“Why Delhi?” Owais messaged. His astonishment palpable.
“Don’t become a Delhi boy or I’ll have to beat you up.”
Savni’s warning was as clear as it gets.
A sizeably many more well-wishers sent their mixed greetings,
and concerns and tips on surviving a city that we, the Mumbaikars, the people
of the maximum city, the creatures who know no sleep, who spend 40% of our
cumulative lifetime travelling from home to workplace and back, have grown up
to think as of being one of ravages, fed both by our sense of superiority in
being the more civilised of the races and media’s constant pandering to that
thought.
“Blah blah blah. More blah blah, blah blah. Hence, Delhi.” I
replied.
“Why Delhi?” Owais persevered with his CID style
interrogation. Now, I was lost for words.
Savni has been kinder and more compassionate though, I must
add. She just calls twice a week to put me in line.
But the bullet had left the pistol and so there was no looking back.
Till so far, Delhi has been kind enough. The climate here has just turned supremely
pleasant – hot and superhumid – just the way we like it back in the Gateway to
India, where the philosophical bath time thoughts revolve around ‘why do we
bath? So that even as we’re drying yourself, we get drenched in sweat again.
Karma is such a pet canine of the female gender. ‘
In a couple of days I managed to rent out a lavish palatial
estate to establish my retreat, found palatable, nutritious and hygienic (??
!! OK I’m making this up, but mom also reads my blogs na!) food which taste’s
just as good as home food (paneer power).
Now, there are some people who blabber about things like “We
Eat to Live”!! I don’t know which mad dog has bitten them. As far as I am
concerned,” I Live to Eat.” And good food I’ve sniffed out (I repeat, my mother
reads this blog). So when my seniors ask,” Have you settled?” I give an
emphatic “Yay!!!” (P.S.: There is, in fact one senior who’s kind enough to spoon
feed us, but that’s mostly food for the mind, but food nonetheless.) Spending
almost 12 hours (i.e. all the daylight hours) in the hospital, I return to my
royal abode, sink into my Jacuzzi (wishes are horses that beggars can ride, I’m
just bathing in a Jacuzzi at the end of an exhausting day) before laying asleep
in my king size bed.
“So have you settled?” another senior asked loving.
“Yes Sir!” I grinned from ear to ear. But something felt
uneasy. So much concern was pouring in my way from home and otherwise, I wondered if was I
missing something. Was I so lost in happiness that I was overlooking something
obvious? Was I in a misery that I was unaware of? If I had flower at my
disposal I would have plucked off its petals,” I am well settled...... No I’m
not...... I am well settled...... No I’m not.......” But, alas, this was not to
be my luxury.
A few days later, when my Mercedes had to be sent to the
garage for maintenance purposes (sochne ka paisa nahi lagta. Insaan ki soch badi honi chahiye), I had to hop
into an e-rickshaw, a Delhi commoner’s horse ride. The traffic was no worse
than Mumbai’s. Across me were seated a gentleman and a fair lady in her
twenties, who probably had delayed neurodevelopmental milestones. The gentleman
was kind and tender and polite and probably the girl’s caretaker.
“O look! Wa-all-me-ate!” She exclaimed in her monosyllabic
speech as the ride passed across the store. “Wa-all-pe-per-s! Ti-il-es an-d Fl-oo-ri-ngs!”
She read the tagline out loud.
'Awww!!!' I thought out loud. The gentleman was unmoved. Some
stone-hearted fellow. It isn’t unusual for caregivers of special kids to
get frustrated. But, they courageously persevere nonetheless, for which I
respect them a lot. There are human boundaries, and they brave them on a daily
basis.
“Mu-naa-faa- Ma-rt.” She started again. “Aap-ki ba-ch-at ka des-ti-ne-sh-n. Babu, here we can get good discounts na!”
Babu! She said Babu!!!! She wasn’t no retard! I had been
hijacked!
And then, the misery began. I had to bear through her
reading aloud all the shop names along with their taglines and a monologue on
their meanings. My schooldays flashed up out of the blue. ‘Sandarbhasahit spashtikaran kara’, used to be a question
in which we were supposed to build up on a couplet from a poem and explain its
meaning. Though what we ended up doing always was just writing down the poetry
into plain text. Just a couple of days ago, I had ventured out after dark (like
Akbar used to) against percolated wisdom, to get to know the locality, its
lanes and by-lanes and markets and shops. Had I know that I’d be stuck in this
ride in heavy traffic; I wouldn’t have risked my safety, my belongings and my life.
"If someone comes to mug you, just give them everything" is all that Savni comes up with anyway.
Medical practice is very different in a government setup
than it is in a private set up. Just that morning, I had asked a patient’s
relative to sign on the consent form and pointed it out where Relative’s name,
Relative’s sign etc. were written.
“I can read.” He had snapped at me, not taking kindly to my
patronising instructions. Karma, my pet female canine had turned up wagging her
tail to bite me that very evening. I apologise dear Sir, if you are reading this, I now know how irritating
patronisation can sound. “I can read.” I too wanted to snap out. But, alas, this
was not to be my luxury. The caregiver Babu had well developed biceps whose giant
compressive strength I didn’t want to ask a demo of.
“Babu look......” she continued. “The light is red, but it
is blinking. So the signal is kharab na!!” I couldn’t take it anymore. Looking
away at a right angle for such a long time was giving me a neck strain. So, I
looked straight into the caretaker Babu’s eyes.
“Wait baby/kuchiku/sonu/monu whatever....., I’ll go and find
out. You don’t leave the rickshaw. Aapki chappal maili ho jaayegi na... Aap
thak jaaoge na.... Fir mujhehi aapko utha kar ghar le jaana padega na. Bhaisab,
aap jara saath chalenge...”
In the year 2006, when I wasn’t even a week old in Ruia, I
was chatting with Rishabh while being seated on the first bench, under the then
Hindi teacher Mr. Trigunayat’s nose. That was the first time I and Rishabh had
met each other. Mr. Trigunayat didn’t appreciate people socialising in his
lectures. He used to ask his disobedient pupils to ‘canteen jaao aur mere naam
se chai pi aao.’
“Uthiye” he had said. I was about to stand up, but Rishabh
stood up instead. “Kya batein chal rahi hai?”
‘Sir, iske pass textbook nahi hai, is liye ye mujhe pooch
raha tha ki pichali baar aapne kya padhaya tha.’ I would’ve answered. I made
eye contact with Rishabh as he arose taking one for the team, which was yet to
be forged.
“Sir, mere pass textbook nahi hai, is liye mai isse pooch
raha tha ki pichali baar aapne kya padhaya tha.” he answered. We hit it off
that very moment and have been friends till date, sharing some great memories.
In the year 2016, I tried to telepathicunate with the
caretaker Babu. But, alas, this was not to be my luxury. Too bad Babu, we
could’ve made great friends.
I sustained my gaze for a few more moments. Babu was unmoved,by me as much as he was by his pestering baby/kuchiku/sono/monu/whatever. No
pain, no angst, no embarrassment. Just pure, divine, serenity (Or maybe not).
Seers roam about the world in search of the divine. Divinity comes from misery
they say. Must be true.
The human mind is such a sadist! It finds satisfaction in
others’ agony. I had been perplexed, if I was settled or not. I still am. But,
I am relieved, that if it turns out that I am not, my suffering is nothing
compared to that of some of my fellow human beings having to put up with so
much misery and face so much judgement in their quest for the elusive divine.
More power to you bro (Your soul and spirit, I mean. Your biceps have a
lot of power. Any more and that tendon will rupture). Thank you, if you are
reading this.
(P.S.S: Please get the miss to read this out loud in her monosyllable speech as well. Mere aatma ko badi thand milegi.)
