P H O T O F I N I S H

Before leaving for London, I started looking up for the best bargain available at the Travel Agents’, and finally settled for the Russian Airlines. The route was a bit circuitous but I enjoyed it thoroughly including the brief stay at Moscow airport.

Once in London I paced the streets of the city with a guide-map in hand and with zeal perhaps unequalled by the Londoners themselves. The book was borrowed free from the local library and the walks were not on the trodden path. It was sheer beauty walking along the Thames and across the green meadows throwing up nature’s bounty. Picadilly could be rather boring at times; Leicester Square was bustling with life, always. I learnt with a heavy heart that Her Majesty was unkind enough to impose a hefty entry-fee for a visit to the Buckingham Palace. After a grab at McDonald’s everyday I would say goodnight to the world and hug my cozy bed at the Youth Hostel.

To enjoy ‘An Evening in Paris,’ I carefully avoided the rail and air travel and opted for the cheaper bus-cum-ship trip. Crossing the English Channel by night was like a dreamy voyage. Paris was its usual self, humming with life and vigour. I was mesmerized by the looks of the mysterious Mona Lisa. She was looking straight at me and smiling beautifully. After all, how could she ignore the handsome young man from India? The height of the Eiffel Tower heightened my love for the French capital. And a good number of ‘miss’adventures helped me carry the scent of Champs Elysses forever.

All these days, I never forgot to record the people, the nature and the events with the camera I carried. The London photo-shop I went to assured service for seven pounds only. Two days later I found to my surprise that the photos were not ready. The gentleman at the counter apologized for the delay, noted down my address and asked for a day’s time more. The day after they informed that the machine might have gone wrong and they were afraid my photographs were damaged. I was furious – seven pounds and no service! Do they know the exchange value in Indian currency? And what happens to the memory of my first trip to Paris? That was my prime concern, you see. But I could not say anything; those people were so sober and soft-spoken in dealing with the customers. Fuming and almost ready to burst, I told myself the British too picked up the art of procrastination and carelessness from us. Did I feel a bit proud of our contribution to the British Empire?

The next day I received a call and walked into the shop with the resolve to thrash them like anything. To hell with gentlemanliness. After all, here is an Indian used to encounter thick-skinned Customer Care executives back home. Just then the guy at the counter handed over a packet to me. There were all the photographs in it brightly printed, save one. I was perplexed. So what was the problem after all? And what’s the delay for? In an explanatory fashion, he informed me that they did the whole roll thrice over to save that single print. Was he joking? Not really. He expressed regret for the failure and delivered a letter from their Customer Care department: “Dear Sir, I regret not being able to address this letter to you personally. It is with sincere apologies that I have to advise that during the processing of your order, a minor machine problem has caused very slight damage. We have tried to produce the best possible results from the remaining exposures, but as a token of our concern, please accept the entire order free of charge. Yours, Customer Care Officer.”

P U S H K A R 2 0 0 8

On the sand,
bird-writing:
the memoirs of the wind.

(Octavio Paz, Dawn)

The caravan moves on: hundreds of animals and scores of men. They pass through the villages by the fall of the night: the families, half-asleep, greet them in silence. They pass through the trees: the trees speak in hushed tones about the days gone by, about the merchants that passed by the same route eons ago and the tales they told among themselves. And they pass through the desert asynchronously, searching for their individual identities in this vastness of sand dunes. They march with the stars; they form the constellations on earth. The wind hums a song, the desert-song they say. Many a men had travelled before but couldn’t make it to the end. They feel dwarfed in this seemingly seamless world but they walk with a penchant. Because that makes sense: the sense of joy. They are all headed to Pushkar, for the Pushkar Fair, to harvest the grains of joy.

The horizon turns reddish with some blue tucked in. The daybreak. The sun pops up suddenly like a big juicy orange. The orange on the table. The sky crushes it and spreads the amber extract around earth. The light drenches the people with warmth and energy. Life lives on. The men say the Morning Prayer. They whisper the fair is not far.

The fair is not about trade only, but a part of their religion, a goal of their life. The myths abound about the genesis of the fair. The pious ones take the holy dip in the Pushkar Lake by the daybreak. Gods, animals and men mingle in the crowd. The smile and sweat mix up. The castes and class do not. You can tell a man from another by the color of his turban and a woman by the design of her ornaments and dresses. But there is a sort of sedimentation for this period in history, a kind of non-antagonistic co-existence. This is a socio-economic and religious congregation. This is Pushkar. This is the united colors of India.

The customers bargain hard with the traders for the camel or horse in the vast cattle area. The traders have put up their tents here. Alongside is the Mela ground. Sports and cultural programmes have been arranged for the visitors. The foreigners enjoy themselves in the rural games. The riot of colors of the turbans and women’s dresses dazzle and puzzle them. The kid at the corner looks at them wide-eyed. The snake charmer tries to fascinate the gora sahibs and memsahibs. The poor child does the tightrope tricks. You can take a camel ride for a price. The decorated camel feels baffled at the presence of so many cars and buses. On both sides of the road to the Brahma temple, villagers showcase their products for sale. There you find a child munching on papad and stealthily looking at your camera. Another is happily blowing horns or a flute. Wise men exhibit the wonders of the world: four-legged girl, a poor child with two heads or a child with deformed body.

There are the worldly persons and there are the saintly persons far removed from worldliness. There are the white rich visitors from the West and there are the blackened poor villagers of Rajasthan. There are women: their faces like the calm, deep waters of the Lake Ana Sagar. There are men: their faces bearing the history of times. There are faces quite oblivious of the glitz of the crooked cities. There are people walking alone in the sea of crowd. There are amorous couples just married and having vowed to walk life together. All of them have descended on Pushkar to contribute to this mélange called Life. All of them are here to share their places in this drama of chiaroscuro.

Look at the kid licking the ice cream with glee, look at the young woman washing her feet, look at the sadhu enjoying his ganja, look at the man listening attentively to the preaching, look at the beggar crawling on the road, look at the four-legged girl helplessly exhibiting her skills, the bashful youth of the women and the colors galore. Listen to the cracking of jokes, the smiles, the giggles, the whispers, the bargains, the footsteps, the songs and dances. Enjoy the dust, wind, thirst, hunger, water and food, the huddle, the chaos, the enthusiasm, tiredness and elation.

And then you wait for the night to come. This is the month of Kartika and today’s the full moon night, the Kartika Purnima. The moon grows in color and size, slowly and confidently. The moonlight drops on the parched earth like nectar in a sieve. The floodgates of honeyed light open up to the world. A special night to revel, a special night to reveal the mystery of human life. Till the next morning, regale with the beauty of silence.

Sand-clock moon:
the night empties out,
the hour is lit.
(Octavio Paz, Calm)