On a road most travelled - S100 in Kruger National Park

Let's first get the minor details done with. What? A self driving safari. Where? Kruger National Park, South Africa. How? A cute little VW Golf - manual transmission. When? In the early summer days of December. I don't think why is a question that needs to be answered. This article is all about the who. On the eve of our last day of self driving in the Kruger there is only one animal of the Big 5 that we are yet to see, the leopard - the who.

It is hard to escape the obsession with the Big Five - elephant, Cape buffalo, rhinoceros, lion and leopard - in an African safari. They feature on all the guidebook covers, maps, post cards etc. The Big Five were the hardest to hunt back in the days but they aren't necessarily the rarest to spot. We spotted elephants in each of our drives inside the park. Our second day in the park was unseasonably hot and on this day the lions seemed to prefer the shades near the main driving routes. For someone who has yet to sight a tiger in the wild, seeing multiple lion prides up close over the course of a two hour drive should leave no room for complaints.  But no. I had not seen a leopard yet and that feeling of incompleteness was gnawing inside. I will be the first to admit that the Big Five obsession is wholly inconsiderate to such wonders like the graceful splendour of a foraging giraffe or the dazzle of zebras playing in the summer sun. Even the majestic sight of a male tusker in musth walking towards us in the moonlight does not satiate my leopard needs.

We still have one morning drive left and fortunately our rest camp for the last night is Satara. The name Satara comes from the Hindi word for seventeen. A leftover from the days of the Raj when an Indian surveyor numbered plots in Kruger.

The area around Satara is famous for being cat country and arguably the most famous road in Kruger National Park - the S100 - starts 2 kms to the south of Satara gates. The twenty kilometre long S100 road accompanies the Nwanedzi river (more a stream) and winds along providing great vantage points to spot Kruger's thirsty inhabitants taking a drinks break. Water bodies are also the best spots for lions and leopards to find prey and all the guidebooks, maps and park rangers identify S100 as the best road to spot cats. Fingers crossed.

The Satara gates open at 4.30 AM and there is a line of vehicles queuing up to burst forth into the morning calm. Perhaps they also, like me, hope to catch the final moments of a nocturnal hunt. The vehicles form a procession to S100. We are in formation but as soon as we turn into the S100, our speed drops to 20 kmph and we lose the other vehicles. The longer the time spent on the road alone the better our chances of spotting a leopard we conclude. An irrational conclusion given that our successful strategy so far had been to rush towards a congregation of stationary vehicles and ask them what they are looking at.

The morning is thankfully overcast and brings out the green of the trees better than the blazing hot sun of previous days. Impalas, wildebeests, zebras and chacma baboons are playing on either side of the road. Not a good sign. Preys play when hunters are far. The sight of a Southern ground hornbills group stealthily marching along is nice (nice being the appropriate word for the lukewarm excitement associated with this sight that morning) but a leopard still eludes us.

All is not lost, I console myself after two hours of inching along. Why must the Big Five be the metric of safari success anyway? I saw hippopotamuses fighting in the pond. I saw a male lion yawning 10 feet away from me. Spent a magical ten minutes observing giraffes and elephants assembling at a small water body to quench their thirst. Saw a rhino from afar and Cape buffaloes up close. Got great photos of baby elephants and baby hippos.

So I didn't see a leopard. So what? Four is a better number than five and... hold on. What is that over there? Look look look. And then, just like that, right in front of us a leopard crosses the road. It's almost as if she (could be a he) had been waiting for us to meander along in order to make an appearance. For a full two minutes we were alone with this beautiful cat. Her coat a masterwork of nature. The spots almost seem deliberately spaced out to make random pattern sound moronic. When she walks through the grass, she almost disappears. Highly unlikely we would have spotted her if she hadn't decided to walk in front of our VW. Does her meek expression show fear or hunger? She doesn't run away, stares at us briefly and then turns her back to us. There is no fear there. This is her territory and we are the transient intruders. For a change we get to point out the sighting to cars that have appeared behind us. We contentedly make way feeling unadulterated joy at having shared a couple of minutes of our life alone with a leopard.

Every once in a while in life, if you are lucky, you get these moments when your mind and body are fully in the present. No thoughts about work and other obligations that come bundled up with life. You don't notice the back pain that has been troubling you the last few days. Your hunger, your thirst and other sensory needs vanish, albeit briefly. In that magical moment on the S100 it didn't matter why the leopard crossed the road. All that mattered was who crossed the road.

An edited version of this post can be found here.

A day in the life of Mexico's Anthropology Museum

The tree lined, four-lane Paseo de la Reforma Avenue is a pretty picture in the light of the winter sun.  Gentle rays cajole its way past branches and kisses the sidewalk as we walk past black and white photographs.  Photos of moustachioed men - Emil Zapata, Pancho Villa et al - adorning bullet belts and striking determined poses are put up on the fence to commemorate the centenary of the Mexican revolution.

 

The verdant Reforma Avenue and the temperate clime take me back to pleasant memories of pointless walks in Bangalore’s Cubbon Park. This morning though, there is a destination we are walking to – Museo Nacional de Antropologia, the National Museum of Anthropology.  Our purposeful walk is halted by the sight of a familiar name on the street sign. A huge grin appears on my face as the museum resides on Calzada Gandhi – Gandhi Road. The appearance in the heart of Mexico City of this most common road sign in India is a brief moment of joy and an obvious photo op.

 

The most visited museum in this city with over 150 museums is an impressive building. A large umbrella like structure greets you once you make past the turnstiles. The umbrella stands at the top of a large courtyard and the rooms containing the exhibits surrounds the courtyard. The ground floor of the museum has exhibits from the glory days of Mexico’s famed civilizations – Aztec, Mayan, Olmec, Toltec etc. The prescient accuracy of the Mayan calendar, the intricate works on stone, the numerous rituals - the ground floor exhibits are illuminating history lessons. My ignorance of the greatness of these civilizations aids my imagination take trips back in history. But these flights of imagination crash land in the first floor. 

The first floor exhibits are a present day mirror of the past. Photos, handicrafts, wardrobe and other artefacts showcase the stark present day existence of these Native American civilizations. The white man brought with them a new language, a new religion and a near complete destruction of written records of the past and death to the native way of life. 

 

 

PA speakers announce that it’s nearing closing time and we exit with the multitude.  A familiar figure of a ‘half naked’ bespectacled old man with a walking stick stands at one end of the road. Ironical that on a road named in tribute to the idea of non-violence stands a monument showcasing the violent end of civilizations. Peace.

 

Mexico City, Mexico, December 2014

 

Museum of the 3 Louises

Why Alexander Brun would marry three different women named Louise is not quite the sort of contemplation one wants to grapple with before visiting a museum.  But that was all I could think of during the 40 minute train ride from Copenhagen to Humlebæk. That and what could have possibly possessed the third Louise to marry a man who had already had two wives named Louise. My thoughts on Mr. Brun's marital fetish was brought to an end by a rather apt Henry Moore statue at the entrance. A statue of a woman sitting with her legs crossed but one could easily argue it was wide open.

Humlebæk, a town on the banks of the Øresund Strait, is the location of Denmark's most famous museum - Louisiana Museum of Modern Art and I was standing at its entrance. In 1958 an idea possessed Knud W. Jensen, the museum's founder, which resulted in him taking over the Brun country house and converting it into a museum. He did retain its name though in honour of the Mrs. Brun Trinity. 

The first piece of 'art' is what could be best described as a giant Harry Potteresque spider. One descends into a subterranean collection of sculpture, paintings, photographs and other indescribable items. Artifacts that make me yearn for a couple of swigs of whatever concoction the artist must have been drinking when conceptualising it. Needless to say, my puerile mind could not fathom most of the art. The Picassos,Warhols and Moores on display sometimes evoked bemusement but mostly incomprehension and seldom awe. This is not to say that I did not appreciate any of the art. A few did inspire enough emotion to find residence in the crypts of my memory - Tara Donovan sculptures made out of pins and needles and a few works in the Yoko Ono showcase. One of Yoko's pieces was a glass slab called 'Painting to let the evening light go through' and that this is one of the few works that I remember goes a long way in explaining my eye for modern art.

In spite of my vacuum in comprehension, three and a half hours later I am filled with a familiar sense of wonder. A wonder that I had never before experienced in a museum but often experienced while travelling. The feeling of unison with this new place far from home, when no other thought enters to break the silent conversation you are having with the place and its elements.The architecture and layout of the museum blend seamlessly with its location on the banks of the Øresund. Every once in a while I end up exiting on to a lawn with weird sculptures or a balcony with a view of the calm shore.  Enter a room which is all but empty barring a diving board sticking out into the sea beckoning you to run down it and take a dive. On a couple of occasions I stand rooted in open-mouthed admiration, unable to discern where the work of man ends and nature's handiwork begins.

I watch Copenhagen speeding up to me in my train window and I have a grateful admiration for Knud Jensen's vision and endeavour. The third Louise's matrimonial decision did not perplex me any longer. It had to be the location of Alexander Brun's country home. It just had to be!

A Svaneke Moment

 "Why would you want to go to Denmark for your honeymoon?" 

For a couple of weeks I had grown accustomed to answering that question from friends and family. The answer began with my insistence on a 'first-visit destination' for the both of us and continued to explain my soon to be wife's previous European vacation disguised as a student exchange program and ended with justifiable meteorological reasons for visiting Denmark in July. But when the question comes from a rather puzzled officer at the Denmark Consulate, I start doubting the 'brilliance' of my decision to book cheaper non-refundable flights.

Fast forward a couple of months and I find myself sitting on the ledge that serves as the wall of Svaneke Kirken. A rather small building that would be lost in many other settings but stands tall in the small town of Svaneke in the Danish island of Bornholm. Svaneke had just been voted as the most beautiful market town in Denmark and from what little I had seen so far, it certainly had my vote

The church on its own is not much of a building. The red color of the church reminds me of the Writer's Building in Kolkata or Chennai Central station. I take a step back and I see the grey Baltic sea in the near distance blending with the brilliant blue sky at the far distant horizon. The red Kirken makes for a pretty picture against the azure blue sky. The church, the sky and I sit in rapt admiration of the rhythmic movement of the green stalks of barley, in the adjacent field, dancing to the tunes of the gentle breeze. The gravel paths neatly demarcate those resting peacefully and adds to the beauty of the meditative wholeness of the moment. 

The marriage between the Svaneke church and its natural consorts is most harmonious during the Svaneke summer but just like any union it does have its periods of gloom and sadness during the long, cold and dark winter.  The winter has passed this year like any other but unlike any other year the summer sees me sitting on this ledge contemplating my newly married moment. A hand adorned with ritual decoration gently taps me on the shoulder and a voice accompanies the hand asking if a camera can do justice to the moment.

Fast forward two years and I find myself sitting on a sofa typing this post and wondering how I can get hold of that officer from the Danish consulate in New Delhi and tell her that her country is not such a bad place for a honeymoon after all.

Image courtesy: Photo by aconcagua (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Seatbelts fastened, tongues loosened.

The mime routine that airline attendants go through before take-off is the same in English and Spanish. That would have been the only observation I would have had from the 2 hour flight from Mexico City to Cancun if it weren't for Isidore. Every time I travel, be it to a new place or a familiar old place I always hope that a conversation is struck with a fellow traveler. I confess of multiple evenings spent in a coffee shop or bakery hoping that some one comes and shares the table and strikes up a conversation. Shy wouldn't be the first adjective that would be used to describe me by people in the know, but in this romantic yearning for twirling, spirited conversations I usually wish someone else takes the lead.

Isidore did. Isidore isn't even his name. In this most opportune moment, his actual name seems to  escape me. Where you from? leads to him mentioning that he had lived in India for 6 months. In Beer. My brain goes through the states and capitals and towns of India. I am thinking this must be some place in Rajasthan or Himachal. Luckily he mentions Buddhism and Bodh Gaya and Beer transforms to Bihar and my panic attack is nipped in the bud. I tell him I have never been there and I am from the south of India. 

He spent most of his time in "Beer" but did travel to Delhi and Agra. He found India very safe he says. I said that's nice to know as many find Delhi unsafe and the media loves to talk about the rapes and other forms of violence that women and tourists and citizens face in that part of the country. Isidore shrugs and says that's nonsense. He says his entire perspective of India and safety changed when he became aware that no one carries guns in India. "I can run away from a knife or a stick. I always have a chance when someone comes to me and threatens. I like 50:50 odds. In Mexico or the States, if someone comes up to me asking for money I have no choice but to hand over everything. They are most likely carrying a gun and they are either on drugs or alcohol and may even shoot you after you hand over everything. One can't run away from a bullet. Threaten me with a knife any day!"

29 years of living in India and that thought had never come to my mind.

Riding in Ubers with nostalgia

Abdul has been living in Las Vegas for the last 7 years. 13 years in all in the US of A. I wonder what must go through his mind when he rides around the overgrown light show that is the Sin City. Ethiopia brings to my mind images of dusty markets, women with bright head scarfs, coffee - the standard travel show montage. What would be the extent of surrealism he must experience driving around in this oasis of madness?

"You think I can marry Aishwarya Rai? She is very beautiful!", sounds in a distinct accent reach across from the front. I suddenly realise that Abdul has a few stock images of India as well. Over the next 15 minutes, my mind is introduced to Ethiopia's Bollywood market through Abdul's love for Hindi films. "I love Bollywood!" India's soft export has captured this East African heart. Amitabh Bachchan, Rishi Kapoor, Rajesh Khanna, Hema Malini, Aishwarya Rai. I find it funny that his love seems to spread across generations. I wonder how dated the Hindi movie releases in Ethiopia might be. He remembers Aamir Khan from the 1990 movie Dil and wonders how can he still be a leading star. He then hops, skips and jumps a couple of decades to wonder what possessed Aishwarya Rai to marry Amitabh Bachchan's son. "Why did she do it? He is no good."

It seemed like a rhetorical question to so I thought I would show off my new found knowledge of Ethiopian cuisine by touching upon its similarities to Indian cuisine. "It must be the spices. We used to get most of our spices from India when I was there."

A statement that could be true in most parts of the world at some point in time.

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I am Shamanke from Djibouti. I have a cousin brother studying in Osmania University, Hyderabad. My own brother was living in Bangalore for a year. He was working for Ernst & Young. Now he is in Dubai. I always wanted to visit India. You know my brother in Hyderabad goes out walking with his wife and he has not faced any problems. I know there has been lots of stories in the media but I think it's a lot of hype. There is a billion people in that country and I think if you take it as a percentage of the female population then it would more or less be the same as the case in the US. Violence and crimes are everywhere. OK, you have been living all your life there so if you still think women aren't very free in India. I can't really argue with that but from what I have heard from my cousin it isn't so bad. I have lived in Djibouti, London, Stockholm and Dubai and I think US is the least friendly of all the places. I have my own house here. I have wife here. My own business here. My kids were born here. But I still don't feel like I belong here.

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What brings you here? IT? 

No, my wife. She got transferred here and I came along on a free plane ride. 

It is good to have your family here. I came from Punjab 36 years ago. My wife and daughters are in India. I go back once a year.

What?  Only once a year?

Yes. I came here when I was 20 and stayed with some family friends from Patiala. Went back after 5 years and got married to a woman from Jalandhar. Returned alone. Then went once a year. Now I have two daughters. One of them I sponsored citizenship but I couldn't do it for the elder one as she got old and I couldn't afford to sponsor her when she was young. But she is a good girl. Studying medicine in Punjab. She wants to do specialisation in Cancer. She has already done some research on the internet and has decided to come to John Hopkins in nearby Baltimore. 

So you will get to see her more often then.

Hopefully. If things work out as planned, I will be able to see her much more often than once a year for sure. It would be strange.

Do you drive Uber full time? 

No. no. I work in a factory. I came here 35 years back and got a job driving taxis in the night and ever since then I have only taken up night shift jobs. Nowadays I take some rides before heading to the factory. To make some extra cash. Daughters have grown big and need more money now. I haven't gone to India for 3 years in order to save up on cash.

Haven't you ever felt the need to go back and live with your kids & wife in India? Or to bring them over here?

Many times. But I also wonder if it will be the same if I go back. They may find me a burden. I won't have a job that pays in dollars. I mean factory jobs don't really pay much but once you convert dollars to rupees then things look a lot better. But many times I have thought about it and an equal number of times the thought has gone away. Some times I start thinking of how the smells are so nice back home, the colours, the taste of the vegetables but these thoughts eventually go away.

Here is where you get off by the way. All the best.

Thank you. Nice to meet you.

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It takes just two questions - Where are you from? How long have you been here? - to realise that nothing quite satisfies the senses like nostalgia.

Humanity

I think every man has his own smell. We don't notice it much because smells mingle all together and we can't tell which is yours and which is mine, really.... All we know is that there's a foul smell and that's what we call "humanity"... I mean "the human stench"

                                                                      - Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba the Greek

A Rock & a Hard Place

Alejandro the Argentine is feeling good about tonight. Saturday night in Las Vegas and not just any Saturday night. The one over the long thanksgiving weekend. He has been in Vegas long enough to know the role that probability plays in life and tonight the odds are in his favour.

His 'American Dream', when he left Argentina nearly 20 years back, didn't feature him waiting tables at Hard Rock Cafe, Las Vegas. He was going to be happy with lots of money and a home. That dream is coming close. Next year this time he will be in Florida. Far away from the terrible tourists and the maddening click whirr ting ting ting sounds of the ubiquitous slot machines. Tonight is one of those nights that will be bringing his Florida dream closer to reality.

In a few minutes the tourists will start streaming in. Some happy with the winning, some mourning their loss but all of them drinking down their joy and sorrow. Once the drinks start to pour, he will get them to order food. Food which they don't need but food that he will get them to want. Just when they think they are done, he will seduce them with desserts. Desserts that they will order but not partake. He knows he is one of the best but for him to win it all starts with the drinking. The tipping is always good once they start drinking. 

This is going to be good night. He can feel it in his bones. He has trained the kitchen staff, threatened them in fact. "Fuck up all you want in the afternoon but the night is my time and you mess up in the night and I will mess your face!". They won't mess up tonight. He is certain.

His first customers have arrived. A party of six. Looks like they are from India. Great. They must be reveling in the freedom of the sin city, far from the conservative confines of their home. The night has begun.

"Hello, I am Alejandro and I will be taking care of you tonight. Can I start you off with some drinks?"

"One water with no ice. Please make that two. Actually, make that three. Do you have hot water by any chance?"

"Yes we do."

"Then could you please bring me some hot water. Actually, could you bring me also some hot water, cancel my water with no ice. Make that three hot water. Actually four hot water."

"So, its 4 hot waters and 2 waters with no ice. Will that be all? Any other drinks? No? No. OK. I will be right out with your waters."

Al pedo como teta de monja!

Life

...from the tomb of the womb to the womb of the tomb.

                                        - Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces

Pithy pity piety

"Dad, who is that guy with the big U on his face?" - 8 yr old referring to photo of Lord Venkateshwara at a Indian Restaurant in Plano, Texas, USA.

TX - 75093. First Impressions.

For nearly 30 years of my life, when I have wanted to switch the fan on, the TV on, the light on, the... well you get the idea, I have pressed the switch down. While travelling in trains I have flicked the switch down and then stood on the seat and used a pen or a comb or a newspaper to stick through the fan cage and get the blades running. But the switches always went down.For the last two weeks of my life the switches have gone up. 

The cars driving on the right side was more along expected lines. The wiper being on the right and the indicator on the left was also pretty much expected but a lot harder to, jargon alert, 'internalise'. The switches were quite weird but since the feedback is almost always immediate its therefore not something one tends to really notice. Hopefully new things are being learnt and stored in unused recesses of the brain and not in those parts where 29 years of experience are etched. I wouldn't want to find out later that while I was busy learning that, paraphrasing a Dave Matthews Band song here, 'the right side is up' the rest of my world was turning upside down.

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Be it Wal-Mart, Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, Ikea (I promise such shameless brand name dropping won't happen again) or any other store, one thing is almost guaranteed - The billing clerk/guy/lady will greet you and will always be friendly. There will be a hi and how-was-your-day and hope-you-have-a-great-one and your-bill-amount-is-exactly-same-as-the-time-so-you-get-a-lollipop. Ok fine, the last one happened only once.

In India the person at the billing counter is matter of fact and brutally efficient. "257.50. Cover?" But then as time progresses and you start coming to the shop regularly there would be a smile of recognition. And then there is a few extra words. "That is 257.50. Do you need cover? 1 Rs. extra." In time he/she will come to recognise your regular buys and understand the family dynamics. "Sir, do you need Ginger Candy for your father?" and you will know his first name. "I think he has bought yesterday Mani". You start flaunting the relationship hoping that the people waiting behind you in the queue get jealous and wish they knew the counter guy better. The guy may not start off being friendly but in time you get a friend. 

In time maybe there shall be some new friends.

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Big fat squirrels. Oliver Hardy squirrels when compared to the Stanley Laurel variety back in India and voila, someone discovered Instagram.

Minimum fare & some fanfare

For some the day begins with prayer. An incense stick delicately placed in front of a picture of whatever form god takes. A politician, a superstar, the elephant headed obstacle remover, the virgin, calligraphy or most likely the goddess of wealth with a golden urn pouring out gold coins. For others, a day begins. To each his, or her, own. The day's first fare is a portent of things to come. A passenger whose destination is en route the road taken from home to the stand is a godsend. A return 'savaari' - ride or occupant - with minimal waiting as the first trip for the day means a decent feast for lunch.Tea spent discussing today's headlines with the boys - the most looked forward to part of the work day.

Commissioner Office? Okay. Shall put meter but please do give something extra for tea. What is wrong with this route? The map is saying its a longer route? What map? Oh the map on your phone. Which route is the phone telling? Does the phone know about one ways and traffic diversions? The leader is coming today and he has a political rally on that road. Will get stuck for an hour if that route is taken.

Bloody hell. Lady drivers. There ought to be stickers on the vehicles indicating that it's a lady driver. The other day two girls on a bike turn in from the right on to the straight main road without even looking or halting for the traffic coming through. Blood pressure has hit the ceiling and someone screams asking if the girls are attempting suicide. The girl who is at the controls of the bike screams back saying she has put the indicator and hence the fault is on those who didn't halt. Everyone, in that instant, realises the futility of lecturing them about the indicator's purpose and collectively decide the girls are better off meeting with an accident to figure things out.

These phones are pretty good right. No one used to bother about which route the auto takes before but ever since the meter has become mandatory everyone seems to think auto drivers are out to cheat them. It's only better to reach the destination sooner so that the next fare is got earlier. These phones are really good. Every day something new seems to come on the phones. At one point there seemed to be nothing new in life and men decide to get married. Soon the novelty of a new wife is replaced by the weariness of the same wife and children will surely be the harbinger of change. Children. The new new thing. Children grow, that is a certainty. With every new year there is something new for them and the parents teach them and take them through their life. The parents experience their whole life again through the children but then suddenly things change. Children are not confined to the headlines of the newspaper. They are not confined to the first paragraph. Apparently, the first paragraph contains the most important news. All news stories have an inverted pyramid and the first paragraph gives details about who, what, where, when, why and how. But the children read the whole paper and then they stop reading the paper. They read only the internet and they use their phones and then before they know it the parents are finding everything new. Internet, touch phone, coffee pubs, Facebook, hundred-rupee hair cuts. The children teach the parents. The children now have their lives to lead and the parents no longer understand life. Child becomes father of man and soon even the children seem new. Only the auto remains the same and the wife. But the auto has a new meter. We have arrived. Commissioner Office is on the other side. Shall halt here else would need to take the U Turn. Is that all? Have come all this way may not even get a ride back. That is better. Thanks.

The next savaari comes along. Where to? Central Station? Alright, shall put meter but please do take due care of giving something extra. Bloody hell. Taxi drivers.

Traffic Signal, Transitory Perception.

The light turns red. The timer starts its countdown from 49. I am going to miss the 8.46 train. Will be late for the meeting. Work frustration has begun rather early today. The colleague calls in unwell. The one who gives me a lift everyday. I have to cajole my dad to take a break from his morning tea and paper and drive me to the station. I guess I have ruined his morning.

Hello. Hello sir. Good morning. 

Someone bellows. An old man has pulled up next to us. Wearing a dirty cream colour, full sleeve shirt, checks, buttoned till the collar. On his head rests a cap with the logo of a public sector company. New year freebie. One of those having cheap sponge filling and a hard plastic visor that breaks when you try to bend it. He is riding one of those auto gear scooters which are targeted for girls. At good morning I have pretty much decided - the poor old man is senile. I glance at my dad and he has this look on his face. One that I decipher into - How the hell has this mad man got hold of a bike?

Good morning sir. 

He shouts. Indian roads are noisy and loud. But by the way he shouts, I have pretty much decided that he is as deaf as he is senile. The other people waiting alongside him seem to have come to the same conclusion. My dad still has the 'he has escaped from an asylum' look fixed on his face.

Good morning sir. I just wanted to wish you a lovely day. In Europe people wish each other all the time and I want to wish you today. When you go to sleep today you will remember me wishing you at the beginning of the day at this traffic signal and smile. 

Ok. Maybe he isn't so senile after all.

And what is more, today happens to be my star birthday. Today also happens to be my wife's birthday. So I am wishing you on my birthday and my wife's birthday. I hope you have a wonderful day.

My dad has this huge grin on his face and he smiles an acknowledgement. The light turns green and the old man scoots off. In less than a minute, an insane man has become a kind, gentle soul with a great disposition towards life. 

He was wrong about one thing though. I didn't remember him when I went to sleep that day. A month later I find myself writing this post.

On the Trivandrum Mail in September

The proud father waves goodbye to his tearing daughter. The train pulls slowly but surely out of Chennai Central. It could be the first time she isn’t spending Onam at home. The father doesn’t seem sad. Guess he is happy to leave the sweltering sauna behind and return home to the last big drops of monsoon.

He is heading to Kollam (Quilon). So I shall be seeing his rather innocent grin for 10/12^th of my journey. I reduce it to 5/6^th just when the rather big lady in the coupe next to mine lets off a shriek and climbs on to her seat. That was pretty quick for someone so big. The reason for her excitement -  a small mouse the size of my palm innocently nibbling on some tidbit - only adds to the humour of the situation. The lady’s husband seems rather indifferent to it all. Nothing, not the screams of his wife or the hungry mouse, seems to distract him from the film magazine with the voluptuous scantily clad actress on the cover.

After a long enough glance of the cover I decide to spend the rest of the night looking out the window. In a couple of hours the black night seems to have settled down across the vast stretch and the lights of civilization are few and far between. Sleep soon gets the better of me and I climb up to my blue leather bed with a nice even coat of dust for a mattress and enter a deep state of slumber.

This isn't the first time I have taken this journey. This is the first time in the month of September though. Nostalgia is filled with memories of summer and I wake up to a view that is not familiar. The rains have painted the trees green and the ground brown and the sky grey. The painting of a landscape without any still life. The backwaters are a darker reflection of the sky above. I look out from my side lower berth window wondering if my mom has ever washed this one. She had to come around to washing the window sills on trains when she realised her two sons did not inherit her paranoia for germs and spittle and all the other bad things that seemed to live on the window sills of Indian trains.

The side lower berth window provides a nice frame to the pretty picture. The dark grey backwater. The lime green lorry riding along the brown sandbar between rows of green coconut trees. The light grey sea beyond the sand bar stretching out to the horizon. The yellow boards listing out the names of familiar stations - Trichur, Angamaly, Ernakulam, Kottayam, Tiruvalla, Mavelikara, Kayankulam, Kollam and the father wears a black leather cap and bids me farewell, Varkala, Trivandrum. This journey ends.