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…