I had never even heard of Rajgir. A
look at Google Maps told me that I was in the Nalanda district of Bihar. I
didn’t have the best impression of Bihar but what the hell. I was here. I
spotted a chai walah near the bus depot and asked him about the town, while I
sipped on a half-full glass of sweet, strong chai. “This is a very famous city
madam,” he assured me while stirring a pot of bubbling hot tea that smelt
deliciously of cardamom. “You should visit the Vishwa Shanti Stupa – it’s a
beautiful Buddhist pagoda.” He also told me that Rajgir was surrounded by
beautiful green hills and had several spots of interest, associated with the
Buddhist and Jain religions. Why had I never heard of this place before? There
was so much I didn’t know about India.
I ended up spending the largest
chunk of my crazy road trip in this blessed town with its monasteries, stunning
peaks, silent caves and historical ruins. What I will remember most is the
sight of the Buddhist monks meditating serenely at Vulture’s Peak. With the
vast valley beneath me and an ancient stillness in the air, I realised that
Dorian’s angst had been misplaced. Life does not always take us where we want
to go but it ensures that we’ll have an exciting journey, nevertheless.
Sometimes, it’s better to reroute like your GPS does, rather than insisting on
the path you chose.
At the end of May, I found myself
in Amritsar, after having boarded a bus to Delhi from Lucknow. Lucknow had been
a glorious melange of electrifying qawalli performances, beautiful bazaars and
flowing anarkalis, sprawling gardens and an interesting evening where a poorly
dressed man at Hazratganj market began spouting unearthly shayaris, inspiring
many including myself, to make generous donations. After having my fill of
north-Indian art and culture, I tried once again to make a visit to India’s
capital city. It was not to be.
I’m not a religious person but
there are some places of worship that are undeniably holy in the calmness and
deep silence that they emanate, comparable to a natural cavern. The Golden
Temple was definitely one of them.
The water sparkled delicately under
the reflection of the glistening edifice of Harmandir Sahib, the most sacred
gurudwara of the Sikhs. Someone sang a song of heavenly adoration nearby, and
my heart was still for the first time since I had set out. My supply of
adrenaline had finally run out. I knew without a doubt that my journey had come
to an end. It was time to go home.
I followed Dorian’s advice and
took a train back to Mumbai. I spent most of the long ride scribbling in my
notepad. I always write about my trips; recording them in minute detail as an
insurance against the vagaries of memory. Publishing this post was going to be
a problem though. Who would believe my story of wrong destinations? The hardest
thing to do in this world is to get a stamp of credibility for something out of
the ordinary.
On June 3rd, I was relieved
to see the familiar sights and sounds of India’s most chaotic city greeting my
eye. My tryst with the unknown radio knob twiddler was over.
I always feel like I’m entering a
stranger’s home when I return from a long trip. There’s something familiar
about the place but it’s almost inconceivable that I’ve spent a lifetime here.
Fortunately, the feeling only lasts until the next meal. And then I’m back to
being Sarika Vasu.
Seated at my desk with its
admirable supply of sunshine filtering in through the window, I looked at the
list of places I’d been to:
- Gokarna
- Hyderabad
- Kolkata
- Rajgir
- Lucknow
- Amritsar
That looked incredibly symmetrical! Perhaps
my radio knob twiddler enjoyed geometry. But this wasn’t forming any closed
figure; rather it resembled an L or a V. L and V. Lalita Vasu. My dead
biological mother; a victim of a persistent cancer.
The summer sunshine made way for a little
breeze and the pages on my desk fluttered softly. My stepmother would be
enjoying her customary afternoon siesta. It being a Saturday, dad would be in
his study; working or looking up the stock market. I’d never understood much of
the financial world. I was more of a nature person. Like my mother, dad would
often say. My stepmother never minded the references to her predecessor.
Archana Vasu was a sweet woman and I loved her dearly. Unlike in the movies, I
never cry over my ‘real’ mother. I do think of her on special occasions and I
try to dredge up a significant memory to confirm that she was once a part of my
life. But alas, there is little that I recall of the first seven years of my
life. And all I really remember of my mother are her lovely, long fingers with
their perfectly manicured nails. I’d spent hours gazing at them while I sat in
her lap. I wish my hands looked as elegant as that. But no such luck.
I went to find my dad in his study and
found him poring over some balance sheets. He was a chartered accountant and my
mother had been an archaeologist, always being called to new places to inspect
findings and conduct excavations. “Dad,” I said quietly. He looked up, his kind
eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Was May important for mom in any way?” He knew
right away that I wasn’t referring to my stepmother. “Yes, actually.” He looked
like he wanted me to provide a context to my question but I stayed silent. “It
was the month in which we travelled one last time together. She had this crazy
idea of just driving wherever the road took us, without an itinerary.” “Where
did you go?” I managed to ask, without allowing more than a tremble to fall
through the cracks in my voice. “I don’t really recall every place but we went
down south – and then to Kolkata, Lucknow and
finally, Amritsar.
She loved the beauty and serenity of the Golden Temple.” Dad paused, lost in
memory. “But by then, your mom’s health had begun to give way. And so we
returned home. Why do you ask?” I said nothing. It didn’t seem like the right
time to confess my crazy story. “I’ll tell you another time, dad.”
I’ve always had a hard time beginning my
travelogues. Once I’m in the thick of it, my words will flow like nobody’s
business but ask me to come up with a memorable first line and I’ll be stumped.
Not today, though. Today, I was crystal clear about how I was going to begin my
story:
The story has been concluded.
Read Part I here
Read Part II here
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