the scams much before the world came to know about it. He chose to remain silent over the whole episodes arises a suspicion in the mind that he was privy and gave his approval. What baffles me is his silence on these matters.

He has been silent for too long. Silence is golden, but it ceases to be a virtue if not backed by right action. Then you become object of public ridicule. Remember the joke doing rounds on internet - Regarding 2G Manmohan Singh said "I know only 2G -that are RahulG and SoniaG"?  The PM’s credibility is at stack.  You cannot claim your right to remain silent when you are a leader of a country of 1.2 billion people. Nor can you find relief in the fact that you were performing your dharma with utmost sincerity, barring these incidents. In more than one ways, his is the situation akin to that of Bhishma in epic Mahabharata. Like Bhishma, he decides to do his duty selflessly, but for the wrong side (the sides are not the political parties, – they are all same  -but the people of the country and their betrayers). In that way he has betrayed the country. All he has to offer is that like Caeser’s wife, the PM should also be free of suspicion. The problem, Mr Singh, is that in the country where family values are still revered, the whole family of Caeser’s wife is expected to be free of suspicion. 

Being a PM, he is answerable to the people of the country. By some strange and misplaced sense of duty, the PM thinks that he is only answerable to Sonia Gandhi because she put him into that seat of power in 2004 by renouncing the crown. No, Mr PM, you were not given any favor but you were favored because of your clean image. There was no one else who could have claimed that.  Sonia, in fact, did not renounce the power; she renounced the responsibility. In the current arrangement, she decides the policies and portfolios while the PM gets all the blame for anything which is not right. That was the reason A Raja was made telecom minister again in 2009 in spite of Manmohan Singh’s opposition. Politics certainly has some place for theatrics. Atal Bihari Vajpayee showed that when he threatened to resign and got his way when he was PM. It’s time Manmohan Singh follows his predecessor.

The country is suffering because of these unwanted happenings and there are not many people we can hope to provide the beacon of light – Rahul Gandhi is also busy dividing the people of the country like many others, Narendra Modi is busy taunting Congress leaders, Advani is busy bringing Uma Bharati back in BJP and other leaders are busy strengthening their little pockets of power. True that the night is the darkest before the dawn, but there is a lingering question in mind – Kya is raat ki subah hogi?

The Ultra Special

 

Waking up with a burden of history is no good feeling. And I had twins to tackle with the day I woke up for the Bangalore Ultra Marathon 2010. One, I was going as a reigning champion in the 37.5 KM category. Victory feels sweet the day you taste it but also puts you under the pressure of expectations, from your well-wishers as well as from yourself, the next time you compete. My change of category from 37.5 KM to 50 KM not withstanding, I somehow could not rid my mind of that fact, though I always considered that win a favor from fortunes. Second, more importantly, was the recent incident of bonking when I had severe back pain as well as feeling of intense exhaustion while training for the Ultra. I stopped after 36 KM that fateful day, feeling terribly dejected. The pain ruled so much over my mind that I tried, with little success, to show it an exit door thru a poem. Then there was that niggle in my left knee, which frequently gives me scare. In short, it was a terrible state to be in.

The race started at 6 AM, during that period of twilight when the darkness gives way for the light. As the runners got into their rhythm and pace, I found myself running with Ajith, a fellow from my runnerhood.  The sky was clean and cloudless, and the sun peeped over the green meadows and hillocks. Something in that sun was telling me that it was going to be a hot day. Ajith also agreed to that. The mood was rapturous among the runners, not fully aware of the sun’s plans, as they kept on chatting and cheering. My anxieties started vanishing, rather slowly like the pace I was running at, watching the proceedings around me. A little while later, the history was history again and the pain became just another four letter word. When you hit the road, nothing matters but the present. Running, or any other sport for that matter, helps one achieve what the zen philosophers and psychologists always profess – live in the moment. The mind, however, has too many doors to escape. One of the important psychological studies this year shows that Just about half of the average person's time is spent "mind wandering". My mind wandered in the world of the words, especially the four letter words, and could not stop observing how some of the four letter words have profound effect on life(itself one of those words) – love. luck, fate, will, pain...even f**k.

All this while, I kept on looking at the fellow runners and noticing their efforts. During the first round, the runners greeted each other with loud cheers. As they grinded themselves further, the greetings became less ecstatic and more subtle. In the end, one only moved his eyes to say the most. There is unwritten pact between runners to acknowledge the agony and ecstasy of running. The camaraderie keeps growing during the thin and thick of the running. The 12m12m which we will embark on next year is born out of such camaraderie.

By the time I finished the half distance, the sun was ruthless in its pursuit of sucking energy from the runners. Mai, a Motorola colleague, who came all the way from US to run one of the best ultra marathons in the world, was all red and struggling to keep her heartbeat. The effect was evident on the other runners also. The Bangalore weather was considered to be the biggest advantage for this illustrious event but this year it sprung a surprise not many people were ready for. In the end many people would give up their challenge in what was later believed to be the toughest Bangalore Ultra Marathon till date. The recent training in late mornings and afternoons certainly helped me a lot in reducing the effect of the heat. Along with that I carefully kept eating oranges and bananas and glucose biscuits to fuel the engine. The bigger challenge was to keep the monotony out of the equation which results from 4 rounds of 12.5 KM each. To that effect, I planned to utilize ipod in the last round to listen to songs which could give me some boost. How well it worked that day! I finished the distance after 5 hours and 35 minutes. That being my first ultra marathon distance(anything more than 42.195 KM), I thought I did pretty well. The heart still rejoices for finishing my first ultra distance. But the icing on the cake is the realization that the past and pain are just the bystanders which you can choose not to heed.

The Garden of Life

Though I admit that I prefer solitude or a company of one or two friends most of the times, there invariably are times when I get bored being in company of myself and there are no friends around to seek the immediate meeting. In those times, my hands automatically search for my ipod shuffle, and the feet effortlessly march towards the nearby garden. And why not! There are so many signs of life in the garden that one can hardly remain aloof – plants and trees dancing to the tunes of the wind, children running around and playing all sorts of games, elder people chatting or indulging in the laughter sessions and joggers performing their routine. Today being one of those days, I end up in the garden looking for revival of my mood.

I find an empty bench to sit on. The sun is fast winding up its day behind my back. While my ipod sets into rhythm of its own, the gardener comes and turns on the rotating sprinkler to water the lawn. The spread of the sprinkler is little more than what is required so it succeeds in spraying the benches in the opposite row. One of the benches is occupied by two little girls, 5-6 years old I assume. They try to duck the water but break into laughter whenever the water wins the duel. Their giggles and the resultant unadulterated joy attract attention of everyone present there. Aware of this attention, they blush which makes the whole act even more attractive.

On the right side of them, three friends, a couple and their male friend, are busy performing their own part. The man of the couple collects some green leaves lying nearby and makes a bandana out of it. He puts it on the head of his love interest. The lady then mocks a winner of a beauty pageant. She is crowned as the beauty queen and her friends cheer her. Her happiness makes me wonder if she really was crowned Ms World or Ms Universe or something like that. Thinking more about it, she is really the beauty queen of her own small world! Every man is a king, every woman is a queen. You do not require crowns of pearls and diamonds to realize that. A bunch of leaves can do that for you. Your kingdom is around you. After all, the best kings and queens rule the hearts.

My mind soon travels from palaces to playground as I notice some children playing. All of them are involved in ball games. The youngest of them are playing with light inflated rubber ball. They pass each other the ball with their tiny hands and run for it on their tiny legs if somebody fails to catch it. If a new kid comes, they include him without any hassles and the game goes on. The situation is different with the elder children, though they are also playing similar ball game. I get the impression that they are school going children. Everyone tries to throw the ball the farthest, everyone tries to be first to catch it and no one wants to pass it or include a kid who is not familiar. I cannot help but thinking if our education system has something to do with it. We have made it so competitive that every situation is being looked at as a race or competition and we have forgotten the idea of community or sharing. Probably those younger children can teach us more about it.

A kid cuts short this race of thoughts. He comes running, shakes hands with me and then repeats the ordeal with others. His shoes dazzle with green and red lights as he stamps the floor. After shaking hand with one person, he looks around, finds yet another person to shake hands with, smiles at him and runs towards him. There is no caution in his steps, just long and carefree steps. Like a branch of a wild tree which grows unabatedly without any notion of boundary or limit, the kid follows his heart and extends his warmth to everyone. With a delightful coincidence, my ipod plays Taare Zameen Par.

A puddle elsewhere meanwhile continues its pleading for consideration. The shadows of the trees make its water green. A few yellow flowers are bathing leisurely in it. A kid comes running and splashes water around by jumping frenetically inside the water. His mother, not amused by his undertaking, comes and scolds him but is unable to drag him out of the water. While the kid continues frolicking, his mother looks worried and keeps babbling about cleanliness and health. Pity us grown-ups: the kids have all the fun while we remain apprehensive about the surroundings.

In a flash the heavy wind blows up, bringing the dark clouds of rain. Umbrellas are open and those without one start searching for cover. The rain pours in buckets and tanks now while I remain standstill on the joggers’ track. It’s the sheer joy of catching rain, like a chance meeting with a long lost friend or an unexpected gain! Water trickles down my head and face and makes its way inside my clothes. A chill runs down my spine and the body is shaken uncontrollably but I refuse to give up my position. The ipod has uncanny knack of playing the right songs and it does not fail to exhibit terrific timing this time also. It plays Gunja Sa Hai Koi Iktaara. Eyes closed, I listen to the song as well as the sound of the rain and I feel as if I am transported to some different world. I am completely drenched – outside from rain and inside from the bliss. It is inevitable that the mind is impregnated with a seed of a dream. The words of Baawra Mann Dekhne Chala Ek Sapna fill my ears and the heart.

The Story of a Flower

This is the story of a flower --

It got its blue color from its father - the sky

Mother Earth nurtured it, and raised it high;

The passing wind cradled it in its arms

The rain showered it in purity and filled its palms;

Thus born and blossomed, it was the most beautiful thing around

For a sheer glimpse of it, the people flocked abound;

It was the object of portrayal for many a painter

And made its place in every sculpture;

Scores of honeybees drank from its cup of nectar

The birds rushed in chorus to compose their twitter;

The wind carried its fragrance to far and wide

The garden enjoyed its popularity with pride;

Then came a day when it died

The inconsolable creatures cried;

The death, though, could only touch the body

It lived in the memories in spite of the tragedy;

It was a short but significant life

Worthy of all adulation and love.