Thursday, May 18, 2006 ||
1:13 PM ||
Nayana
The searing passenger train from Bangalore to Mysore jadedly puffs and pants, and its a sweaty smelly afternoon. The crowded compartment makes me feel dizzy and I resignedly hang on to the heavy metal door, and lean out once in a while, frantically drawing in fresh breaths of the hot air that blows across my face. People everywhere; on the seats, on the shabby floor, on each others laps and up the bag shacks , its sheer dissonance at its worst. The Coffeewaala fervently tries to find some space between entangled legs and strewn about chappals. And then I lock horns with her eyes for the first time. Shes beautiful; must be around nineteen; standing hardly a foot away, her blue dupatta thrown over her head, covering up her hair. The next time our eyes flittingly cross their paths, I notice a faint defiance that amuses me; she starts babbling about in halting English into her cellphone, breaking into an infectious giggle every now and then. She leans against a passenger seat, turning away from me; and brazenly flirts with my attention as the dupatta falls off her shoulders revealing her curly, unwashed hair for a sec. I notice her unkempt nails that have been bitten off without a second thought and a trace of indifference that runs down along the nape of her neck. I fall in love with her this moment; and despise her with an equal passion, the next.RatnaIts a three hour journey that seems longer than usual, to Kushal Nagar from Mysore. At somewhere called Periyapatna I see her clumsily clambering up the creaking steps of the fidgety bus that trudges uphill like an old steed. Around twenty two, shes a tribal; her eyes are a rustic brown, the color of freshly unearthed earth that has fresh mulberry sprouts coming up on either side of the road. She holds on to the railing and refuses to take a seat even as many lie vacant. Her crouching stance retells a story so oft told; of timeless oppression and smothered hurt. She dares not look at anyone, and is fiercely repentant for her unseemly presence. She looks penitently lean to be alive, her collar bones jutting out from beneath her shoulders, her cheeks drawn into two appalling hollows. Shes fearful and apprehensive of the moment that she lives in, and timidly anticipates the next with even more dread.Wrapped around in a drab rag that had long lost its glimmer, shes unambiguously apologetic; for every breath, for being alive. MallikaShes about twenty; dons a chunky khaki overcoat and is sans smiles. We are on a KSRTC express that should hopefully take me to Mysore from Byle Kuppe. Everything about her is pleasantly sober; be it her curious smirk or the listless shrug that she indulges in every now and then. Her fingers animatedly move over the ticket vending machine with a vengeance that finds fulfillment as she sloppily rips the paper strip off. She vigorously fishes around her pockets amidst the clanging of coins and looks exasperated when someone hands over a thousand rupee note. Shes charmingly dark, and pretty. Her earnest attempts to make the broken down DVD player work bite the dust, and she resigns to the hapless condition with a sheepish grin. She finally takes a seat beside the driver, staring at the long, seemingly endless highway that lies ahead. And then it drizzles and the smell of dampened earth brings about a smile on her face...
