Cobalt blue eyes. Dark Cobalt blue. Somehow I knew they were black. But then, I felt blue. Dark Cobalt blue. Staring at me, expecting something. Something, to say, or something, to be said. He is sitting in a cab, a bright yellow one, not in the driver’s seat but just beside the opposite window. Staring at me, expecting something.
Where to? He questions.
I could hear him but I really could not. I was somewhere else. Lost. In the bustle of man made machinery, interrupted by strange honks louder than any mammal alive, punctuated with desperate curses of the machine pullers, shriller than a baby’s cry. I can see moving laser lights, like thick beams of the sun. Sometimes white, sometimes red and most often an unidentifiable blue. Which looks like the arctic cold but if you go too close you will feel wounded by its unnatural heat. They’re all moving. Faster than anything that God has put on earth. If anything called God exists at all.
I can see insects. I do not know what they feed on but they are so big, they might defeat you in a wrestle. Insects in lines. Straight lines. Crooked lines. Broken lines. All kinds of lines. And some, wander alone without caring about any of these lines. They walk alone. But they are very few, and you can hardly notice them in the struggle of all these lines. Maybe they are the bugs, bugged down by the histrionics of this foolish machine that they find themselves stuck in. Maybe I am just one of them. Stuck.
In the confusion of this huge, goliath huge and loud, shrieking loud and bright, flashing bright circus of man made marvels, I happened to notice something, I should have long back. Prussian blue sky. And dots of stars. Like diamond studs. And a faint crescent shape. The faintness is not because of the few strands of hovering rain clouds, but the cloud formed by the exhaust pipes of the circus. This cloud for them, is quite natural. For the insects. Forming new kinds of lines every passing moment. And in this fantasy, I was lost.
It had been long. Two days can be really long. Two days that I hadn’t smoked some green. And today I had decided to. This fair decision became reason enough for me to get out and seek refuge in a friend’s place. For a few hours. It felt good again. Friend’s name? Irrelevant. I was somewhere else. Lost. Again.
Suddenly I realize that I am supposed to get back. Back to where I came from. And it was getting late. A smile on my face and I think who decides what’s late? I realize the yellow covering a chunk of my view. And the Cobalt blue which had caught a grey hue by now. Like a spider’s web getting dense and denser, day after day. And I realize someone’s asking something.
Haldiram’s. I said and stared back at the Cobalt blue grey spider web, as if trying to clamber my way through the grey, to the core of its nest, to find out what the spider was thinking. I couldn’t know, even if I tried to. Maybe the spider never knew my language. He kept staring as I opened the back door and sat right behind, without waiting for him to say anything.
He turns his head back, like an owl, with a plastic white cup in his left hand, which exhumed fumes of hot tea, I presumed. He, is still staring. A blank stare. Not into my eyes but into me. As if he wanted to know what I was, man or maggot, where I came from, mars or moon, what I really ate, meat or mite, before he could actually start speaking. Not a word. Still. For a split second, I sensed stupid by the stupidity of this stupefying scene. And I interrupt.
Do you know Haldiram’s?
Nothing. Blankness. And the crawling spider.
Do you understand English?
I thought he belonged to the same tribe as that of the spider in his eyes, who never knew my language. Blankness. Continued.
Are you going to drive?
This question to my relief cut the stupidity. And he spoke. Finally.
No sir, I can’t drive. He’s coming.
This man’s voice sounded gross. Like the grunt of a pig. The kind of grunt you will not hear. But feel. In your spine. Or maybe like the rotten engine roar of a vintage car, to sound better. I was reminded of Jigsaw from a movie series where he killed people in the most psychotic way, using machines he designed just for the purpose. He put his victims in chambers, and tied them, and clamped them, and stitched them to those machines and gave them an option to survive. A way out. But only through an ordeal of excruciating pain which was often life-taking. And he called that a game which he liked to play. Fascinating. Although Jigsaw carried a chic of charisma in his cynical character, he was a complete psycho. Although he was a complete psycho, I felt relief in the pig’s grunt. At least the pig grunted. I had thought the pig was dumb.
As he turned back, the way he was before, with the white plastic cup in his left hand, I noticed something. Something I should have noticed before. But I didn’t. Till now. I was lost. Almost. His right hand was not there. It was cut off from the blade of his shoulder. And the right sleeve of his shirt was folded till it could not be folded anymore. Now I knew. And a few answers to a few questions started gathering. And immediately, I was lost. Again. In one of Jigsaw’s chambers. With rotting rats spilled like the vomit of a smack addict. Ropes of spider webs. Thick Ropes. Stink like the foul burp of a cannibal. Sweat like mating snakes. And this pig, chained down in the centre, clamped to an iron chair. This time Jigsaw had his victim’s right hand stitched to a part of the chair. And the pig yelled grunt and shrieked grunt and cried grunt. For help. But his only option was to cut his right hand so that he could live. Be free. He could. But he could not. He could not. But he had to. His only option. To live. Jigsaw enters. And the driver’s door crunched open.
He had already stepped one of his legs inside which was jostling for some space underneath the driver’s seat, when the pig grunted again.
Haldiram’s. He remarked looking at the driver, with one of his eyebrows raised in that crescent shape, a question mark.
The driver with half his body still outside, turns his head to look at me. A queer look. A look to decide which family of maggots I belonged to. Or which city of moon I came from. Or which part of the mite I liked the best. This time, I say nothing. I wait. And without a further word, the engine starts in a short while.
The car is moving and I see a picture of Kali, half the size of my palm stuck in the middle of the dashboard. It has fluorescent light bulbs twinkling all around. This driver must be in his mid thirties. With rough beard glued all over his face. I didn’t know what he sounded like. Because he never spoke. And I didn’t care. I couldn’t decipher his partner’s age though. I tried to. Maybe thirty, thirty two. Or perhaps, easily more than forty five. Mystery. And I didn’t care.
The car is moving now. I thought I should ask him how he’d cut his hand. Maybe he would say by an accident. Or from birth. Or Jigsaw. Maybe. I didn’t care I decided. Truth is I didn’t want to hear that grunt. No more.
As the cab started gaining speed, three of us were the only souls who were still. And everything else passed by like lightning. I look outside the window. And I was caught. Again. Laser lights streaked past. Sometimes white, sometimes red and most often an unidentifiable blue. Insects. Lines. Bugs. Honks and curses. Everything comes back. In faster motion. I shudder at the sight and bring myself to the Prussian blue, quite compulsively. It’s calm. It’s quiet. It’s peace. The way I like it. The warm breeze of the after sun feathering my face. The way I like it. There aren’t many stars tonight, but the crescent shape is a relic. You can’t hold it, nor can you keep it. You can just see. And feel good. If you want to. The few strands of rain clouds had collected in a bunch, and it looked like it would rain. My lips followed the crescent shape and I smiled.
I remember a shortcut underneath a flyover, which would save me some notes. An insignificant amount. Maybe. But I preferred that way. It’s dingy. It’s a slum. There are no lights. There is poverty. There are no lines. There is satisfaction. There are no honks. There is sanity. It’s dingy. And it’s a slum. With no addresses written on any of the unsettled tin roofs and black rubber curtains. Not many insects would take this way. But I would. Every time. I like seeing what most people won’t see. I like being what most people will never be. It’s calm. It’s quiet. It’s peace. The way I like it.
I see the flyover approaching. And I wait. Till it comes. Its almost there. And it’s coming. It comes and I call the driver.
Take the right. It’s shorter that way.
Can’t take right sir, roads are bad. And there are no lights.
The driver sounded quite normal, much unlike his partner. So I decided to insist. And I did. But he insisted back. I never expected the pig to grunt anything anymore. I was not really fond of his voice, to speak the truth. But my intuition, the pig grunted again.
Election time, sir. Mohammedan area. Total basti. Better to be on a safer road. Muslims, you know. I think you understand.
I did not. Really. With eyebrows strangely perplexed, I did not want to understand. I felt a sting. I do not know where. My head, my stomach, kidney, heart or my bones? Where? I did not understand. I thought I would say something. But the sting. And I forgot what to say. The sting. Hopped skipped and jumped. Somewhere inside. And I said something else.
I hope YOU understand.
A quiet while. A drop of relief. And I said to myself, hardly audible.
Someday you will.
And I said nothing else. And the car is still moving. I just stare at the back of his head. A pair of invisible eyes. I know they are not there. But I want them. I want the spider. I want to snatch it. I want to crush it between my teeth. I want to gulp it down with a bottle of poison. So that it’s dead for sure, and it never comes back.
I look outside the window. I try to face the breeze. I don’t feel it. All I can face, or see, or feel is something very different, something very difficult. Uncomfortable. The sting. Hops skips and jumps. Movie reels. Moving faster than before. Much faster. In fast forward motion. They come and they go. Before I can realize. They’re gone. Something else comes. I can’t make out. I can’t see. I can’t think. My mind is clogged. Clouded. I can’t breathe. The sting. Hops skips and jumps. I search for the calm. The Prussian blue. And the diamond studs. And the crescent shape. But everything is hazy. Unclear. Faded. Lost. Except for the sting. It hops skips and jumps. Incessant still. It stings.
I had learned, rather taught myself a truth. Freedom was always another word for Control, over your own self. The car turned right on the main road crossing. And things started slowing down. The sting is in control. For now. The window frame and everything inside it started making sense. Again. And I relaxed a bit. I knew it was the last leg of my journey. And I knew I wanted to feel the warm breeze for the last time.
I see two coconut trees. Siblings. Very tall. Very dark. Yeah. And. Very handsome. Lucky for them. It must have been thirteen years for them standing by the hi-road. Watching laser lights. And smelling man made clouds. And feeling sick about it. They are still there. Standing tall. And dark. And handsome.
I see two kids. A boy and a girl. They are playing badminton under a halogen lamp post. Two broken rackets and a crushed paper ball. It’s about to rain. And they don’t care. I see an old old. OLD. Man. He is walking in a right angle. With a stick to balance the extra weight. He. HAS hair. A shade of white sprayed evenly on his skull. One of the bugs. Maybe. I presumed. He likes walking back home alone. He could. Probably he could not. He could not. But probably he had to. His only option. To live.
I see a tree. It’s tall. Taller than you and me. It’s right on the edge of the pitch. It’s a big tree. Bigger than you and me. The only thing special about it, is that it does not have any leaves. None. For now. It has stopped watching laser lights. And stopped smelling man made clouds. And stopped feeling sick about it. Listen. There’s more. I see a happy man. Sure. He WAS happy. I knew it. I do not know what state he was in, but I see him hugging the trunk of the naked tree, with a crescent smile on his lips. I do not know what the truth is, but I see him find solace, in love. In the Crescent. He was blown. I presumed. But he was happy. And he didn’t care. Much more.
The car pulled over just opposite Haldiram’s. Just as instructed. And the pictures come to a pause. Suddenly still. Did I feel the breeze? Yes. I did. I smile. And take out a note written 50 Rupees from my wallet. I hand it over to the driver. I open my door. Step out. With half my body still inside, I turn my head to look at the driver. A queer look. And I start.
What would you say if I had said…
I did not finish and I step out completely. I close the door. Both partners were by now bending over in their own ways to listen to what I had to say. I move a little forward, and bend over. So that my eyes are in line with that of my pig. Silent grunt. Dead spider. I finish.
I am a Muslim.
The Cobalt blue. Felt blank. For a moment. The crescent shape wasn’t there. Anywhere. And then, Cobalt looked. Stupefied. Petrified. Mortified. Continued with a hue of blood shot cheeks in shame. And chin. And head. And heart. And bones. Too. Maybe. I presumed.
As I turn to walk away, with the faint Crescent on my lips, searching for the Prussian blue, it starts pouring. Raining. Like life. Like everything else that God has put on earth. If anything called God exists at all. I smile, and I keep walking.
