As unbelievable as it may sound to the inhabitants of the great metros, Jalandhar is a decent enough place to eat and drink. I am basing this generalization about the disbelieving lot on the frequent queries about the eating and drinking circuit of my hometown that have been flung my way with considerable skepticism. The ones who threw up these queries were not surprisingly the inhabitants of the great metros which are ‘well known’ and not just ‘rumored’ to have a well defined bar culture.
When I happened to venture out to one of these bars here which claimed to showcase World Cup games with the availability of an affordable platter of food and drinks, I was not only performing a first in terms of expressing my serious interest in the World Cup and thus seeking an opportunity to feel the excitement by being present in one of these places frequented by “serious” fans, I was also performing a first on the bar circuit front because ‘Talli’, which when directly translated from Punjabi to English means ‘Drunk’, was also the first bar that I have entered after starting to drink a decent amount of vodka on certain limited number of occasions, and though I am stating this, I am stating this irrespective of the purpose of my visit which may lie in drinking suspicious vodka or watching football of decent quality or enjoying the twin pleasures of both at one go.
As the evening unfolded at this bar and Germany started harassing Costa Rica but not without hazarding the harassment of its own goal and the gloved man who guarded it, I began talking to a man in sitting on one of the bar stools beside me. Our curiously close position to the World Cup screen proudly disclosed to our bar-mates our enhanced interest in the goings on and the desire to lead the cheering on their behalf.
Soon enough, I don’t know what inspired me to but I found myself asking this middle-aged, well groomed gentleman perched on a leather cushioned stool beside me about his favorite team but not without the apprehension that the question inspires by the sheer predictability of the reply. And needless to say, my apprehensive prayers were answered true to the tradition when my co-cheer-pilot informed me cordially that he is a big Brazilian fan. Now again, on hearing this, I cannot tell why but I felt a strange stirring in my stomach, my vodka began to taste sour and the match suddenly lost its fervor and my head felt as if someone was using its inside as a substitute for a calypso drum.
While these strange reactions occurred, I found myself asking him not without straining to avoid dawning a sarcastic tone, which by the way, comes more naturally to me than regulated breathing, ‘And why do you like Brazil?’
He replied briskly, ‘I like them because they score goals, they have great players. They have Ronaldinho. And most importantly they win.’
I could have been quite impressed with his reply had I been on some high quality ‘MICA-brand dope’ but as the cruel circumstances would have it, I was neither doped not drunk enough to let pass the implications of what my cheer mate had just said.
What he had just said would have been more justified had he chosen the words more suited to the tone that he had answered my question with. Had that been the case, I humbly imagine his reply to be something like, ‘To be honest with you sir, I support Brazil for lack of something to do, for lack of something to support. I have had an excess of club championships. And what did I do at the end of it all; I supported an English club all my life without actually contributing any money directly to their cause, maybe a little indirectly in terms of GRP by watching TV though. And then 20 years from now I am destined to die leaving behind a family and a kid who would wonder why his father was the sham he was and so he might decide to make a difference by having better reasons for watching football.’ That would be an ideal reply for him for the question, ‘And why do you like Brazil?’
“Would have-could have” scenarios apart, not surprisingly, it was now his turn to ask me the same question, which he, quite evidently, did not seem to hold in as high a critical esteem as I was bound to hold by the sheer virtue of my interest in the fate of teams jumping gallantly into the multi flavorful World Cup soup and in turn the associated fate of their fans.
And then he asked me unhindered, ‘Which is your favorite team?’
I said flatly, ‘Brazil’.
‘And why do you like Brazil?’ he asked.
And the reply that came out of my mouth cannot be claimed to be wholly mine but influenced greatly by one Mumbai returned Namibaba of the forty-four roomies fame.
And this is what I found my mouth blabbering to him uncontrollably as he looked on intently while I couldn’t deny that the calypso company in my head was having quite a party now, ‘I like Brazil’, I said, ‘because Spain’s superstitious coach thinks yellow is an unlucky color according to Kaballah. Going by that “philosophy”, I would be tempted to think that Brazil have to put up with a lot of ill luck because all they play in is yellow. If they are world beaters with the unlucky color on them, just imagine what would happen if they dawned another color in place of yellow. And to tell you the truth it’s the superstition that I hate and that Brazil proves it wrong is why I like them. To be honest, I can’t even stand that daily horoscope column in the papers. Apart from that, Brazil has flair…their football is born in slums…they are a poor man’s team….Ronaldinho never dives; he is an excellent ambassador for the game. Brazilians-they are not the European mechanical firing squad…they have Samba footwork and because I like dance of any form is why I like them. I like them because even after so much internal turmoil the country wins the cup through sheer talent. Despite not being the richest foot-balling nation, they have a renewable talent pool year after year…and of course the following is so amazing that it would make any supporter proud- Brazilian or not. Apart from that…or rather because of that they win. That is why I like them. And though it’s beside the point I would like to mention that that I think their wining is more to do with their culture. By culture I mean all that is not included in the sporting culture and still deemed as culture, you know. I hope I am making sense. I think if one has to form a formidable football team, one must do a microscopic analysis of a Brazilian citizen’s social life and I am sure one would come up with the ‘how’s and why’s’ of top-notch football. Well this is pretty much why I like Brazil.’
My cheer companion couldn’t look more dazed by the reply. He promptly ordered a drink and offered me one. But I merely told him that I had had enough for the day. To which he promptly addressed me as sir ji and gallantly said the drink was on him…I said I didn’t care even if the drink was on Maradona…I had had enough and by the way he had a lot to do with it. The game too had come to an end and all the cheering in the club had given way to a strange euphoria in the room which it appeared could only subside with a thorough battering of Brazil at the hands…or rather the feet of a team of lesser sporting mortals.
I picked up my bag, the black one with the orange question mark on it, paid the bartender and left the building.
PS : This is what took place in ‘Talli’ in Jalandhar the other day. Though I am over it now, I cannot resist asking all you die-hard Brazil fans out there…‘Why do you support Brazil?’ If you are, woman enough, man enough but most importantly fan enough, don’t hesitate to let me know.
Monday, June 19, 2006
‘Don’t’
Don’t let your hair lose
Don’t put on rouge
Don’t paint your lips
Or your finger tips
Don’t wear that dress
That you bought with care
Don’t walk that walk
Don’t acquire that look
For if you do
You will look too fine
And I will not know
If you are the same woman
That filled with love
Not too long ago
This weary, worn out
Heart of mine
Don’t put on rouge
Don’t paint your lips
Or your finger tips
Don’t wear that dress
That you bought with care
Don’t walk that walk
Don’t acquire that look
For if you do
You will look too fine
And I will not know
If you are the same woman
That filled with love
Not too long ago
This weary, worn out
Heart of mine
‘Writers-It Takes All Kinds’
-A bad writer after reading the piece he has freshly written would say, ‘By Jove! Revelation of revelations! Is this what I actually meant to write?’
-A good writer would say, ‘My thoughts feel a little distorted on paper but I don’t care as long as they are distorted for the better. ’
-A great writer would say, ‘I have nothing to say, for all I had to say is on the paper.’
-A good writer would say, ‘My thoughts feel a little distorted on paper but I don’t care as long as they are distorted for the better. ’
-A great writer would say, ‘I have nothing to say, for all I had to say is on the paper.’
“Wish: Death”
Die -You know you want to
Why?-You have your reasons
I-Can be your reason if you don’t have one
High-Can be your new home
Fly-With angels who have no hope
Lie-with God in heaven
My-you look so happy when dead
Smile-I just blew your brains out of your head
Why?-You have your reasons
I-Can be your reason if you don’t have one
High-Can be your new home
Fly-With angels who have no hope
Lie-with God in heaven
My-you look so happy when dead
Smile-I just blew your brains out of your head
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
‘The Mechanism of Ventment’
Einstein was wrong
You don’t have to travel faster than time
To tow it across its natural line
Stretch it and slow it down
It can be done while doing
Something as simple as returning from office
My mind buckling under tired thoughts
Weary legs carrying me home through the town
My body may be tired
But I have sold ad space, I have donned that role
That would sell anything that I happened to have in my hand
I have that smile, that body language
That would help me sell anything
Afterall I am no more than a sophisticated salesman
Once home, I want to write
My body won’t obey
I’ll fall prey to an involuntary sleep soon
That is the best way to be ready for the next day
And just as my eyes would begin to close
A couplet will be born in Namibaba’s head
The lappy will be out the next minute
And the night will be spent typing in the dark
My bed an island in a sea of 70 bodies as good as dead
Sleep would overwhelm me finally
And I would go down with the thought swimming in my head
"It's a message from the spirit
It must be sent
Whenever the feelings overwhelm me
There would be ventment"
You don’t have to travel faster than time
To tow it across its natural line
Stretch it and slow it down
It can be done while doing
Something as simple as returning from office
My mind buckling under tired thoughts
Weary legs carrying me home through the town
My body may be tired
But I have sold ad space, I have donned that role
That would sell anything that I happened to have in my hand
I have that smile, that body language
That would help me sell anything
Afterall I am no more than a sophisticated salesman
Once home, I want to write
My body won’t obey
I’ll fall prey to an involuntary sleep soon
That is the best way to be ready for the next day
And just as my eyes would begin to close
A couplet will be born in Namibaba’s head
The lappy will be out the next minute
And the night will be spent typing in the dark
My bed an island in a sea of 70 bodies as good as dead
Sleep would overwhelm me finally
And I would go down with the thought swimming in my head
"It's a message from the spirit
It must be sent
Whenever the feelings overwhelm me
There would be ventment"
Quotes from Namibaba (1983-Alive and kicking till now)
“The truth is in here.”
“A flash in a pan is worth hiring the cook for.”
“A stitch in time spoils the time-piece.”
“Early bird doesn’t get anything in a city of late risers.”
“Peace is a dish best served after war.”
“Give peace a chance. Or else we always have war.”
“The most well supported kind of dog is underdog.”
“I am a life built on underestimations.”
“It’s hard to trust a man who goes an extra mile to earn it.”
.
“It’s easier to trust a man with an evil smile than one with a straight face.”
“A man with an innocent face must learn how to bargain.”
“A flash in a pan is worth hiring the cook for.”
“A stitch in time spoils the time-piece.”
“Early bird doesn’t get anything in a city of late risers.”
“Peace is a dish best served after war.”
“Give peace a chance. Or else we always have war.”
“The most well supported kind of dog is underdog.”
“I am a life built on underestimations.”
“It’s hard to trust a man who goes an extra mile to earn it.”
.
“It’s easier to trust a man with an evil smile than one with a straight face.”
“A man with an innocent face must learn how to bargain.”
‘Who’s This Man?’
I climb up the train and see this man
And though I have seen him somewhere
I can’t quite say where have I seen him
Who is this shriveled up in a corner seat
This man who is so engrossed with everything?
This man who would think strange thoughts
Who always pushes himself
This dreamer, this immodest creative
This vane being, not free from conceit
Showing traces of manic disorder
This man at times lovable
But at times inspiring mistrust and deceit
This man so simple yet unpredictable
Who is this man, shriveled up in the seat?
This tender mouthed
Sometimes a boy
But a man when he needs to be
Who is this man?
And then this man speaks to me
He says
‘Stupid it’s you
It’s you, it’s me
Will you stop staring at me?
It’s us man
Stupid it’s we!!!’
And though I have seen him somewhere
I can’t quite say where have I seen him
Who is this shriveled up in a corner seat
This man who is so engrossed with everything?
This man who would think strange thoughts
Who always pushes himself
This dreamer, this immodest creative
This vane being, not free from conceit
Showing traces of manic disorder
This man at times lovable
But at times inspiring mistrust and deceit
This man so simple yet unpredictable
Who is this man, shriveled up in the seat?
This tender mouthed
Sometimes a boy
But a man when he needs to be
Who is this man?
And then this man speaks to me
He says
‘Stupid it’s you
It’s you, it’s me
Will you stop staring at me?
It’s us man
Stupid it’s we!!!’
‘This word that I have put here’
This word that I have put here
Is meant to be written in this place
This word which not a foreign word
This word is you and me and in-between
And everything that we’ll never know
And when we’ll be gone, it will stay
We will leave back something of our own
This word though lone
Will be here
The word of love
That I have written here
Is meant to be written in this place
This word which not a foreign word
This word is you and me and in-between
And everything that we’ll never know
And when we’ll be gone, it will stay
We will leave back something of our own
This word though lone
Will be here
The word of love
That I have written here
‘See ya…sad eyes’
Here I go dissecting what happened but that is my fate and I am in love with it absolutely. So, here, I go guessing, speculating, deducing to an extent that can hurt people and most of it you. But undeniably and ignoring the risk of hurting you if you may be reading this (fat chance), there was a kind of sorrow; here I go about you, in your eyes and which expressed itself more boldly and threatened to break its eye-prison-cell at the squeeze of a hand, your hand. Yes, at a reassuring, steady, empathizing, a mere squeeze of your hand dictated by feelings unknown, unintended, instinctively but acceptably and undoubtedly mine. In spite of your eyes, you talked and laughed and it was as normal as you intended it to look…but if only I could hear it from your mouth…no you could not say it…not the first time we met…I know…
Now, getting over an interaction with you and letting a reluctant air or normalcy to prevail would be letting myself to take to your ways, so I’ll choose to desist from that temptation to be your alike, rather I will keep your memory fresh and wait till we meet again and next time, though it seems a long shot (but then every impossibility ceases to be one not till we reach the very verge of razing its mirage), I will ask for answers from your eyes and not just try to read them with my own…whatever momentary joy may belie their state. See ya…sad eyes. I leave it to life to bring me about you or you about me…what’s the difference anyway?
Now, getting over an interaction with you and letting a reluctant air or normalcy to prevail would be letting myself to take to your ways, so I’ll choose to desist from that temptation to be your alike, rather I will keep your memory fresh and wait till we meet again and next time, though it seems a long shot (but then every impossibility ceases to be one not till we reach the very verge of razing its mirage), I will ask for answers from your eyes and not just try to read them with my own…whatever momentary joy may belie their state. See ya…sad eyes. I leave it to life to bring me about you or you about me…what’s the difference anyway?
‘In This Moment is Everything’
My eyes dreamt of far off times
The advent of which is not guaranteed
My eyes dreamt of enriching years
The years that no one can promise me
My eyes saw better days
The realization of which depends on today
My mind hoped for hours of peace
Which are mounted on this moment’s lease
And at the awe of all this
When my heart advanced to skip a beat
I cradled my nerve, embraced my breath
The breath that enforces this passing moment
And makes my heart beat with ease
That beat that my heart was unsure of
The beat it would have naively skipped
For in this moment
Does my heart soon realize
In this moment is life itself
That in this moment is everything
The advent of which is not guaranteed
My eyes dreamt of enriching years
The years that no one can promise me
My eyes saw better days
The realization of which depends on today
My mind hoped for hours of peace
Which are mounted on this moment’s lease
And at the awe of all this
When my heart advanced to skip a beat
I cradled my nerve, embraced my breath
The breath that enforces this passing moment
And makes my heart beat with ease
That beat that my heart was unsure of
The beat it would have naively skipped
For in this moment
Does my heart soon realize
In this moment is life itself
That in this moment is everything
‘How Far is The Land…’
I live on only to see that land
Where I will land and not recognize me
The land where after a string of changes
Will I only finally reach
Where is that land?
Where is that beach?
Where I will put my head at rest
And no further any change beseech
While I walk toward that land
I see the signs which tell me that
This is the gold that is everywhere
It’s scattered in every land
To all, by the need of each
There is no treasure greater than this
You are the king of this moment
There are no kingdoms other than His
But the heart insists
And leaps ahead with a view to breach
Hope is something that floats
So I keep on walking in search of the land
Of which there is still no sign
The signs just whisper
‘This is it
This is the land you look for stranger
Look no further, you are already here’
Where I will land and not recognize me
The land where after a string of changes
Will I only finally reach
Where is that land?
Where is that beach?
Where I will put my head at rest
And no further any change beseech
While I walk toward that land
I see the signs which tell me that
This is the gold that is everywhere
It’s scattered in every land
To all, by the need of each
There is no treasure greater than this
You are the king of this moment
There are no kingdoms other than His
But the heart insists
And leaps ahead with a view to breach
Hope is something that floats
So I keep on walking in search of the land
Of which there is still no sign
The signs just whisper
‘This is it
This is the land you look for stranger
Look no further, you are already here’
‘A Rendezvous with God’
If you look at it, it’s not that strange that there are only a handful of events, incidents, and an equally small number of resulting feelings that define the way our personality shapes during the progression of our days. What you are today might seem to be a cumulative sum of all that has happened to us in our lives, but if we think about it, there are a very few crucial incidents and moments that have drastically influenced the way life will shape our personalities if it is to be believed that we are a direct result of what we undergo beside of course the part that is influenced by our genes or what our forefathers underwent.
I have had my share of influences. And one of the things that have always influenced me is ‘the nature of beauty’. I have to my discredit have converted a thing of such simplicity into a mystery, but all in the hope that it will reveal to me a facet of itself which till now has escaped the eyes of everyone who ever came close to laying his/her eyes on something that he/she considered a real thing of beauty. It might seem completely pointless and vain to have such a pursuit when we have enlightened souls constantly declaring that everything is bathed in beauty if you have the ability to see it. It might sound like an intelligent excuse but may be it’s only the beauty of that vision what I was after.
It’s again to my discredit how I continue to dissect beauty and love, the two apostles of greatness, and carry on categorizing them, calling them all sorts of names in my head for personal reference so that when I come across them I can draw on that particular sort and call it something that helps me to systematize my understanding. I do this, to my increasing discredit, with a view to limit the insecurity that is generated out of the lack of my own beauty and in complete knowledge of the fact that the sources of the two and all their kinds are constant and common.
My foolish pursuit of this fictional mystery is such that even the slightest conversation on the topic is deposited consciously into the finest grey cells of my mind I have (the best of whatever I have) for the sake of convenient retrieval. One such conversation occurred when I was talking to my friend Pierre. We were talking about beauty without specifying the type and form and not surprisingly by default we were talking of ‘physical beauty’ when he said that research says that children of young parents are found to have more symmetrical features and symmetry according to the laws of design is one of the intrinsic features of beauty. The talk then could have easily meandered into discussing how physical beauty effects mental beauty during the course of one’s life or vise-versa, but the sporadically rare work at the office surprisingly helped hold our horses.
Anyway, I narrated what Pierre said because I saw something on the streets today that I have come to call nothing less than ‘absolute real beauty’. I witnessed it from the bus while going to Express towers. The red double-decker bus I was traveling on had just stopped on a traffic light where all sorts of vehicles were lined up along the zebra crossing. Two imposing Mercs and the macho Pajero stood proudly parading their striking beauty, the perceptible physical definition of it which dominates our understanding despite the fact that there is no dearth of car enthusiasts who would stop at nothing short of comparing their mechanical beauties to the most striking beauties of human flesh and blood of spirit themselves. In any case, irrespective of if one considers them live or not, the steely grills of the Mercs and the Pajero and the ‘less beautiful’ cars glinted in the killer sun arrogantly. The stately smooth lines on the metal of the cars seemed to pompously defy the angular sensibilities of yesteryears. The impeccable paint jobs on the cars were beginning to encourage another discussion about the role of color in beauty to crack open when I saw something that put all debates to rest and questioned the very definition of beauty as we (as in increasingly more people) have come to believe it, mostly because they have been programmed by that another huge influence in our lives, which comprises of an equally vast array of dominant messages, called media.
If you are wondering what put an end to my foolish search for beauty, it was only a brown boy that I saw who effortlessly put my little self-amusing (or self-tantalizing) mystery to shame. A little boy of about 10 years or so, evidently paralyzed in one half of the body, bare breasted in the killer sun, trying his best to cross the street on the zebra crossing. From my place in the bus I could see him struggling with his body to cross the street against the backdrop of the ‘beautiful’ cars. By a conservative estimate, it would take him five times as much time to cross the street as would take a ‘normal’ person.
The red light on the traffic pole seemed to have been frozen in time as he crossed the street. The sound from the traffic seemed to evaporate as he crossed the street, his body inching forward somehow supported by the tiny supply of balance that he could manage with in his paralytic state.
In the bus, I felt a few more necks turn in the direction, his direction in which I was looking so intently. He was almost at the other end of the street when the red light turned to orange. A few more feet to go before the beauties lined up on the crossing would roar to take their masters to their important destinations. And then it flashed, it happened. It happened and put my vain mystery to shame. Apart from that, it curtly put me again into the club of firm believers who believe in the universal, unified and simple nature of beauty which makes it a free flowing force, which can move between any two or more places, people, and points in time.
What had happened was that the little brown boy, paralyzed in one side of the body, without a shirt on his back and struggling to cross the street had smiled bravely amidst his struggle. What seemed like a mammoth task for him, just a few more steps and he would be on the other side of the street. Even as the little brown boy teetered along, the signal turned red and it gave me that faint feeling of apprehension about the steely beauties that were just raring to roar off. But fortunately, to my disbelief and relief, the mechanical beauties had seemingly been sensibly restrained till the struggling, smiling boy would cross the street safely. Meanwhile, the boy, unaware of the status of the traffic lights carried on to the other end and once he was there, he stopped to rest immediately. As soon as the boy appeared to have made it, the beauties lined up on the crossing promptly sped away displaying the kind of aggression one is accustomed from them.
I moved on too, aboard my bus, my mysteries solved, my doubts dispelled, my insecurities about the nature of beauty shattered, my heart applauding every single wobbly step the little brown kid took. What do you know; the incident of the boy at the crossing made me feel like I had come across God in the street today. And I couldn’t help thinking about the boy in the context of the discussion that I had had with Pierre, ‘if his beauty had a face...if his beauty had a face…’ and then another thought (more sensible) trailed close behind it. ‘Stupid, his beauty does have a face; his face.’
Namibaba is not in a condition to say anything today ‘cause he has just met God on the streets of Bombay and he is still in a state of shock.
I have had my share of influences. And one of the things that have always influenced me is ‘the nature of beauty’. I have to my discredit have converted a thing of such simplicity into a mystery, but all in the hope that it will reveal to me a facet of itself which till now has escaped the eyes of everyone who ever came close to laying his/her eyes on something that he/she considered a real thing of beauty. It might seem completely pointless and vain to have such a pursuit when we have enlightened souls constantly declaring that everything is bathed in beauty if you have the ability to see it. It might sound like an intelligent excuse but may be it’s only the beauty of that vision what I was after.
It’s again to my discredit how I continue to dissect beauty and love, the two apostles of greatness, and carry on categorizing them, calling them all sorts of names in my head for personal reference so that when I come across them I can draw on that particular sort and call it something that helps me to systematize my understanding. I do this, to my increasing discredit, with a view to limit the insecurity that is generated out of the lack of my own beauty and in complete knowledge of the fact that the sources of the two and all their kinds are constant and common.
My foolish pursuit of this fictional mystery is such that even the slightest conversation on the topic is deposited consciously into the finest grey cells of my mind I have (the best of whatever I have) for the sake of convenient retrieval. One such conversation occurred when I was talking to my friend Pierre. We were talking about beauty without specifying the type and form and not surprisingly by default we were talking of ‘physical beauty’ when he said that research says that children of young parents are found to have more symmetrical features and symmetry according to the laws of design is one of the intrinsic features of beauty. The talk then could have easily meandered into discussing how physical beauty effects mental beauty during the course of one’s life or vise-versa, but the sporadically rare work at the office surprisingly helped hold our horses.
Anyway, I narrated what Pierre said because I saw something on the streets today that I have come to call nothing less than ‘absolute real beauty’. I witnessed it from the bus while going to Express towers. The red double-decker bus I was traveling on had just stopped on a traffic light where all sorts of vehicles were lined up along the zebra crossing. Two imposing Mercs and the macho Pajero stood proudly parading their striking beauty, the perceptible physical definition of it which dominates our understanding despite the fact that there is no dearth of car enthusiasts who would stop at nothing short of comparing their mechanical beauties to the most striking beauties of human flesh and blood of spirit themselves. In any case, irrespective of if one considers them live or not, the steely grills of the Mercs and the Pajero and the ‘less beautiful’ cars glinted in the killer sun arrogantly. The stately smooth lines on the metal of the cars seemed to pompously defy the angular sensibilities of yesteryears. The impeccable paint jobs on the cars were beginning to encourage another discussion about the role of color in beauty to crack open when I saw something that put all debates to rest and questioned the very definition of beauty as we (as in increasingly more people) have come to believe it, mostly because they have been programmed by that another huge influence in our lives, which comprises of an equally vast array of dominant messages, called media.
If you are wondering what put an end to my foolish search for beauty, it was only a brown boy that I saw who effortlessly put my little self-amusing (or self-tantalizing) mystery to shame. A little boy of about 10 years or so, evidently paralyzed in one half of the body, bare breasted in the killer sun, trying his best to cross the street on the zebra crossing. From my place in the bus I could see him struggling with his body to cross the street against the backdrop of the ‘beautiful’ cars. By a conservative estimate, it would take him five times as much time to cross the street as would take a ‘normal’ person.
The red light on the traffic pole seemed to have been frozen in time as he crossed the street. The sound from the traffic seemed to evaporate as he crossed the street, his body inching forward somehow supported by the tiny supply of balance that he could manage with in his paralytic state.
In the bus, I felt a few more necks turn in the direction, his direction in which I was looking so intently. He was almost at the other end of the street when the red light turned to orange. A few more feet to go before the beauties lined up on the crossing would roar to take their masters to their important destinations. And then it flashed, it happened. It happened and put my vain mystery to shame. Apart from that, it curtly put me again into the club of firm believers who believe in the universal, unified and simple nature of beauty which makes it a free flowing force, which can move between any two or more places, people, and points in time.
What had happened was that the little brown boy, paralyzed in one side of the body, without a shirt on his back and struggling to cross the street had smiled bravely amidst his struggle. What seemed like a mammoth task for him, just a few more steps and he would be on the other side of the street. Even as the little brown boy teetered along, the signal turned red and it gave me that faint feeling of apprehension about the steely beauties that were just raring to roar off. But fortunately, to my disbelief and relief, the mechanical beauties had seemingly been sensibly restrained till the struggling, smiling boy would cross the street safely. Meanwhile, the boy, unaware of the status of the traffic lights carried on to the other end and once he was there, he stopped to rest immediately. As soon as the boy appeared to have made it, the beauties lined up on the crossing promptly sped away displaying the kind of aggression one is accustomed from them.
I moved on too, aboard my bus, my mysteries solved, my doubts dispelled, my insecurities about the nature of beauty shattered, my heart applauding every single wobbly step the little brown kid took. What do you know; the incident of the boy at the crossing made me feel like I had come across God in the street today. And I couldn’t help thinking about the boy in the context of the discussion that I had had with Pierre, ‘if his beauty had a face...if his beauty had a face…’ and then another thought (more sensible) trailed close behind it. ‘Stupid, his beauty does have a face; his face.’
Namibaba is not in a condition to say anything today ‘cause he has just met God on the streets of Bombay and he is still in a state of shock.
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