Confession of a Hobo

Just before leaving to new places, I have felt a strange calm and have sung to myself many times the CCR chartbuster, “Someone told me long ago/There’s a calm before the storm” It is a calm that has some practical uses too. This calm draws my attention to details; like, have I taken the ticket for my journey? , how much money do I have with me, have taken my toothbrush etc.

It is a heavy calm that  also. It weighs down on me so much that I would have preferred a little disorderliness and haste to this meticulousness. It is a terrible calm that calls to be torn apart.

            I have used both trains and buses equally for traveling and flights sparingly. Buses and trains were the ones I enjoy travelling by. Flights bore me. There is nothing in flying. Travelling by land makes me see the familiar move past the window, to give way to the unfamiliar. Though bus makes me feel claustrophobic, it helps to reflect. I remember once as I travelled from Chennai to Bangalore in a late-night bus, my thoughts ran like train. Sitting in that bus with constant flashes of neon lights on my face through the glass window, I thought and I thought. I don’t remember what I thought; but I treasure those sensations. And I know that those sensations have gone into making me. That night I readied my self for the hypothetical question, that when I travel or if marooned in an island whom would I like to have as company? I would prefer no one.

            Train on the other hand, in my opinion is travelling and destination combined. As I see the world move past, I also have an option to pretend what I am not to the co-passengers. This is a freedom that I can hope for only after arriving at the destination.  This may be the freedom for which I find excuses to move from place to place. But to make this excuse is  very essential too.  To quote Gibran: “For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould. Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall l? A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that gave it wings. Alone must it seek the ether. And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.”

            To pretend, not to be judged by your past, a new-identity are actually way afar. The moment I step out of the bus or train, I suddenly become like a whiff of smoke or wind—unidentifiable, formless. Looking for an address, or sitting in a bus-stop, I become nobody. But soon I realize that, it was also for this I traveled. The calmness that hanged so heavily on me has imploded into this nameless thing.

            

"Is There Anything in the World Sadder Than a Train Standing in the Rain?"

Nothing has talked to me as much as the trains did. I had gone to the beach many times with the intent of listening to the sea.But such sublime things never happened.

I lived near to a suburban metro station in Chennai for almost two years.Neither friends, nor fun or studies have moved me as much as the trains did. During the stay their I developed my innate child-like curiosity for trains.It never became a commonplace thing to me.Everyday of my stay I used to open my doors to see trains as they pass by . To see a goods-train idling on then track, when I go for a evening stroll or a cup of tea, delighted me more than anything.

I feel, there is nothing more representative of life as trains. It moves on whatever happens.

My life in that small cramped room was incessantly punctuated by the noise of trains.It has broken my silence innumerable times.Trains have rammed into my dreams when I was half-asleep. I have clinged to their doors and tops and it had taken me to valleys overlooked by mountains with mist running down it. And the full-moon steadily and persistently glowing over it.

I feel trains are not just means of transport but a principal life-mover.People lead their life depending on trains.People beg, people sing.People get entertained.People fall in love. People get killed.But how much ever their lives are changed by trains, it never stops.It keeps running and generates more stories.

One of my unforgettable experience was when I was crossing the railway tracks.I was on the middle of two tracks. And trains were going on both of them. It trembled me.The wind, as the trains moved past almost stuck me down. I simply closed my eyes. It was a scary and sublime feeling.

Most of the times I tend to think of trains as a living-creatures. Much like a super-anaconda with many sub-species.And that it is possible zoologically study the trains and it's evolution from a single primitive ancestor.
If we were to regress to superstitious beliefs with our technological advancements intact, I think trains will be worshiped as deities. And myths will be made about. It is only our reason that keeps us from doing it; not our instincts.No wonder Pablo Neruda said in one of his poems "Is there anything in the world sadder/than a train standing in the rain?"

Who Said Folk-Music is Dying?

He got on the bus from the IIT-gate stop. And he started playing the his string instrument.(Later when I googled for stringed folk-instruments of India, I found that he was playing 'ektar' one of the main accompaniment of Baul songs of West Bengal.)
He simply stood just behind the bus-driver, leaning against the steel railings. As he played his ‘ektar’ it rang crisply and clearly inside the bus. May be that's when I would have noticed him. Because I never thought that an instrument like that could sound so loud.
After doing up and down from my room to college for an year, by the suburban trains of Chennai, I am used to seeing blind people sing and beg. So much that I recognize some of them. Most of the time, their songs are attempts at arousing pity. Though I don't understand Tamil well, I have observed that people gave money to those who managed to evoke pathos through the lyrics. I consider them a nuisance or sometimes take pity on them, as my whim; but have never tossed even a single coin to them.
I am no music pundit. But listening to him play ‘ektar’ was an intimate and personal experience. It seemed to add life and meaning into the predictable life of mine. I was enchanted. The music seemed to percolate everything around. As bus moved past the Delhi Metro constructions, it added a rhythm into the work in that sultry afternoon. This may be common description of the effect of music, but I experienced it in its full bloom for the first time.
It was pure music. Music without any pretensions. So was the musician--he was just another tramp. Age between 40 to 50, disheveled hair and dirty clothes are ample description of him. His only striking feature was that the tip of his forefinger which was deformed by pressing against the string of ‘ektar’.
He played for twenty minutes before he got down somewhere before Safdarjung airport. There was a sense of generosity that flowed out from him with the music. I said to myself "freely you have received, freely you shall give". There was no haste to collect money and get into another bus. He went to those he saw taking out their wallets or fumbling their pockets. I gave him a generous three rupees. But it took me a little more to realize that he was not a beggar, but a musician. He didn't need no generosity of people like me.
Well, this is not a comparative study of the quality of music among the poor vagrants of India, saying that one should be prudent when giving to them, because economy is in recession. What I am saying is that unadulterated music is sadly missing in popular culture. People are willing to shell out thousands listen to folk music held at a five-star hotels. But it is not just music that is appreciated here, but the paraphernalia associated with such a elite gathering. Who said folk-music is dying? It is well and alive in streets.