Meandering through the ocean of cars, pedalling softly – he travels across my vision. Everyday, at the same hour. His curved body an extension of his steel and chrome machine. He glides on pumped air -- the carrier heavy with some common burden. There is something to be delivered to somebody and that person is waiting. Or perhaps those are the wares he hawks in the city. That black wooden box is packed with vials of perfume from Egypt or Arabia. So the cyclist is a perfumer too. How could I have missed it? Haven’t I inhaled the breath of a thousand flowers that steals out of his box and fill up the street, wafting through the windows of the cars, leaving fragrant trails of red, blue and green? Why even the phantom cyclist has been drawn by the scent today and is pedalling along with him, beside him, a step ahead of him – not to miss, even the slightest whiff, of the soaking, salty, scents of his toil.
---------
Sleepless
Light bleeds from a window as the night grows old across Delhi. The city has long gone to sleep. Only the man on the other side is sleepless. The leaves peeping nervously from his terrace seem to be waiting for a wind to rise. For it has been a merciless summer day. Sure there is a storm brewing somewhere. The city of the night seems anxious with expectation. Why this anxiety? In the dead of night, light bleeds silently from the apartment window, as Delhi sleeps.
-------
Rear View
I peer into the rear view mirror and see the cycle-van puller. Did I expect him there? Perhaps the heat of summer is playing tricks with my vision. See how he brims with confidence as he pedals smartly along. Yet I suspect him to be an apparition -- the egg-shaped mirror glass telescoping into another reality. A bleak and grimy one that I don’t want to hear about. The car stereo plays bright morning music. The cycle-van falls back as I step on the accelerator. Another eventless day has begun in the big city.
--------
Midnight
Midnight visitors. The thump of heavy luggage. The screech of strolley wheels on the concrete sidewalk. An argument -- some gesticulation. The uniformed watchman at attention. In this middle class urban neighbourhood they still do not need to carry guns. But that too is changing slowly. The sodium light adds an air of foreboding to this sudden distraction of an otherwise peaceful night. .
----------
The Barber’s Smile
In a corner of the parking space he has parked himself. An old peepul tree provides enough shade for his customers to be at ease. The rhythmic snip snip of his scissors drowned by the noise of car engines and the blaring of horns through the day. Yet this hasn’t wiped away the smile on the barber’s lips. A master of his trade, he goes about his job with practiced ease.
---------
Speed and Stillness
Racing autos. Green and bright yellows. Burst of red on the striped median. Young man, clutching his mobile -- waving at someone. Yellow-black taxis on the sidewalk, biding their time. Speed and stillness in perfect harmony.
------
Peeping through Time
An arched doorway: a peep into the past. The present, where we stand, is still dark and between us and the red-white tomb of a dead badshah -- near yet far -- hangs the dark curtains of time. Pushing those aside, softly, without a sound, we are lead into a giant courtyard below the sunny skies of a long gone summer. There, some lonely visitors, from the future or the past, sit still in their eternal watch.
--------
Verticals
A metal post without lights. Flag staffs with the Tricolour. A collonade (with Ionic columns) of a classical-looking sandstone structure. A minaret piercing the ink-blue sky. Not a man or beast in site. The profusion of verticals -- a joyless celebration of power that lacks the warmth of life. Where have all the birds vanished?
---------
The Blind Man
The blind man walks past a stylised Ganesh idol. The God has wide open eyes while the blind man sees with his cane. He listens with his ears, he smells with his nose and he adds them all up as he goes about his way. The God meanwhile waits for him to pass by. In the world of the super-sighted we may all be blind, `blind but seeing’.
“I don't think we did go blind, I think we are blind, Blind but seeing, Blind people who can see, but do not see.” ― José Saramago, Blindness
Text: RajatC Photos: Sanchita C © all rights reserved
Racing autos. Green and bright yellows. Burst of red on the striped median. Young man, clutching his mobile -- waving at someone. Yellow-black taxis on the sidewalk, biding their time. Speed and stillness in perfect harmony.
