8
May

the road traveled

   Posted by: rads   in fable

I travel for a living.

I spend more time on wheels than on the ground, firm and rooted. It’s a job I’ve grown to love, hate and now I go through the motions with as much apathy I can muster. I had given up on a steady relationship with anyone and enough to find a significant other. I speak to my parents while waiting for connecting flights or picking up my dry cleaning. I do not have a postal address of my own. I do not own or rent digs of my own, and I do not worry about paying my bills. I do not have a favorite restaurant and neither do I worry about buying cereal for breakfast.

The job has its perks. Yes, it does. I see places, meet people and get to experience, albeit forcefully and not always pleasant, various degrees of weather, culture, comforts, languages, habits and people.
The people.

As universally alike a species we are, the differences between each within a group, community, organization and geographical area are subtle. The nuances that make each tick (or not), the habits that define each, the society that surrounds each, the languages that enhance the accents. What at first was an inconvenience and an annoyance, slowly grew on me. I took in the differences with caution, on guard and realized quickly, that the similarities I saw in the differences, fascinated me. Initially it was about figuring out why they did what they did, or why the person thought what he did. Am not sure, when it happened, but the ‘why’ phased out to a ‘what’. It seemed to remove a fair amount of stress and tension within me. It was information gathering rather than reasoning. The ‘what’ was more than enough.

I was not a talker. I liked my peace and quiet, the voices in my head creating enough chatter to not want anymore from outside. I was not the kind of guy who’d strike a conversation with you in the next seat just coz we both were reading the same article on the New York Times, or headed to the same destination. I was not one who cared to network, and no sir, I did not own a LinkedIn account. That does not mean I have an invisible wall around me. I have now come to realize the signs of the occasional traveler. They *want* to talk. To tell all, to the person next to them, to ease the jitters of the travel.

I once met an old German lady who told me vivid and intricate details of her stay in Hannover during the regime. For three hours she spoke at length of names, people, marxists and the storekeeper and the baker’s lives of the past. She helps translate German literature works for an International Organization in the city. Her son had married a second generation Egyptian-American and her daughter lives with a professional wrestler in the Bronx. She opened a little black book to run through the names of her grandchildren she couldn’t recall. A powerhouse in that short 5 foot frame she carried as she waved me goodbye.

Then there was this one handsome cab driver in DC, my very first eye-opener to when I sub-consciously quit asking ‘why’, say 13 years ago.

‘What’ ticked him to drive a cab late into the night was my question instead. Me, in my polished shoes and an expensive overcoat huddled into the line at the airport, caught this young man’s attention. He approached me and in  soft African accent asked:
“Sir, Maryland or the suburbs here?”
“Suburbs.”
“Can I give you a ride? Or would you rather wait another 20 minutes?”

I hesitate. I was still young and my frame still boyish. Being accosted by a strange yet polished man without a visible cabbie license at the airport at 11 in the night did wake my sensors.

“Sir, I live in the suburbs. About 10 miles away. I need to get home and this is my final ride. Didn’t want to wait another 30 minutes to discover no one wanted to go south and then I drive home alone.”

His frankness was appealing. I nod my head, heave my attache across my shoulder and follow him. Surely, he looked safe. Once we ease into the highway, he nods at me through the mirror.

“So what do u do sir?”
“The usual. Work and travel for a living” I reply in a non-committal tone, to dissuade further conversation. It was late and all I wanted to do was check in and sleep.

He smiles and focuses on navigating the three lanes towards merging.

“This isn’t what I do all day sir.” he states as a matter of fact, with an air of self-assurance that he could indeed read my mind.

“Oh! so what do you do?”
“I write code. As in software code. I work for CACI, have been for the past 8 years”

My eyes blink out any vestige of sleep left in them, and I smile, visibly surprised.

“Really? That’s great. DC area is chock full of government contracts I hear?” Taking care to not sound overly condescending or surprised that he was actually driving a cab for me, and in all reality could very well be earning more than I did!

“Yeah, that’s why I love this place. I came here about 12 years ago, did an odd job here and there, put myself through school and learnt how to code. It pays well, my wife doesn’t work anymore, have a home in the ‘burbs and kids are all at home.”
Questions pop before I can even process them.
“Where are you from?”
“Ethiopia. Came in as a refugee. Times were tough back there..”
“It’s neat that you took this opportunity and are doing well. You have kids, you said?”
“Yes sir, we got to do what we got to do. Have three kids. The last one’s a baby, and she’s a darling. Look, here I have them.” Pointing to a small postcard on the dashboard “Coding’s been good to me so far. Love my job, love what I do. Both during the day and evening” He smiled.

Silence.
There is a burning question in my head and I blurt it out before I could process the elegance and the respectability of it.

“So you like to drive?”
He laughs.

“No sir, I sit at the computer all day. It gets lonely after a while. I make money, I play with my kids for a bit in the evenings, talk to my wife and I do have friends around, but that’s not what life is all about now is it? I love people. I love their stories. As a cabbie, at the airport, I meet at least two interesting people a week. The money I get is small change to how rich my thoughts are when I lay down at night. It’s always the people. So many lovely wonderful people out there. You know that don’t you, sir?”

We smile at each other through the rearview.

It’s always about the people. The people you meet along the road you travel.

Gotta love the road.

 

4 Comments
20
Mar

hello

   Posted by: rads   in fable

A short story I had written a couple of years ago that was lost for a very long time in the drafts.

***

I settle into my seat in the A/C first class coach and look at the elderly gentleman across. Thick silver hair neatly combed to the side, clean-shaven with a pair of bright eyes behind the steel glasses, a classic picture of a retired college professor. His daughter had asked me to “keep an eye” on her father at the Chennai station. The man though elderly with his best years behind him didn’t look like he needed any help whatsoever. I was a little worried he’d start a conversation that would keep going, in bits and pieces till he knew me inside out. The kinds of friendships one strikes while sitting in 36 hour train journeys like we were stuck in. Not to be rude or anything but I had a lot on my own plate and needed this time to be alone wth my own thoughts.

20 minutes into the journey, the old man whips a shiny black Nokia cell, dials, waits for a few minutes and speaks into it.

“Hello! aahh, hello, it’s me. So what are you doing? Me? I just had my coffee and wanted to talk to you. Did you take your medicine? The blue pill? Oh good, how about the white one? Make sure you drink enough water with it. Doctor said it could upset your stomach. Yes yes, I am fine. Nithya made me some idlis this morning, but the chutney wasn’t like yours. She tries to follow your way of cooking, but what to do, she has to satisfy our son-in-law too right?” He chuckles.

After a few minutes he hangs up with a wistful smile on his face and our eyes meet. He explains as a matter of fact.

“My wife. I have to remind her to take medicines, or she will forget. You know how women are, always very busy in the kitchen and children. You are married?“

I nod my head, smile to convey; “I know how women are” and poke my head back behind the newspaper.

The train lurches along pausing and gaining speed and we pull into Vijayawada. I get up to stretch my legs and perhaps find something to eat. I look at him and ask if he needed anything?

“Oh no no, my daughter has packed some curd rice with pickle. This outside food always upsets my stomach and at my age I cannot afford to fall sick. Just a burden on the children no? But is it okay to get down, the train will stop here for a little while no?” He asks anxiously.

I assure him we have a 20-minute wait and if Indian Railways were to be trusted, we will have at least 10 more too.

While I buy some bottled water, he walks around with his palms clasped behind him. Surveying the passengers and the conversations beyond them. I see him dial a number but hang up after listening a few seconds. I nod at him and lead the way back into the coach.

After slurping through his curd rice, he dials again. This time he spoke: “Hello! ahh hello, it’s me, had lunch? Yes, I ate. Nithya packed some curd rice for me. Her little one creates such a ruckus this morning. Nithya has so much trouble handling him alone with her work at office and the father doesn’t help much, so she has to do all by herself. No no, she is alright. After all whose daughter is she? Don’t worry ma, our daughter is strong, just like you. We have done our job, and if we have done it well, then she will be just fine. What do you say? Okay, you go take rest now. Remember to take that green pill okay? Alright.”

He climbs up onto his berth and very soon I hear soft snores filter down. I watch the fields and the barren ground rush past me through the hazy smoggy window, mirroring my mind.

The gentleman made calls every few hours. I was compelled to listen to him; a veritable mix of proximity in space and mind. The tones varied from tenderness to admonishments, to care, love and assurance. The camaraderie and the lightness with which he and his wife carried on a conversation was enviable.

He always hung up with a smile. Occasionally wistful, sometimes as if the smile bore a weight, sometimes it never made it to his crinkly eyes, but smile he did. He’d throw his head back and close his eyes, almost like he was re-living the call. His cell phone clutched to his chest across delicately weathered fingers. He’d then open his eyes; offer a small monolog of explanation, a remnant that hung around in the air. He’d then polish the piece with the back of his shirt sleeve, and tell me for the umpteenth time that this was a gift his daughter got him on his birthday a few months ago, so he could call and stay in touch. He’d beam with fatherly pride and place it in his shirt pocket and continue reading a well-worn copy of Rajaji’s Mahabharatha.

“Are we at Gwalior? My wife grew up here you know? I came to this city just once to see her in 1962. She loves the place, not me. I am a true Chennai-ite at heart. The bookstall is still here?!” He laughs and slips back into silence.

A bad tepid coffee and some Marie biscuits later, he pulls out a small plastic album. Hesitating for only a few brief seconds, he points at each different picture. Scrawny fingers jabbing at images, jostling with the rasp in his voice. I thought I heard his voice tremble just a bit as he paused longer on the last picture. It was one of his wife and a little girl. Replicas in the way their gaze held the camera, the lips that curved with the weight of the shyness, the way they clasped their hands in their laps. His son’s daughter. The one he is going to visit now.

“Hello! ahhh, yes, it’s me. Am almost there, another few hours and I will be at Vishwa’s house. Did you take your medication? I took mine. Yes, even the eye drops too. Oh, btw, we passed by Gwalior this morning. You remember the station bookstall on platform 3? It’s still there.” Voice fills with excitement and raising just a bit high. “Time files no? The children grow fast don’t they? Yes ma, Vishwa will take care of me, he always does. Sometimes he gets upset and that’s only because he is going through the family stage, or else he’s a patient boy. I will be quiet and see in what way I can help at their home. Ok? I won’t say a word. Are you happy now? Okay, I think we are coming close to the station, I should pack up. Don’t want to keep him waiting, he will be rushing to work, today’s Tuesday no? Okay, I will keep the phone down now. Alright.”

We wait with his suitcase on the slowly emptying platform. I look at my watch and propose he use his cell and call his son.

“No no, he will be here any minute. Must be Delhi’s traffic. I hear it takes 30 minutes to cross 2 kilometers these days.”

Shortly, a handsome young man of my age darts across and with a show of recognition, approaches us. “Sorry dad, it’s the traffic. Had a good journey?”

“See, I told you, it was the traffic“. He says to me and then turns towards his son: “This young man has been a big help on the train.“

I shake my head, and smile, turning to leave, and the father and son follow.

With just a step ahead of the father, the son walks alongside of me, drops his voice and asks: “I hope my dad didn’t trouble you. He tends to talk a lot these days. He feels lonely, my mother just passed away three months ago.”

 ***

 Back in Chennai, Nithya, pauses at the answering machine on her way out the door to work, and with a practiced heavy hand, hits the ‘delete’ button.

 

 

10 Comments
7
Aug

showstopper

   Posted by: rads   in fable, prompts

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #219 for August 5th, 2011

Your character walks into a room of people. Everything goes uncomfortably silent and all eyes narrow in on your character.  Now keep writing.
***

Am obviously a little late, but the prompt intrigued me enough to want to take a stab at it, so here goes.

***

All eyes turned towards me as I almost fell into room. The carpet had ripped at the entrance, thanks to our new canine friend we adopted just a month ago. I was, after all, the man of the moment and I had walked into the room bringing with me gasps. Of pin drop silence and shock.

In anticipation of celebrations, family and friends had traveled from far and wide. Including the frenemies that we, as a family could not ignore.

To give you perspective, I was getting dressed for the evening and in a moment of unbridled happiness and not waiting for further instructions on the evening’s schedule, I dart across my room and into the corridors. Hearing the voices from the larger room that we usually host people for drinks, I make my way up towards  it. I didn’t find a soul on my way and I wondered at my good fortune. What are the chances of given free reign in your own home, without a man not given instructions on how to dress, walk, stand when there was company under the roof?

Nada.

One makes hay while the sun shines. In this case, run untethered and unencumbered. The door was wide open and sounds of glasses clinking mixed with my Uncle’s baritone guttural laughter greeted me. My cousins were at their wildest best, and I presume they must also have an inkling on this untethered atmosphere, coz out barged two of the best dressed ones and ran the other way. Right on their heels was my older cousin, the bully. I remember being very intimidated by this guy as he was a head taller than me and was not afraid of using that height. He did not see me and had eyes on the girls. It was at this particular moment, I walked into an atmosphere of revelry and laughter, only to stifle it all in a moment. All my peers, stopped in their tracks and stared. Aunties covered their open mouths with the edges of their pallus, some mouths still stuffed with the remains of half eaten samosas. Uncles stopped mid-way through their drinks and one coughed up half of some really expensive 60’s wine.

Oblivious to the split second reaction I produced, I still had the grin on my face and beamed all around.
It was at this juncture that my cousin brother stepped in from behind me and started laughing, his normally brown face now going a deep crimson.
That was all the cue everyone else needed, and the whole room burst into loud, undisguised mirth. The kids pointed their fingers at me and laughed, the ladies chided and yet again covered their faces and mouths and laughed and the uncles guffawed.
It felt odd.
It did not seem like they were happy and laughing with me, they were laughing at me.

You see, I was naked.
Butt naked. Not a single shred of cloth covered any part of me.
My hair all tousled and unbound falling in long tendrils across my forehead and neck.
My fair chest, hairless with fat in folds and hanging loose.
My member out there in all its moderate glory.
My dimpled knees in plain view

And just like that my favorite aunt rushes forward, scoops me into her arms and around her large dupatta and sings softly “happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you” as everyone else joins in.

I had turned three years old.

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