As the Mangalore Mail blew its raucous whistle, Deepak dozed off. First time, after two and half years in a foreign country, Deepak was returning home on an emergency visit. For a change he took a train ride from the Madras airport. Suddenly the calm of the train was shaken by the hoard of army men in their khakis. They moved in urgency typical of them – pushing their large steel trunks into compartments, rushing vociferously to fill any seats that were vacant. These trunks had names written on them like “B. S. Mallkiarjun, 9879382.”
Deepak was slightly bothered with the number and asked one of them “Where to?”
Train travel in India was exciting just for this reason. You could pick up a conversation with almost any one for no wanton reason.
“Mammalapuram” was the reply.
Deepak asked again “What?s the number for?”
“This is how we are identified when we decease. When an army man lays down his life for the country these are the only remains that would pass on to my family.” The army man replied.
“How could one equate a life to a mere number? Deepak thought to himself. But then so it is, he sighed. We are all part of this statistic.
|
…It was like looking at the reflection of his own personality ? a challenge that he had thrown himself and his integrity…
As the train snaked its way towards Mammalapuram, Deepak peered outside. Although it was December, the off season rain had brought a blanket of green in the sleepy village country side. Depending on their freshness, each sector of field had different hues starting from a bright chrome yellow to a lush parrot green. Naked children on the country side were getting ready to perform their morning obligations. Occasionally, he saw steeples of temples pass by and an amusing sounding building called “Hotel Mammalia.” Mammalapuram to Mammalia was a reflection of the new India struggling to catch up with the lure of modernism. Once in a while he caught a glimpse of dare devil pedestrians crossing roads whenever they felt like.
When the train stopped at a junction at 8PM , he was alerted by the screams of groundnut vendors and omelet makers. There was a huge power cut throughout this town and the hissing gas light made this place quite dramatic. A well attired man was carrying a cart selling his home-made soup. He was a center of a lot of attention, especially people making loud slurping noise around him. Deepak was familiar with this setting when one enjoyed the soup even when one felt a strong stench emanating from the long standing remains of an overflowing municipal dustbin.
“Soup Saar?” the vendor called out.
Deepak just nodded and faked a smile.
When he woke up the next day the landscape had changed. Deepak strolled through the compartments to catch up some breakfast at the pantry-car. As he walked by he remembered the story of Gandhi who had traveled in one of these weathered coaches in an effort to feel the pulse of the nation. Now he realized that the pulse was indeed beating hard.
It was alive in the giggles of svelte teen girls playing anthakshari; in the humming of an ill tuned devotional song by a God-man; in the sharing of home packed Rotis of a loud joint family; in the palm reading of a pretensive stranger who acted like he was God?s gift to soothsaying; in the footboard hang-boys brandishing their shampooed hair to attract suitors; in the crunched and discarded Bisleri bottles under the train seats; and even in the detail of the rattling hinges of the metallic toilet doors which threatened to open up any time.
Twelve hours of a long rich journey came to a sleepy halt. As Deepak mounted his knapsack on his shoulder he was approached by a quirky auto driver. After much haggling about distance- to-money ratio, Deepak finally gave in. He realized how much time he had spent without speaking Tulu.
The unbuttoned driver wove his auto through the fabric of the city and dazzling with three wheeler through a ditzy cooling glass. Deepak was so glad to take this familiar route. Apartments mushroomed everywhere bringing along with them a variety of designs and iconography. The buildings looked so overdone with corniced terraces that it looked as if the builders had stopped them only for want of more money. The pediments and canopies weighed down the buildings so much that the whole proportions seemed distorted. The local population, however, had accepted this new look with a renewed fan fare. To them, Mangalore was at last developing.
As the noisy auto-rickshaw sputtered in front of his front yard, Deepak got a first glimpse of his house after two years. As he stood in front of his house, waiting for someone to open the door, he observed how some of the red laterite stones had already developed black deposits – giving it a weathered look. There was a silent hug and the doors closed behind him.
The next day Deepak strolled in his front yard. As was his habit he moved out into the narrow pathway in front of his house and studied the grains of the weathered stone wall. It was like looking at the reflection of his own personality ? a challenge that he had thrown himself and his integrity some three years hence. Now he thought that the wall would never flinch even during the hard-hitting southwest monsoons ? for it stood on a foundation of his mother?s affection and father?s determination.
The evening came like a slow seducing lady. He had to visit the Tannir Bhavi beach, and what with all his friends scattered all over the world – he had to go alone. He borrowed an old Kinetic Honda from a neighbor and whizzed through MRPL. As he came closer to the sea he reclined under an eucalyptus grove. The sea was catching tides now. He looked at silhouettes of sea gulls swooping in to catch the last dinner. In the back drop the tiled roofs disappeared in the night. The sound of the water added more drama to the whole setting. Deepak was sitting with both his hands folded around his legs. Then he immersed his fingers into the water and felt its warmth. Little ripples broke into concentric rings and disappeared. He remembered his friend who had sat here three days prior and had plotted to bring his boat to the shore.
He took a broken twig and scribbled in the sand
“Dear Sam. Although you swam away when I was not here, I recalled all the good things you stood for. We spend the first part of our life in confusion, issues, questions, conflicts, inquisitions, interrogations, brainstorming, and soul-searching. We spend the second half in clarifying; diagnosing, theorizing, conjecturing and hypothizing. And at the end, the very end we strive for resonance. For being. For silence. There is so much love in this world and yet we search everywhere. I wish I was here when you went away because I realize no matter how far you travel there is nothing comparable to the power of silence within. So long my friend.”
A tiny wave rode past him and erased the writing. When it receded there were only etch marks.
Amongst the sound of cricket and the flap of summer leaves, there was a lull.
The sea was silent.
Author: Newton Dsouza- USA
