There is a need for some peace in the morning which is hard to get here. I had to get up early and sit by my computer for words to come by or for them to leave entirely. The kitchen is in a mess where I sit . I find my place by the window on the wooden sheet mounted by the wall. In the school days this was the place for studying.
  
Peace is absent. The eyes wander outside the window and the trees are still. The movement in the air is slow but rising. Two parrots appear out of no where and sit on wide spread out coconut tree. Their bright green color was conspicuous. One had a black band across its neck and the other one a pale brownish one. The male bird whistled in a mocking sort of way and started preening itself. I watched in admiration. Peace had begun to make its presence felt. There was this endless beauty about this bird, something which words can barely touch. A noise in the tree stirred them and they flew off leaving behind a quiet beginning to another day.  
  
In the last 5 days in this city, there has been an observation of the way of life. The same way of life which was so very familiar 4 years ago. That time there was no understanding of the entire flow so to speak, as I was the part of that flow. The flow I refer to as the language the city speaks. It demands ardent ears and a quiet mind. Separation from the city gives one this urge to listen. To listen clearly, to every single blaring horn that blows on the traffic jammed streets, to listen to the hum of the auto rickshaw engine, to listen to every unknown voice with utmost attention. This flow cannot be seen when one is a part of it. It is like watching a river turn and witnessing its power and significance.  
  
I had to submit the documents to begin a certain process in the American Consulate. One needs to go all the way to Mahalakshmi temple and there lies across the road this consulate. I was travelling with a friend and the journey was relatively peaceful. I had boarded the train after a long while; and it seemed that there was considerable progress as far as the maintenance of the trains was concerned. Everything looked new and clean. The overhead fans had no sign of cobwebs and the air they blew could actually be felt. There were electronic display signs and the next destination was correctly announced by a female voice every 2 minutes. The amount of people in one compartment was however the same, and the regard for personal hygiene and space was not present. This although was not a discomforting feeling.
  
  
Four years after last travelling on the train one can still remember the pathos for all those who form the bourgeois middle class. The unending sea of people who live in the city. Their worthlessness was wordlessly felt in the subconscious, but was never referred to, or spoken of, or acknowledged. I rarely paid attention to anyone 4 years ago, for they were not important people. It did not matter who was the person standing in front of you in that crowded train, what mattered was the assurance that there was immense difference between me and him. This was very satisfying and assuring at the same time.He had no identity and he looked at me with a blank eyed bigoted mindset which made it plenty clear, that his future was bleak.One now thinks about all this and realizes his own thinking pattern.

He who stands in the front with the dreary look, is utterly useless only in comparison with me. His future is bleak and his thinking is shallow only in comparison to my own thinking. I have to be better than him, so that he can be lowly. I have to have worth only can then he have none.Why this thinking? Why all this hate? As long as I seek things for myself, there cannot be happiness in me. Temporarily when I achieve my goal, I feel elated, but soon, I want another goal to make sense of my life. To be brutally honest, deep within my gut, I am aware of my own futility, my own hollowness, and my own shortcomings. I hate this, refuse to acknowledge this, and hence I cling to an ideal a goal and pursue it with reckless passion and disregard. I am now selfish, and comparison,denigration, degradation  follow. How can there be peace or happiness in such a persons mind?
  
  
The man in the train still looks at me with an empty heart. His concern is his own. His struggle is his own and no others'. There is no more self-seeking and his worthlessness is no longer noticeable. He is just as me. One experiences the unravelling of a deep mystery within. A clarity emerges and there is silence, and beauty. One suddenly sees the entire city in his eyes, and its suffering. One sees his helplessness and feels a surge of terrible compassion. Ones eyes feel the fire of this, and attempt to extinguish it.

The train barely comes to a halt and the feet find the platform with an inbuilt ease. Somethings are never forgotten. The smell of fried food, the samosas and the vadas ease the nasal senses. A magazine seller is going about his business , and the mind wanders off to see the pictures of those on his magazines .The actors and the actresses of the Hindi cinema displaying their bodies with subtle or glaring obscenity. Adulation in the society for these is remarkable. They offer an escape from the dread of everyday living. A retreat into vicarious pleasures of the body and the mind. Filth and ugliness enshrined in power and sex. A teenager walks to the stand and asks for a magazine with a picture of one of these actresses. He thinks he walks free in the democratic country, but yet is totally unaware of the unyielding trap he is falling into. He is surely free to be imprisoned.
  
  
The work at the consulate was done and we walked outside into the open air with a refreshing satisfaction. My friend wanted to have a lunch in a nearby hotel and I obliged. We entered this small and dingy place and searched for a vacant table. A waiter escorted us to the last one by the kitchen and shoved a menu card into my hands. I declined to eat anything and ordered for a bottle of mineral water. Is the motive for carrying and ordering for a bottle of purified water a necessity or a vain form of dis identification from the so called ugliness of ones own country? The question is placed with piercing honesty.The answer is clear and I opened the bottle with a little force before gulping down a few cold sips.
  
My friend was scurrying the menu card for something palatable, and was having a hard time at it. He called for a waiter to place the order after settling with an Idli Sambar. The dish was prepared briskly and was presented with a small hair well poised on the center top of the Idli. It was sent back, albeit, without any anger, for such nonchalance was not unexpected in India, rather it felt strangely comforting that we were back in a place where this could happen. We were home. The waiter returned with another one, yet it looked strangely as if a small part was plucked off the top of one of the idlis. We decided it was useless to argue and my friend began eating the other idli which looked a little less malicious.
  
  
He was done eating and we ordered for a bill. An elderly person who was one of the waiters got the bill for us and sat right besides my friend on the same table. He was not waiting for us to pay, he was simply taking a break. We put the cash on the table and waited for him to collect it. My friend who is usually a very amiable person started a conversation with this elderly waiter. He asked him for directions to some well known place. I obviously had no clue as to where this place was, given the kind of patience I have had for this city over the years. I have no clue how to get to most of the places in the city having always traveled in a train or a cab. I usually had little knowledge or concern of what goes on outside the rolled up windows. This elderly person started speaking in an old Marathi dialect. His speech was clear and informed. He seemed to be getting a mere pittance for wages although his honor was high. He was confident and controlled yet there was a strange kindness in his voice. It was revealed to him that me and my friend had been outside India for the past 3-4 years and he took little notice of it. He spoke of the recent attacks on the city and the fear among the masses. He spoke of the big construction projects being undertaken which would change the face of the city.  He spoke of the bus which was standing outside the hotel, and indicated that this was the 'Mumbai Darshan' bus. It would take the tourists around the major landmarks in the city. He seemed rather proud of it.

What does it mean to be speaking to 2 young boys who have been in the USA and are asking questions about the city's future and history ? Can the mind be at all sensitive to the poor? They are living by whatever they earn and feed their families with all their might. There is surely ambition and the need to change , but life does not spare more time than it takes to move the hand to the mouth. When they are done with a hard days work and you can find them smoking a bidi with a  few friends discussing their family matters or what happened in the yesterdays cricket match. They are ready to exchange sharp words over the actions and reactions of politicians but they are aloof otherwise. Their life is their challenge, and they are swimming against the current, all the time. Can this mind ever feel empathy towards the downtrodden? Can I ever feel what it is to be in abject poverty? The mind can at most become extraordinarily sensitive toward the plight of the poor, it can never feel empathy for them. What can the wealthy know about the vagaries of a plumber or a cobbler in this city? I can only pretend to care, but do I really care for them? The thinking slowly disappeared into thin air, and the words coming from the waiters mouth gained my attention. He symbolized remarkable simplicity and honesty.  In that moment nothing else mattered  but him. The mind was focused on him and there was no thought.Something strange happens in this state which cannot be understood by the mind that is trapped in thought. His poverty was like Gold.His presence was priceless. He was richer than any thought I ever had.
  
He left the table as easily as he had occupied it. We waved him a goodbye and left the small restaurant where others like were toiling hard. There was no pollution outside. There was no traffic. There was no noise. The dirt and the smoke on the roads disappeared. The garbage and the dirt meant nothing. I walked in perfect symphony with music that Bombay is.