IN THIS PART OF THE TOWN

I am not a stranger in this part of the town. I never was! The station, I alighted at; isn’t this the same station, mom would repeatedly remind me of alighting at, if I had to visit the Taraporewala Aquarium to quench my thirst of curiosity about marine life.

Isn’t this the same road, on which I have walked often to attend interviews or in search of absolute nothings? Yes, this is indeed the same road, which is now home to the most famous Saifee Hospital. It’s hard to resist its towering personality. So many healthcare professionals might be at work in there; saving lives, breathing in new life and dedicating their lives to the art of nurturing human lives.

But I am not writing this piece to explain my historical or geographical connection with this part of the town. It is in this part of the town, wherein some of my friends have their homes and they still live here as its integral citizens. They are so deeply rooted in here that they don’t have to brandish any tag, logo or banner to be called true Mumbaikars. They are Mumbaikars by nature, by existence and by the legacy they belong to.

I am writing this to express my gratitude to an experience, I was invited to be a part of, within the unmapped and timeless legacy of a home. So integrally weaved into the social fabric of the urban culture of South Bombay, this home spoke to my soul. Right inside this home, is installed the idol of Lord Ganesha, as a part of the ten-day festivities of Ganesh Chaturthi. Decorated in a traditional style, minus all the fakeness of the now banned thermocol or any other cosmetic decorations; the deity is surrounded with artefacts, lights and a cutely designed cloth roof above. The home is filled with the aroma of freshly lit incense sticks; the fragrance seems to be travelling in from years of faith in the God, who puts an end to all troubles. He surely does. Who am I, but just a mortal human being to describe the Almighty’s big wonders!

The home is surrounded by a perfect blend of varied cultures. Be it the little church, the temple on an escalated platform, the police station, the well decked homes of peace-loving Parsis or the many other communities, which peeped out of their balconies to send a smile or a happy greeting to someone known or even unknown.

Outlets of industrial steel occupy the ground floors. But they aren’t causing any harm; except the loud Marwari voices of laborers working inside or the Rajasthani hammers beating the lives out of the steel ores. The neighborhood is interesting. Mistakenly I entered the wrong wing. I knocked on their doors too. Since they had CCTV cameras installed in the lobby and having spotted me as a stranger, they chose to not even open their doors. Thankfully I found the right wing and once I stepped in, I slipped into my chosen space of spiritual ease.

My friend and the family members gave me a warm welcome. I was surprised, that such kindhearted people still live in this part of the town. The conversations were so close to the heart; not for once, did I feel like a stranger or like a first time visitor. The home, the beams which support it, the flooring, the wooden furniture, the staircase, the cavity in the wall to lit a lamp or two; everything seemed so perfect and precise. But what held my attention were those three windows, which made me connect with my ancestral home in Kolkata. The windows overlooked the road below and the snakelike row of two wheelers parked haphazardly. The windows made me imagine about that day of a forgotten year, when a small ritual was held to step in, for the first time, in this blessed home. The people who might have walked through the road, in search of this home, asking for directions or reconfirming the address. The first festival that was celebrated or the first big event that was held.

After offering prayers, I might have walked out of that home. But the taste of water offered to me, is still fresh. The delight of the food served to me, is still so alive. The aura is unforgettable. I am left already missing it so much; I think it is only advisable that I keep coming repetitively in this part of the town.

- Virtuous Vociferous | September 16 | September Blog-2| Making of the story | 2018

TRAPPED BY MIDNIGHT

Midnight.

I love it. Everything is so pure. Everybody so unavailable. Everything so unconnected.

Midnight. The background of my imagination, the premise of my poems, the canvas of my writings.

At times, I step out. On most occasions, I don’t.

Yet, the midnight! In its complete glory of a newlywed bride and sometimes in full bloom of a secret lover, chooses to take over. I, on my end, just surrender.

Casting a spell, seducing my mind, also flowing within my veins, the midnight puts things in place to emerge as the most likely winner.

Midnight makes music my best friend. At the same time, it reminds me of the best friend, I haven’t spoken to on many wasted nights.

I’ve seen unlikely corners come to life. I’ve felt unfamiliar voices coming my way. With due courtesy to midnight, I once again see the storyteller, seated well past 12 am and writing this piece. It is perhaps 3.30 am or maybe 4 am, the writing continues.

The table lamp is no more in action. But the desk is still very much alive. The laptop is doped. Maybe it is the midnight, which is trying to trick me in one or the other way.

A drop of ink from the fountain pen lands on a blank sheet of virgin white paper. The mesmerizing voice of Sophie Simmons; well how do I put it, but, she seems to be anchoring a walk by the seaside.

Though simplicity seems to be at the core of this midnight. I still feel trapped by midnight.

Not many mid nights ago, I stood by the window. All I could see were the shadows of two disloyal lovers. These lovers had found their way in our lane, to perhaps make out. Luckily by the next midnight, their lust story was over.

The rains echo deep. It is after all the vastness of this midnight, which turn the rains into something much more unimaginably lovable. Then suddenly the aroma of wet mud takes over. What follows next is what I know as magic. Or should I say, the midnight magic.

But just like other changing things, this midnight too isn’t permanent in nature. The elements around it would automatically change.

I will still be here, imagining, dreaming, reading or simply writing. I feel happy for being driven and sense that I somehow enjoy being trapped by midnight.

- Virtuous Vociferous | September 09 | September Blog-1| Making of the story | 2018