Tracking tales: A strange love story

Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

And charging along like troops in a battle, All through the meadows the horses and cattle:

All of the sights of the hill and the plain, Fly as thick as driving rain;

And ever again, in the wink of an eye, Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles, All by himself and gathering brambles;

Here is a tramp who stands and gazes; And here is the green for stringing the daisies!

Here is a cart runaway in the road Lumping along with man and load;

And here is a mill, and there is a river: Each a glimpse and gone forever!

This is R.L Stevenson’s famous ‘From a railway carriage.’ I learnt this in Class 1 or 2, but I can still rattle off the first half of the poem effortlessly. Funnily, in the same way I learnt it back then.

The luxury of time

As a child, travelling by train was a norm. Especially, to the place where I had to go to spend my summer vacations or winter vacations, train was the only option. Infact, even now train is the best option to that place, they have an airport with a few flights, and people usually go there for picnics.

As we grow older we start to worry about things like time because it is running out all the time. To catch-up with it we give up the joy, the leisure or the comfort that a vacation is supposed to give us. So we fly, feeling all important and sophisticated, walking around busy airports and saving travel time.

Realisation dawns in the evening

I never realised how much I miss train travel till I took on this really long journey. Every moment reminded me of the anxious moments I had before every vacation. Are the tickets confirmed? Will we get good seats?Where are we placed on the waitlist? Most of the times we did manage to get through all these, but once in a while we did come back from the station, disappointed, with all our luggage intact.

Starting over

This train journey was different. It was my first without any family, I was more-or-less alone, it was after a really long time and it was a route not frequented by me as child. I could just call it my first train journey ever, but that would be wrong.

But that’s the superficial different. The big difference was doing things I was so far ‘not allowed’ to do during a train journey. I left my berth more than a dozen times. I’d come back to check on my luggage, with  hope that the senior citizens with the prized lower berth had fallen asleep, so that I could unlatch my middle berth and sleep myself.

Checking out stations

I stepped out when the train stopped at some station for really long. This was a privilege usually reserved for the grown-ups. Even as I stood at the platform, I kept checking if the train was moving. Some part of me was still scared of being stranded at the platform. Inspite of all my wishful thinking, I knew that Shahrukh Khan was not going to give me his hand and pull me onto the moving train. I’d end up running and catching it myself.

So at the very first sound of the siren, I jumped and quickly got into the train. Only to realise that it was for another train. But that’s okay. Atleast I got off the train and walked around a random station.

Bad girls stand at the entrance. Being bad is great! 

Next I spent a major part of my journey standing near the entrance. The best part, the gates were open. So I literally lived every word of Stevenson’s poem. I stood there watching the fields, the mountains and the rivers race past me, each one in a great rush to get somewhere. I want to believe that they all stopped and took a deep breath once the train passed them.

It’s not like I have not seen scenery pass by me in a train before. In the past it has always been from behind the dirty window seat. Watching it from open doors is exhilarating. Real colours, real textures, so real that you can reach out and touch them.

Breeze, speed and love

It’s normal to start humming when the breeze from the speeding train blows through your hair. It’s like nature is touching you, caressing you tell you, that she loves you. It’s her way of leaving a part, of all that is passing by so fast, with you.

So I stood there, letting the breeze caress me and staring at the tracks till they hypnotised me. I swear, if I’d stared any longer, they would have started talking! So I broke my gaze and looked away. Ofcourse I was dizzy, but then I could not keep myself from staring at them again.

Then it was time for the sun to set. Sun sets are beautiful, and watching it happen from a train is mystically beautiful. Both the train and the sun are hurrying, they've been running all day and as destination comes closer, they want to get there sooner. They want to get home, get rest and start running again the next day.

A strange love story

The destination was not too far away and now it was time to step out of the gates that were my window to a moving world. Everything was standing still now. Resting, maybe panting, after that really long and fast run across the country. I took my bag and left to continue with the rest of my trip. While I continued with the mundane life of a new-comer in a big city, I couldn’t help but think that I had rediscovered my love for travelling by train again. 

I was in love all over again!

Rant on a Grumpy Day

Right now I don't want to face the world.
I don't want to say a word.

I want time to freeze.
Just let things be.

I want to close everything out.
No looking ahead, no turning around.

Future I don't want to see.
The present is not where I want to be.

The past makes me smile.
But I can't have it again,
eventhough it's mine.

11 11 11 11 11

It can't get lamer than this. Just wanted to to leave my mark on 11.11.11.11. How many ever elevens there are supposed to be.

Dreaming about me?

What is it with dreams? They can be so weird sometimes. The mind or whatever it is makes you see things you don't even think about or have just stopped thinking about. As soon as you shut your eyes and let go, it pulls out a smart one from the repository of memories it holds.

So when someone says the usual, 'make your dreams come true' with lofted idealism, I take a step back and wonder, do I really want all those dreams to come true? Well if they become a reality then they won't be dreams anymore.

Nightmares on the other hand are real dreams. They are closer to your day to day life, practical and more achievable. I say this because one of my nightmares came true recently.

I was stung by a honeybee, not once but twice. Of course there were two different honeybees but they both chose me to end their life (yes, they die after they sting someone). Now when I look at it, it's two nightmares which came true. One of course was mine and the other was that of the honeybees.

You don't have to work hard to make your nightmares come true. They just come true without you even trying to make them happen. Trust me, I did nothing to attract those bees and the bees did nothing to attract me. Still we made our nightmares come true.

It's worse for those bees. They did not even live to tell the tale. The whole world will only know my version and what I think is their version of the story.

While dwelling on this dream, nightmare paradox I had a scary thought. It's scarier for those who are those who are all about making their dreams come true. What if you make your dream come true and realise that you are actually living your worst nightmare? It happens. Think about it.

Ageless

Ten years ago, we were the same.

We had no clue about the worldly game.

We giggled at the wrong time,

and played the same tricks again.

The numbers grew every year in those ten.

With them we learnt a few things.

But when we met, we did the same things.

Giggled at the wrong time,

and played the same tricks all over again.

Oh! Such a Big Mistake!

Correction as a profession is a bad deal. Imagine always having to correct people. No one likes being corrected. In our minds we are always right. Everything we do is correct.

So when someone sets out to correct all these correct people they are bound to question the correctness of the person correcting them. Which also means that the person correcting them cannot be incorrect, because if the corrector is incorrect then her/his corrections will not always be considered correct.

If you are bored of this blog post already, then try counting the the number of 'corrects' in the last two paragraphs. You don't have to tell me the answer, keep it in your head.

It is inhuman not to mistakes. Perfection is not a human trait. It is best left to vampires. Even God or whoever it is that makes things function is not perfect. If they were, they would not have let evolution progress beyond apes. Guess that entity had a laboratory mis-adventure and there came human beings. Now imagine if that entity had done everything correctly. Humans would never have happened.

Mistakes are nice. Some can be terrible but as long as you can look back at them and laugh, they are tolerable. There are some which might make you cringe in embarrassment and some which you hope know one knows about.

Mistakes make for interesting story. Things become exciting when you goof-up, when you go outside the circuit and do something wrong. You do something least expected. You make a mistake. At that point it kills you but then later you have a something to remember. Mistakes can actually make you famous!

What else, let's see... Are mistakes unique? Well if we classify them, then there are some which are stereotypical, like dating the wrong girl/guy, ordering bad food, buying something wrong, stepping on a banana peal, crashing a car. Most of these are made over and over again. Making them a habit might not be a good idea, but one should commit at least all of these once.

Then there are the unique ones, which only you can make. Perhaps no one wants the unique ones to be shared. If they come out in the open, they won't be unique anymore.

Some mistakes however can kill you. Those also make for interesting stories, but the person who made them can never narrate that story. It's always another person's version and it's not always true.

As I write this, I am trying to make a mental note of all the mistakes am yet to make. The list is quite long and am scared my brain might not be able to hold on to it for too long. The cops will have me on their wanted list soon. I am all set to make a lot of mistakes. You'll know. I will be famous soon.

LET THEM FLOW

Sometimes you should just let them flow.
It takes a while to let it go.
Don't hold them in your eyes.
Let the face also feel them pass by.

They don't make you weak always.
You don't have to hide your face,
or sit by yourself in a dark place.
They are a reminder,
you can still feel pain.

Once they are gone,
they won't come back.
With them they will take,
all the hurt and dismay.
And you will be ready to,
feel more of it all over again.

POSTER BOY

There’s a twinkle in the eye,
lost in a fantastic day dream.
The lips, are trying hard,
not to reveal the smile.

A new story comes into the head,
every time she walks back from the bakery.
Hoping sometimes, praying sometimes,
that the poster in the closet comes to life.

He says the most beautiful lines,
they say someone else wrote it.
He does everything right,
they say it’s not him, he poses.

She does not believe a word they say,
frowns and does not talk again.
Walks back to her dreaming chair,
hoping to see the poster become real again.

REVIVED FROM THE TRASH CAN

I was going through the list of my unpublished posts and found this really short one. Guess I wrote it when I was fed up with my previous job. Here it goes:

To quit or not to quit is the question. I know Shakespeare just turned 360 degrees in his grave. But then its time we contemporise him a little, or rather remix him.

Coming back to the question.

Why is it so difficult to just leave it?

To stop and then start again.

To act like we are playing a game.

Pause and then choose to restart.

A new day, a new life and a new game.

EMPTY MINDS II-STORIES

The only people who really believe all my stories are my nieces (5 and 2 years of age). As of now I am their hero. They listen to my stories with big bright eyes, taking every word in. I don’t really know what they think of me, but am sure they think am close to their age.

Soon they will find other heros. Someone with better stories. Then they’ll look back and think what was so great about her stories? Why did we like them?

I need to collect better stories now. Write them down so that I don’t forget them. A person can be judged by the stories she/he can tell. How many new ones does she/he have. I realised recently that I have quite a few stories to tell. But now am getting repetitive like a lot of really old people I know. Time to find new stories before I grow stale and boring.

EMPTY MIND 1

Empty heads make a lot of noise. Here's some noise from mine. Blame the flight delays and airports for this ramble. As the title suggests, there is one more.

Characters. There are so many of them waiting to be discovered, observed and told about. A man having lunch alone at a busy restaurant, commuters waiting at a bus stop or just someone trying to cross the road. Each one of them has a story to tell. Each one of them is a protagonist. Not in a story that matters to you or me, but a story which is very important to them.

Sitting at a busy Bangalore airport on Christmas morning all I could see was interesting faces. Interesting characters. Most of these people had probably spent a lot of time at the airport due to flight delays. Tired and hungry they had no option but to wait. Like I said in a very classic phrase to my room mate the other day, 'the waiting is killing'. It's my copyright, don't mess with it.

Coming back to the point, travellers are the most interesting people to observe. There is one set which is all keyed up and ready to just keep going, the other would rather be home. While the romanticism linked to the idea of travel appeals to one, the other does not find it romantic at all.

So, does the bus driver driving an inter-city enjoy travelling or he has to travel because someone who enjoys it has to travel. The daily wager also travels from his village to the city on a local train or bus. Catching the train on time or finding out the correct platform is not adventure for him. So, is one person’s romance another's despair? Or one person's obsession another's aversion?