I Will Take You There – Part 1

I have been driving on a road that is bordered by nothing. The sun is shining at its best and the dust is everywhere. At times like these, you realise everything being at its best is not always desired. My view is so monotonous, it seems I am going deep into a painting for which the painter has used just one tube of color – Yellow. Everything is just a variant of it. If looked at from my behind, the only other color you would see is Green – My green helmet and the dark green scooter. I am wearing a light yellow shirt which has turned a few shades darker after getting drenched in the sweat. It is so hot, my face has been continually wet. The sweat buds are secreting at a rate much faster than the sun can evaporate. But I have to go on. I can’t stop. How often do you get to actually get inside a painting? I am in a painting, forever. And I am supposed to be so because my creator has decided so. The painting hangs in the drawing room of his moss-ridden bungalow erected some one century back. From the very few of the few visitors he has, I hear

• This painting. This one. ‘Man On The Road’. It’s beautiful.
• It depicts the life of every man out there and of course, not to sound sexist, or what do they call these days, male chauvinist pig, of woman. He / She must go on, forever.

I remember when I came to this bungalow forty years back. I had come to the town in search of a man who was believed to possess the power of teleportation. It was a village located in the dry land of Vidarbha. The nearest town was Yavatmal. It was a six hours journey from the bus stand to the village by a bullock-cart. After getting down from the cart, I looked around for a person, anyone, but there was none. And I was the only one who got down there. So I waited. After 2 hours, at around 3:00 pm, I spotted a man with unusually thick legs and a big head coming down the road. When he was closer, I realised it was not a big head but a small head with a big turban. The legs weren’t thick either, it was his Dhoti ballooned by the hot wind blowing everywhere. When he was within audible range, I

• Sir. Do you know where is Sikandar’s Bungalow?
• Did you call me Sir, sir?
• Umm. Yes.
• No one has ever called me Sir. Sir, I am yours forever. From today Sir, I am your slave.

I felt this man was high on some very strong drug but then

• You want to go to Sikandar’s Bungalow, Sir? I will take you there.
• How?
• You will ride me, Sir.
• What? Have you gone mad?
• Sir, I can become bicycle, Sir.
• What?
• Yes Sir. See.

They say the average time it takes to blink is 3/10th to 4/10th of a second. In that interval of time, when my eye lids slowly moved down, gliding over my eye-balls, moistening them in the course, and then lifted up, something bizarre happened, and in front of me was a bicycle standing. I felt a strong Thunk inside my head. I lifted my suitcase, and ran away as fast as I could and stood at almost 300 metres away from it. I shouted for help but except for the sound of blowing wind, nothing came to my rescue. I might have stared at it for almost 15 minutes before approaching it again. With no sign of any other soul anywhere, I decided to touch it. And it was a metal bicycle. As normal as mine was, back at my home. I tied my suitcase to the back carrier and climbed upon it. It was then that I realised I had no direction to follow. I started riding it on the mud road that diverted from the main road, assuming that was where the village should be. After riding for almost a minute, I realised it wasn’t me who was deciding the direction. The front wheel was taking its own course, automatically. ‘I will take you there’. I was so scared that I instantly applied both the brakes, but as my sub-conscious was expecting, nothing happened. I looked down and saw that there were no teeth attached to the brake wire. So, I was riding a bicycle which was earlier a person, which was getting ridden on its own and was without brakes. I immediately thought of jumping off it but then, as they say, your mind plays games, I thought it was not actually a bad idea. I had not been harmed in any way. And so, after half an hour of the ride, I was standing with my suitcase in my right hand in front of a magnificent bungalow, three storeys high, with turrets and many windows (all covered with white curtains from inside), constructed in the Victorian Style. When my awe came to an end and alertness took over, I looked at the bicycle, but found instead the turbaned man standing there, smiling at me.

• Who are you?
• I am your slave, sir.
• How did you become a bicycle?
• That, I don’t know sir.
• What do you mean you don’t know?
• I don’t know, sir. I become what I want to.
• How?
• I don’t know sir. Sir, how does life get inside a mother’s womb?
• What do you mean?
• How did you become a living person from a dead lump of muscles inside your mother?
• I don’t know.
• See, you become a person. How? You don’t know. Similarly, I become what I want to. How? I don’t know, sir.

I never expected an informed perplexing argument from this man who called himself my slave.

• Is this Sikandar’s Bungalow?
• Yes, sir. Do you doubt your slave, Sir?

In that question of his, I sensed a hidden rage. It was in the way he said Sir. I think I saw him clenching his teeth. With an aim of not inviting any trouble, I decided to go ahead and knock the door.

• You can go now. Thank you for the ride.
• I cannot go anywhere, sir.
• What do you mean by that?
• I am yours, sir. You have to keep me. I can become your hat, sir.

And he immediately turned into a grey-colored hat. I had to pick it up. So I did. I put on that hat, walked towards the door and knocked it.

• Heyo! I am c-o-o-o-o-ming!

That was the jolliest voice I had ever heard. Within a minute, the door opened and there was a man standing at the door. He was wearing a white Dhoti, a red Kurta and a long Hat. He had big eyes, a thin moustache, curled upwards in a big loop at the ends and a wide smile.

• How is Malda, my dear friend?

Malda was my hometown and I had met this person for the first time in my life.

• Are you Sikandar?
• If you think so.
• I have come to meet Sikandar.
• Then, my friend, I am Sikandar. Come in.

I entered the bungalow and on the walls were numerous paintings. I decided to count them but as soon as I reached the 19th painting, I saw it was of a man with a suitcase in his right hand staring at a bungalow with a bicycle parked by his side. It was as if someone had taken a low-angle shot of me from behind, a while ago. That was me in the painting. That was Sikandar’s bungalow.

• This? (I asked pointing at it)
• You didn’t answer. How is Malda, dear friend?

*To be Continued*