In the shadow of the Taj

The tree had a great significance. It was the center of gravity for all romantic activity. The damsel and the dude draped in motley colors went round and round, sometimes across, sometimes in creative new patterns.  After all that beating around the bush, literally, when it came to the much anticipated kiss, the camera just panned upwards, through the branches to the clouds. This left the audience gasping, completely out of breadth after the sensual experience of a romantic Bollywood near-miss, kiss.

The burly buffalos were living examples of the existence of parallel quantum realities. They carved out their own quantum space in the middle of what politicians referred to as roads. Munching away to glory, oblivious to the mass of humanity around them and at peace with the vehicles flowing past in either direction, creating a cacophonic symphony with their horns. The buffalos did not care; they did not lose their temper, did not take stress and maintained a sense of calm and composure. They just enjoyed their siesta time with friends and family. Commuters craftily maneuvered around the buffalos, on what they fondly referred to as a sea of pot holes. Tar was used in dribs and dabs to embellish around the craters, a special form of art perfected by all Government contractors. 

Believe it or not communities existed much before Zuckerberg, frustrated with his inability to join up-market university clubs, created his own on Facebook!  They were particularly rampant in the middle class diaspora. The entire neighborhood was one big family. Love, affection and care flowed freely across and beyond. People lived physically apart but were closely connected through the many peaks and troughs of life.  This social network was unique. It gave all participants a strong base on which to anchor their lives, extended a sense of belonging, wove a safety net around all members and it was a network wholly in flesh, not over wires intertwined through a world wide web.

Calorie was a proper noun. Perhaps the name of a beautiful mademoiselle from the French countryside. No one knew its relationship to food. Three sumptuous meals a day with a disdain for the heart and a carefree delight for the tummy. Oil, butter and ghee flowing through an aromatic kaleidoscope of curries. Exotic spices galore, from all parts of a vast country intermingled with the simplicity of rice and wheat.  Each region, each state, each city, each family using the same ingredients but creating unique culinary experiences. A food connoisseur’s delight.

The snowcapped ranges of the Himalayas reaching out to the skies, paying homage to the myriad Hindu Gods which reside in the heavens above. The pristine and chill waters of the Ganges, hurrying through the planes, greening everything on their way.  In the dimming light of dusk, the flowing waters so often adorned by pretty petite lamps lighted in hope, in prayer, in gratitude. An annual calendar embellished with festivals and festivities. To celebrate relationships, to celebrate love, to celebrate life, with color, with lights, with family, friends, neighbors and utter strangers. A culture of inclusivity in the joys of life, sharing the burdens of pain, a lot of pride and very little prejudice. A deep historic and cultural base built on centuries of human endeavor, tolerance, creativity, music and art.  

This was my India in the 80s. This is where I grew up. This is where I discovered my value system. This is where I nurtured my emotions and my innocence. This is where I discovered my die-hard fetish for curries. This is where I learnt to tolerate, to respect, to include, to honor.

This is where I dreamt about running around that coveted tree!

In the soothing, comforting and romantic shadow of the incredible Taj.