September Winds

September Winds

September, clutching to the iron rod sitting at the edge on a tempo roof as the vehicle rolls steadily and slowly - like a mesmerised ox - over the thick black road under the cover of tall eucalyptus tree, which are standing to either side of the road like royal soldiers escorting the regal procession. Green fields stretching as long as the eyes can see. The refreshing air. So - Village again. 

The tempo was nearing the edge of Ramala and was picking up speed abruptly. The driver was in a foul mood particularly because half a dozen youngsters from Ramala had not only refused to pay him even a single rupee but also had spoken tersely with him. You can tell the intensity of burning rage inside him by the groan of the tempo's engine - now it was groaning like a mad bull. 

Once the tempo get past Ramala, a soft music began to flow from someone's Nokia handset at full volume, "Suhana safar aur yeah mausam sahi" - this old time hit golden era song, never failed to send a shudder through me, but this time it hit me harder than ever like some kind of nostalgic image or afterimage. Mixed with the September winds the music was forming a unique melody of its own, like ripples in a pond hitting at the edges (I was the edge). 

I looked up at the sky - white bright clouds of the shape of God's chariot were dominating the sky playing hide and seek with the Sun or maybe different Gods were taking turns to talk with Suryadev. The delicate September winds - bearing the reminiscent of going summer and a hint of coming winter - were caressing my whole body. I took a long deep breath. 

Just two days I had spent away from the village and I was already feeling so nostalgic as if years had passed since I had been to the village last. In the rumbling sound of the tempo engine the music had been subdued. So, I started gazing at the tall eucalyptus trees. Tree tops were being brushed by the fast winds, from down here they appeared to me like  a group of enthusiastic little boys dancing in joy. Eyes closed, meditating on the rustling sound of leaves, I was brought back into the world of trees. The image of a big peepal tree flashed into my mind. Yes, I always wanted to be a tree. A peepal tree in particular. The sound of rustling, like Sea waves sending messages from the very depth of it, was deepening inside me. 

I always wanted to be a tree - lost in time, knowing no hurry, standing still like a monk meditating on a mountain peak, not worrying to move or to climb up chasing something, growing for ages, not hurting anyone, receiving sunlight, air and water as necessity like alms. 

Watching trees was almost like meditation - look at a calm face and you will have the grace of it. I love watching trees even more than how I love watching flowers. In fact, I hate how people adore the marvelous beauty and enchanting smell of flowers while no one cares for the tree - its beauty, its calm, its altruism, and selflessness. Why? Flowers as a beauty stood out for us, while selflessness and giving nature of trees have no meaning for us.  

Indian girls are often named after flowers. Gulabo, Padma, kusum, suman, nargis (one of my favourites), kamini, Champa, even English one like jasmine, Marigold, even Rose. But what about names based on trees - Ped, vraksh, vat, Gachh, or babool, tikar, sisam, peepal. No one in my life I had ever heard of having such a name. Instead, we have names like Sagar, the sea; Himanshu, the shiny part of the snow covered mountain peak; Pranay, the oath or promise; the most popular, though, are names resembling God and Goddesses. Such a prejudice. It is unfair, beyond question, of favouring the beauty of flowers over the trees that produce.

"Is that cotton?" 

A man particularly in his late forties or early fifties, sitting against me, bearing a ragged look on his face and of clothes - he had on his body - spoke softly as if afraid to disrupt the continuation of this state. The strong stinging smell coming from him clearly hinting  he hadn't had a bath at least in the last 2-3 days.

I was deep down in musing, obviously I failed to listen. 

"What?" I asked. 

He said pointing at my dark blue t-shirt, "Your shirt - it is made of cotton fabric." 

Cotton fabric, it took time for me to grasp the meaning of the question.

"No!" I said, although I had doubts about that since I have no such talent to recognize the fabric of the cloth right away from either feeling or touch. But  still a cheap shirt like this, mass produced in a factory, couldn't possibly be of such a superior fabric. 

"No. This isn't cotton. This can't be" I insisted.

"It's written on your shirt." He said, and pointed his finger at my chest. His voice bears a calm, easiness and manner - something you should not expect from a man of such appearance.

I looked  at the words written on the shirt. And there it was "Cotton" written in golden yellow coloured font. It's kind of funny how people can read anything written on your shirt while you can't. And when someone points at them you feel like being fooled and surprised by the existence of it, something like how a hero would feel in Bollywood movies when they came to find out their long lost brother in Kumbh Mela. I was surprised too to find 'cotton' written on my shirt, but more than that I was surprised by the fact that this man can actually read English. Impressive! A smile passed by my lips all through the edge of my face. 

"Not like this proves it is made of cotton. Actually, they write anything that comes to their mind. New York, Chicago, Paris, names of celebrities they haven't even heard of. Believe me, they can put anything on here till it look pretty and bring variation in their collection." I explained.

He keept on looking at me or particularly at my t-shirt, as if inquiring about each single thread of its fabric, but he kept silent for a while. 

Only the winds passing between us, brushing our hairs making twirls out of them was stirring the silence between us. His old creased face took on a graver look as he was pondering on the subject. 

"Look, this one is real cotton." he broke the silence. He stretched out his white vest and showed it to me. Because I didn't want to disappoint him, also I had no idea of the real fabric of his cloth as I said before, so I just agreed like a pro, "Yes, this is pure cotton." 

"But this one too is a slight mixture. Pure nowadays is hard to find - Rare." he added.

"But gold too can never be pure." I remarked.

He released a chuckle, admiringly looked at me, fixed his hips back and forth as they were moved to the edge when tempo (we call it 'magic' here) was getting past a tractor. 

"Exactly, pure gold will break like clay. Pure will be like a mould of clay, you put it right." Saying that much he looks above, his gaze fixed somewhere far off into the empty sky picturing the pure gold breaking like clay. 

"That's what mixture is for, they add some qualities, while retaining their originality. Same goes for the cotton, which is not that rugged and firm. Adding acrylic or something like that make them stronger, kind of increases their life." I elaborated.

"Cotton is cotton, though. It has its own comfort, though it burns like wood. Puff."

I thought about it for a second, cotton burning like "puff", wasn't fitting for the cotton according to me, though I was unsureof it, so keep quiet and though better to delve into this matter before furthering any dumb comment. "Hmm." I nodded my neck like it was some secret revelation to me.

Then again silence slipped between us. Reverting his attention to the passing fields he seem to be enjoying the view, leaving me in a case of confusion. 

Cotton and Gold - what an analogy it's like comparing tree and flower. Whenever I think about Gold this same story comes to my mind like an afterthought being attached to this material's property. In this story a king was blessed (or cursed) with the power of turning anything to gold just by touching something with his hands. At last, he ended up turning his own daughter into a statue. I kind of feel bad for the little girl who had no idea of her father's greed or power and was turned into a gold statue.

While I was busy in those thoughts the man spoke again, hardly looking at me, "Goldsmiths are wicked men though. You put them at loose and they will do their mischief. Thieves are what they are. They cut that small pieces from our jewellery and then later sell them for thousands."

I listened uninterestedly, tempo picked up a good speed accidently and made me tighten my grip on the iron bar at the edges. The men then started mentioning one of his personal instances where a goldsmith tried to swindle him, though the man was at his guard, therefore, he succeeded in catching the goldsmith at the right time, thereby the man was saved from swindling. People usually talk about these types of instances in trains or buses or sitting at the top of a tempo. They exaggerate and boast about these things with pride, but no one dares to tell their tales of being swindled or robbed. That would be more interesting, in my opinion. 

I continued to pretend as if I was listening.

 "Exactly," I said, as he stopped at last. Though, some second later he speaks again with a weight of gold in his voice. He said, "Beta always remember - Goldsmiths, smoking, and drinking, they can't be stopped."

'Goldsmiths, smoking and drinking. They can't be stopped.' I mentally repeated the line in an exact way. But everything is possible in this modern world. Not sure of goldsmiths, but at least drinking and smoking are no such absolute brute force now, I have seen  people beating it. I wanted to say the same to the old man but he seemed to be enjoying the afterglow of the conversation, and I felt it was not right to disturb him. 

Sitting as before, looking at the wide open green fields he seemed to be quietly enjoying the passing wind, no thought seemed to bother him anymore. He was smiling a very satisfying smile, his face seemed to deaged at least ten years. Smiling, I too resumed  listening to the September wind sing. 

At that very moment, two strangers, very different in every aspect - age, taste, appearance - were connected by the wind. Both of us were smiling and enjoying the wind singing. I wonder whether his name wasn't related to the tree - "Ped", perhaps.

"Is your name Ped," I asked without moving my lips, of course, no answer came, but a smile - a big smile like a smile being sent from a different world. 

Shrugging off I started looking at the passing view and was plugged with a song in the background soon.

Country Road Please take me home

Country Road

la la la

la la la laaa.

Country Road.