Ramya and Soumya were going to Govindapura today. They were going to visit the temple of Bala Govinda and return on the same day. As their parents put the basket in the trunk, Soumya got into the car. Ramya was ready before Soumya.
They drove through the city faster than usual, as the peak-hour traffic was yet to begin. The city seemed like a lost child just waking from sleep to find the world had moved on. Ramya was wearing a dark blue salwar-kameez. She always liked mornings. She missed them ever since she started her job. Beginning in high-school, she got up early to attend tuitions. She just realised that she didn’t like mornings then. Over the years, the necessity of waking early had turned to a habit and in the final years of college a pleasure.
Ramya remembered the house with the tiled roof that she passed by on her way to college. It had a scent she liked. In all those years, she had not been able to find out where the scent came from. It wasn’t pleasant enough to be called a fragrance but nevertheless she liked it when she walked past the house everyday on the way to the bus stop. She always thought she should find out what was it a scent of. Was it a tree? Perhaps it was a shrub behind the high compound wall. Maybe it was just the earth near by. She many a time thought she would regret not finding out its source. She didn’t regret it yet.
As we travel out of Bangalore, I cannot but feel a little sad. Day or night, summer or winter, as we move out of the city we become gradually orphaned. The belongingness that the city provides to its dwellers wanes away into the wilderness of unplanned houses. This perhaps is true for every city, but is more pronounced when leaving Bangalore because as you hit the highway you begin to miss the trees.
Returning to Ramya, she was still wondering about the scent of the tiled house when she was hit by the scent of petrol. They had driven into a petrol bunk to fill the tank for the trip. Ramya hated the smell of petrol and immediately closed the window, but Soumya would not. Ramya screwed up her nose more in anger than the smell. Soumya seemed to take demonic pleasure in Ramya’s discomfort.
The smell of petrol was soon gone and they well on their way. They could see the rocky hillocks completely devoid of any vegetation. Ramya’s mind wandered elsewhere unlike Soumya who seemed to enjoy the surroundings.
I have always wondered if there are places left on this earth where one could still get lost. Maybe there still are in the Amazon. Here you don’t have to travel long before you see a sign-board or a hoarding. Every few miles the hillocks melt away and appears a town or sometimes a village. The same shops repeat themselves; all the shops seem to be named after the same god. The things that make one town distinct from another are probably lost, or maybe never were there in the first place. We are still very close to the city to call the people provincial. They look and dress the same as Bangaloreans. We have to travel farther than what we have planned today to see different people.
Ramya had agreed to come on this trip very easily. She agreed with her mother on the need for this trip. She of course liked the vibe of not only this temple but all temples. She was quite vocal about her devotion to the family deity. She didn’t have to be persuaded to come like her sister.
It is not unnatural these days to come upon a flyover or a bridge quite unexpectedly. They came across one just as they were arriving in Govindapura. As they drove under the fly-over, the shade that enveloped them seemed out of place. This has always been a hot land. The scorching summer sun is something you come to rely upon to torment you. This sudden relief jolted the sisters’ attention. Although Ramya seemed relived Soumya considered the coolness of the shadow almost an intrusion of her thoughts.
They took the deviation off the highway and were now on the small road rounding along the rocky terrain. It was a quiet road but not calming. They would be at the temple in a few minutes. Summer here cam get to be very dreary. Although a lot happens, it does get monotonous in comparison to the splendour of the monsoon. The sky seems like a desolate landscape and the land as abandoned as a cloudless sky.
******
Bala Govinda is a beautiful child. Here stands Lord Krishna in all his splendor, gaiety and mirth. Often the idol of this small infant which is the center of this town, assumes roles very unnatural to it. The eroticised romance of Krishna seems appropriate for this child, as does the retributive wrath of god. People come here to pray for many things, but the one that legends have supported are the prayers for a child. Childless couples come from far and near to pray here to be blessed with a child. Ramya and Soumya were here because this was their ancestral family deity.
Ramya prayed with visible fervor. She made obeisance before our little child and reveled in his beauty. She arranged the fruits and flowers they had brought on the tray in a neat circle before handing it to the priest. The incantations the priest made seemed habitual. Soumya meanwhile sat languidly by the temple wall.
Soumya had walked right into the temple. She saw that Bala Govinda had been same as he had always been. She sat down in the shade and seemed to return to her thoughts. In a few minutes, she began to miss our little child. She rose and walked up to the door of the sanctum-sanctorum. He was still the same. She wondered if he has been so since she was a little girl. She tried to remember if he seemed different when she was a little girl. Shouldn’t he have seemed bigger to a little school-girl she wondered, but could not remember. She seemed almost reluctant to walk away this time.
******
They started back shortly after lunch. Although they had time for a siesta, they could not tolerate the heat and decided to leave at the earliest. Soumya was slow at starting back, but when in the car she resigned to the growing distance from our little child. She hadn’t wondered if she would miss this place or Bala Govinda, probably didn’t need to. She seemed capable of drifting into any place at will in her thoughts.
The road seemed utterly alien as they traveled back although they had been on it just this morning. The newness of the surroundings seemed uncharacteristic because nothing had changed. As the passed under the fly-over, the enveloping shade seemed stifling.
Soumya slowly wandered about the idea that had occupied her most of the day. She relished hovering over a thought, to hold it at ransom. She felt alive with this. Not only was the sun hot but also the rocks and hillocks around them seemed afire. They were just as scalding as the sun and added just as much to Soumya’s wandering thoughts.
These hills seem strangely inhabited in spite of the fact that they are not. I cannot but think of these rocks as tread upon. I cannot but think of these lands as lived upon. Maybe someday a long time back someone did live and love over this land. The romanticism of these hills is regularly interrupted by the towns that appear every now and then. These towns were bee-hives of activity. There were small restaurants selling fast-food and each one of them looked and smelled different. Almost all the towns had mechanic shops aplenty. The shops that were closed were no less interesting for they had advertisements on their shutters. Many of those things advertised reminded Soumya of her the ads she saw as a child before cable TV. The towns seemed blanketed with mediocrity, not poverty, not wealth but eternally middle class. The hint of prosperity and glamour we see on the city streets was totally absent among these lives.
Returning to the city was not as easy as leaving it. It was swarming with tired people. It is not very rare when even the cars and bikes, shops and streets seem tired. We never know where this city begins when we enter it. Most of the outskirts of Bangalore seem little different from any town, but it is not long before you are hit by the noise of the city. The city stands up and demands to be taken to notice.
Soumya noticed little of consequence. The trees seem frequent and punctuated by giant buildings in garish colours. The streets are filled with people all of them filled with thoughts. The people are a sight, but the idea that they are all involved in themselves, each walking man has a life, and each man is a world within himself is difficult to comprehend. There is no place for our little child here. If Bala Govinda ever belonged to someplace, it certainly would not be this place. There are just too many lives here to accommodate a celestial lover, or so was Soumya thinking when the parked the car in front of their house.
******************
They drove through the city faster than usual, as the peak-hour traffic was yet to begin. The city seemed like a lost child just waking from sleep to find the world had moved on. Ramya was wearing a dark blue salwar-kameez. She always liked mornings. She missed them ever since she started her job. Beginning in high-school, she got up early to attend tuitions. She just realised that she didn’t like mornings then. Over the years, the necessity of waking early had turned to a habit and in the final years of college a pleasure.
Ramya remembered the house with the tiled roof that she passed by on her way to college. It had a scent she liked. In all those years, she had not been able to find out where the scent came from. It wasn’t pleasant enough to be called a fragrance but nevertheless she liked it when she walked past the house everyday on the way to the bus stop. She always thought she should find out what was it a scent of. Was it a tree? Perhaps it was a shrub behind the high compound wall. Maybe it was just the earth near by. She many a time thought she would regret not finding out its source. She didn’t regret it yet.
As we travel out of Bangalore, I cannot but feel a little sad. Day or night, summer or winter, as we move out of the city we become gradually orphaned. The belongingness that the city provides to its dwellers wanes away into the wilderness of unplanned houses. This perhaps is true for every city, but is more pronounced when leaving Bangalore because as you hit the highway you begin to miss the trees.
Returning to Ramya, she was still wondering about the scent of the tiled house when she was hit by the scent of petrol. They had driven into a petrol bunk to fill the tank for the trip. Ramya hated the smell of petrol and immediately closed the window, but Soumya would not. Ramya screwed up her nose more in anger than the smell. Soumya seemed to take demonic pleasure in Ramya’s discomfort.
The smell of petrol was soon gone and they well on their way. They could see the rocky hillocks completely devoid of any vegetation. Ramya’s mind wandered elsewhere unlike Soumya who seemed to enjoy the surroundings.
I have always wondered if there are places left on this earth where one could still get lost. Maybe there still are in the Amazon. Here you don’t have to travel long before you see a sign-board or a hoarding. Every few miles the hillocks melt away and appears a town or sometimes a village. The same shops repeat themselves; all the shops seem to be named after the same god. The things that make one town distinct from another are probably lost, or maybe never were there in the first place. We are still very close to the city to call the people provincial. They look and dress the same as Bangaloreans. We have to travel farther than what we have planned today to see different people.
Ramya had agreed to come on this trip very easily. She agreed with her mother on the need for this trip. She of course liked the vibe of not only this temple but all temples. She was quite vocal about her devotion to the family deity. She didn’t have to be persuaded to come like her sister.
It is not unnatural these days to come upon a flyover or a bridge quite unexpectedly. They came across one just as they were arriving in Govindapura. As they drove under the fly-over, the shade that enveloped them seemed out of place. This has always been a hot land. The scorching summer sun is something you come to rely upon to torment you. This sudden relief jolted the sisters’ attention. Although Ramya seemed relived Soumya considered the coolness of the shadow almost an intrusion of her thoughts.
They took the deviation off the highway and were now on the small road rounding along the rocky terrain. It was a quiet road but not calming. They would be at the temple in a few minutes. Summer here cam get to be very dreary. Although a lot happens, it does get monotonous in comparison to the splendour of the monsoon. The sky seems like a desolate landscape and the land as abandoned as a cloudless sky.
******
Bala Govinda is a beautiful child. Here stands Lord Krishna in all his splendor, gaiety and mirth. Often the idol of this small infant which is the center of this town, assumes roles very unnatural to it. The eroticised romance of Krishna seems appropriate for this child, as does the retributive wrath of god. People come here to pray for many things, but the one that legends have supported are the prayers for a child. Childless couples come from far and near to pray here to be blessed with a child. Ramya and Soumya were here because this was their ancestral family deity.
Ramya prayed with visible fervor. She made obeisance before our little child and reveled in his beauty. She arranged the fruits and flowers they had brought on the tray in a neat circle before handing it to the priest. The incantations the priest made seemed habitual. Soumya meanwhile sat languidly by the temple wall.
Soumya had walked right into the temple. She saw that Bala Govinda had been same as he had always been. She sat down in the shade and seemed to return to her thoughts. In a few minutes, she began to miss our little child. She rose and walked up to the door of the sanctum-sanctorum. He was still the same. She wondered if he has been so since she was a little girl. She tried to remember if he seemed different when she was a little girl. Shouldn’t he have seemed bigger to a little school-girl she wondered, but could not remember. She seemed almost reluctant to walk away this time.
******
They started back shortly after lunch. Although they had time for a siesta, they could not tolerate the heat and decided to leave at the earliest. Soumya was slow at starting back, but when in the car she resigned to the growing distance from our little child. She hadn’t wondered if she would miss this place or Bala Govinda, probably didn’t need to. She seemed capable of drifting into any place at will in her thoughts.
The road seemed utterly alien as they traveled back although they had been on it just this morning. The newness of the surroundings seemed uncharacteristic because nothing had changed. As the passed under the fly-over, the enveloping shade seemed stifling.
Soumya slowly wandered about the idea that had occupied her most of the day. She relished hovering over a thought, to hold it at ransom. She felt alive with this. Not only was the sun hot but also the rocks and hillocks around them seemed afire. They were just as scalding as the sun and added just as much to Soumya’s wandering thoughts.
These hills seem strangely inhabited in spite of the fact that they are not. I cannot but think of these rocks as tread upon. I cannot but think of these lands as lived upon. Maybe someday a long time back someone did live and love over this land. The romanticism of these hills is regularly interrupted by the towns that appear every now and then. These towns were bee-hives of activity. There were small restaurants selling fast-food and each one of them looked and smelled different. Almost all the towns had mechanic shops aplenty. The shops that were closed were no less interesting for they had advertisements on their shutters. Many of those things advertised reminded Soumya of her the ads she saw as a child before cable TV. The towns seemed blanketed with mediocrity, not poverty, not wealth but eternally middle class. The hint of prosperity and glamour we see on the city streets was totally absent among these lives.
Returning to the city was not as easy as leaving it. It was swarming with tired people. It is not very rare when even the cars and bikes, shops and streets seem tired. We never know where this city begins when we enter it. Most of the outskirts of Bangalore seem little different from any town, but it is not long before you are hit by the noise of the city. The city stands up and demands to be taken to notice.
Soumya noticed little of consequence. The trees seem frequent and punctuated by giant buildings in garish colours. The streets are filled with people all of them filled with thoughts. The people are a sight, but the idea that they are all involved in themselves, each walking man has a life, and each man is a world within himself is difficult to comprehend. There is no place for our little child here. If Bala Govinda ever belonged to someplace, it certainly would not be this place. There are just too many lives here to accommodate a celestial lover, or so was Soumya thinking when the parked the car in front of their house.
******************
