Hold On Tight( Creative non-fiction).

                                    Hold  On  Tight. (Creative non –fiction)

It  is, no doubt  sombre  November, the  sky is missing   Sun,  the Majestic  Boss, yet  wearing  the  fake  cap  of  cloudy line. My beloved city where I was born  wears  a festive look, with  a  fastidious shopping   humanity moving in  and out. For  it is  Diwali  season. Where  do  I stand?   Paying   homage, respects to those departed Souls, think of their peregrinations, imagine their whereabouts in other world. A plausible constraint for the aged, maturing, singing Soul’s favourite beat.

I believe   visiting a select near and dear to  me, only way of celebrating this festivity. Those  that  are alive, seek  their Blessings, spend a  couple of  hours,  chit chat,  also with a  view to gloss over  where this troubled   generation  is taking you, Hidden  Bliss  or  Amiss. You know not. I boarded the luxury, express bus, which cannot compete our wandering, jostling tribe of thoughts, imaginations; occupied the window, not only for the wind  to serenade  you, also to avoid  standees’ jolting  touch of  magnanimity  and force.  The quick accustomed hands of the conductor efficient in tearing, handing  over   the little  passport, of course only temporary, move on, managing restless  move, he  inching  the passage  inside,  with the whistle  blowing. What a tough job!

 I peer through the window, the relentless hawkers, bus tops  where there are no sheds or  shelters, liveried  hotel boys, above all  big queues of water pots , as   usual impatient two wheelers, cars   and ambulance in the same  row. The school children  with  a  cart load of  books, their  burdens, some munching   Their memory card ,how many wars of Panipat fought, between whom and all  the more  the  exact  Dates. Sudden  hope of  Sun peeping out , giving me  some  rest  that half dried  up clothes in the balcony would  feel  the warmth.   In the next stop, my attention  was drawn in  and out of the moving VIP.

 I could   sense some commotion, some boy  running fast, almost jumping  the   barricade opposite road.  Checking inspectors were standing, faithfully carrying out their   mission.  I am prying into the nook and corner

of the stuffed bag. Sense of  trauma  begins to chill  my blood  veins.  A mock dramatic  panicked imagination,

nothing less  than  a  trauma of   being caught, reprimanded  in public, taken in the  van- getting   rehearsed in my mind.

 ‘Many a  muttering: now a days ,educated are the unreliable, why? she cant  afford to buy ? is she that careless? Some wondering. I heard she is  an academician : the inspector approaching me, the conductor looking helplessly on, the jeer of co passengers, cold  sneer of onlookers. Pay the penalty or  get into  the  van.  My conscience clarifies Your   wallet should carry the buxom penalty. The Senior  citizen Stamp, will  it  come to me rescue?

Air Planes  to post offices, this Stamp gains me ,but here, not only am I the butt of  ridicule, also a  Negative marking  thawing  me, my roots. A   Sense of morbid helplessness and shame eating me alive. I ruminate, did it

fly through the window ?  or is it lurking  beneath my feet, oh! Then how lucky should  I be.’     ..... The dramatic monologue inwardly is going on, painful and me with a   pale face . The  good  hearted  lady , next to me, in  an exuberance shouted ,’’here, here It is sandwiched, between you and my seat, on the divider. See if it is yours.’’

Thank   God, sensing my cogitations, the checking drive went   further down, giving me some more time and allowance for me to search. Those  were  the  moments  of  my cripple, tension, anxiety  and helplessness. There  were so many before, for no fault of  them, had  undergone a similar situation . At the same time, quite  a number,  with  a  fake belief, that  they would be  scot-free ,glued  to  their  seats, viewing  through  the privileged  government  window.

By the time  the ordeal of search  was over . Oft  we wonder  what is  There in  a  place, in a piece of paper? My troubled dictates, today divulged  Or proclaimed  that so much is there in a piece of paper, in   ticket, Whether crumbled or torn it is altogether a different issue, yet it is assuredly, beyond  our  apprehension, and  view,

A significant emblem of authentication, a vital travel passport till  Your destination, why  sometimes, even after you reach your place. I  recall somebody trying to trace his missing bag, he forgot the details Of the bus, time etc., this tiny paper, ticket helped him solve the clue. I narrated this  to my nonagenarian  uncle  and my  son

Who returned with  a fitting Diwali message, in future when  you are travelling ,‘’HOLD ON TIGHT TO IT.’’

Dr. Mrs. Radhamani   Sarma,

Retired  professor of  English.

Email  id    radhamani.sarma@gmail.com