They call this city - ‘a
city of dreams’. Billions of dreams rise up every moment of everyday. Some
of them realize into reality while others get squatted mercilessly. But the
dreams never stop rising up again in a hope to see the light of the dawn, breaking
the shackles of a nightmarish reality the city hides within itself.
I came out of the 8 P.M local after a grueling day in the
city. Somehow, I managed to brush past an ocean of men and women who seemed to
rise above the tide of the cacophony to jostle and submerge into the ocean again.
I was pushed, I was bashed and I was broken in spirit. But somehow, I did not
seem to mind that at all. A pity from within caressed my ‘inconvenience’ when I realized that this was the way the city
seemed to move forward, the way dreams were being chased relentlessly in
pursuit of nothingness.
I looked down, sweat dripping from my brows, my eyes fixated
on the railway tracks after the local had disappeared into the smog.
“Where have they come
from? Where are they leading to?”
Do the
travelers really have a destination? An end to their journey?
Why do they
pick themselves up every day and unfold the same story day after day after day?
What has
this city given them? Food, shelter, livelihood?
A hand reached out me, derailing my train of thoughts. It
was the everyday child soiled in the blanket of the city’s dirt, stretching her
hand out to me as if I owed her something.
“Why is she begging of me? No, No! What is she begging of me?”
I’m not a messiah. I didn't own her
anything.
“Is she asking me to give her food/money?
Or
a ransom to rescue herself from the spasms of atrocities that were evident on
her wrinkled face?”
What was I to do but to simply move on? I can’t trust every child extending its arm
to be valued with my concerns. The city has taught me to be wary enough to snub
away such emotions. I give myself a resounding justification of the propaganda
that I've always found convenient – not to encourage child beggars.
“Was I wrong this time?” I asked myself.
Nah. Probably not.
I couldn't be bothered on an empty stomach.
Slowly mounting up the stairs into the land of the surface
dwellers, manifestations of the city pierced my eyes. A cool breeze swept past
me which smelt like the rheumy, nauseating stench from the gutters of the city
- home to some, a workplace for some in the city. Out of repugnance, I clasped
the railings of the stairs which led me to the exit.
My senses gradually came back to normal. I had to catch a
bus to my ‘home’, my destination for the day. On the edge of the road, I looked
towards left. And then I looked towards right. And I looked towards left again;
I had been taught this in my school. I had to survive while getting across the street. I had to come out alive on the other side of the road to
make it to another day.
Is this what the
city’s stooped to offer me after all this time? A few seconds of emptiness on
the road, every day, as an offer to see my loved ones?
What did the city
offer me then? My life? Love? Or an endless hamster-wheel run for me to never
stop and wonder who or what put me on the wheel?
On the other side of the road, a few faces appeared resembling
the autumn leaves ready to be shaken off in the wind. Ignoring them seemed the
best option. The bus stop was a shaded respite for many during the day. During
the night, it became home to a few. I took support of a dented pillar and
waited for the arduous journey back to the hole from where I crawled out of
this morning. Time never seems to pass when you've to wait for the last leg of
your transit if you've already pictured a cold shower and hot food.
I took notice of a few girls playing at the other end of the
bench. One of them was hitting the other for an arm that the latter had pulled
off from the doll of the former. There was no crying, no tears in the eyes of
the one who was hitting. Just a 10 year old stern face. She probably knew that
no one was bothered about her emotions over a broken doll which had no use
whatsoever. Tears rolled out of the girl who had been hit. Her cheeks had
reddened and soiled with her tears. May be she wasn't mature enough for the kind of life she was dealing with at the age
of 5.
Wait, did I have some money on me for them
to buy a new one? I checked my wallet. Green notes only. Bad luck for them, I didn't have change to
spare.
Not my fault.
As I looked to the other way, a thick plume of smoke had
started engulfing the area. I choked and coughed, trying to frantically fan
away the poisonous smoke form my face. The smell – Carbon monoxide – caused due
to incomplete combustion of organic matter. This knowledge came in handy today
to decide whether I should bear with more of the revolting smell from the city
or not. As the wind changed its direction, I could vaguely see a silhouette of
an old lady fanning a burning log of wood. There she was sitting on a red
brick, gazing into the fire lifelessly. She was wearing a tattered old yellow
sari, which refused to cover her entire body.
My eyes had become watery and pain had become sharper. It
had become unbearable.
“Are you mad lady? Why
the hell would you burn a log in a public place, in the middle of summer?” I wanted
to shout onto her face.
I chose not to. She was boiling water for a handful of rice,
probably the only morsel of salvation on this devilishly hot and humid day. I
realized the fact that losing control over one’s patience over circumstances
governing your life had no meaning in this city. I could have shouted. She
could have simply unheeded me. She was probably deaf in the least I could have
known.
A lady in her late forties was sitting beside her doing the
same thing I had thought in my mind just a while back. She was as lean as the
dented pillar itself on which I was leaning. She was carrying a child in her
arms. I assumed it was a couple of years old from a brief look at them. The
child had woken up from its sleep and started wailing loudly which irritated
the mother to no extent.
For the lady with the child, the water had been boiled too
long and the smoke made her child weep uncontrollably. For the lady with a foot
in the grave, it did not even matter if the water had already spilled and doused
the fire. For both of them - No
attention paid, nothing to lose, and no love lost before ending another day.
I asked myself again,
what has the city given them? The answer was not a difficult one - Whatever they've managed to snatch.
The bus came hurtling sideways and screeched to a halt. I
climbed in after being heckled again. It was irrelevant. It meant no disrespect
if people involuntarily violated you. They were the same passengers as was I. I
took a seat and looked out of the window. The fiber off the window made a
rattling noise as the driver slammed his foot on the pedal. I looked out of the
window and saw the same old, dreary bus stand. On its side was a poster – ‘Keep
your city clean’. Clean, the city was – of dirt, not of people. I threw a last
look at the old lady in the tattered yellow sari. Faint feelings of pity
churned up in my heart. She did not have anything to look forward to at the end
of the day, not even a soft bed.
The bus crawled forward. I looked on as the lady as ancient
as the city itself, rose up from her seat. She tore off the poster from the
stand and laid it flat on the pavement. She then proceeded to empty the cooked
rice on it and offered it to the baby in her mother’s arms.
I had seen enough for
the day. I had picked up plenty from the city.
Now, it made me wonder again… what did the city then finally
had to offer?
An answer that simple, doesn't exist. Even if it does, it
changes its form and meaning every moment for everyone, everywhere. In reality,
it might not suffice anyone’s curiosity after all.
But one thing’s for
sure though, the city never lets you lose hope or stop dreaming for another
day.
