Sentimental Chameleons— Part I

Sharma was known for some bizarre idiosyncrasies. A hopeless sentimental stupid and a repository of blind beliefs and superstitions, he was regarded an eccentric creature or odd man out in the circle of his friends and relatives. However, he stood his ground; cherished being sentimental no matter how his friends taunted him and poked fun at him for his idiotic behavior. When questioned about his sentimentality, he would blurt out: ‘Tell me, who isn’t sentimental? Life sans sentiments will be a dreary affair.’

Sharma was in a hurry. It was time for his rendezvous with the ‘godly figure’ at the railway station. He became tense, restless, looking frequently at his wrist watch. ‘Time is running out,’ he moaned and shut down the computer.

When he was about to leave the office, Ram, his friend and colleague, approached him and reminded him about their GM’s farewell meeting in the evening. Sharma blinked. He was completely out to lunch. He looked through Ram and said: ‘Sorry, Ram, I can’t attend the meeting. I’ve an urgent work at the railway station.’

‘I know what it’s. You’re an incorrigible sentimental idiot’, Ram quipped, went on his way.

Panic-stricken, Sharma ran helter- skelter on the railway platform unmindful of the sweat that had drenched him from head to feet. Clusters of people standing haphazardly on the way did not deter him from reaching to the dead-end of the platform where the motor car of the Tambaram-bound unit train would usually halt. He dried his sweat-laden face with his hands, got his eyes riveted on the rail tracks.

‘Could I get the Dharshan of the godly-face today? He muttered. ‘Have enough time to go to the Bank. If I get a glimpse of that face, I’m sure I’ll get my home loan sanctioned today itself’. He was upbeat, gazing joyfully at the rail tracks … happily waiting for the train.

He now spotted the Tambaram-bound train chugging into the station. Its ear splitting siren created a melee on the platform, making the passengers push up and pull down one another so that they could board the train easily as soon as it pulled at the station. Sharma hopped from the shabby wooden bench he was sitting in. The train did not stop at its marked place. Sharma had to run along the train to park himself near the motor car. He gasped for breath, but was all smiles when he saw his man Friday behind the wheels of the motor car.

The motorman was in his fifties as thin as a robe. With receding hair, sunken eyes and wrinkled face, he looked decrepit more than his age. Even the goatee he was sporting looked shabby as it was trimmed haphazardly. But, Sharma liked the face. For whenever he saw the face, he felt like being filled with an aura of light, both clear and lucid. Sharma would always call the motorman’s face ‘divine and angelic’. To him, it was luck-laden and god-sent. He believed that whenever he saw that face he would get all he wanted. The Dharshan of the face would untie all the knots of life’, he would think.

‘Hello!’ Sharma greeted the motorman. He was standing close to the window of the motor car. The old man at the wheels nodded his head briefly with a bland smile, but the smile flashed like moonlight on Sharma, sweeping him off his feet. He tried to speak to the old man. He wanted to tell him that his mother had miraculously recovered from her illness the moment he had the Dharshan of his cherubic face weeks back. But, Sharma couldn’t speak what he felt since the train left the station in a flash.

When Sharma got to his office, it was late in the afternoon. He was so excited that it did not occur to him to have his lunch. On his way back to the office from the railway station, he dropped into the Bank to enquire about his home loan. Seeing Sharma entering his cabin, the manager told him that his loan was sanctioned.

Sharma was all smiles. ‘I know I’ll get my loan sanctioned today’, he replied nonchalantly. ‘How?’ the manager asked, raising his brows. ‘It’s all due to the mystical power of a man … the divine grant of a face. I saw him at the station before coming over here.’ Sharma left the Bank in a hurry leaving the manager in a quandary who called Sharma a nut since he couldn’t figure out anything from what Sharma had said.

Ram was dumbfounded when Sharma told him that he got his home loan sanctioned. They were sitting in the office canteen. ‘You’re lucky Sharma’, Ram said, his tone a bit envious. ‘I know that Bank. They’ll take ages to process a loan application. Come on, Sharma; tell me what magic you did to get the loan sanctioned just like that.’

[To be continued]

Image courtesy: Google

American Hospitality

Fire works lit the sky

I had my maiden trip to the US, the land of perfume, in June 2006. The purpose was to visit my brother in LA. But, just before boarding the flight, I was a bit nervous. For, besides visiting my bro, I planned to attend Prem Rawat Maharaj Ji’s [also known as Guru Maharaj and Balayogeshwar, is a native of India, who teaches a meditation practice he calls Knowledge] meetings to be held in and around LA; meet the congregation thereat and have interaction with them.

Raised in a closed and conservative environment and tied to a restrictive cultural stake, I had been an introvert for long … a pants wearing frog living in the well. So, I worried about my shyness … worried about how the Americans, as they belong to a high-strung, no-holds-barred, permissive society, would be disposed to a brawny Asian. I knew it was only my misconception. Nevertheless, it was nagging at my mind all through my journey.

 4^th of July, 2006. America was celebrating her Independence Day. I saw congregations of well-dressed white people standing or sitting in the meadows in a park. Children were screaming with joy and some of them peddling their tiny cycles around the park. A happy, festive mood hung in the air. All necks remained craned to the sky, eyes too riveted on it.

My bro’s family and I were sitting in a lonely meadow shawled with mists. Since we felt the place was not comfortable to watch the fireworks, we shifted ourselves to another place strewn with dried and dead leaves. When the show was about to start, we found we’d missed our car keys in the place where we were sitting minutes back. We rushed to the spot and started googling for them. We got disappointed thinking we would be missing the fireworks if we would search for the damned car keys.

When we were wringing our hands in utter helplessness, I saw an American lady coming to our rescue. She introduced herself as Dorothy Lessing -- may be a Brit American. She said:’Hi, I know what you are searching. Please go watch the fireworks and let me find out your keys.’ She smiled at us and then engaged herself in ‘the operation-search-keys’. We were a bit hesitant and then, at her persistent insistence, moved reluctantly a few yards from the meadow and started watching the grand sky show.

Lit by the fireworks, the sky looked more ominous than ever with a potpourri of colors. Sparks of light traveled across the sky; they suddenly transformed themselves into shapes of lions, tigers, elephants and deer. Then we saw a fully blossomed flower with honeybees swarming it. There were shadows of men and women holding hands; an American flag was found fluttering. Crowds screamed with joy and excitement. We stood mesmerized, unable to take out our eyes from the sky.

After regaling the crowds with their amazing feats of lights, the fireworks came to an end and the sky became grey again. People started leaving the park and the cacophonies of car horns brought us out of our trance.

‘Enjoyed the fireworks,’ Lessing asked us. She stood before us letting out her captivating smile, our car keys in her hand. She didn’t watch the fireworks, but spent her time in tracking down our keys.

‘Sorry, Lessing’, I sputtered as I was intrigued by a sort of guiltiness. ‘It’s because of us you couldn’t watch the fireworks.’

‘Oh, no, she laughed. ‘I can watch the fireworks next year, but you can’t. You’re our guests … going to be here for some time.’

‘What a hospitality,’ I exclaimed, overwhelming with emotions.

 ‘Please say American hospitality’, Lessing laughed again, and in no time disappeared into the crowd.

While the sky still remained calm and grey, I had a lot of fireworks going on in my mind which ultimately burnt out all my misconceptions about US and the citizens. The country now seemed not the land of perfume, but the land of hospitality.

I could still smell the perfume of Lessing’s hospitality.

Image courtesy: Google