A poem away from aloo paratha
On the streets of Bangalore, weather you walk or don’t walk, being unmoved is not an option.
Thursday morning: close enough to the weekend for you to just stay in and laze around, far enough from it to actually do it. But today, none of this mattered. It was a Thursday morning and I was determined to walk the city. Yes, that’s what my to-do list for the day looked like.
Walk the city
Write about it maybe.
If you’re reading this, then I must’ve have managed to tick the second box.
There I was.
Slippers on my feet
A bag on my shoulder
Bus numbers on my phone.
After having waited for 20 minutes for the arrival of a Google maps prescribed bus, I decided to get on the next bus that came and trust the conductor to show me the way. The divine guidance. It would be unjust to my experience if I did not mention the cream that filled my bun and the twenty minutes that I stood at the bus stop. The mandatory bus and cream bun duo had prevailed, despite all odds. I got on the bus, with the delightfully sugary centre part of a half bun in my hands and a calm confusion on my face.
“Madam, get down at St. John’s” the conductor iterated with no spaces between the words so that it took me three “huh?-s” to decipher that what sounded like ‘Sanjay’ was the holy John he was referring to.
I changed my seat four times before finding one that had just the right amount of sunshine falling on it, a functional window, semi comfortable chair with the least tattered cushion and in accordance with the alignment of the constellations. I drifted in and out of sleep so obviously that the conductor thought it necessary to come up and remind me that Sanjay was coming.
I got down at the St. John’s bus stop. Heads up about the bus stops in Bangalore, they don’t exist. A station is subject to materialise out of thin air the moment more than two people stand on any spot they deem suitable on the street and look longingly at every passing bus.
I crossed the street with a torrent of people, cutting across the stormy roads like an unhurried calm wave.
I found myself a seat at the bus stop. Changing buses is one of the top street skills in Bangalore. There is a certain feeling of triumph about smoothly changing buses. This was going to be one of those victorious days.
“Cubbon Park?” I squeaked at the uncle next to me with just enough confusion on my face facilitated by furrowed eyebrows and a slight frown for him to launch into a full geographical explanation of the place in question, complete with landmarks, bus numbers, latitude and longitudes.
That’s all you had to do to get around here.
Say the name of the place you want to get to out loud with a hesitant enough look and voila! You know how to get there.
(Not too hesitant though, you might just be in for a ride)
I got down at my destination and started walking along the perfectly lined palm trees. with absolutely nowhere to go and an entire day ahead of me. I was just there, by myself, free to do whatever in the world I wanted to.
I ate from street fruit vendors, paying extra for my jackfruit, denying the straws for my coconut water, asking for less mirchi on my raw mangoes. I took pleasure in customizing these tiny things.
My metric for deciding which road to take was the walkability, a characteristic of the road based on the number of trees, breeze and general prettiness of the path.
I went to an art museum, pretended to understand whatever the weird stone sculptures meant, refilled my water bottle, smiled at myself in every reflective surface at the exceedingly immaculate modern art gallery. I was playing a character, one I hadn’t been for a while- myself.
I can assure you that’s the toughest role to play till you’ve learnt to master it.
I ate by myself at the small cafe in the art gallery by the exhibits. As I waited for my paratha with butter and curd to arrive, I wrote a short poem
In the midst of the turmoil
that seeks to engulf us,
Walk the city
Barefoot, unhinged
With abandon, hair in a bun
Walk the city
Flowers on sidewalks
Sunshine through trees
Walk the city
Barefoot, unhinged
In the midst of all the serenity
that seeks to engage us,
Walk the city
To keep walking is all there really is.
I walked out, nodding a courtesy to the guards and walked, in an unhurried gait, skipping a step now and again. As I stopped by every interesting looking thing, or a signboard
I kept walking just far enough to find the perfect time to sleep beneath the stars and by that I don’t mean what you’re probably thinking. Well, I fell asleep in the middle of a star show at the planetarium. The voice-over had a mellow lullaby-ish voice okay. How is it that the best naps come to you at places where you’re not meant to be napping.
On my way back, I didn’t get a seat in the bus for the longest time and having walked for an entire day, my feet were screaming. I took relief in the fact that I found a direct bus so quickly. I told you right- this was my good bus day. I guess the conductor could tell. Perhaps because of all my subtle stretching, but I’ll never know. He came up to me and pointed to a seat three ladies away. In the buses, who gets a seat is a game of strategy. You must place yourself optimally wedged with your competitors. I went and stood there. Wasn’t sure why, but in the bus, the conductors rule. I have, with enough evidence, come to the conclusion that they dislike using language as a mode of communication- preferring grunts and gestures instead. This cryptic pointing was a method of telling me, ‘go stand there, that lady leaves at the next stop.’ It was such a strangely nice thing to do, I thought as I settled into my warm seat.
I stared out the window for the rest of the ride as the moon rose from a pale yellow to a steady white.
I reached the college bus stop to see several of my classmates standing there.
“So, where did you go?”
“ I went to walk the city”
The confusion on their faces was visible despite their split second attempt to hide it. I smiled.
That was my entire answer.
To be part of landscape, to let the simpler things touch me, to be moved.To walk the city.
To walk
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