Khaki Tales

 Mumbai rains are a celebrity. They are worshipped and enjoyed equivalently. I, too, sit admiring its beauty as the drops pitter-patter on the window planes. The clouds hustle and bustle in the grey expanse like little, eager toddlers waiting to meet their parents after the first day at school. First rains, first love and first day at school are all eternally magical. The streets are washed clean by the torrential downpour. Little, muddy puddles amidst the concrete road cause bumpy agonies making them roads less traveled. The traffic is creating a mayhem at Tilak Nagar, road 19. 

Pom...pim..pom.. the honking cacophony is raising its ugly head. Mumbai rains, traffic and potholes are a great recipe for a perfect disaster. As I sit on my cozy couch, sipping hot chocolate, the gnarly woes outside snarl at me. Licking my frothy, smudged lips I tease the street pandemonium. Somebody has trampled his scooty's snout on her Swift Desire's bonnet lips. The vehicles are not very happy with the sudden surge of desires, and so are the owners hurling smoky profanities at each other. To watch this accidental lust, few bicycles, bikes and carts tow in line. Their zigzag entanglements to watch the Swift Desire in action have further knitted the mesh. Shrieks, yells, yanking and some more baying, it is a perfect musical orchestra!

My chocolate, now cold for I abandoned it over the outside fantasy, curses me for the neglect. As I make a move to hurtle towards the kitchen, a whistling shrill stops me. 

Our hero has arrived. The traffic police of the corner booth makes a Dabhang entry. Sturdy arms swaying and making indefinite arcs in the air. Athletic legs dancing towards the centre stage, our hero takes control of the performance. The spotlight is on him. Circling his moves and expressions alike. He has brought his personal band, the lone whistle that adds piquancy to his moves. He sprints over the potholes, and with a delicate balance lands on the uneven land. Squeezing his agile abilities, he advances towards the arguing snout and lips. Like a benevolent ballet dancer, he spreads his arms and legs to get the whole assembled troop of bicycles and bikes moving. On his toes, the man juts out successful like a long finger pointing the sky. 

His is a rain dance, an artist's untimely performance, the traffic police has sold no tickets yet he has an exuberant audience. Wiping the mist on my window plane, I wish he he has some time to wipe his sweaty brow. Placing aside my cold mug, I pray he has an opportunity to devour hot meals. His grotesque face smiles as the scooty and the desire head towards higher goals. But the smile is short lived as he is summoned for another live performance. This man catches my fancy and the writer in me wants to write his story. Grabbing a rainbow umbrella, I dash to his small chowki. It's 12 noon, the rains have emptied their belly and are now merely growling. Thunders threaten but don't strike, is their stance. 

As people have packed themselves in cubbyholes of homes and offices, the midday brings some relief to our uncanny hero. 

"Dada, I am a writer and wish to write a story on you. Can you help?" My most polite words greet him.

"Time nay Tai! If I could write, why would I swing here left and right?"

"No, no Dada, I will write, you just tell me your story."

"Koi mila nahi kya subah se! Do people like me even have stories? We have histories, long buried past and forgotten memories."

Gosh! Who is the writer amongst us, I wondered.

"So tell me your history, unearth your memories." I pressed the last of toothpaste from the already twisted tube.

"Tai, go do some better work. Write on the plight of roads and the flight of Prime Minister. Not all chaiwalas can run a country and not all traffic police have a story. In fact, none have. Go, don't waste your pearly words, and precious time on me."

"At least tell me your name!" I'm not ready to budge.

He guffawes.

"Arey madam, call me pandu at Tilak Nagar road no.19." He leaves for his next act.

Dejected but not drowned in the rejection, I decide to watch the hero in action but from a distance. Now, everyday I watch him plonked on my cozy couch as he evens the creased surfaces, and paves way for frictionless travel. Sun or rain, his khaki pants and pristine white shirt gamble their way into the most convoluted entanglements. With his witty mind and picky fingers, he gently resolves the fight. Under his big black umbrella, he has the stray for company. On dry afternoons, he shares his tea and parle-g with the little urchins on the street. To the rickety bones, he is a stick and to the drunkard driver, he is the lash! He is fifty shades of unmatched, unaccounted bravery. The puckered faced road is his compatible canvas and his stupendous stage. All day long he performs like a trained artist. His every move in rhythm and co-ordination. Spotlight may or may not be on him, he performs in the dark, too. He definitely has a long history and I'm no worthy of writing his story. 

In the whole hullabaloo, I struggle to remember whether I know his name or not. But unsung heroes never have names their acts define their living. 

Salute to you Mr. Pandu of all Nagars, all gallis and all chowkis.