Rain is pattering outside, daubing the leaves and the walls and the ground with wet dots, and freshening the air with the earthy smell. That distinctive smell, the smell I remember from my childhood, the smell of my birthplace, the smell of the village where I was born. It has been more than 10 years, but, still today, as I close my eyes I can feel myself standing, hanging, in the bus, the bus from Karad(big town 15 min drive away) to my village, my birthplace - Koparde Havelli. 'Yash riding on his diesel-horse, going to his village. A big city boy returning to his roots.'
The bus is striped green and blue, the typical color of state transport in Maharashtra, it's loaded with people inside, loaded with peoples-bags outside, even the roof is loaded, with baskets, which are themselves loaded with fruits and vegetables. I am inside, enveloped by the smell of fresh mangoes, my mother is sitting on a seat next to me, she's happy, talking to her neighbor, blending easily into the milieu. She becomes one of them. It's easy for her to shed the city skin, to molt and be one of them, but not for me. Will I blend in, will I be accepted? I realize everyone's glaring at me; I am an outlier, the only incongruity in the perfect country bus. I am the philistine, lacking their manners, lacking their smell, lacking their clothes. I feel unrobed. They stare on.
Just to make sure, I check my zipper; everything's zipped.
I look through the drivers view, through the windshield. The civilization is thinning, making way for the green patches. The road is slimming, tapering, as if the edges want to unite, be one. The air, fresh-mango-smelling air is thickening, becoming heavy. It's drizzling, and the petrichor, the distinctive earthy smell, is diffusing with the fresh-mango smell. A hole in the floor is gaping at me, through which I see the road moving back, fast. There's a railway line ahead. The driver applies the brakes; the bus stops, I stop, all the passengers stop, the road stops, even the fresh-mango-and-earthy smell stops.
I hear people talking. Am back in office. My colleagues are around. My hard working colleagues, working hard while I enjoy the breezy day not working at all. I will be leaving them soon, they resent my enjoyment and my pleasure. They are staring at me. I am a deserter out here. They glare on.
Just to make sure, I check my zipper; everything's zipped.
The wind has reversed, rain has stopped. The two baby-clouds have grown, united as One and the One is going back, going back to the horizon, back to the wilderness.
I will also get back to my desk. Works calling and this time it won't wait.
Yashodeep Honmane said...I owe it all to you arundhoti.. thanks for encouraging and guiding me...
guess I am following in ur footsteps (i.e. evolution).. ;-)
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