A large French window went through the opposite wall as you opened the mahogany door. The house as a whole stood on a Himalayan hill and this particular room overlooked a gentle slope. Gigantic Deodar trees stood till as far as the eye went. Their thick trunks, dark brown in colour, matched the colour of the dark mahogany furniture inside the room. The brown, shrubby, stunted undergrowth around them contrasted with, and further accentuated the solidity of the trunks.

A wind blew through the French window and the white, transparent curtain fluttered inside with it. The wind also went through her flimsy sheath and through her hair as she stood at the window, her eyes closed and her arms opened, welcoming the first breeze of the morning, feeling it over her skin, having it pass by the curvy outlines of her figure, letting it caress herself in places she allowed few other than the wind to so rightfully explore…

She tightened her eyes further. The sensations only grew more intense.

नए दोस्तों को भी पसंद आएँगी, ऐसी उम्मीद कर रहा हूँ… नहीं तो मेरा कुछ वक़्त तो कट ही गया

अरावली

पानी बरसा,
और जाने कब की प्यासी धरती ने,
ज़रा प्यास बुझते ही
इत्र छिड़क लिया.
तन को ढांपने की नाकाम कोशिश कर रही
अरावली ने भी
झूमकर
अपनी चिथड़ी हुई साड़ी लहरा दी.

कौन कहता है कि जश्न मनाने का हक़
गरीबों को नहीं होता.

——–x————x ——

अरावली कोई प्रेमिका नही है
जिसकी घनी जुल्फों में खोकर
उसके यौवन का आनंद लिया हो मैंने.
वह तो वो दरिद्र, बूढी माँ है
जिसकी झुर्रीदार बाँ और फटे आँचल
में खेलकर
बीता है मेरा बचपन.

—–x—–x—–

शहर में बड़ा शोर है,
और यह शहर बड़ा सभ्य है.
जी करता है आज फिर
उन्हीं सूखी, कंटीली, पथरीली
लू के थपेडों में
अकेली, बेलौस झूम रही
वादिओं से जाकर पूछ लूं,
कि कहो, कैसी हो…

—–x—–x—–

Confidence, as India had won the last two matches in pressure-cooker situations against strong oppositions while Sri Lanka had had it easier. And therefore India were in a better position to handle the pressure of the final. It was like, after lifting 200 kg in two bench press sets, they had been allowed a half hour break and then asked to lift a sparrow. For Sri Lanka, well, it was a world cup final.

Faith, is kind of unexplainable, but Sheila Dixit, the aunty-CM of Delhi, put it really well. 121 crore people of India were praying for an Indian victory against 2 crore of Sri Lanka. Surely the vibes, if not the Gods, would give at least a helping hand? And this team had it in it to make any extra helping hand count.

Sri Lankan wickets kept falling at regular intervals but Jayawardene held fort and the Sri Lankans scored in the last power play to reach a healthy-looking 274. It did not matter. If the Indians batted with the intent they were bowling and fielding, nothing could stop them. Even otherwise, all it needed was about 15 overs from Sehwag. During the break, as we went out to replenish our beer stocks, everyone in the market was betting on a Sehwag blitzkrieg.

Sehwag fell, and Sachin followed soon after. Malinga was smoldering, and the next few overs were actually a bit tense. But once India reached to about 100 in 20-odd overs, the match was in the bag. There was a long line-up of players in good form playing or yet to come. Everyone somehow give their best when Sachin is out cheaply. And Sri Lanka bowling was now looking ordinary.

Lightness was in the head when Yuvraj got two near misses. Music started playing in the 46th over. ‘Aarambh hai Prachand‘ was playing for the second time when Dhoni hit the six and brought things to conclusion.

Within 2 seconds, dhol started playing in the Galli. Me, Pawan, Murtuza and Siddharth ran outside. The entire Galli boys were there, dancing their assess off. We were stopping the oncoming traffic and making people dance. We were lifting each other up, sharing high-fives with total strangers. Girls were staring and smiling at us from balconies. Some were making videos of us. Out of the irresistible beats of the dhol, one could clearly make out the words ‘India… India’ and ‘Jai Bharat Mata’.

Soon after, we left for India Gate. It was my idea. I wanted to take a look at the Amar Jawan Jyoti, the most inspiring sight I have found in Delhi. We were three people, me, Pawan and Murtuza on my bike. I was riding without a helmet. Around us, people were riding four or five people on a single bike. Whatever four-wheeler there were, people were dangling out of the windows, swerving and shouting like crazy. There was police all around, but for once, they were not interested in the fortune that was there to be made. To every Indian, and firang, that I saw on the street, I screamed ‘Jai Bharat Mata’, or ‘Jai Hind’ Or ‘India… India’. Although it later came to me that it was ‘Gali gali mein naara hai, world cup hamara hai’ which was the most popular line everywhere.

About 2km before India Gate, I realized that everyone had had the same idea as us. The entire Delhi, it seemed, was going to India Gate. As a result, the roads were blocked. And once they got blocked, Everyone opened their car doors, and turned on the stereos full blast. Dancing, interspersed with a snail’s place of traffic movement, was everywhere. Everyone was dancing or shouting. For once, cars were standing in the middle of the road without a volley of abuse deluging from behind. People were shouting, but in glee. The only expletives flying around were out of pride or love. “Duniya ki M* C*** Di!” and “B****** utro na gaadi se neeche!” followed by the best improvisation of salsa over Bhangra music you could ever find. Girls were roaming around in Delhi, making videos of boys at past midnight and nobody was paying any attention to them. Horns were honking loudly, but for a change, today they were conveying bonhomie rather than an intent to decimate. I brushed my bike with the side of a Wagon R, looked sheepishly at the aunty sitting at the passenger side, and said Sorry. All I got in return was a ‘Arre bhaiya, aaj ke din sab chalta hai!’ I suspect I would have gotten away with murder.

We could finally see the Chhatri behind India Gate beyond which it was impossible to go. A lone policeman was manning the barricades, forbidding people to go anywhere nearer to India Gate, even on foot, and for once, nobody argued with him.

Traffic had come to a complete standstill now. After another half hour of frenetic dancing, I came to stand at the side of the road, staring at the Chhatri, gazing at the Tiranga flying everywhere. A guy had somehow managed to get a piece of road cleared and was doing bike stunts on his Karizma. Some body-builders had taken off their shirts and were posing from on top of their SUVs. The entire town was partying together, and each one in his own way.

I danced like mad, soaking in the moment, catching a glimpse of India Gate now and then, and had the very indescribable feeling that I was in the middle of things. That this was it. That I belonged. That at this moment, we all belonged. That we were where we ought to be. Ahead of everyone else. That we hadn’t achieved anything extraordinary, but had taken what was long overdue to be rightfully ours.

And that is the emotion in me. It’s a great sporting achievement for the players, support staff, selectors, board and everyone else involved in the process. As a nation, it is great, but not extraordinary. We haven’t achieved anything which was out of our limits. We haven’t pushed our limits. We have merely reached where we are supposed to be. A nation of 120 crore cricket crazy people which provides for 80% of cricket’s spectators deserves to win the World Cup 80% of the times. As simple as that.

Just that even breaking even out of repression is an ecstatic feeling, too.

My thoughts turned towards the concept of ‘home’. ‘Home’ for me has been a little different from most people. I always refer to the place I am living in as ‘home’, and not as ‘flat’ or ‘room’. For example, I had a home in Hyderabad where I lived for 21 months. I now have a home in Delhi. I don’t own that home, but it is my home nevertheless. Why is Ajmer ‘home’ for me? Because I was born and brought up there? Then in that case, isn’t Hyderabad a home, As I earned my degree there, got my first job and bought my first vehicle there? Is Ajmer my home because my parents live there? Then what if they leave Ajmer sometime? And anyways how does that make Ajmer ‘my home’? Can a person have several homes? Or is the entire India my home? Or the entire world…

The bus stopped on the turning on the bypass. There were a few shops already open at 7o’clock in the morning. I adjusted my backpack and hopped over the debris of the construction material lying on the road. As I crossed the road, there ambled along a brightly decorated truck, a Rajasthani song blaring out of it whose lyrics I couldn’t make out.

As I crossed the road, a barren hilly terrain and the black topped, single lane road snaking through it beckoned me. Behind me, the sun was rising. With a quiet ‘Adi Deva Namastubhyam’, to the sun, I squinted my eyes. It was very bright. So bright that I had trouble keeping my eyes fully open. I realized that it was probably the brightest morning I had had in months. Welcome to Rajasthan, the land of exceptional sunlight.

My mom had yet to arrive with the car, so I started walking the 4km road till my home. The almost completely barren hills on both sides reflect almost all sunlight all the time. And the hills are low, really, so you can see till far. The cool morning breeze carressed my hair. This was the road, running up and down which I became the athlete I once was. Up ahead, was a small, roofless ruins of God-knows-what, where one evening many summers ago under an halfish, but beautiful moon I had opened my first beer. These surroundings have been as barren and pollution free since I have been seeing them. And the road as free of traffic.

I plugged my Ipod to my ears. Shubha Mudgal was crooning

Hai kitne baras beete, tum ghar na aaye re.

Raah dekhe kaale megha, dariya pahaaadi!

Under my feet, the road was hard. Turning to the soft, comforting loose sand at the side, I concentrated on the brightness of the hills, trying to perceive the change in their height since I last saw them. Turning a picture perfect bend, I squinted to register the furrows caused by wind erosion on my favorite hillock at the side.

Tum laut aao sajanaa, mera dil bulaaye re…

Tum laut aao sajanaa, mera dil bulaaye re…

Tum laut aao sajanaa, mera dil bulaaye re…!

Round the bend, I was able to see the Mazaar of Madar Sahab atop the hill at the base of which my home is located. As the concluding strains of music faded away, I kept looking at the Baba.

The song had ended. Another one would start now. And in between the songs, I could listen to the chirping of the teetudi. Of the chugging of the spokes of the bicycle of the Dhoti-clad Gujar riding by. A train was whistling in the distance. Wind was ruffling my hair. A polythene bag from a nearby garbage dump was fluttering in the breeze. Up ahead, a runner was plodding down the gentle slope. I removed the earphones. These were sounds I wouldn’t trade for any song in the world.

I now had the full view of the hill above my house, as also of the colony below it. Looking at the Madar Sahab, I raised my hand to my forehead.

Sindhis were people who came to this part of the country to escape the Muslim majority of their native Sindh. Some prejudice against Muslims would be understood. In all my years, I have never seen any. In the throbbing market surrounding the Dargah are shops of Muslims, Sindhis and other communities. Welcome is accorded to the pilgrims by all. Chaadar, loban, flowers and other materials required for ‘ziarat’ are sold by shopkeepers of all communities. The pilgrims put up in hotels set up by all communities. There is stiff competition for this business, and that is that.

The nearby Pushkar houses perhaps one of the holiest of Hindu shrines, the Brahma Temple. In five out of the last six assembley elections, this temple town, where sale and consumption of onions, besides non-veg food is banned, has elected a Muslim MLA.

Come October-november, and the city goes into festive overdrive. While Ajmer city plays host to lakhs of Muslim pilgrims at the annual ‘Urs’, the ‘Pushkar Mela’ and the ‘Karthik Snan’ attract Hindu devotees and tourists in the same numbers. Any north Indian can testify that festive seasons at places of religious significance of even one community are ‘sensitive’ times. In Ajmer, two places, of paramount religious significance of two communities play host to huge festivals simultaneously. This has been happening for centuries. The word ‘sensitive’ till yet remains out of vocabulary of this season.

Of course, these religious places attract international tourists as well. And while pilgrims from the Arab countries are offering prayers to the Khwaja, boys and girls from their friendly neighbor Israel are running about, scantily clothed, up and down the streets and nearby hills and valleys of Pushkar.

Ajmer, like India itself, is not without its contradictions.

Previous posts in this series:

The Town that was – I http://wp.me/p1jJo-dL

The Town that was – II http://wp.me/p1jJo-ee