Sleepless, senseless, timeless - yet ticking!

Ever experienced traveling in an ‘all-senses-blocked’ state on a three hour train journey? I did. And this time, for once, the root cause is not the all encompassing melancholic aura of within and without that keeps me company 24/7. Take a generous measure of early morning wake up blues (anything in the time machine that reflects between 2 am and 9 am is wee hours of dawn for a perpetual insomniac), add a large tablespoon of sinusitis to it, squeeze a dash of migraine and sprinkle it with unlimited amounts of anti-all pain overnight sedatives whose only side effect and maybe effect too, is sleep like a log or act like a zombie. Ready to serve is the rare ‘benumbed high’ for the physical, mental, emotional, spiritual and all other beings that exist in one’s self.
The never-ending arguments with mom, dad’s never heeded words of wisdom, the stinking toilets left un-flushed by a bee line of never-mattered relations, the never diminishing pile of dishes and leftovers and the never fading rancid hangover after a never-required family gathering (where everyone except all those who matter most in the family eat, drink, enjoy and comment) forms the perfect backdrop. In the forefront we have the word’s worthy trees, mountains, hills and valleys and the not-to-mention worthy drainage pipes, dilapidated hutments, non-functional signal posts, powerless power houses, heaps of garbage and an endless list, which, thanks to my benumbed state I cannot recollect. We in the train seem to be running to catch up on time and they outside seem to compete by moving back into timelessness. In this tussle of on time performance vs. eternal timelessness, words take shape like a warning knell, “Monica, there is so much more to explore beyond abyss. Try diving even deeper sometime”, suggests a worthy writer friend (for anyone who calims to be a reader his works on http://ankurkr.blogspot.com/ are a must read!), whose words truly matter. Let me try. Enviously I look up to a co-passenger regurgitating ‘OM’ with every breath. Before I can meditate upon the benefits, his half open eyes, squinting to read ‘Abu Salem’s 7 day custody’ news report and half-closed soothingly enjoying every bulging shape of the female anatomy, catch my quick attention making me look down in disgust. The TC passes by like the seconds hand of an ancient clock, seldom noticed. In this over-full reservation compartment which has no striking features that distinguish it from the general bogie, our friend the TC, knows just who to ask for a reservation and earn his butter, considering the government already provides the bread. I marvel at the uncanny wisdom that makes him sense ‘right’ (pun intended). While our merry man moves on to pounce on his next target, the train halts triumphantly having achieved its half-target. The station demands attention. For once I am glad that there are no expectant eyes awaiting my arrival and no plastic smiles awaiting my departure. The unceasing ranting of the food seller is an open challenge to the chanting of the one possessed by the devil’s enemy. Amidst the chaos, my rumbling tummy if not my sound proof ears reflexively responds to the music in Sunderlal’s cutlet-omlette breakfast call. I bet the sight or even the sound of mouth-watering food can stimulate a deadened spirit. Suddenly everyone seems to lose interest in everything. Newspapers, page 3 discussions, anatomy, physiology, whining kids, cell phones, pack of cards, cat fights and dog watches all take a back seat as the food plate rules. Idli, wada-pav, bhajia and gathiya seem to devour all attention. While everyone is lost in the thought for food, the tunes of metal (copper coins against aluminium bowls) strike chord, just that, “aulad valon and garibon ki suno” fail to melt anyone to tears. Some consider the begging bowl deserving the remains on their plate and of their pocket while others raise an eye brow over the deserving character in question. Suddenly, like the dull anti-climax of a thriller post intermission, the post meal journey too is lulled by sleep. The inside window activities cease and the outside window scenes dissolve into nothingness as my heavily laden eyelids bow down in obeisance to Hypnos.
The continuous buzzing of alarms, ringing of cell phones and monotony of this is Dadar station on Central Railway brings me back to a slow consciousness. It the craving for a cup of black coffee that makes me drag myself to the door. Being thrown on the platform, luggage et al is a mere deja vous. It is the tucking at my sleeve, the urgency in the feet surrounding me and the ever-duplicating queue at the ticket counter that forces me back into action. This city never sleeps. It is time to say Good Morning or maybe Good god, morning?

-Monica