Rains Halfway

I stood at the Carter Road Promenade. Sprinting was never my forte but at least I hoped to jog that morning. But like many other mornings it was not to be. We woke up late, made our monthly ritualistic trip to Crepe Station and suddenly the rains came down. But that day it was a strange rain. It rained all around us but not on us. We stood and stood and waited for the rains to hit us but the drops wanted to tantalize us, make us want them even more. Somewhere in the horizon the sun was playing hide and seek, peeking at us from behind the clouds. The clouds on the other hand were in the mood for changing their colours every now and then and the entire canvas of the universe was painted and repainted again and again.

And then they came; making everyone run for cover. We sat in the Coffee Day, still my favourite

Spot in Mumbai on a Sunday morning as the spears from heaven hit the ground. The battle had begun. The first arrows had been fired and they struck the ground hoping to drive life into them. But the world they once knew had been changed. The ground had given way to asphalted roads, the earth to black tar. Again and again their attack was pushed back as the world watched.

Then suddenly they stopped as soon as they had come. Perhaps the futility of it all hit them. No one below cared for them. No body remembered that in a world full of dirt and squalor the arrows of fortune decided the fate of the world below.

After the rains will come the new life. But what if the rains stop halfway?

The Invasion

The Universe waited with bated breath. The forces looked at each other in deathly silence. The outcome was well known to all. But then the battle had to be fought. The losers would want their share of glory.

The earth stood silent. The winds refused to blow. And somewhere in the distance the shepherd prince drew out his flute.

It seemed as if the armies were waiting for his signal. The dark forces rumbled towards the last remaining defences of the Majestic White Palace. The Universe trembled. The skies roared. Humans prayed. Few blocks of resistance remained but slowly all were vanquished.

The sky wore the black shroud of despair. The colour of the victory was black.

And then she shed her first tear.

Somewhere in a forgotten land, a peacock spread his wings out and danced liked there is no tomorrow.

Mountain of the Moon

Every Bengali kid who has been taught to read and love Bengali literature would have read the Book called Chander Pahar – The Mountain of the Moon. When I was a kid, I dreamt of going to the jungles of Africa and camping on the Mountain of the Moon. It spelt adventure for me. It meant mystery. It meant a life beyond the ordinary. The protagonist was not exactly my hero but he was the one who made me love the outdoors at an early childhood. It was this book that taught me that there was beauty even in the most dreaded surroundings. You only had to look for it.

Anyway, the point is Didi beat me to it. As I write, she called me to say that she is seeing the Mountain of the Moon through her hotel window. Well, maybe it’s just fair. She read the book before me. After all, it was her book.

Not wanting to be left behind, I decided to run off to the mountains. If not the Kilimanjaro ranges, I decided would make do with the Sahayadris. And there we were 11 of us travelling down the black asphalted road called the Mumbai Pune Expressway. The rains had come into Maharashtra and were filling up the mountains with new life. The cycle of life was safe for one more year. These days you can never be sure when the nuclear holocaust could strike. And of course, men are no better. We have poisoned the earth enough.

11 people, 2 cars, an unexplored terrain. The best thing about big groups is that they act as a living organism. Most of the time it is a single celled entity with common goals but suddenly the amoeba splits and each part goes off on their own ways, only to reunite again later. And that perhaps is the best way to operate. You can spend time with yourself or with your group.

I picked up the camera. It had been a long time since I had done some serious photography, A had her D60 with her too and that helped. But as snobbish as I can be I continued to experiment with my humble P&S and knew that if you could compose the pictures well, things look differently.

For some reason I was awake the entire night. And as I sat outside for sometime. I could see the mountain changing its colour. From a sombre black to a melancholic grey to a golden smile and finally breaking out into a riot of green, the mountains had it all. My mountain of the moon.

The next morning was an experience of a different kind. I floated on a mountain river and felt myself carried off by the current to reach the ultimate final goal. To reach the destiny, the ocean of peace. The birds flew above me. The mountains played hide and seek.

And life seemed beautiful again.

PS: three of the most difficult pictures. The series is called Riot of Colours. 1. Green and Gray 2. Black and White. 3. Green in all its shades

PPS: Chander Pahar picture courtesy - Soshu

The Wait

She was waiting for him. He was to come home soon. Well, he could never have a home, that’s what he had said to her once. But at least, he was coming back to her after almost a year. She waited.

Everyone around her laughed. They said that he was a truant. He could never be trusted. She could see their faces. She knew they were jealous. When he came, everyone rejoiced. He touched many on his way and yet she knew it was to her heart that he would always return.

The clouds often brought his news. He was well, they said. Patience, they reminded her. He was known to desert his many lovers, often without a second thought. He wouldn’t do that to me, she thought. Sitting in front of her mirror, she looked at the lines on her face. They were slowly beginning to mark her age on her face. Doesn’t matter, she thought. He will wipe them away with his tender touch. She shivered at the very thought of it. His touch, his fingers trailing their wanton path, his eyes, black as a smouldering coal, devouring her beauty and their union culminating in the eternal and ethereal climax – birth of a new life.

She waited; her dusty attire, washed as best as she could, adorned her body. Her crown of dry leaves rubbed against her dry hair. The wait grew longer.

Suddenly one day, a messenger came riding on the westerly wind. He is coming, my lady. He is coming. Look at the horizon, the messenger said. And like all messengers, he hurried away, perhaps to give the news of his arrival to his other lovers. She looked at the horizon. Nothing there. She looked at the sea. Deathly silence over the vast waters told her nothing.

A few days later, another messenger came. She thought she was hallucinating. He had never been this late. She couldn’t get up from her bed. She lay there waiting.

Then one evening, suddenly the winds changed. The sea grew restless and the birds began to hurry back to their homes. She lay on her bed, eyes shut tight. She did not want to be disappointed again. The door opened. She could sense him. His smell was unique. It carried tales of countries with it, countries he had either given his blessings to or ravaged in his raging madness. She could feel his breath, warm, moist and full of promises. She was ready to surrender herself completely to him. She could feel his hesitation. Or was it deliberate? His lips brushed against hers, or maybe she just imagined it. But then like his many promises, his presence grew weaker, till suddenly there was deathly silence.

She lay waiting, waiting for him to come again, like the raving lunatic and fill her up with the ultimate gift, the gift of life.

Till then, she had no choice but to wait, parched for his touch.

The Monsoons

The Monsoons are still the lifeline of India. In a country where almost 60% of the population is dependent on agriculture, we are yet to develop a system that helps the farmers in year round irrigation of our fields. The term, Jis desh mein Ganga behti hain becomes almost a joke as most of our farmland depends on the monsoons to water their fields. Do you remember Lagan? The expectation and disappointment on the face of the villagers as the dark monsoon clouds pass by them without shedding a drop of its moisture?

I have always loved the rains. While in school, it was the hope of a rainy day, at home it’d be the hot pakodas as the rain kept falling in torrents, in Pilani it’d be the time to go crazy and take out the cycle and roam all around campus drenched and happy while in Bangalore, it’d be the time to run between the shades and optimize the safest route to class.

The monsoons this time have been different. Two days of incessant rains made me come face to face with the hard realities of the Indian way of life. We need the monsoons. A huge customer base is waiting for the same with bated breath as it’ll be the monsoons that will bring in a good harvest resulting in more expendable income. However, everything comes with a fee. The conditions under which the sales field force has to work are harsh. The garbage that was once at the side of the road is now all over the ‘road’ if you can call it so. The drains overflow, the shops are deserted. Everyone’s waiting for the rains to stop so that the customers can come in and in this torrential rain, the field force is out making sure everything that India might need is on the shelves. And all this while, they never curse the rains. They know it is what will bring smiles back on to the face of India after a merciless summer.