MORNING CHATTER

September 26, 2011 >> 6:30 am to 8 am – Observations, Opinions and Optimism

Ignorance has become a virtue. Lethargy has become a habit. Staying awake almost till 3 AM is something, I was never accustomed to. From past eight years, I have adapted myself to this new addiction. Some call me an owl. Some call me an abnormal jerk. Some believe I browse through the wide encyclopedia of porn sites. Some claim I am always on facebook. Being on facebook is definitely no less of a sin.

I am a sinner for sure. One of my present high ranked colleagues, tried to criticize me by using some heavy duty words like – YOU ARE ALWAYS FOUND ENGAGING YOURSELF IN OPTIMIZING SOCIALLY NETWORKED COMMUNICATION (I possess the mail that he had written. But I can’t reproduce it due to bullshit reasons). Not for once, did I react to this comment of his by inquiring as to why his Blackberry keeps beeping incessantly? He is mostly busy with BBM, WhatsApp, LinkedIn, facebook or for sure twitter updates. I am still clueless about his pathetic hairstyle. On most occasions, he tries to make me understand my work profile rather than improving his. I am not interested in making an opinion about him. He matters to me no more. But the chatter continues.

The chatter is of unfavorable nature. Sometimes these chatters are uninspiring, insulting and baseless. At times it is supported by an equal dose of negative chatter by an ex-airhostess, who is now supposed to be driving the organization closer; to its dream of being BIG. For the past few days, I have wanted to liberate myself of this negative chatter. I was keen to sacrifice ignorance, surrender being lethargic and stop being awake till 3 AM (Sadly, I still am staying awake. I slept at 3.10 AM last night).

I had to make a fresh beginning and get accustomed to a new chatter; the morning chatter. So I chose today’s morning (September 26, 2011); brighter, bolder and beautiful. I pulled my socks, fished out my jogging gear, gently shut the door behind and ran down the staircase like a little child. Unlocking the main gate, I started walking. At a brisker pace, traversing through different altitudes; I made it to the road I have preferred last six years for my morning walks. The monsoons have left it nothing less of a beaten path. The potholes have transformed into craters. It was dusty, dirty and devastating. For a moment, I cursed myself for having started so late at 6:30 am. At least during the slightly darker shade of dawn, I could have saved myself of this ghastly sight. Trucks had started plying, leaving behind an even thicker trail of dust. Coughing, puffing and almost feeling suffocated; I started proceeding on the road towards the old Mumbai-Pune highway.

My first encounter as usual was with the three middle aged ladies, who have by now earned them a veteran’s reputation in morning walks. One of them in spite of having walked miles looks sleepy to the core. The second one is still losing extra pounds. The third one is neither fat nor slim and still burning her calories off, maybe to continue being fit. After I crossed them, I reached a certain point of the road where on the left is an endless lineup of tall woods. I simply love this place. It is closer to my heart because it reminds me of my younger aunt’s native town Jhargram (a Maoist dominated zone) in West Bengal. From between the tall trees, the rising sun’s visibility is simply amazing. Changing colors, rising higher and letting its rays enlighten the entire earth; the sight never fails to mesmerize. Thankfully I never corrupt by blocking my ears with a headphone that might be playing favorite English, Bengali, Hindi and Marathi chartbusters. This really helps. I get to enjoy the chirping of birds, the buzzing of bees, the collision of long palms, the brushing of dry leaves and the sound of my own footsteps. I am sure no music is as melodious as nature’s own. People prone to playing music on their mobile phones at this hour of the day are really losing out on something that might soon become an endangered experience.

As I proceed, I see the abandoned petrol pump. A gruesome murder, a shocking conspiracy and millions of unbelievable controversies made it down its shutters to us bikers. I still remember one day, while I was walking the same path I had seen a dead body close to it and never thought that it was the first lone chapter of a series of murders that would take place. Two days later, the owner of this petrol pump was shot dead. Two political leaders were arrested. Three employees of the petrol pump were also put behind bars for being co-conspirators. Today the petrol pump has become a haven for senior citizens. They sit on its steps. They sleep on the little green patchworks of grass near the entrance. Some practice yoga and a group of youngsters smoke cigarettes there. They might not be having any idea that the abandoned petrol pump still has some fuel left in its tanks. Standing opposite to the petrol pump is a huge ground. A sporting club gathers kids and people of every age group to indulge in various sporting activities.

Going a little ahead, I see another abandoned site. A cluster of well planned bungalows stand unoccupied. During this festive season of navratri, people come here to play garba. But even during mornings, this place looks scary. I had once attempted entering this place. It looks like a gangland of dogs. They are dangerous. Every abandoned bungalow is a heaven to four or five dogs. Instead of people, this place is a township of dogs. They keep barking. Sometimes they even chase fellow joggers away. It might have been one lucky day of my life when I earned their ignorance and not their attention. Stepping out of there, I see the many small shops that have cropped up. These shops are selling everything from condoms to cigarettes, from chocolates to soaps and from pens to sanitary napkins. I am yet to figure out, which part of the world goes to this place to purchase these things. Maybe it is beneficial to an adjacent industrial area on the other side of the highway.

I continue with my walk and I see a beeline of women with pitchers on their heads. These women belong to a very discreet community of fortune tellers. Their men leave homes at 7 AM in the morning and travel in groups. Strange but true, they prefer wearing whites. Clean shaved and speaking rustic language, there is no dearth of machismo in these men. They maintain a good hygiene and are smart enough to end up looking like top paid executives. The only typicality that separates them from us is the presence of a four legged animal, which continues walking with them. It is an ox. These are no ordinary ox. Some have a fifth leg leaping out of humps. They are considered either miraculous ox, sacred or blessed with special powers. At times I have seen these men hire trucks and carrying herds of ox to destinations. This community roams around in cities. They claim to know the language of the ox. In front of many they strike a conversation with the ox. Alongside they keep playing a drum. They bounce questions at the ox and it starts shaking its neck either giving consent to what is asked or negating. People literally end up paying generous sums of money to know their fortunes well. These guys are face readers too and deserve good positions in advertising for knowing their target audience too well. Shifting my focus to the women of this community, they are the hardworking team of goodwill ambassadors. In the entire course of day, till their men come back home they indulge themselves with the mammoth task of housekeeping. Filling water, cooking food, childcare, feeding animals, bathing livestock are some of the vital responsibilities which rest on their shoulders. Living in groups and close knit shanties, no family is different. Everyone is family. Marriages happen within the community while some dare to run away with freelancing lovers and return back being pregnant or being sold. These women or in particular this community of fortune tellers are highly illiterate. The women are extremely beautiful, tall and as rustic as the men. Their attire resembles the dress code of ancient Maratha women. The married women festoon their foreheads with a large bindi. Their noses are pierced and wear huge nose rings. Normally preferring to walk barefoot, the new generation is opting for backups in the form of overused footwear.

Leaving all these behind, I make it to the highway and start jogging briskly. To my right is a huge pipeline which continues endlessly. I keep jogging till the main entrance of the industrial sector. At corners are standing few women (they are employed with small scale industrial units), who cannot help gaping at my handle moustache, retro hair locks and my jogging gear. I don’t pay much attention though, cross the road carefully to avoid meeting with a second accident in the same year and start jogging back to the turn which will take me back to my home.

I start returning back home. There is a change of scene, I can literally sense. The beeline of semi clad women is now replaced with a queue of kids waiting for their school buses. Their parents are standing alongside and looking at their watches to avoid being late marked to work. Some couples (mostly college going) walk briskly to make use of whatever time is available to them. Rickshaws have started ferrying millions of employees of billions of employers to the railway station from where they will begin a journey to their source of monthly incomes. Beneath a huge light pole a huge group of women had assembled to board their buses to the industrial sector. Some are carrying too much of makeup on them. Some are gossiping. Some are quietly observing every guy who passes by to judge if one of them takes a second look at them. I always end up looking at them for the thrill they pack up to leave for their workplace. They keep smiling, putting behind worries of an otherwise hectic lifestyle.

I descend a huge slopping road and stop at my newspaper vendor’s little outlet. His daughter-in-law hands me a copy of the Hindustan Times (subscribed for two years). I start walking towards my home. Few neighbors are happy to see me out for jogging. I think by now they have tagged me an alien who is seen leaving home in the morning but is never known to be returning back. I too am pleased to see their smiles, which are punctuated with millions of questions flooding their minds.

Sweating, breathless and a little tired for being the first day; I climb to Level 1 of my home. After unlocking the main door, I choose to spend some time at the verandah. Few minutes later, I see a flock of Indian parrots flying in and descending on a huge coconut palm. I look around and find a beautiful butterfly sitting on the marigold flower in my mom’s garden. I try taking a snap but it flies away. After 15 minutes my mobile rings and I suddenly realize, the desirable Morning Chatter is over and I once again have to get busy with professional life. (I never mind attending to smses from friends or their phone calls.)

But for the sake of promises I have made to myself and the many assurances made to my friends, I seriously want to continue experiencing this morning chatter. Maybe one month down the line, I will end up wearing a few abandoned trousers and a heap of forgotten formal shirts. And I shall go back to my most revered Morning Chatter, start skipping with a rope and keep writing about the experiences.

Till then… let me get back to what I call ‘DISCOVERING THE BIG MEANING OF LIFE’.

-vociferous\loves going footloose