Through my life I have remained cocooned from hardships. Even when I went through tough situations, I realised that ninety percent of the world lived through tougher situations, a lot tougher. Yet I did not feel guilty about this. I felt sad when I heard about the misfortune of the above mentioned ninety percent though. To ward off the sadness, I tried to stay away from any recounting of miserable events. But when one is surrounded by misery, the incidents find a way to reach you. This always brings into me the urge to help people in misery. But I do nothing. I am barely able to take care of my own life. So how can I take care of others? I console myself with the thought that I will help others when I can. At times, I try to make a difference by being liberal with money. But even in this case, I do not go out of the way to help others. I am not interested in being a hero or a martyr. So, I keep myself busy and avoid watching the news channels, which are, at most times, obsessed in screaming out details of miserable events.
During the pandemic driven lockdowns, the lives of the daily wage earners became tougher than usual. They were stuck in different cities where there was no work or money. They did not have a reason to live in the cities and wanted to go back their homes. But the Government had disallowed most vehicles to ply on the road. Only essential services and a few vehicles with passes were allowed to be on the road. So, in desperation, they used any form of transportation available to them and when nothing was available, they walked. For me listening to these incidents was painful. I was at the other end of the spectrum. I was already safe within my home. I had plenty of food available within the four walls that surrounded me. To make matters better, for the first time in many years, I did not have to step out of the house every day. I felt happy and I liked the lockdown.
That phase, like every other phase in life, ended in some months. Life got back to near normalcy in two years. Except for an occasional masked faces and a few gaps among the living, it seemed that the pandemic and the ensuing lockdown never happened. The first time we traveled to the north of the country, we took COVID tests and had our reports ready for whoever demanded to see it. But during the three weeklong trips, not even a temperature check was done. So, for our next trips we did not bother to go through COVID tests.
I walked through the Mumbai airport for nearly 30 minutes before I got to the baggage carousel. I waited for another 20 minutes before my suitcase appeared from the underground. I walked up to the Meru prepaid counter and asked for a taxi to Chembur. I spent the next few minutes listening to the cost of the ride and the complex mechanism of its payment. At the end of the minute, I had to summarize the steps involved. The person at the counter nodded his head in agreement. I had got the instructions right. I paid the airport charges at the counter and walked away with two receipts. As instructed, I went down one level to what I believed was the level below the ground floor of the airport. I find the modern airports disorienting. When I get out of the flight, I believe that I am a floor above the ground. Then I go down one level to get my baggage, which I believe is the ground floor of the airport. Much to my bewilderment, I find later that another level exists underneath this level and when I reach it, I tend to believe that I have reached the underground. But I ride out of the airport, the taxi goes straight onto the road; it does not go up a ramp. So, all my estimations of the levels inside the airport get messed up.
When I walked out of the airport, I saw many taxis parked on the other side. I did not see any Meru cab though. I asked one of the drivers, where I can find the Meru cabs. He asked me to stand under a board that read 'Meru'. I stood under it for a minute, but no cabs appeared. I fished out the receipt and found the name and the mobile number of the driver on it. I called the driver and informed him that I was waiting for him in the underground. He informed that he was at the level above and would come down to my level soon. A few minutes later, I drove out of the airport in a Maruti Swift Dzire. The driver liked to keep me informed of every step that he had and was going through as we attempted to get out of the airport.
"I was at the level above and thought you will come there but then you informed me that you are here. So, I had to turn around and come down. That took time. Can you give me the receipt that you got from the counter? Ah! There it is. You see this small receipt. This is the airport parking charges. I have to show it to the security guard. He will check my car number against the number on the receipt. Sometimes the cab drivers pick up customers not meant for them and that causes a lot of confusion. See! He is checking the car number. Ah! There you go. Now you can keep the receipt carefully in your pocket. Oh! You are keeping it in your shirt pocket now. You took it out of your pant's back pocket. Oh Ok! Acha! It is not reachable due to the seat belt, is it? Koi baath nahin!"
He stopped talking when we got onto the main road, but not for long. He pointed at the seventeen-year-old sitting in the back seat and asked "Has he taken the vaccine?" I responded hesitantly "Yes."
"Both the vaccines?"
"Yes."
"He must have taken it sometime back, right?"
"Yes."
"My son did not take the vaccine. He wants to take it now, but it is not available anywhere."
I felt surprised for I had seen in the news that many Covaxin vaccines were on verge of expiry. So, I thought the pharmaceutical company, the Government and the hospitals should be desperate to use them. I asked, "Are they not available anywhere?"
"No."
"What about the private hospitals?"
"Will they be available in the private hospitals?"
"I think so."
"Hmmm! I should ask him to check but they will charge for it."
"True!"
"In the government hospitals it is free, but they are not available there. Anyway, I will ask him to check. You know I did not take the vaccine, not a single dose, but I have had no problems. Right through the lockdown till now."
He paused for a moment before continuing "The lockdown was tough. I had to stay at home and could not come out. These policemen used to beat us when we stepped out of the house. We could get by the younger ones, but the older ones are more experienced and used to beat anyone they came across on the road. But how long can a person stay indoors? I nearly went mad. One day, I drove to my hometown in this taxi."
"Where is your hometown?"
"Benares."
"You went alone?"
"No with my family; my wife and two sons. We forged a pass and used it during the journey."
"Forged?"
"Yes. The government said that they will take three weeks to issue a pass. I did not have the patience to wait and so approached someone who made duplicate passes. You know, the ones who modify the original passes using a computer and give you a printout. It looks just like the original. No one will be able to find out, not even the government employee who signed the original pass. So, I got a pass for three of us, stuck it on the windshield of this taxi and started our journey home."
"Three? Did you not say that you have two sons?"
"That is correct, but they only used to give passes for three people. If I changed it to four, then the police would have found that the pass was forged. So, I made the pass for three and claimed that my son was less than twelve years old though at that time he was fifteen. We drove for four days before we got home. At the borders, the police made us wait for many hours. At one place we were had to sit on the grounds of a police station for eight hours. We had no problems. This was no different from sitting at home doing nothing. We had done that for nearly six months and were experts at sitting in a place for hours doing nothing. Besides, how long could they keep us there? The police had to let us go when the number of people on the ground grew to more than one thousand. I stayed at Benares for a year. I drove all around UP during the year with the forged pass stuck on the windshield. If anyone stopped me, I would show the pass stuck on the windshield and they would let me pass. No one caught me."
He had reached the end of his narration. He remained quiet for a few minutes before going on to the next topic. We were crossing a large-barricaded complex with many policemen guarding it. Somewhere in its midst of the complex resided the Thackerays. He talked about it with such mystery that it seemed that Thackerys were mystical creatures living in an enchanted forest. As we listened to his narration, we looked at the complex nervously and soon completely stopped looking in that direction. Later, when got into the Bandra Kurla complex, we saw a swanky red coloured sports car take the right at a signal and speed away. He pointed at the car and said "There are many such cars in Mumbai these days. Sons of rich men. They are born into wealth and have no qualms about showing it off." His narration moved from the rich men's sons to his own sons. The eldest was studying in a college. The youngest had just finished his 12th and was attempting to get into a college. The words came out of him seemed drenched in anxiety and hope.
By the time, we parted, I felt a sadness pass through me. Only 40 minutes had passed since I got into his cab and yet, it seemed I had known him for longer.
Weddings, these days, are influenced heavily by the customs and culture of North India. I was in Mumbai to attend a Malayalee wedding, which, I thought, can only stretch up to an hour. But this one stretched across a day and a half and contained many elements. It started off with a Mehendi before going through a Sangeeth and ending in a Reception after travelling through a wedding ceremony. I had witnessed a similarly detailed ceremony for the initiation of a matrimonial relationship, a few months earlier. The trauma of the events stayed with me for nearly two months. During that period my mental and physical faculties became physical and mental faulties. The prime culprit for this situation was the sound and light extravaganza that is essential in any North Indian marriage function. The most affected part of my body was my ear drums. The culprit - dance music. The issue with dance music played at weddings was not the music by itself, which without doubt is useless, but the decibel level at which it is played. I am sure the god Indra will be tapping his feet to the beat of 'Arabi Kuthu' while watching Urvashi and Ramba prance to it. The song 'Arabi Kuthu' is a good representative of the songs played during such occasions. What the hell is that song all about. It seems like a lament sung at a funeral (oppari) - "Avanum poittan poittane, ivanum poittann poittane...". The singer's voice fits the oppari mood too. Every time I hear it, I wipe away a tear from the corner of my eye. What a sad song! Ayyyoo Poitane! After I got back from the earlier wedding, I had to put my ears through an hour of heavy metal treatment to recover. My ears had recovered completely, by the time I had walked into hall to witness the Sangeeth ceremony (which by the way is a poor excuse for people (young and old) to jump around to remixed version of some upbeat song where the singer screams "Baby/Kudi/Whatever, come and dance with me..."). I simply don't understand the obsession that humans have about dancing or the acts that they categorize under the word dancing. Damn! I am digressing.
Wedding/Marriage halls are also perfect locations to meet people whom you have not met for years. Sometimes, such meetings invoke happiness in us and at other times, something like the following happens.
During the reception, I found myself walking with one of my uncles. Suddenly, I found a lady waving in our direction wildly. For me, most people attending the reception were strangers and so I looked towards my uncle, who was waving back at her with as much excitement. The two of them uttered as explosive "HIIIIIIIIIIII" as they got closer. For a few minutes, they asked talked about their respective lives. I stood there wondering when the moment would come when I can walk away without it seeming rude. Just a few moments before the moment arrived, my uncle looked towards me and asked, "You know Rekha, right?" I would have responded "yes" if I had not seen him pointing at the lady. I was sure I had never seen her in my life. But my uncle seemed to be sure that I knew her and so my surety wavered. Rekha was looking at me intently. Inside my head I thought I heard her say "Please say no." I let my brain smile back at her and was about to say "No", when my uncle prodded helpfully "Sita's daughter, you know Sita right!" He ended the statement with an exclamation and not a question mark. He was sure I knew Sita even if I did not know Rekha. I was in a fix. I saw that Rekha's nervousness had disappeared and an amused smile lingered on her face. I searched through my head for the Sitas.
- Sita from Ramayana - Can't be.
- Seeta from Seeta Aur Geeta - Impossible.
- Sita, the Tamil movie actress from the 80's and 90's - Maybe or maybe not. How the hell am I supposed to know?
- Sitaram Yechury - What! Stop!
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