I went out for a ride on my bike yesterday looking for fresh ideas. As you may notice, I haven’t updated the blog for a while. It’s not because I haven’t been writing. On the contrary, I have written quite a bit but nothing that I felt inclined to share.
So I took the bike ride in the hope of finding some inspiration. But I didn’t find any. It’s November and its cold, even for Bangalore. I zipped up my jacket and enjoyed the blast of cool fresh air on my face as I zipped along on the road. It steadily grew dark and finally I had to accept defeat. The bike ride did nothing. It didn’t give me any new ideas but I did enjoy the speed and the cool air.
Well, that is till the time I got home. Once again I am seated before my computer, with the cursor blinking back at me, willing me to tell it what to write. And then it came to me in a flood of ideas and a torrent of emotions and I was overwhelmed. It took me some time to find the common thread in it and use that to link the whole chain but when I finally got it, I was amazed at its simplicity.
I miss home. Period.
When I get up in the morning at home and go down to unlock the gates, I often see the milkman. He comes to work on a Rajdoot with milk cans hanging on the sides, two huge mirrors and that bike roars like a lion or maybe whines like any old piece of junk machinery that belongs to a bygone era. I prefer to think of it as a lion roar.
I’m fond of bikes.
Getting back to the milkman. I like his easy smile. It says simplicity and the fact that he is unashamedly using the hand pump in the park to increase his quantity of ‘milk’ while I look on. After he is done, he heads over straight to my house.
“ Doodh me milawat kar li?” I ask in jest.
He smiles enigmatically and says , “ Sir aap ko to hum milawat wala nahin denge. Aap to 20 rupay kilo dete hain. Kya Karen sahib… ab doodh 10 rupay bhi lene wale hain.”
He proceeds to measure out my 2 kilos from the exact same can that he’s been watering.
I sigh and take my milk inside. It’s not his fault. He’s just trying to make a buck. Honesty is too complicated a concept for him. He needs to feed a family. Principles are for people who can afford them, I tell myself and yet I can’t get over the feeling that I have just been sweet talked into a bad deal.
I make my cup of tea taking care not to add more water as none is needed and head to my favorite perch… the balcony. It is here where I sit all day and watch the multitudes go about their daily work while I observe them haughtily, trying to convince myself that I am better than them because I am more aware.
I watch as the harassed mothers hustle their kids out of the house with their heavy bags and their little tiffins and water bottles. We are all told, we go to school to study and make something of ourselves so we can aspire to a better life.
Hmmm… me thinks it’s just a conspiracy by mothers to get rid of us for sometime so they can have a quiet cup of tea and a nap without somebody bawling for their attention.
I watch as unhappy looking kids get into a bus full of other unhappy kids and head over to their school.
Mom is up by now. I can hear her pottering around in the kitchen. Time for me to have a bath and get dressed. She’ll be screaming at me to get down to breakfast very soon.
After breakfast, I sneak out of home to get a cigarette. I go to the shop 5 Kms from home, where I can have a cigarette in peace without bumping into somebody whom I know.
As I pull a lazy drag from my cigarette, I let my eyes wander and I catch sight of the early morning spitting game. Let me explain.
Everyday, four old guys sit on the broken charpoy lying nearby, sharing a hookah and chewing pan. But don’t be fooled by their complacent manner. This is very serious. They are all competing with each other to see how far they can spit. There is a tree about fifteen yards from where they sit. They all aim for it. I am yet to see anybody hit the tree but they’ve gotten mighty close. Today’s winner is clearly the old man whose son has got a new job in a call center and will make 15000 bucks a month as he keeps telling his friends repeatedly, very loudly. He’s gloating and chewing vigorously to create enough spit for his next try.
I guess his reasons to be the winner today are pretty evident. The day one of them actually hits the tree, I think I might clap.
I finish up and leave for home. On the way, I don’t see any walls that don’t have a message on them.
The favorite of course is “ Yahan peshaab karna mana hai” scrawled all over the wall in blue. I wonder what would look worse on the wall, the stains of the piss or the message.
I guess the message is the lesser of the two evils, because we also have to factor in the smell.
“ Gupt Rogi Dr. so and so se milein.” It’s a euphemism for anything sexual in our hypocrisy laden country. I wonder if the whole purpose of the advertising has been defeated. If you did have a sexually transmitted disease, you would want someone discrete, not somebody who advertises to the world exactly what he does. So if Mr. Kumar , the neighbour asks you where are you off to and you say Dr. so and so he doesn’t give you a knowing smile.
I reach home and head for my favorite perch.
Mr. Jain is building a new house next to ours. The Chowkidar’s wife is very filmy and flirtatious. It’s fun to watch her antics. Today she is bathing wearing only a flimsy saree with nothing underneath while all the construction workers ogle at her. Her breasts can plainly be seen and even Mr. Jain is ogling. I laugh and turn my attention to other, more pressing matters.
I need to buy a new copy of windows for my computer as it crashed yesterday and the old CD cant be located. I head for the Computer market.
“ Boss, I need a copy of windows.” I tell the owner of the first shop I reach.
“ Kaun si? 97, 2000, XP service pack1 ya service pack2?” he asks not bothering to look at me.”
“ XP.” I say.
He looks around then goes back in the shop and emerges with a single unmarked CD.
Handing it to me, he says “ Serial no. CD mein hain. 100 rupay.”
“ Bhaiya original chahiye.” I say.
“ Arre… Bhai sahib, windows local nahin banta. aurginal hi hai.”
We have changed the meaning of original, I think to myself and explain to the man that I need a genuine copy of windows.
He laughs in my face. “ Arre.. bhai sahib aurginal toh 5000 rupay ka aata hai. Aap ka kam main 100 rupay mein kar raha hun. Isko le jao, koi problem ho to mujhe batana.”
Seeing my face and realizing that I am serious, he says, “Waise bhi aurginal yahan par nahin milta.”
I leave empty handed with the motto of the Indian piracy industry still ringing in my ears “Who needs original when copy work fine?”
Today, the aqua guard guy is coming to install new candles, my mom tells me before heading into her bedroom for her afternoon siesta.
What she means is ‘I am sleeping. Stay up and wait for him.’
I do. He is 2 hours late. He comes inside and asks for some water. After drinking it noisily, he heads over and replaces the candles in the aqua guard. Then while screwing everything back, he realizes he’s missing 2 screws. He scratches his crotch and thinks hard what he did with them. Turns out, he left them inside the machine.
In India, scratching the crotch has become an art form. It can convey so many things: thinking, itching, leering, tight pants, itchy pants, tight underwear, itchy underwear, itching….
I’ve always wondered why the Indian male is so itchy down there and why does he in plain view scratch away with abandon? I am yet to come up with an answer.
That’s a typical day at home. After I have finished writing this, I wonder what I really miss about home?
I have the answer to that question.
The answer is ‘It never gets boring.’ There is always someone around who amuses me or something that amuses me. There are colourful characters that make my life interesting. I miss the colour. I miss home.
