The journey of life Chapter two

"I saw the best minds off my generation destroyed by madness,
Starving hysterical naked,
Dragging themselves
Through the Negro streets
At dawn looking for an angry fix.
Angle headed hipsters
Burning the ancient
Heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery night……"
With each passing tree my mind raced, the vibrating cushion disturbing the perfect state of bliss, wondering about life, a train journey. Each year, wonderful, adventurous, the train whistles on and so does life, both cruel to those who come in its way. Unforgiving and maligning bodies and souls, they go on, Death is inevitable.
"The barren hillock stares at the sun,
Parched fields, dying cattle, ah agony.
A farmer looks up to the sky,
Summoning rain gods, no reply.
What has fate in store, hungry children,
Beg for mercy,
God when wrote their destiny, forgot
To give them any respite, ah agony..."
As the train left the station, she calls out, eyes staring blankly in to the oblivion, seeking desperately for that hand no longer visible from the window, the support was gone never to return. The fall killed her, as she ran after her lost love.
"Till death do us part"
The shadows of the mountains grew longer, as the sun bid farewell to the earth, another night, and more food consumed, sharp pangs jolt the body, the horror of tomorrow. Another day waits on the anvil with nothing to offer, it creeps him up like a demon, bringing death and destruction, the little one cries, breaking the monotony of the night. The sky turned orange, a ray of hope arrives……
The man stood still waiting for it; he could hear the vibrations, a low whistling noise."Ah my wife, my children!", their faces haunting his vision, at 28 he had seen it all, death was the only solution. The sun rained heat and prolonged his pain, memories from the past seemed like an oasis in this desert of life. A mirage, or was it real, a whistle. The complex machinery stopped………
A man enters the compartment, wife and kids tagging along, looking at vacant upper birth he perches his two kids on top. In the commotion another man gets kicked, hell breaks loose. Abused, his ego shattered, the father stands at the door. A turmoil engulfs the kids mind, scheming and planning the downfall of his fathers nemesis he falls asleep, rudely awakened by his father as the train yet pulls in to another station, tagging along, his hero defeated, says "Any man can be a father ,a few Heroes."
Green fields, a respite from the cruel heat, tractors operating churning the guts of the earth. Food no longer a luxury, A mere necessity. Parched land, barren mountains, a different reality, yet a common ground. Children no longer hungry, play to a different tune,
Cows grazing on nimble leaves. As he stands there he seems to be thanking…
"City of gods they call it, yet people suffer,
Devdasis cry for mercy,
Widows abandoned cry for lord Krishna,
Two rupees and little rice they get in return,
God turns a blind eye,"
Destiny, Farce, fate, who knows, why they suffer. The farmer ,his children, the question lingers as rain god blesses a town,turningroads in to a slush, People cursing rain, people praying for rain only if gods were not so confused…..
As the train pulled in to the station, my mind raced to all the events that had occurred during the journey .Strange things happen when least expected .A journey through India had seemed so vague a couple of months ago now a reality. As I boarded a bus the mind wandered again, the bus pulled and stopped, and so did life, moving on a terrain filled with potholes, it didn’t budge, time has a strange way to show its existence, life is such, it doesn’t move when most needed, the engine revved up, a traffic jam, more people, insignificant mortals trying to bring in that bread. Strange smell filling up my nostrils. Half an hour passed, no deliverance, another red light, another stoppage, was it time to change course, but was there any other option.
The clicking noise broke my trance, the engine responded, the bus pulled forward, strange happenings, a five rupee coin seemed to communicate. It made the decision, it stopped and it moved, it clicked away merrily ,shouts to stop felling on deaf ears, the bus came to a grinding halt, another click, a harsher one and it started moving,money,it seemed made the world go round.
The dope heads sat in a huddle inhaling fumes, matchsticks burning fingers and mind. Eyes hollow, they stared coaxing automobiles to end their agony.Thier clothes a reminiscent of their past. Who were they, forgotten long ago, their families, a thing of the past. The cramps, a symbol time to burn the foil again, hell existed in pockets under the flyovers, demonic in appearance, they looked through his soul, searching for some sanity he looked the other way, were they at peace, a mind slave to the foil, an empty cigarette pack had its own uses, little things in life had there own uses only if they were there.
The bus screeched, tyres whining from pain fumed in anger. A Man had increased the road count, a life turned in to a mere figure, who was he,a family orphaned, a vacancy created, did he achieve what he thrived for, his brain spilled, a mind fodder for the dogs. Death in its cruelest form. A finger twitched, marking the end of a generation. The ambulance came and went, blood spill cleaned by passing vehicles. Who was he, did he have a name, a past, , did he know the last thing on his mind bore no relation to the ultimate truth. A mother waiting, wife conspiring, sons fighting.
They live in duplex flats, close to the main road, houses constructed from wood polythene, and poverty, laughter shared, the hutments continue on both sides occupying that precious real estate meant for pedestrians, like a snake each day it grows, a place to live, kids playing, evading vehicles, a mother washing clothes, yet another one cooks, a common place shared, black tar witness to there happiness and sorrows, a compromise made a small pandal holds a wedding. Loud garish film music playing on conical speakers, kids dancing to its tunes.Lifes little delights, a big event for them, an amused backpacker clicked pictures, "oh! I visited real India!" back home he would proclaim. Kids posed, an artificial smile, demand for money, constant pestering, he moves on. Were they happy, satisfied in the bliss of smelling their own excreta thought fully marking strategic positions on the road, waiting to be splattered all over the place, the torrid smell of dead fish and excreta lay heavily, a way of life. Yet another kid evades passing truck, as he runs after the ball, his mother cursing, he returns, a smile ,not artificiality, a cheer from other, the environment lightened, moving on I looked back, studying in the street light, he seemed determined to leave it, a future ,a fight was on its way…..
As the ceiling fan took the umpteenth revolution the day’s events started reappearing in front of his eyes. The contrast as strikingly different as possible.
Staring at them loneliness befriended him, As the machinery of the night churned hour after hour, sleep eluded his tormented soul, the days events filled him with remorse for not being sensitive, As a child he had often cried seeing others in pain, a complete degradation, a curse ready to destroy the little sanity, he so cherished, the demons of the night closing in, the dope heads calling out, inviting him, promising a solution he so desperately sought answers to. Sleep came but only to a tired body, the mind still wandering, asked where to go next, maybe the Himalayas had an answer.
The morning came and went, he was too tired, The night had been anything but comforting, A knock, were the dope heads real or just a figment of his imagination. Did a solution actually lay in that hollowness of mind and spirit, escapism he concluded .Another knock." room service". Ticket to Himalayas had finally arrived .The boy looked on for bakshish, handing him a tenner he studied the boys face. Life had matured him at this young age of twelve.Acook, butler, manager, who was he, a product of a night of passion, a bread earner, a drifter? , he was too tired to ask. The bus left at six and he had a whole day to experience life at close quarters.
Similar hutments littered the clear spaces, more misery, yet a common feature, that wonderful smile, some sense of achievement. "Should I ask them?" he wondered, yet a fear of being mobbed stopped him from approaching those happy souls. A beggar approached him, hair turned brown, his filthy appearance assured that his target customer parted with enough booty. It seemed he had not taken a bath in days, the skin burned to a crisp black. It looked as if he hadn’t had food in days .Moved Siddhartha tried to give him a fifty paisa coin. "Do you think I can buy anything with this" As he threw the coin back at his face. Awe struck as Siddhartha looked at the beggar he chose the choicest of abuses increasing his vocabulary.
People looked at him sympathetically, Naked he stood, his clothes no longer able to hide his shame, showing mercy to a fellow human being was no longer a virtue, he realized.
An act of kindness had turned in to an act of self defense nasty reminder of being abused in public.
He thought of the beggar, Perhaps a dope head pursuing his occupation frustrated at not being able to collect enough for his daily dose of drugs. Maybe it was the cramps that had returned asking him to burn the foil which no longer existed. That night he might suffer for not being able to defy reality, his demonic friends guarding their loot smoking away in hell, the whiffs of that burning foil enticing him, calling out, like a fallen angel he would suffer the agony.
It was time to go ,the bus conductor calling out for single passengers baggage secured ,he boarded ,only to discover he was placed in the front cabin, his next destination, a popular hill station amongst newly weds. Sleep as always had plans to elude him and this being the perfect setting he decided to enjoy the journey, little did he knew what fate had in store for him.
The journey was anything but comforting, the bumps coming at regular intervals jolting every bone in his body. Indian film music belted out continuously from torn speakers. Playing it slow was not an option as it kept the driver from dozing off. Cigarette smoke of a different kind filled in the cabin making his head go dizzy. As the driver took puffs ,a cold chill ran down his spine ,the horror of meeting with an accident being evident ,he knew that he may meet God in person sooner than he had thought off .The mind wandered off to the sushi bars in Japan serving stone fish ,a fish so toxic that it could kill a person in a few minutes ,why then people customary say there good byes before eating the fish. Putting your life in the hands of the chef was an idea not many people would like to do, the chef specially trained in the art of cleaning fish, what if he had a fight in the morning ,what were the chances of survival, what about the person sitting next to you waving goodbye as you take a bite out of your stone fish .Was it the thrill that made people eat it ,or was there some kind of a death wish going on .What a terrific way to die, at least you died on a full stomach.
Sleep finally acted as deliverance and when he got up fog was covering up the road.
Journey in the hills beginning, it was cold and damp ,but it lightened up his spirit ,the majestic mountains challenging his wandered spirit, Coaxing him to conquer them.
The bus stopped at a road side tea stall as the hawker shouted, displaying there wares. A mountain stream pouring down from nowhere, acted as a water source, for, that sweet tea he ordered. The music of the stream played in perfect harmony with the sun playing hide and seek with clouds .The mountains looking on at the game with wisdom that of saints ,smiling at this innocent display by natures most powerful elements .A far cry from the hustle bustle of the city ,it was a different world ,nature at its best .The sun putting on a different face at different places .In Bombay it had risen with a sophistication ,a sense of priorty,an urgency to catch the 8.45 Virar express ,and here it was ,having all the time in the world to play that little game with the clouds ,hiding behind mountains, challenging the clouds to catch him .
The bus winded through the thin curvaceous road, like an insect testing his luck climbing up the leg of a saint engrossed deeply in meditation, irritating him, tickling him. The saint opens up his eyes, smiles .The bus moves on, Destination visible, it was time to look forward to a new adventure.
As the bus entered the under belly of a sleepy town, a swarm of pimps brokering accommodation entered the bus like bees to a hive .Each holding a brochure of the so called hotel he was employed for. "Two hundred rupees, hot water." They bargained, targeting the newly weds and back- packers. Living on the main road an idea popular with the newly weds didn’t really entice me much and getting hold of my luggage I decided to walk .Walk in to the mountains, walk in to the underbelly of the city commercialized to an extent where even an attic doubled up as a guest room during summers bringing in that much needed cash so important to survive the winters.
The town freshly snowed, a haven for skiing attracted lots of sports enthusiast each year looking for virgin snow fields challenging the Gods and mountains alike .A mountaineering and skiing institute boasted of best skiers in the country stood right next to river Beas .They say if heaven was on earth it was this town ,but before this Kashmir had this title, before it was ravaged by the demons called homo sapiens .Today battered it is just a reminder of those past years ,but in a way its good as nature gets that so precious time to recollect ,to rejunavate from all that humans have so wisely plundered in the name of economics.