Holy Shit

One trip to the holy city of Benares, the city of temples, of shrines, of red tikas, of saffron clothes, of shikha clad men and ochre sporting women & you are confounded by myriad of thoughts. There is the common, everyday, middleclass man/woman, like my mother is, who starts his day by visiting a few temples of his deity/ies and bathing in the Ganges. Clad in minimal clothing, as befits a temple visit, these early rising denizens of a city that dwells on Lord Shiva’s trident, make this not a religion but a way of life. This is as much a part of their routine as bathing or eating everyday is. I am calling this a way of life because there is usually nothing transactional (overtly) in the relationship. It is a way to deconstruct the road to peace and well being.

 

And on the other hand is the curious, SLR carrying, shorts clad, hat sporting, white skinned tourist who dwells and contemplates this way of life. He has his own methods for deconstructing the road to peace. He is more explorative than ritualistic. He is more curious as he doesn’t understand it and drawn in as his own world is moving rapidly away from belief systems. Away from him and towards individualism. Both these polarised worlds clash firmly in Benares and produce a wilting of the slits and reverberating, settle down, in the clanking of the temple bells.

 

I look to these worlds with as much curiosity as familiarity, as much belief as questions, as much joy & love as hatred and ask myself seldom and often if I can belong to either or both.

Frenzy

Brains on the wall,

Blood on the floor;

Mud all around me,

Nothing but a whore;

You might be Mumbaikar, I am a Bombayite

I keep coming back. I have to. I still come, stare wide eyed, get plunged into the crowd and slowly retreat back to whence I came. I came this time around, got swarmed again and took that eternal lifeline from Marine Lines to Goregaon. This must have been the last local to Virar – the 12:25 for Virar, for it was crowded. I have travelled all my growing years on this electric lifeline of BOMBAY, have been used to bringing other people’s sweat, on my shirt, home; reach deep in the light of my soul – closing my eyes – when all around me were people, their chattering and an all pervading darkness. I have grown resilient to a lot in my life travelling on this Bombay bullock cart, carrying all life alike, not discriminating, not caring, relentless, purposeful, hopeful – chugging away with mind numbing efficiency. Bombay and its lifeline have MADE me.

 

 

I sat clutching onto my backpack, trying to stare out casually. There was plenty of import in the backpack and it made my pulse go faster, my heart more nervous. I purposefully glanced around trying to take stock, create semantics for all that was around and give labels. There was a group of 6-8 Muslims, clad in white kurtas and payjamas, skull cap about, black marks on the forehead. They looked as devout as a monkey intent on grabbing a sweet out of your hand. They were discussing religion. The lump in my throat bobbed up and down. At the next station 3-4 Hindus, devout as the Muslims, the saffron mark on the forehead, long hair and the look of resolute dedication, the monkey again, climbed aboard and stood near the gate. The lump expanded and threatened to squeeze my heart.

 

Two stations later at Mahalaxmi, a group of people, from their conversation they sounded the filmy types, the labourers of the film fraternity, got on the train and sat around me. And now it was getting difficult to breath. I looked around feeling suffocated, eyes growing dim and weary because of the effort. I was just trying to calm my senses and breathe normal, trying not to draw any attention to myself, when at Andheri station 5 young kids, possibly engineering 1^st year students, speaking Marathi entered the wagon.

The North Indian in me (for that’s what I am to them) shuddered. Looking at the Muslims the Hindu in me winced, looking at the Tika clad men the peacekeeper in me held its breath and looking at the labourers the middle classer heart pumped more blood. I grabbed my backpack, hurriedly left the WINDOW SEAT, looked around, trying myself not to look suspicious and waited eagerly to jump out of the train at Goregaon. Hurriedly climbing up the FOB I went across to Goregaon (E), sat in the auto and heaved a sigh of relief.

 

Thank You to all those who have contributed towards making me feel like this in a place where I spent 16 years of my life and called HOME.