Early morning at four when everyone curls up to one’s own
self, sipping the last bit of a sugary dream that is about to leave the eye lids, when office goers who commute between cities reluctantly wake up to their
age old drudgery, happy couples make love vigorously sending shivers across the
thin walls, when muffled shrieks of pleasure are heard with undefined anxiety
by the ones who have just got up to relieve themselves, when travel worn moon eagerly
waits for the appearance of the sun at the eastern horizon, I stand right in
the middle of a road that runs between two gates. My son rides his cycle and I
amble behind him looking at both the gates, warning him about the sudden
appearance of a car, call centre cab or a motor bike.
I walk up and down; between two mercury lamp posts under
which I see innumerable moths that have sacrificed their lives for light. I
think of human beings. They too die but not in the course of searching for light.
The locality is immersed in silence. Sleeping dogs open their eyes and wag
their tails. They have become friends with me and the young impatient cycle
rider. Tommy, a brown dog with a scar above his left eye, sometimes accompanies
my son, yes, between the mercury lamp posts, that I have marked for him as he
could cover one round in one and half minutes. Dogs are funny creatures. Months
of August and September are their ‘love’ months. Most of the early mornings, I
see them in the hot pursuit of a lone bitch. Mounting, dismounting, cajoling, attacking,
curious gazing, just loitering; activities are many behind that female dog. She
resists. I remember Delhi.
Over the months I have learnt a few things or rather tricks.
Looking at the pace of my son’s riding, I could say the exact time in the
watch. I practice it every day to achieve precision. Hence, now I could say
when exactly a god fearing lady would emerge from her house to go to a temple
nearby. I could see a group of women coming from the other end of the gate to
do their yoga practice in a public park right in front of my house. I know when
they would appear there at the gate. I can tell you when the police patrol
party will pass at times with siren on and at times stealthily like a thief in
their official Gypsy. I wait for the fat man who rides his cycle to an unknown
destination and tells me ‘namskar’ every day. I know the obese husband and wife
would come out of the right turn at the fourth tube light post exactly at five.
A white WagonR speeds up at 4.45 am. A Hundai Santro slowly
comes as if it were a somnambulist, slowly and sleepily. It stops at a gate a
few paces away from where I stand. A young man gets out of it. Like a machine
he opens the gate, gets back to the driver’s seat and drives in. A typical
night shift executive. Some mornings a cool cab strays in, looking for an
address. The driver feels so good to see a man on the road. He asks me and I
direct him. From a small cage, a night watchman comes out. I wonder how he
spends nights in that 3’ x 6’ cabin. He comes out and beats on his long bamboo
stick on the road and blows his whistle. Like dogs moaning is taken over and
transmitted by other dogs, many thin figures come out of obscure cabins and do
the same; referees of early morning, directing the spirits back to their
heavens or hells.
By 5. 15 am, the road becomes a bit more busy. Couples who
have recently diagnosed of some illness to which physical activity could be a
remedy come out. They walk in silence thinking about the good old days. A
lonely guy runs towards north and comes back in five minutes; when he returns
he is shirtless. He thinks he is Milka Singh if not Farhan Akhthar. People live
according to rule books come out in perfect jogging gear; each person costs
minimum Rs.10,000/- assessed by wardrobe. They do not walk or jog. They perform
to fulfil their social duties as perfect and successful citizens. Mobile phones
ring out ‘Ob Bhur Bhuvaswaha’ and a desperate one listens to ‘Chikni Chameli’ even
in the serene early morning atmosphere.
I can tell you when the sun would come out. But before he is
out I am gone back after my half an hour shuttle badminton game with my son.
There at the park, women are still doing yoga. Their actions are pepped up by
the talks of rising prices of commodities. A woman lies on her back on a dew
filled green patch. She experiences something more than physical exercise.
When I think, these are the small little lessons of life,
pleasurable and painful ones. I have learnt to look at the small and see the
beauty of it from these early morning ventures.
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