Mostly a Good Time
Central bus stands are the same everywhere.
diesel fumes, seething human masses, conniving rickshaw drivers, shifty touts, resigned commuters, bawling babies, crawling beggars and every one of them could easily belong to any of the hundreds of bus terminals across the subcontinent. It's only when you emerge from the human flotsam into the city you have touched down this fine morning that you realise that this is a different world. This is a city whose character is more north of the deccan than south of it. one that for centureis has been the meeting point of cultures from both the sides of the godavari. One whose unique brand of speech manages to convey equal parts of disdain and irreverence, with generous measures of nonchalance thrown in for added flavor. A city that's equally
famous for its relaxed way of life as it is for its delectable cuisine. And adding to its list of more recent achievements, a much improved quality of infrastructure over my home city. It's not everyday one finds roads tempting enough to roll over and walk bare foot on.
Late night trysts at the irani hotels with names like Hotel Rambo, Hotel Impala. Communal gathering places where young males come together to jostle, josh and to abuse, get abused, play games and bascially, enjoy a good round of tea together. and remember to order just one cuppa tea between the two of you, cos that's how it is in this part of the woods.
Mid noon rendezvous with old friends at underlit eating places with washin gdown the omnipresent biryani with a generous goblet of warm brandy, finishing up with a burp loud enough to make the chef happy about his work.
Late night comic franchisee blockbusters at the downtown multiplex with ticket rates that make one wish for a aerial bulldozer attack on the multiplexes back home. Nothing-to-do sunday afternoons with lazy walks around the City's central lake, watching people playing, dreaming, gossiping, sleeping, loving, fighting, eating, blushing, smiling, laughing, crying, running, walking, looking but not seeing, tasting a breath of fresh air before their lives beckon them back to their mundane existences.
I see the Budhdha looking at the city spread out before him ,and at me from across the waters. He looks at me. speaks to me and tells me to be grateful for what i have. for what i am. for what i have learnt. for what i have the potential to become. he tells me to grateful for the friends i have. for those who have accepted me the way i am. he tells me to forget the days gone by and to look forward to sunrises that come my way.
I tell him that i have learnt to be thankful for very new sunrise that i get to enjoy. for the cool breezes that carress me and make me feel happy to be alive. the elements of the world around me that have enabled me to live and have given me another chance to make the people around me happier.
Through malls stacked with more humans than physically possible, through fraying tempers peppered with invocations to each other's female relatives, one crocin and three orange ince creams later, i am back where it all began.
At the bus stand, where the heat waits to bid me goodbye, with the promise that i will be back for ramzan, to witness the glory of this old city in all its beauty.
diesel fumes, seething human masses, conniving rickshaw drivers, shifty touts, resigned commuters, bawling babies, crawling beggars and every one of them could easily belong to any of the hundreds of bus terminals across the subcontinent. It's only when you emerge from the human flotsam into the city you have touched down this fine morning that you realise that this is a different world. This is a city whose character is more north of the deccan than south of it. one that for centureis has been the meeting point of cultures from both the sides of the godavari. One whose unique brand of speech manages to convey equal parts of disdain and irreverence, with generous measures of nonchalance thrown in for added flavor. A city that's equally
famous for its relaxed way of life as it is for its delectable cuisine. And adding to its list of more recent achievements, a much improved quality of infrastructure over my home city. It's not everyday one finds roads tempting enough to roll over and walk bare foot on.
Late night trysts at the irani hotels with names like Hotel Rambo, Hotel Impala. Communal gathering places where young males come together to jostle, josh and to abuse, get abused, play games and bascially, enjoy a good round of tea together. and remember to order just one cuppa tea between the two of you, cos that's how it is in this part of the woods.
Mid noon rendezvous with old friends at underlit eating places with washin gdown the omnipresent biryani with a generous goblet of warm brandy, finishing up with a burp loud enough to make the chef happy about his work.
Late night comic franchisee blockbusters at the downtown multiplex with ticket rates that make one wish for a aerial bulldozer attack on the multiplexes back home. Nothing-to-do sunday afternoons with lazy walks around the City's central lake, watching people playing, dreaming, gossiping, sleeping, loving, fighting, eating, blushing, smiling, laughing, crying, running, walking, looking but not seeing, tasting a breath of fresh air before their lives beckon them back to their mundane existences.
I see the Budhdha looking at the city spread out before him ,and at me from across the waters. He looks at me. speaks to me and tells me to be grateful for what i have. for what i am. for what i have learnt. for what i have the potential to become. he tells me to grateful for the friends i have. for those who have accepted me the way i am. he tells me to forget the days gone by and to look forward to sunrises that come my way.
I tell him that i have learnt to be thankful for very new sunrise that i get to enjoy. for the cool breezes that carress me and make me feel happy to be alive. the elements of the world around me that have enabled me to live and have given me another chance to make the people around me happier.
Through malls stacked with more humans than physically possible, through fraying tempers peppered with invocations to each other's female relatives, one crocin and three orange ince creams later, i am back where it all began.
At the bus stand, where the heat waits to bid me goodbye, with the promise that i will be back for ramzan, to witness the glory of this old city in all its beauty.
Comments