In Quietness
by Durga Prasad Pandey
The concert is over. An enthralling performance by Rajan and Sajan Mishra, in Delhi’s huge Siri Fort auditorium. We move with the mass of music loving humanity, to the exit. A couple of fans have surrounded the legends, hoping for tips, perhaps.
It’s warm outside. The ac inside the large hall has disoriented our temperature sensory perception. Could we have an outdoor ac machine, which could maintain the temperature over the mass of buildings, flyovers and dust-laden trees?
Jimmy nudges me in time to steer clear of a well built punjabi lass, who was heading towards us-specifically me- for an imminent collision. She walks past, brushing me, still looking skywards, cell phone in hand.
The air is bluish, with a black tinge of course- to justify that it’s night already. Pollution is blue in Delhi. Maybe it’s the blue fuel that comes out – partly unburnt through exhaust pipes.
Cars are honking all around. Men and women, old and young, have suddenly realised they have to hurry home. Hurry away from the crowd? From the bluish air? I don’t know. Maybe the air surrounding their homes is less bluish.
They lost track of time-most of them- during the concert, so they are making up for it now. Compensating for time lost freeing themselves from the surroundings, merging in the flow of music.
Jimmy digresses from the main road to the guard’s cabin- at the side of the gate. We had left a packet of apples there- hidden them from the crowd. You cannot take eatables inside, we were told. He gropes in semi darkness- trying to catch sight of the polythene bag in the occassional glare of cars’ headlights, as they turn, and flood the corner generously with their brightness.
He comes back- not too excited -after a few minutes. Someone has stolen- or taken away, by mistake(?)- the fruits of Adam. But the taker seems to be considerate. He has left two of them. Two hungry lads- two apples. Is it coincidence, or a kind conspiracy to make us wonder!
We ease out of the gate- apple in hand. Two Adams with apples in hand, eyeing Eves -leaving in cars. We cross the road and look for buses.
“There won’t be buses at this time,” he prophesises.
“Let’s walk then,” I suggest.
We are both addicts of walking. It helps me think, while I walk, because the scene changes continuously before my eyes- like in a bus- though not as fast. He likes it because we can talk- well, I like it for that matter too. We enjoy talking to each other- sharing thoughts, ideas, the truest, innermost feelings. We trust each other as if we are speaking to our respective alter egos. But do alter egos talk to each other? Possibly not, it seems. I can’t think of a better comparision though.
The road is even, with sidewalks intact. I am not accustomed to perfectness. The heaps of dust at the edge of the road wink at me. So there is no perfectness after all!
A tractor moves past us, and suddenly slows down to a stop ahead of us- the engine still running.
“Aajao sir,” the driver shouts into the calm wind, looking back over his shoulder.
I look at Jimmy, he smiles.
“I knew he would stop,” he says, with the same prophecy. I dismiss his Nostradamity. He would have had an explanation even if the tractor had not stopped. But then, no reason would have been required- since there would be nothing to explain.
We climb on the tractor’s back. There are two seats-bumps actually- facing each other. Once seated, we smile at each other once again. The driver is smoking away a bidi.
“Where are you coming from, bhaiya” I ask the benefactor. The tractor moves ahead, slowly, crawling away in the night. There are no competitors on this road- no one to tease its speed.
“From the fields, yaar” he says. “I am going home after a full days’ work”
“achha”
“I look young, don’t I?” he says, looking back at me. I look at him. He’s older than me, at least.
“I married six years back and have two kids already” he adds.
He doesn’t look all that old. So the hormones got active too soon!
“I was seventeen then. Got married. there was nothing else to do. I had left studying in seventh. Babu, you are a student?”
“Yes we are,” I say, referring to both of us. “We are both in college.”
“That’s good. I always tell my sons-both are very naughty- to study hard. I will do everything for them. I will sell myself off if need be. But they don’t study. After all, whose children are they?”
He laughs a funny laugh- the bidi shaking in his lips. Laughing at himself?
Jimmy is humming away a tune. He maintains that you must do whatever you feel like- which includes singing a song anywhere, anytime if you get the urge. The calm, static air has changed into a slow wind as we move with the tractor.
The wind is the audience of the moment. This is no Siri fort- this is open air- an unlimited auditorium. The silent trees, the telephone poles, the power lines, the powdery dust listening in silence to his song. But for us, there is no silence- it has been broken by the air breezing past our face-creating an incomprehensible hymn.
The tractor reaches the South Ex flyover. Traffic lights are on. A red light glares at us. Our driver holds on, pressing the brake, while no traffic moves at the green light at the other pole. Traffic or no traffic, you have to follow the lights.
He turns towards his destination-away from ours- after crossing over on the other side. Jimmy asks him to drop us off.
The tractor stops. We get down and thank him.
“Sahab, do you have two rupees?” he asks obsequiously.
Jimmy digs into his pocket. The change is elusive. I slip my fingers into my own, and catch hold of a coin. It’s a rupee. I hand it over to him. He takes it without protest.
We cross the road and begin our walk back home.
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Copyright: Durga Prasad Pandey
