Of yet another rainy day...

Mumbai getting drowned due to the overdose of Rain God’s mercy being showered on the city, has been making news, in fact breaking news, since a good three days; ours being a far-flung suburb, also has to share the fate more or less, quite evenly. With the usual problems of the overflowing drains, the infrequent trains and some miffed up brains, life in Mumbai goes on at par with its spirit which refuses to stand still and take a gasp when it comes to facing hurdles. On contrary, it grows even stronger thus complimenting its busy lifestyle which hardly has any time left to recollect the melody of ‘Dhaga la lagli kada’!! Nobody is at fault as it is the norm here to meet the cruel timings and being a part of the city means you are no different!
Done with the morning session, I packed my bag, put the raincoat on and switched off the lights as I prepared to move out of my clinic; had pre-decided to fill the fuel tank of my vehicle on the way to home. Of course, in my case it’s flexible by 5 to 10 minutes but not exceeding that, as everything is pre-scheduled. It was 01:50 pm. Just as I stepped forward to shut the windows, it started raining densely. I had to stop till it somewhat reduced in intensity; I stood besides the vast casement to tap a view of the happenings around …and just saw the droplets hitting the pucca road outside producing some consecutive swift splashes that completely refreshed me from within. I looked at the tree whose branches enveloped the sky in the front lane, the fog partially settled on the leaflets, and the rest pierced through the bipennates; its mesmerizingly smoky structure guided me to another world : a quick flashback into the time which I had left far behind - the time when I was a messy kid, then crossed the vulnerable teenage and counting upon all those experiences emerged into an adulthood that’s stuffed with innumerable liabilities.

In childhood, we never had the high-tech gadgets at our home, that was a non-digital era. To engage the restless kids into play, evenings would mostly be spent in the playground nearby, where mom would sit at a corner and watch us playing, nagging us at times for the numerous mischieves, yet drawing pleasure to see us do them. The weather would suddenly change with the drizzle on its way to flutter down; she would immediately take us beneath the Neem tree, ensuring that none of us both get wet. Jaipur is a place of desert soil, so the rainfall never lasted longer, and as soon as it vanished, we would go back to play again.. accumulate the wet soil and make tiny ‘gharondas’, fight over the quintessential ‘whose is the best’?, and then finally jump over it considering that it’s better to destroy it by ourselves instead of someone else doing it after we left!

Back then, we didn’t own a car, or a scooter. Dad had a pedal cycle, and from the bus stop he would often pick up us both, and make us wear the mini-sized raincoats, mine maroon and my brother’s was of light green color. They were not big enough to encompass our school bags, which sometimes had to be carried outside. Brother would sit in the front, he had a tiny seat there, and I would be behind.. on the way came our beloved spot – the ice cream parlor. Dad would ask “you people want to have ice creams”? The answer had to be an undisputed ‘YES’…and believe me, the ultimate joy of having ice cream with the little drops sprinkling over it is just superlative! After finishing the delicious treat, we happily went home. But all the happiness lasted until I opened my bag in the evening, only to find my books heavily wet. I really cursed the rain that day for the extra efforts that followed in drying them under the fan.

Here comes another hilarious sardar tale right from the campus of Army School, Ahmedabad, year 1998. The season was, as usual, of monsoons. To safeguard his shoes from getting moistened, Angad, the great innovator, had come to school as if a specimen of chronic case of severe Elephantiasis. He had covered his feet (along with shoes and socks) nicely by two white colored polythene bags and to my surprise, they were more or less inflated (am clueless about how he must have done that) giving him the look of a perfect clown. After reaching the classroom also, his affinity for these ‘protective devices’ just didn’t seem to get over, and as if that wasn’t enough, he jumped on the stage and began shaking his legs to the tunes of ‘Dooba dooba sa rehta hoon aakhon me teri’ …and the moves were, I swear, terrific and mind(skull)blowing DHISHKYAO…!!

Of college, I got end number of incidences, the very first that hits my brain are the walks with my best of pals under one umbrella, pushing each other for securing the safest space, however, none of us could succeed… the scene was like – kisike honth, kisike gaal, kisike baal … all had their share of encounter with the tiny globules; and finally we reach Goodies, almost half drenched in rain, we order the hot lip smacking delicacies …ummhh… I may not be able to recall what I ate yesterday, but enjoying a shared meal garnished with the giggles of your sweet buddies, has to be something worth being a part of your cherished memories!
Chatting with friends, cursing the management, listening to love stories, and solo study sessions, all happened sitting on the porch of hostel terrace, embracing whole heartedly the influx of badra,baarish,boondein; sometimes they would choose to trickle down the outstretched hands, and next while they would refuse to flow down the bare calves which swung as if the strings of pendulum one after other; admiring the obstinacy of the minute sparkles to remain adhered to the wheatish brown epidermal layer…contribute to some fond memories treasured forever!

Lastly, the saga of working life flushed by the downpour…the super special hot coffee day in the canteen (courtesy TMCROP) after long, hectic working hours, with the soothing instrumental playing in the background would prove to be of absolute delight and the best unwinding source for me and my roommate, Anagha. Sitting on our reserved corner table, sipping our favorite beverage, from the window behind, silently we would watch the chameleon, soaked in rain, camouflaging from light green to olive to brown and finally reddish brown, to attain the color of the bark of the tree…hmm … acting smart? … then we would turn to each other and the obvious burst of laughter would follow… hopefully, that’ll keep us alive till 99 :-)

Traversing the stream of past lanes, I somehow realized that Earth, is the most unique knitting workshop of the supremely skilled Almighty, and in the form of precipitation how meticulously He’s crafted out a canal between the wretched shrub and its blooming Primrose, the barren land and its thirsty fissures, the anxious mammals and their hibernating den, the hopping toddler and his purple paper boat, the malicious mortals and the sacrosanct divine, the wicked world and the beautiful paradise.

My sight suddenly fell on the reflection of the clock on the pane, the mirror image showed 02:02 pm, that meant I had to rush, the rain had also slowed down its pace but didn’t stop completely. I made it sure that I locked the clinic well … went to petrol pump, after loading the tank with its required energy drink, then pulled out a hundred rupee note from my pocket… but alas! The raincoat failed to prevent it from getting its part of bath and I had to leave the venue promising the guy there to pay on my way back…
Hmm.. that’s how it is “man proposes but rain disposes” ………..cool lines.. indeed !!

Tribute

I dedicate a small legend to those, mighty and wise
who lead a dreary life, bartering the greener meadows,
and at times leave behind, craving eyes,
empty laps and shattered dreams of their widows.

Desert, forest or snow, anywhere in the Indian map,
gladly they do move around, fetching life in their fists.
rubbing their tired eyes, to compromise on the nap,
waking up with the dial striking four on their wrists.

Strong, fearless, and agile,
Combating the violent storm,
Taking all in their stride,
Surely, they are the men in uniform.

Blazing sun, or chilly wind,
Or amidst the darkest of cloud,
Rising high on the spirited swing
‘Jai hind’ they do cheer aloud.

Bruised, lacerated and yet the zeal,
Injured, but unwilling to conclude
For wounds that refuse to heal,
Timeless chivalry do they exude.

Of bullets, bloodshed and the misery,
The struggle in the battlefield,
Coffins greeting their victory
To offer us their gallant shield.

So true are the colors of freedom
Blended in the shades of crimson,
Though it’s valued rare and seldom
their hues surpass the horizon.

Thy splendid mothers be thou proud,
As martyrs never die, but get immortal
when draped in the glorious shroud,
Heaven welcomes them at its portal.

Tinted in olive, white and pale blue
We pay due honor and tribute, and the crucial salutation
to the great souls guarding our integrity, who
live by chance, love by choice and are killed by profession.