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.
