Nevermind the gap

Sometimes I get these urges to write. And I write. Say a 100 word ‘piece’ and then all happy to have attended to my urge, I retire temporarily in the hope that when I resume, my piece will have become a masterpiece; if it’s not one already.

Days roll by. I live, work, eat, sip tea, make grand plans, stare at the sky amused that there are no stars in a big city. Then with a sense of duty and the niggling poke of an unfinished business, I doubleclick (that’s one word I hope) on a file saved a zillionth time on my desktop as “blog.”

What I see typed in front of me, I barely believe can be written… or understood. I develop sympathy for schoolteachers. I battle with the idea whether all urges lead to embarrassments.

More days roll by. Some author (especially a new one who at one time was among my favourite columnists) wins an award. And a new urge to write surges. Which is what I am doing right now. I will tell you who that author is. You’ve got to read some of Rahul Bhattacharya’s articles here. www.espncricinfo.com/magazine/content/story/magazine/author.html?author=236;genre=363.

Moving on. The metro rail was recently inaugurated in Bangalore. I took a ride on the first evening. I had initially planned to write movingly about the emancipation of people via. public transport. To quote Bruce Springsteen (my hero-worship for whom might elicit one of the most unintelligible posts ever) “the steel wheels singin’ and bells of freedom ringin.” But I will not.

Living in Delhi for any number of days will make an encounter with the metro inevitable. So it was with a considerable degree of know-it-allness that I took my first metro ride. Upper lip, firmly stiff. I almost felt like a Delhiite, icily ignoring the rest of the commuters as lesser mortals, initiated into the wonders of technology rather late in their lives to enjoy it so excitedly. And some of them were excited.

There were ushers to guide you, frisk you, put you in your place (especially if you crossed the yellow line) and a “we are in it together” feeling in the air. Everyone was cordial and cooperative. But this was only on the floor which had the ticket counter.

In the actual station, there was some furious and shrill whistle blowing by those entrusted with manning and womanning the platforms. And one could not have blamed them. As the metro came to a halt at Indiranagar station, disgorging families and joint families (literally, if they had their way), there was an equally eager set of families waiting to be swallowed in. Equivocation and chaos followed.

There was a scene of contrived commotion and concern enacted by the various members of the family. Leading the charge would be the woman of the household with mostly a baby in her arms and a husband who would invariably lag behind, causing the woman to fret, fume or fulminate. He would make it inside the metro of course but just in time the doors drew shut. It was in these taut “can he, won’t he” spectacles, while the husband dug deep into his depleting reserves of athleticism that the metro ride was enjoyable.

I stood next to a police constable – a tribe normally given to civility only when accepting bribes – grinning broadly and talking loudly on the phone. He later enquired with me if the coming station was Ulsore, which it was and he needn’t have asked since the signboards were all there. He wanted to share his happiness.    

Bangalore must also be the only city in India where it’s more comfortable outside the metro than when you are in it, weather wise. I remember getting into the metro and feel warmer than I would like to or am used to in this city.