Anachronism et al

Day X:
The taxi jerks to a halt as the scoundrel in Porsche Cayenne cuts across lanes, avoids two cars by a whisker, screeches and skids to a halt, nearly turns turtle, immediately recovers and zooms past disappearing amidst another row of slow-moving cars - all in a few seconds. The Saudi in the hummer doesn’t battle an eyelid. But the been-there-done-that Pakistani cab driver is not amused, neither am I.

The only sound in the background that doesn’t seem as disturbed is that of Kumar Sanu who is still fervently muttering ‘Jaldi hai kya?’ in his nasal tone – a fitting reply to the female playback’s ‘Jaati hoon main’ – suits the mood, I say. Welcome to Jeddah, the land of the abandoned – of the done and the dusted, the tried and the tested.

Aankh hai bhari bhari…aur tum…muskuraane ki baat karte ho…
Tu cheez badi hai mast mast…??!!!??
Wriggle your brain cells, do you remember these songs? If you haven’t grown up in India in the slow 90s, perhaps you don’t. Those were the times - an age when Sunil Shetty or the wannabe hippie Sanjay Dutt manhandled a hundred bald, fat, ugly looking men wearing cheap attires, wielding AK47s and granede launchers – who, in spite of possessing every sophisticated looking armor, never learnt to use them or at least never learnt to use them to perfection.

It baffled at first, to have desultory, lame and mushy songs of the bygone era ringing in my ear. It was even surprising to see audio cassettes of unknown movies and forgettable songs. Who uses cassettes anymore? All these are ominous signs that the audience has never grown up since they dumped everything back home in 90s and set ashore.

Call it anachronism – fellow Indians, Pakis and such folks seem to have lost the count of time and purpose in pursuit of an oasis amidst the desert. Everyone has a story –none of which have an end. Everyone believes he is chasing something, but is, ironically, getting chased by the wheels of time instead. What, perhaps, binds everyone in this land of monotony, boredom and lackluster is a dream. Some have it, some had it while some had theirs quashed.

Jeddah is a strange place - its an amalgamation of pain, agony and hope amidst hopelessness. It’s the place where a million average Joes turn up - not seeking opportunity, rather seeking livelihood.

Like the story of the Indian laborer who toiled for 20 odd years in the gas station, dreaming of building his own big house back home. And after marrying off his sisters, paying off the debts, spending on whims of his wife, showering mercies on everyone and his dog back home, had his house built. But before he could dwell in it, suffered from a stroke at work and succumbed. A strange game of chance this life is, isn’t it?

Day Y:
A new day, another taxi trudges along as it nears another one of the innumerable traffic signals. Sudanese Urchins wander about in the sea of cars loaded with bottled water and spongebob-squarepants air balloons, hoping to make some business while the commotion lasts.

The stationary figure of larger-than-life bicycle dozes off placidly in the background when sideway glances are exchanged. Two Pakistani glances meet, nothing strange. But that this time they share an apprehension and a common feeling of haplessness. Side windows are lowered and a conversation follows.

P1: Kal fata? Peshaur mein? (There was an explosion last night? Peshawar?)
P2: Haan. Hamare toh ghar ke pas hi hai. Chacha wahi the. (Yeah. Close to our house. My uncle was around)
P1: (excitedly) Achha? Toh asal mein kitne mare? (Really? So how many have actually succumbed?)
P2: News mein toh bola hai shayad 70-80 log mare hai. Masjid mein fata hai toh log haazir the hi. Chacha bole 100 se zyada hi honge. (TV reports mention 70-80 casualties but there must be more, for it being a mosque. Uncle is sure there are at least more than 100)
P1: Ya-allah!

Meanwhile, the signal turns green, a car snarls from behind, seemingly furious at the two yokels. Car windows are raised again and the wheels are back in motion.

Life goes on…

Just another day!

A lazy wednesday:

Holiday. No one at home - blissful silence. Lazed and dazed around the house since morning - doing nothing. Bread omelette for brunch - tea biscuit for snacks - plenty of water in between.

Tick tick -
Sun sets. Clock strikes 8:
Feel hungry - Ramadan month - all shops closed :-(

Tick tick -
Half past 8:

Cant bear. God said - lets make something tonight. And then god said - let there be dal.
- Slice and dice onions.
- Take half a cup of lentil - wash thoroughly. Water 1:2.
- Stuff everything in the pressure cooker and wait for the whistle to blow.

And as we speak, clock strikes 9:
A lot of contemplation - Dal and bread would not that great - Lets make chapatis.
- Get two cups of wheat flour. Chapati? Sure eh? Naah. Too much effort - lets make rice.
- Plan changed - 1 cup of rice - wash thoroughly. Water 1:2
- Let us be grand and savor some aloo jeera too.
- Peel potatoes. Chop-chop.
- Oil in pan - cumin seeds, mustard - gas on - wait to sputter.
- Great! Time to call home.
- Chatter chatter.

Half past 9:
- Whats going on?
- Cumin seeds, mustard? Burnt out of recognition.
- Rice? Dal? Didn't turn on the stove.
- So what now?
- Throw everything in to the bin.
- Sulk.

Quarter to 10:
Whats left?
- Nicely washed rice and dal.
- Burnt mustard/cumin seeds. Anything edible? Nope.

Whats next?
Wait for clock to strike 10 - go to the restaurant and have a grand feast.

Day over! Voila!

Poles apart

The biggest thing that I am missing about India is the monsoon. As the temperature soars every passing day in Jeddah, going out of the house has become a pain of the highest order. Furthermore, trudging in and out of the air-conditioned enclosures to the scathing air outside has brought in bouts of dry cough and sore throat which keeps me awake - coughing through the night.

Meanwhile, as the flood situation worsens in Ambala, Kurukshetra and nearby districts of Punjab, our countrymen have got back to their annual ritual of cussing the rains and waiting for the sun.

Last year, rainfall were unpredictably low and barring a few bouts of rains here or there, whatever water flew in were in the form of tears of rural farmers unassuming to the concept of cyclical crops, rain-water harvesting or modern methods of crop harvesting. I’d been for day long hikes to little known hamlets near Mumbai. Ploughing was in full swing in these places and people were out of their huts sowing seeds and ploughing their farms using the old-fashioned wedge, towed by a bull. I couldn’t fathom why tractors weren’t used in these places. Maybe the topography doesn’t allow the smooth movement of these huge wagons? Or maybe they were too poor to afford them?

Whatever little it rained, it turned these places to ephemeral havens. We went to the villages the tributaries of the Gargai and Vaitarna River and walked through the country. I was baffled to come across places where there were no signs of electric poles (and naturally, no electricity) – and still these places were only 150 odd kilometers away from Mumbai. I guess it would only be fashionable to say I was jealous of the kind of life the villagers enjoyed.

We befriended villagers who walk for 5 kms to reach the nearest dispensary at the town-center (aka bus-stops). All this so that they could impart a tetanus and polio pulse to their newly born – doing their bit to ensure a better life for their offspring. Now, I would be cynical to state that these villages aren’t connected by a local transport system. There were indeed State Transport buses connecting these villages but their frequency was alarming – a bus every hour or two. If you missed one, you have to hitch a ride in the treacherous Mahindra commander, which carried 20-24 people all at once. The commanders are officially 8-seater wagons. Call it mathematical consistency for, sadly, a life here would only be worth 1/3rd of that of their most depraved counterparts in the metros.

But these people were also the warmest I’d ever met. Most of the times we’d go in search of dams or bridges or waterfalls situated in far off corners in these villages. The umpteen ‘guides’ we sought help from never expected anything in return. They’d patiently walk us through the difficult ‘freestyle’ river-crossings and pull us through slippery rocks. At the end of our journeys, when we part ways, they’d smile with exuberance unknown to their urban counterparts. This was a testimony that they did not expect any favor in return. We’d share whatever food we lug along with us and part ways.

Now as I lay back on my bed, cars hissing by my window, I long for those 5 minute stopovers under the straw roofs. I wish that once I go back to India, I get an opportunity to meet a lot more such simple, warm and honest people. My biggest wish is a walk-through India, meeting fellow country-men, laugh with them, live with them and bring subtle difference in their lives. I wish.

In a nutshell

Time Files.

Can’t believe it’s been more than 6 months since I laid my foot on the bizarre Z-land. Honestly, life hasn’t changed much. Life back home was mundane. The days were predictable; Setting alarms and all the triggers to rise early in the morning but getting late everyday; slowly going through the morning grinds. Managing to get the 70kg blob called me (minus the mind) to work.

Work was even more of a pain. I would calmly sulk in my corner playing all sorts of flash games and trying various computer tricks. And a few hours later, I was back where I’d begun: home.

And so one day, I made up my mind that I’ll be flying to the Z-land for work, stay back for 10 months and fly back home. I was reminded of a quote in a Seneca essay – “If a man knows not what harbor he seeks, any wind is the right wind”. I couldn’t agree less!

Still clearly remember the star-studded night sky – like a mist beyond the fog, as I pore through the window of the flight. To say it looked stellar would be an understatement. I was somewhere above the Arabian sea and as I looked downwards, I could sense the darkness of the sea.

The scenes on the other side of the window weren’t as great. I was sitting next to a bunch of skilled laborers fumbling with a lot of papers and a pen amidst them. A closer look revealed that it was the immigration form that they were trying to figure out. Their SOS to the cabin crew was met with a cold blooded response. So much for the poor folks!

I volunteered to help them one of them out, asking him to help the others. And with that I peered to the other side of the window. By this time, I’d crossed the Arabian sea and was now flying over the great Arabian landscape. In contrast to the pitch dark Arabian sea, the Arabian land was glimmering yellow. It baffled me at once – was the whole land under a gigantic forest fire? Months later, I would laugh at this thought – after the realization that there is no forest here to catch fire.

As I landed, I was taken aback by a lot of things – the absence of the gangway to take you out from the aircraft straight to the airport. We were instead taken to a bus which would take us under the wingspans of Boeing 747s (parked aside as well as the ones ready to take off!). This was followed by the long wait at the immigration counter. After an hour and a lot of queue jumping, I was out of the airport.

I expected the worst from this place but on hindsight, life hasn’t been that bad. It’s been six months since and I’ve learnt so much! I learnt how to swim. I’ve snorkeled and witnessed the amazing world underneath the red sea; met some really great people and a few capricious ones; learnt to be open-minded about people and the religions they follow (have met radically devout Muslims and equally devout Christians); Made some really good friends. And the voyage is still on.

But I miss my folks back home and in a few months down the line, I wish to go back to my home in the other side of the woods. Till then, I guess, I will survive :-)