Today my car broke down, serendipitously right in front of the lane where I spend the first twenty five years of my life. I was not worried. I was sure many willing hands would help me steer it to safety. So while my driver went in search of the non existent traffic policeman, I stepped into the drizzle towards what was once home. Only to be greeted by sullen, unfamiliar faces, all too busy to give anyone the time of day. I lamented the loss of the neighbourhood spirit as I dialled my dad who still stays only about a kilometer away. The car was still blocking traffic on the main road, and me and the driver stood helplessly, trying to shield ourselves with flimsy umbrellas in the now poring rain. Dad arrived. The cobbler, who used to sell us black market tickets for Palace cinema, stood up to attention. The local barber shop emptied out. The waiters from the Irani restaurant joined in. An unknown gent spouted words of automobile wisdom, then got in the car and steered, as others halted traffic and pushed the car safely into the mouth of the lane where I once lived.The local mechanic turned up and organised a towing van.I will have my car back soon. The neighbourhood spirit is still there. Like every other relationship, it too needs nurturing. The neighbourhood did not forsake me. I gave it up and never looked back. But my father and his generation know where their roots lie. No wonder every time they go back, they are embraced.
Posted on: Thu, 17 Jul 2014 15:09:13 +0000
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