Back To Civilisation

Installment to 'The Exodus':

The train, true to its ticket, reached Hazrat Nizamuddin Railway station on the boiling afternoon of 29th April 2006. The same motley crew of boys were all but exhausted now, but one insurmountable spirit that had let them so far, and was also going to take them further, some lived further away. With a wry smile, their eyes squinting in fatigue, and dog tired voice, reducing their voice to meek grumble, they all sat by the windows of their compartment. Looking at the skies, the houses, the civilization that was becoming a thing that could be seen only in print or videos, all of them were unfailingly glancing at their watches, smeared with sweat, seeing the devil recede into its cavern, atleast for the time being. Yes, the dysentery had subsided!

Now, the group that had began the exodus from dystopia some 36 hours ago, was going to split up, driven by the ultimate hortatory urge, whoever stays, stays, who leaves, is forgotten, overlooked and if he has reached home is observed with a discerning avarice. At this time of the day, with the twilight rising for its apogee, the time was about 1600 hrs. The train was late by 2 hours, adding insult to the injury or more punch into the destination. The clock silently struck 16:01 as the motley crew of boys split up, exchanged pleasantries, often breaking up into sporadic laughter, on the idiosyncrasies of the ones leaving, reminiscent of all the trying times they had, augmenting even more maudlin baggage to the fun they had. The ceremonial valediction started from some stoppages before New Delhi. It was a cynosure of everyone else's eyes, the way some group of hobbledehoys gather and just pushed the bar to hooliganism. But underlying all the fun was schmaltz. Weird as it was, as we all stayed together, had tiffs, still had tiffs, and for some seconds thought about home there, the schmaltz was for sweet home. And now, when each one is leaving, the schmaltz is manifesting each heart again, this time for the dingy cells we are coming from, which due to the wonderful fellows was made less painful and enduring.

My stop had come. Dilli. The name permeated my each tissue, as the melancholy mechanical recorded voice of the announcer stated the name of the station. For once in my life, much of which had been restrained by fate within Delhi and the NCR, I missed and loved polluted air, longed to twist my cheeks on the foul-smelling prized drains, missed the arguments with the auto-wallahs for their ever accurate meters, each time wondering how much is he going to clock today, and above all the great human effort of travelling in the DTCs and the rulers of the roads, The Blue Lines. They mash you at will. That's in fact their banned logo! The nostalgia of having altercations with the people who always think that the person driving in front of them is always 5 kmph slower, and for some inscrutable reason always coming in their way. Moron. Sucker. What the f*ck is his problem? Ah! The redeeming sense of contempt. That is Delhi's roads for you. Redefining road rage, pushing the bar higher every time. The beetel chewing creatures who descended from hell, were the personal guard of Yamaraj, the bus-drivers, and all the drivers of public transport vehicles, who can better Montoya given the chance to work for McLaren, the visions in white, who grace the streets with the aroma from their exotic poo, holy cow, the sweet hospitable Delhi-ite who utters indecencies with such a seamless frigidity that you feel spurned, unwanted even cursed.




But behind all that what each one of these perceptibly antagonistic and ever-combative Delhite is a heart that with each beat salutes the indelible spirit of Delhi, whose roots run as deep as the ones provenance. The microcosm of culture and development, of the good, the bad and the ugly, Delhi has it all. The moment the train sauntered through the borders of Delhi, you could see such a transcending vagary of the standards of living, the various strata of socities just unfold in front of you, like you are having the cross sectional view of the reticular network of human civilization. That, is Delhi.

And as I picked up my luggage, and started to turn away, I could see the unflinching glare of the motley crew which was getting dispersed at this stage, where each of our faces said a thousand words. the words which could not be read, or explained, only understood. It was for the first time I felt, a minusucle sense of belonging to this clan of ours, and each one us had this to say, in our heads, "See you soon, I am hell eager."

But the catch is, "I'll come down to your place! Anywhere except the cell in a hell..."

So here I am, this is me, And this is the place I wanna be.

Houston, Touchdown.
Back to civilization.