Proof of Life

Chanced upon a not-so-innocent-song about the rains. Needless to say – it brought very happy memories from the days when life was a possibility. Not as artificially predictable as we have made it to be through anxiousness and concerns of security.

When I was in college (1989-92, yeah, really long time go) there was this tea-stall at the Pune University Circle — run by this diminutive, yet regal, man who went by the name of Anna. He made good tea. Notice, the subtle emphasis on the word — good. Like the smell of your grandmother’s unique recipe and the mesmerising visions that your father could paint with words, flowing with ease; this is one such taste. It remains with you forever.

My analytical mind, unfortunately, takes over.

Since Anna’s chai, I have had tea at a gazillion tea-stalls, all over the MH state. I am sure I have had as good tea in at least one of these stalls. It makes you wonder, if it was really the way that the tea that was brewed that keeps the memory alive.

It wasn’t the brew.

It was the environment. There is a word, maahoul — which, I doubt has an equivalent English word. Chai at Anna’s was a concept that we were in love with. One Skid-prone-Kinetic, a Bajaj Scooter and a black Yamaha 100cc bike, if he chose to ever find time for us, from his why-does-he-have-such-an-ugly girlfriend. Conversations of today that were heavily punctuated with loud laughter (in the days when LOL or ROFL weren’t invented and you had to use facial muscles to “Laugh-out-Loud”). Building dreams of tomorrow with almost-Italian-style-waving-bare hands in the thin air of Pune’s December. The clinical dissection of emerging role-models by brash arrogance that was nurtured by fearless dreams.

There isn’t a University “Circle” anymore.

The circle has been sliced and bled dry by sharp and stoic grey plates of thick concrete fly-overs that help you get quicker to where you will not stay anyway. I often go to Pune, and every time I take the fly-over to head towards the Expressway, a late-eighties cell-and-tissue-combination in my heart dies a lonely death. Some psycho-somatic mechanism almost denies entry to those memories.

But, coming back to the point, I hate the rain.

I really do. And ironically, my self-proclained-and-personally-discovered roots are in Konkan, and I spent formative years in Goa. Imagine, I call Mumbai — Home. I think, since I started driving, rains in Mumbai have banged in the last nail in a rotting coffin. But, I try and remember, and, I have never liked rains. Not as a kid, because you couldn’t go out and play. Not as a commuter, because I start two-hours earlier for a thirteen-kilometre ride (and yet I am not sure). There is something about rains that seems so “arresting”.

Go out, get wet!

Right. Water in my mobile phone. Fading driving license; thrice wet since it was issued. Wet currency notes that need to come under an iron. Soggy cigarettes that are anyway useless, because the bloody match-box is a hopeless lump of phosphorous, devoid of a spark, even. They still haven’t invented practical wipers for the glasses on your nose. Can’t take photographs – ever heard of a working wet camera? There isn’t even anything really romantic about the rains, unless you are on film set and have a director who can manage your smallest action. In real life, the girlfriend is always on the 5:56pm Karjat-Slow that is late because of the rains. (And she couldn’t call you because she had water in her mobile phone. Imagine this scene as you wait and watch the shoe-shine boys at Ghatkopar station, for ninety minutes, creating a ruckus with their wooden implements. Continuously. Without a break!)

Rain and wash-outs, have an illegitimate relationship.

I have seen the freshness and the squeaky-clean sense that you get after a rain. Rains clean everything. They affect your thoughts, if you are in the rain. I have had, many opportunities to be in a dry place with large windows and a very comfortable chair. Those (very few) instances where I did not need to get somewhere in the same dry state as when I started, when it was pouring outside.

I love watching the rain. Within Wet Walls

When rain doesn’t touch me, it does not wash-out anything. It brings back a-small-smile-on-your-face memories. And that dry place that you are in, with a glass of chai that reminds you of Anna (and his well-oiled moustache) and reminds you of Abhijit who can never laugh with his eyes open. Or the glass of Old Monk and Thums-up stirred with your ring-finger, that reminds you of Mahesh’s theory of how love really happens. That place and time is my happiest place and time on the face of this warm and parched earth.

It is not nostalgia. Oh, hardly.

It is not raking in the past like cleaning up the dry leaves orphaned on the ground. It is not a time-traveler’s wish. It is not the pangs of wanting to get back to those times. Neither is it the craving for a carefree life. It definitely is not a judgement on living a life of responsibilities. It is an acknowledgement of how beautiful a life we have led. This life, not any other.

It is proof of life.

Advertisements

20 thoughts on “Proof of Life

  1. Despite all the practical impossibilities, I still love rain. To me it feels like the proof of life! The rain that wet me as a kid, the rain that wet me on my first date (yes, it was the rain! lol 😛 ), the rain on my first job and the rain today – it kind of connects a timeline. A wet face looking up at the cloud-pour sky says a lot more than a face looking at the mud puddle, even if both are stark realities of the same life.
    Also, to me nostalgia simply signals a game between the introspective and the retrospective, no judgments involved. I agree, all said and done, nostalgia does feel like the rain, a proof of life.

    Beautiful, beautiful stuff.

    BTW:
    Having said all that, I am wondering how’s it that you’re doing this? The posts are touching a vein again and again. This is the second one that rattled my skull in succession. Please be gentle, I have delicate bone structure up there. :))
    …Nah! PLEASE keep ’em coming, It’s totally awesome to see you rock your thoughts! (pardon the change of tone)

    .

    PS: This is a longish comment to a blog post and I am not drunk, so there!

    Like

    • You are not alone. There are millions out there who love the rain. There are a very few of my kind.

      Ah, I have no idea why these posts are skull-numbing. I shall write a boring post to punctuate the numbing. 😀

      Like

  2. Anna reminds me of Rameshbhai in Ranade. He had this beautiful, very heavy brass khalbatta in which he used to grind ginger. And the tea and nimbu paani seemed so good because of the ‘mahaol’, yes.
    and I loved your observation abt LOL..

    Like

  3. “Imagine this scene as you wait and watch the shoe-shine boys at Ghatkopar station, for ninety minutes, creating a ruckus with their wooden implements. Continuously. Without a break!:)”

    Fresh from experience last week at the Andheri station, when it rained without a notice… and I had these ppl and their ruckus for company!!

    Me loves rains maybe because I have seen and been in the rain for 5 months a year, every year, for all of my life…gone to school drenched or bundled up in a raincoat, in soaking socks and leaking shoes, wading puddles in the guttered roads…, shopping for a new kind of umbrella with a different attraction every year… trying to spot a rainbow when the rays and rains play games with each other….. Never thought I could experience monsoon this year and I did, wonderful to be just soaked and yes it cleans out everything……

    You said it rightly, it is an acknowledgement and I take a bow:)

    Like

  4. A lovely post Atul. I’m sitting here wading through the memories that are a proof of my life and wondering if I loved the rains or loved watching the rains and I’m not able to the separate the two….

    Like

    • Thanks, Swati! To be able to separate the two, I just imagine the slosh, splosh, swish of wetness around me. Wet shoes, blisters, wet wallets, and the (wet) works. I know instantly – I like watching the rains from a distance. 😀

      Like

  5. Drops of water flooding you with memories…it’s quite a feeling, isn’t it? And then you wonder, well was it the chai, the people or just a different you?

    Beautiful post!

    Like

  6. Thanks to the FB comment by someone I got to read this. Lovely post! My very very first (as in first on the first blog) blog post was about rains, and how I’ve changed to a state where rains have stopped being the romantic thing they once were. Coming from a near-drought-prone area, I always loved rains. Some of my best memories are linked to leisurely day-trips to ‘naldurg’, a water fort of sort, except not a sea fort, but a fort where water runs through the fort — when it rains. And rains in Solapur were sprinkles which rarely introduced any practical difficulties. But I digress.

    ‘I love watching rains’. 🙂

    And so do, probably, a lot of those who say they love rains. It’s the idea of loving rains. 😉

    Like

Use your Twitter, Facebook or your WordPress account to comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s