The PatchMaker

“Has it ever struck you ...that life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going?” – Tennesse Williams wrote in ‘The Milk Train doesn’t stop here anymore’.
“These scenes ...why do they survive undamaged year after year unless they are made of something comparatively permanent” – Virginia Woolf wrote in ‘Sketch of the past’.
These roads are ploughed over. Plain dark roads which are supposed to remain like that for some time at least, choose to mutate. Mere touch of rain transforms them like a glance from a dear one. Not that these roads are path less travelled and so left in derelict condition. It’s just that they have been traversed so often by people so less connected that their very existence seems to be a question mark? Or is it that they pay the price of others burden, accepting every blow and scratch in their stride. In any case, one can not but not avoid having to think about these warts and moles on the face of these otherwise swarthy roads. So just as my Innova wheel took a dip into one more of these, I wondered just why can they not be left untouched. Then immediately the question came “How long Sir would it be long enough for you?” Thank you dear Me, have no answer for you. I mused. Eventually all that has been made or formed or developed has to come to a pass, so how long is long enough? No answer.
Just then someone waved menacingly and I had to halt the car lest it bump the man.
I rolled down the window and he said something and I responded with my well practised response “Kanada gotilva”
He once again said something and I said “Tamil Telugu Kannada illa”. That’s the best have learnt over the past few years.
The puny little man said “Hindi malum?” And I nodded my head. With that he explained to me in broken hindi that he needs to quickly go to the nearby Hospital to get a medical report for his son. He is not getting any auto. With some hesitation I offered to give him a ride. I weighed the risk of losing my Innova and my purse versus the risk of a life and chose the former.
So on the way we talked. He in broken hindi. Sivaswamy was his name and his son’s name was Ayappa. After asking about his son and what happened to him we ran out of topics. Language is a palpable constraint. Yet why I prefer to dig into Sanskrit than Kannada is something have to think about. Is it like driving with windows rolled on shutting the humdrum?
Just then the car took a bump into one more pot hole and I told Sivaswamy in hindi “See how these roads have become. Not a small stretch is free of these”
Sivaswamy smiled. A strange kind of grin spread over his gristly face. Then Sivaswamy went on to describe how he had started his career with a contractor for road transportation development.
Sivaswamy said “We had to wait in the morning in a queue in the hope of getting picked for some work. With time I got proficient and was adept at laying the stones, the mix and helping the “coal tar gadi”. He mean the wagon that pours tar on the road before being pressed with rollers.
“However, this did not do enough. Besides, there was always competition from other daily workers. So one day when the chief contractor called me and asked if I can work at night also, I readily agreed”.
“Sir, but this work was both funny and dangerous. The element of risk made it even more attractive”
“What did you do Sivaswamy”, I asked giving him the looks.
“Not so bad Sir, it was just that I used to wonder what people think when they see the roads in the morning”
“But what did you do?” I asked.
“Sir, I used to dig pot holes on the roads. It was such a fun watching people curse the pot holes in the morning”, said Sivaswamy impishly.
“What!!” I almost came to a halt.
“Yes, Sir all these have been done by me. I got paid for my hard work”.
This was getting really funny. Sivaswamy very proudly displaying his act of creation by digging the holes. To him it was hard work before the rains hit and he got paid for it. He had to sacrifice his sleep. It gave him money to buy sweets for Ayappa. It is the same money he was taking to the hospital.
“Did you not even once feel that what you are doing is not right”
Sivaswamy replied “No Sir I used to work hard and used to barely get enough to buy a week’s rice for my family”.
We could not talk further as he had to get down. Sivaswamy got down leaving me with questions to ponder.
With Sivaswamy gone, I was once again within the quiet confines of the car.
Questions slowly started forming like drops slowly forming and failing to cling on to the faucet. How even a drop of water loves attachment but realises it cannot go on?
“So is that right?”
“Ill-got, Ill-spent or is it that what has been made has to get dissipated eventually”.
“They also serve who dig nice newly formed roads?”
Good or bad is perspective. Same event from another viewpoint looks almost necessity. Ofcourse, it can never be realised from the air-conditioned confines of an innova, but just where the rubber meets the road, it makes lot of sense.
And so we learn, one memory by one, one synapse by one, one by one , one lesson of going beyond good and bad, beyond happy and sad, beyond silence and humdrum.

Sep 20 2009