The time that was...

Mr. C is 84 years old. His is a life that has been lived the text-book middle class way in the sense that he was a life-time government servant, brought up four sons, got them married to nice homely girls, who further went on to bear him 10 grandchildren in all. But its the younger years that he craves for today. He was a man of such temper as is the wont of most marwari young men and it was customary for him to scream his head off at his wife for her slightest infraction. He worked hard, worked honestly and brought up four boisterous young men. Two of his eldest sons wanted to join the army and airforce respectively but their mother who for all the screaming and shouting that she endured was always a master tactician. She persuaded the sons to go to different parts of the country inorder to apprentice under other businessmen hoping that this would help them sharpen their own. This is exactly what happened and today Mr. C's two sons have a business enterprise with a turnover of a crore per annum and his other son is a Chartered Accountant of very high repute. Yet he seems lost today more than anything else.

It is almost as if time moved on and he remained back there. Everything seems alien to him- the mobile phones, computers, fast cars and most of all, this lonliness of his. There are times when he is sitting in a gathering of his grandchildren and during discussions he drifts off without a warning until he is suddenly jolted back into the proceedings by someone. He sits for hours looking into nothingness and his thoughts keep ranging across the time gone by. The happiness at the oldest son's birth, his grief when his only daughter died a premature death at the age of 5, the pleasurable times at his oldest grand-daughter's wedding and the subsequent heart-wrenching sorrow because of the death of his second son in a gruesome car accident. This and many other images continue to flash in his head and he feels like a man lost in a time warp of his own creation. His wife, Mrs. B on the other hand has been a survivor. A matriarch to the fullest, she brought up her kids with a discipline that would make a drill sergeant at West Point proud. She has not changed in the least. She still gives orders and expects them to be obeyed and the funny thing is they get obeyed. Having shared all of her husband's tribulations strengthend her while they drained Mr. C. So it is she who runs his days, asking him to take his medicines, complete his chores and eventually rest and Mr. C, meekly goes about doing all this with a submission that is an antithesis to his earlier days.

Today Mr. C has the option to stay with one of his sons and spend his time leisurely and yet the only thing on his mind is that I need to get back to Rajasthan so I can get my pension renewed. A pension of Rs. 7000-8000. His sons ask him not to worry about it but its the hugely self-respecting side of him that appeals to them that he needs to get his pension renewed as he does not want to ask anyone for money nor be a burden on anybody. They(his sons) don't understand. He will not back off. Mrs. B does not want to go until he is completely recovered(from his mild paralytic attack and extreme tooth pain and high sugar) Mr. C and Mrs. B have both been through the same storms and yet today its Mrs. B who is the captain of the ship while Mr. C has been relegated to the position of a deck-hand. Its strange to see two people who went through so much together today turned out so differently. There he stands again Mr. C, next to the window in his white vest and white pajamas, his white hair shining, looking into nothingness, probably reminiscing about the time that was.

Change reloaded...

Its been 8 months since I have been in Bombay and its again time for me to start packing my bags to move to a new place to start afresh. Of all the things that Bombay has to offer the millions of migrants that throng the city, my favorite is the boat ride at the Gateway. So here I was on a Saturday evening at the gateway. The sea was choppy and the sky studded with ominous greying clouds, courtesy Bombay's 4 month monsoon. They charge Rs. 50 for the boat ride and another Rs. 5 if you want to go to the upper deck(ridiculous I tell you!!) Nevertheless I pay up and settle myself close to the bow of the boat. Its a fairly sturdy boat and once I have parked myself, I scan my co-passengers. Families, couples, friends and me. The boat pulls away and we set out at a speed of 2-3 knots. The pace is unhurried and I am in no hurry to get back on land. The silent bobbing lulls one into a lazy stupor as you watch the land slip away. There is nothing particularly spectacular about the coastline but the very fact that you can see it in its entirety makes you watch it for a little longer. I turn my head now towards the open sea and am met with the start of another drizzle, this time slightly stronger. So I pull out my one faithful companion, my umbrella and huddle up with my umbrella as my sheshnaag. I think about what happens if the boat sinks now, I am sure I can save myself but what would I want to save first in my bag. My passport, money, papers...and I realise nothing.

Going back seems scary because of the way life is going to change when I get back. So I sit hoping that this tryst with the sea gets elongated and suddenly I feel the boat turning back towards land and this time we are going across the direction of the waves and the boat starts to ride crests and falls into troughs periodically. As we move closer to land, its the sea that tells me that its unchanging on the surface and yet continuously changing within. That change will have to be dealt with and that life will continue to twist and turn and change. I touch solid ground, reach Churchgate station, sit in the train and hmm...the crowds, the anonymity and the change again.

Change...

Then...

and then...

and now...

Hmm...times they are a changing... but I am loving it.