Fishing

The only thing visible for miles around was sand.

The Landrover groaned up yet another dune in the singeing sun and in the distance they saw a lone figure atop another dune. It came to a halt a hundred yards from the still, hunched figure. The driver and the passengers alighted, stretched their limbs and exchanged glances.

Strangers in mid-noon desert. Even from this close it was hard to tell if the figure was alive. Finally the driver decided to approach the figure. Silence was tempered by the wind as it rustled through their clothes and as their shoes crunched the sand.

‘Salam, what are you doing?’ All eyes were now focused on the squatting figure.
In freeze-frame slowness the figure turned and looked at the direction of the driver and uttered a one word reply, ‘Fishing,’ and just as deliberately the old Bedouin resumed his crouched stance.

The driver stopped in his track. Just then the wind dropped and a sudden silence overwhelmed. They could hear the murmur of their hearts. He motioned everyone to get on board and drove away. The old Bedouin did not stir.

* * * * *

Am on the shores of the Caribbean Sea along a stretch of the beach, engrossed in thoughts, their intensity and focus alternately sparkling like distant stars in the cosmos.

Thoughts that nurture in mind’s oven as we live our lives and either wither away or metamorphose. They dwelled on subjects that touch the core of some mystical practice, green grass, shape of nose, colour of eyes, food wastage, garbage treatment, the rush hour traffic, the desolate vastness of the beach, the hue of water, reach of the waves before they die on the beach, the colour and make-up of the sand--fine, grainy, pebbly, soft, hard, crunchy, the observing look of the security guard, the blissful unawareness of the honeymooners, or the knowing smile playing upon the infant’s lips. From mundane to terrene, from mystic to mysterious.

It is intriguing how one of these passing thoughts later becomes a catalyst towards something profound and subtle.

* * * * *

Our new friends had invited us for dinner in an open-air restaurant in a Delhi suburb set around a deer park. We had just concluded the first leg of a long tour. Our hosts asked us if there was any interesting experience we had that we could share with them. In a flash the past two weeks buzzed by, all the buildings, homes, temples, palaces, museums that we had visited.

Narrated this story about a chance encounter with that mechanic in a small dusty town in the south with whom had locked glances for barely a part of a second.

We were returning from Kanchipuram to Chennai. Our tour bus was threading its way through open fields and small and big towns on its way back.

While passing by this obscure nondescript town, looking out the window saw this fellow, no more than 40-45 who wore a dirty sweaty sleeveless vest, sitting on a three legged chair, balancing himself on his good leg, a crutch was hanging from the ceiling, slightly swinging and casting an MacGuffian shadow on the wall beside. His oily face was glistening under the glare of the lone electric bulb.

He was staring ahead as flies buzzed around him but he did not flex any muscles to shoo them off. The lack of any expression on his face, the blank utterly devoid of life look was something that left an indelible mark on me.

The silence around the table, and the intensity and passion of my narration amazed me. In another era we could be have been sitting around a camp fire and narrating tales from Qissa-e-Chahar Darvesh.

Here was this fellow who was obviously alive but oblivious to life. Any zest for living was missing from his demeanor. It was apparent he was not an urchin or a beggar. It is so easy to be one in India. Obviously, he had pride and drive that motivated him to earn his keep. Yet that blank look struck a chord in those few moments as the bus passed by in front of his shop.

This man just existed. It did not appear that he looked forward to anything in life. Nor did he look like he wanted to end his life. As if some remote cosmic controller was pressing buttons and he was obeying those commands. A living robot destined to play out his part.

The food arrived and the discussion moved onto Kanchipuram saris.

In pensive moods I often think about this mechanic’s life. How could one revel in mediocrity? Perhaps these are harsh words. Who knows he may have tried, he must have, and gave up. Those blank looks in his eyes must have held love and affection once. And hope. And anger, frustration, hatred.

We would never know.

* * * * *

Those who have been here for long might be able to recall a wandering dervish SR. A former doctor who turned in his badge and moved away from medicine. How did you do it Sohail? Did you renounce the Hippocratic oath? Or merely let the annual membership in AMA lapse?

(This was written sometime back. Since then SR has reappeared with his FOMC column. And has renounced the US, moving to Europe.)

He once very eloquently captured the laments of the writer. He had written of a writer as a hooker or a gigolo in the showcase. If you have taken tours or seen videos of the famous red light district in Amsterdam you would appreciate the irony. The readers pass by window shopping.

Shandy, I recall, has also written here about the writer as a word-worker, another euphemistic substitute for sex-worker. I should hasten to add she begins her sentence with "been..."...

For an intensely private and yet dichotomously open person this undressing a baring of the soul is fraught with incomprehensive and enigmatic pitfalls.

* * * * *

Do they hear voices? What if I write do they also hear voices? Shhh….speak softly. You know you do not hear voices out of ether. You hear and read looks, glances and thoughts. And interpolate, interpret and re-interpret. Have you forgotten who hears voices out of thin air? And what happens to them afterwards?

While in that room with monster speakers and dark-flashing strobes heard the call. Not the grotesque rendering of fine verse and equally distorted rhythms but irresistible urges that lure you to the special peace of quiet, away from that oasis of cacophony. The headache caused by the palpitating strobes provided me the excuse to leave.

The key in hand is an alien intruder in the lock. So I walk back. ‘You got the right key, Sir.’ Hmmmmm. Maybe the building moved! The key works fine this time. Fetched a pen and some papers and walked back to the beach. Under a floodlight found a chair and started imprisoning fleeting thoughts.

And then there is the unbridled chasm between reality and logic bridged by words. Celestial lubrication. But there is no PC, no laptop, just some photocopied papers where the blank side is usable. So started capturing them at random and am desperately trying to read and key in the words now. Forget those words, focus on the thoughts. Capture the stray soldiers now, reflect upon the pincer movements later. Time enough to record the battles and wars.

What would they say?

Who cares was the first reaction. Depends on they too. Have never cared enough about them. So the who cares holds.

* * * * *

Why cannot a creation be made in isolation. Well guess to each his or her own. Am I the sculpture and the sculptor? Must be: for they both need viewers.

Know what I would be doing when this hibernation is over. Big time pruning. Will whip this into an essay. No, no I protest to myself. Will make this into an essay and a stream of consciousness piece. No, have a better idea. After I have pruned the essay will separately add these thoughts in the middle of the essay and see what emerges.

But it still needs a summation, an effective round up and closing if it were an essay, I tell myself.

Thoughts brew. Minor and major thoughts overwhelm and dissipate like the waves hitting the shore. Some return to make their mark others disappear to drown or perhaps strike at another far off shore.

Thoughts strike alike the living and the frozen. Innocent or enigmatic: they provide the wind in sails, passion in emotions. The magic potion between irresistible dreams and impossible logic: thought. And thinking? One a wind and the other cloud?

Life keeps returning. No death can keep it at bay. Disaster, calamities, dictators and ultra-orthodox firebrands do not know this.


* * * * *

Word Whirlpool: BhaNwur lafzouN ka

I

hunger: a mind numbing havoc
love: nihilism anti-dote
peace: presumption of innocence
hate: intolerance incarnate

aray kahaaN bhagtay ho
kahaaN layjatay hou dost
souch ki qaid maiN youN hum ko?

let’s not die in vain again
mur ker jo na houN zindah
tou yeh kya baat hui?
mur ker tou laakhouN insaaN
bay hiss paRay rehtay haiN.

fervors of a feverish faith.
lost forever in the desert
of the word’s un-harnessed journeys
in search of some lost fisherman.

II

possess nothing personal
body, words--drained, bereft
emotions, gestures, letters
remnant of Time-ravages

let us harness the halo
of words, spectrum, aura
do not fear those angels, come
enliven the word-magic
succumb to their allure of
joy, hurt, mirth, indignation.
protecting the flanks
from imbecilic march

III

write, write and re-write those words
lost in River Time’s flow
words nursing fervent desires
of folks blurred in Time Fog

write, you must! in that encryption
write, you must! in that emotion
write, you must! in that language
spoken sans comprehension
write!
of concerning, concerting thoughts
that melt down cobwebs of hatred
someone, somewhere, someday will read.

fervours of a feverish faith.
lost forever in the desert
of the word’s un-harnessed journeys
in search of some lost fisherman.