The End is only a Beginning (or how Port Isaac hijacked Land's End!)

"Land's End 2018- New York 3147, John O'Groats 874." Even the Land, where it ends, proclaims the fact, that the The End is only a Beginning. You can begin a whole new journey, and can go many ways. Sail away 3174 miles to New York, or if you're a landlubber, go to the other end of the Land, aka the Starting Point, John O'Groats 874 miles away. Land's End is also where the English Channel converges with the Atlantic Ocean. So really, there are lots of options.

"On ne découvre pas de terre nouvelle sans consentir à perdre de vue, d'abord et longtemps, tout rivage." or "One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight, of all shores, first and foremost." So said French Nobel Prize-winning author André Gide.

That being said, the shore is constantly changing, and just as one never crosses the same river twice, one never returns to the same shore. Life moves on, and the world is constantly changing. Any person who has been away from their motherland for some length of time can testify to this actuality, which however, is a discussion necessitating its own blog.

Anyway, to return to the point on hand, one has to but reflect upon the numerous times in life, when after much misery and dejection, ultimately we dust our injured egos, and get up and move on. Each beginning has an end, but not without an opportunity to open other doors. Metaphorically too, therefore, we make new beginnings from the endings we encounter in our lifetimes.

The last five days in December, found us in Cornwall, in an attempt to escape the colder Midlands. We rang in the New Year at a cozy, and comfortable modern Airbnb apartment, built into a converted stone Manor House, in Bodmin, having decided on the town as our travel base, due to its location being central to the places we had wanted to visit.

We started with Land's End, furthest South, and being "Doc Martin" fans, Port Isaac of course, and The Eden Project, which we never got to, because the outdoors were quite seductive, and Oh! the Energy, especially in Port Isaac, is both intense and magnificent, like an embrace from the Universe, bringing you the 360-degree horizons, and then wrapping them around you, lulling you to Joy.

Port Isaac seemed to have a heartbeat all its own. The cove, with its thickly pebbled beach, the Ocean stretching far out, the cliffs, in places richly browned to black, and in some places interspersed with green, and one craggy cliff in particular, unobtrusive, yet inviting the eye to linger, seemed like a nesting area or nursery for mama seagulls congregated there haphazardly, like large groups of women looking for bargains in a Sunday bazaar.

Then there is the backdrop of the mountainous hilltops, with homes nestled sparingly on the hillside. A large white Mansion, called "Khandala", possibly in reminiscence, after the hill station of the same name in the Western Ghats of Maharashtra in India, is built from the spoils of Tea Gardens. It calmly overlooks the modest house down the hill, which serves as Doc Martin's surgery when the British TV show shoots in Port Isaac between March and May.

There are other midsize homes, and tiny homes, and large homes, and Bed and Breakfast places, and larger hotels, and churches, and nooks and crannies, and stone walls, laden with thickly growing moss, and paid public toilets in an old stone building with a slate roof almost at street level, narrow lanes, cafes and Cornish Pasty shops, and cawing seagulls overhead, all gloriously coexisting in these awe-inspiring and stunning surrounds, as if each blade of grass, every blob of moss, all the flying seagulls, the slate tiles on the roofs and the doors and windows of the houses, with their flowering window boxes, the roughly hewn stones on  buildings, the steeples on the churches, the signs outside the shops, the formidable cliffs, and the swaying wheat in the fields as we drive into town, was all meticulously painted in place by a divine brush, except they are so real, that you can reach out and touch them. I did. I caressed the bright green moss on the side of a stone wall on my right, as we walked downhill from Doc Martin's Surgery, feeling the lush rich emerald green thickness bursting with life. Having lingered while I felt the moss, I happily walked on, but then all too quickly, returned to take pictures. I wished I could have stumbled upon this thick carpet of moss on the ground, in a tree covered secluded spot so I would have laid down and closing my eyes, rested my head upon its comforting robustness.

We spied a little shop called Just Shellfish, hidden into a side wall, of what looked like a deep boatshed, with fishing materials and lobster traps lying around in heaps at the back. Lobster traps are seen everywhere around town, and there was even a Christmas tree sculpted with them. There was a sole woman in the Shellfish shop and her sign said she was "Open from 10:00- 2:00ish," with "till 2019" for added wit. She was holding a large strainer and was pulling out a crab from a boiling cauldron. The contents of her strainer were still steaming as she carried the huge lobster to her work table, and almost immediately starting working on it, plying the instruments and a sharp, long pin-like thick needle to nudge out the meat, with surgical precision, donning blue gloves.

A couple with a young son, sipped lobster soup in paper glasses while waiting on their lobster being prepped. The lady, between sips, told us they had owned a house just up the street, "but not anymore." In the glass case were signs of Sold Out, except in the top shelf corner, was a small section of five remaining little plastic cups containing 100 gms in each, of what looked like crab ceviche, but was called something else. We decided to try that, and also ordered the soup.

With the Lobster couple taken care of, we were issued a polite and unnecessary (because we had enjoyed watching her, and chatting with the couple) apology, to be kept waiting, and served the thickest meatiest yummiest lobster soup (not bisque) I have ever tasted. It still smelled of the sea.

She suggested adding some vinegar and lemon juice to the lobster meat bits, which gave it a ceviche-like taste, but this meat had been steamed. It was not something made in house, she clarified. I liked the top bits more than the bottom bits where the flavor of the vinegar and lemon juice was too strong for my preference for the purer tastes of foods.

We walked around some more and discovered gift shops and handmade goods shops, and the usual souvenir and postcard stores. On spotting a familiar looking storefront, we went in. I bought an ice cream cone inside. It is in reality, a Candy store, that serves as The Pharmacy in the TV Series! Thus the familiarity.

Still eating my ice cream, we walked diagonally across to the parking lot of the TV Show's The School House just up the road, which is a hotel of the same name, in its off-screen life. One of our party went to check on dinner reservations, while the rest of us enjoyed the views from this considerable height overlooking the harbor and the stately homes, including the imposing whitewashed Khandala, across the water on the lush green and steep hillside.

The locals are polite and used to visitors, and the tourists were everywhere on this New Year's Eve, despite it officially being the off-peak season, winter. We are told many of the houses around the town center are holiday lets, but one clearly spotted the residents, going about their daily lives; an elderly lady pruning rose bushes in the front yard, or kids calling in the dogs that ran out while the young mum rearranged some Bric a brac in her front porch which had a baskets of toys and such. An older man carried what seemed like two large black trash bags down the hill.

By the side of one of the mostly residential narrow lanes, ran a vigorously gurgling brook, which I followed down to the colorful pebbled beach in the cove, where it went and merged with the Ocean with effortless aplomb. Indeed this vibrantly flowing brook tumbled along so full of joy filled conviction, and inviting, that one felt compelled to ruffle its waters and pick pebbles in its path, both of which I did, my leather shoes notwithstanding.

In comparison, the calm waters of the beautiful cove had kids and adults both young and old, and a few dogs as well, playfully indulging on the water's edge. The cove is home to fishing trawlers, which having had brought in their crustaceans and such, lazed and very gently bobbed on the water's surface, a  comfortable distance from the shore, close to the breakers, beyond which lay the emerald waters of the sea. The afternoon thus peaked towards sunset.

The eating houses were closing for a break before reopening for the evening of the Big Night with the famous Port Isaac New Year Eve fireworks. It seemed this was to be our last chance to try the 'world famous' Cornish Pasty, which we did. Both the Vegetable Pasty and Cheese and Onion Pasty were large, succulent and flavorful. So that was the end of our spread out three-course walking lunch, with dessert eaten in between the starters of soup and ceviche, and the Pasty as our mains.

It was still very early evening, and we had discovered that all the pubs and restaurants were booked out for dinner. We decided not to stay for the Port Isaac New Year's Eve fireworks and took a different path back to the car park. Instead of going back through town, we took a left diversion in the road, walking back atop the cliff face, with sheer drops to the water, and looking far out to sea on our left, and with homes on the right, perched up along the motorable service road, with cars parked in the driveways. Children's faces peeped out the windows. Out on the terrace of another home, a young couple on chaise lounge chairs, with heads covered, with faces barely visible due to the thick blankets wrapped around them, had settled in, perhaps to watch whatever they could of the last sunset of 2018, on this somewhat overcast day.

We left just as day was getting done, and the town was getting ready for the last sunset of the year. Driving out of town, we noticed the public bus ahead of us and allowed it to lead us away from this magical land, after a very special day.

Very special indeed, the day, the place, the people, the heightened and all-embracing powerful Energy of Port Isaac which effortlessly hijacked this post from Land's End. So, we go with the flow, that's what a balanced Energy is about. Plus, isn't the end only a beginning, which will bring us back another day? 

Are you a chatterbox?

"ARE YOU A CHATTERBOX?" screamed the headline of the boxed advertisement in The Northern District Times, daring me to respond. This advertisement had caught my eye the week prior as well. This week it was mocking me. They are still advertising? Hmmmm, I looked at the advertisement again. So they were still looking; the thought spurred my confidence. If I see this advertisement again the next week, I am going to call, for sure -I promised myself.

Each Thursday, we looked forward to the "Times" as the local weekly newspaper was fondly called. It was distributed free and delivered into the mailboxes of the apartment units in our desirable northwestern suburb called Meadowbank, in Sydney, Australia. Like most recent migrants with limited incomes, unlimited expenses, and tight budgets, the 'Times' was our primary source of job vacancies and other information of every relevance, of some entertainment and even education to an extent, the source of our knowledge and insight into the local news and views, and the culture of this land, our new home country.

It was the newspaper under your arm with which one could tell the established migrants from the newbie. New migrants like us could ill afford to buy the daily but pricey, Sydney Morning Herald or The Australian. The commute on the local train to and from work however, briefly coalesced into one the proletariat, and the established, irrespective of our status. Yet, we could not have been more disparate.

Always on the lookout for a better opportunity, my eyes scanned inside the train cars and on the platforms, for the abandoned primary newspapers such as the Sydney Morning Herald, The Australian, or even the local papers from other suburbs. These found a welcoming home in my sunny top floor rented apartment, where I scoured through them on the weekends, looking for jobs, grocery specials, the odd coupon, council announcements, and of-course, my very favorite Homes section, where I looked at the house prices, searching for the perfect place to dock my expensive dreams. For now I was content despite my economical pocket with a budgeted affordability.

"ARE YOU A CHATTERBOX?" The bold capital letters demanded to know once more. Here it was again, for the third week in a row, daring me to call. I re-read the advertisement, for the umpteenth time, noting hungrily the $13 an hour wage. The client was a ‘highly respected multinational corporation’ and ‘leaders in their industry’. 

Of-course I was a chatterbox, and for $13 an hour I could be a very good one indeed. Thank you, yes. The only problem was that the work was for just for a three-month contract. 

I had recently started my first job as a casual Sales Fulfillment telemarketer working the outbound phones for a marketing company, that took orders for products advertised on TV. While the inbound operators had work only for the days our ads were running on TV, recording contact and quantity information, I was working every day, all day, doing sales fulfillment, and providing product information if the clients had any questions. Daphne, the boss had told me my job was 'ongoing'. I felt a certain smugness in not seeing an end to my income. At $8 an hour I could also see the security aspect of the 'ongoing' status of my position. It was good money in the early 1990's Australia.

That Friday afternoon, even as I put the phone down after securing an interview with Brenda Farrow of Tempo Consultants, for the $13 positions, I began to have misgivings about what I had just done.

Greed, my mind now mocked me, that is what motivates you. What if I did get this job for $13 an hour? What then, what after three months? What also, if I do not last even three days? What am I doing, I thought, having decided to do it anyway? I liked being reckless, but was I being foolish? Defiant? Ungrateful? If chatterbox is my first name, curious is my middle name. I just could not resist doing it. Greed or no greed, $13 an hour beckoned and had been calling my name for the past three weeks. When the newspaper flew open to the page with the ad, as I took out the Times while settling into the window seat of the train, it was a clear sign, it was meant to be, this job was meant for me. So I had heeded the call.

The few weeks at my current job had also made me quite bold, so I called in sick at work, to go for the $13 interview. It would be wise not to jeopardize my current position if things didn't work out here. 

The $13 hiring manager, Brenda, was pleasant and friendly, and quickly came to the point. Obviously under pressure to send 30 people for the job starting in two days, she told me I would have to start immediately. The second batch was starting the paid training next day. She told me a bit more about the contract position with an American Credit card company. I recall getting goosebumps when I heard that name, and was thrilled about working for a big name client. Besides, the $13 certainly catapulted me into the top league of temps as well.

The American Company had introduced a new card and had been inundated with applications. The Telephone Investigators would be required to make telephone calls to verify the information supplied by the applicants, Brenda explained. She put the application and contract paperwork in front of me and handed me a pen, obviously preparing to proceed with the hiring process. A tinge of excitement laced with delight filled my being. Then just as suddenly as the feeling had crept in, it passed, and panic prevailed. The work seemed far too easy and simple for the $13 an hour. The thrill evaporated and I was filled with apprehension. I recalled other such ‘high paying’ jobs that I had not applied for earlier because they had required computer skills. Immediately I felt my hopes dash and my ego deflated. What would I say to the kids? The whole family had been walking on air at the prospect of this interview.

"I don't know computers, Brenda", I stated simply, putting the pen down and pushing the paperwork back towards her.

"Oh, don't worry", she dismissed my concerns and shoved the documents right back at me, plunking the pen on top of the legal sized forms, a sense of urgency evident in her tone as she gesticulated into the air, pointing again towards the black and gold pen that lay pointing in my direction.

I didn't think she had heard me the first time.

"I have never worked on computers." I started again, as the shrill ringing of the phone on her desk drowned out my sentence in mid air.

"I am headed down right now", Brenda spoke hurriedly into the phone, hastily putting down the receiver.

"We are just about done here and I do have to leave," Brenda stood up and shook my hand. "Just fill out the employment forms and if you have any questions my assistant Kate here, will help you", she smiled, pointing towards the well-groomed and cheerful blond who acknowledged me with a cheerful wave.

Next morning, I set my alarm to ring 30 minutes earlier. The whole family was excited about my new job. It meant unspoken, myriad little pleasures, to each of us; none of which we were ready to articulate, at least not yet. It was too soon to celebrate, even though internally, we were all kinda at it already.

Next morning, as I was getting dressed for the first day of the rest of my life, my son stood at the door with a smile on his face and a lint brush in his hand.

"Have a good day, Mama", he said, lovingly wiping down my jacket all over, the lint brush wobbly in his small hands. His dimpled smile lit up my day, and imbibed within me a new confidence. I admonished him half mockingly, "off you go to school now", I gently smacked his butt. With a loud kiss bang smack on his soft dimpled cheek, I rubbed his crew cut head, sending him on his way. Hugging me again, he kissed me right back, then ran out saying, "I love you too, Mama".

One last look in the mirror, satisfied every pearl was in place, in my ears and around my neck, I turned around to check the back of my skirt was smooth and not crumpled. Then I too was off, with a prayer on my lips and a song in my heart, softly shutting the door behind me, walking boldly, shoulders pushed back and head held high, into a new day.

The train ride to Epping station takes only about 15 minutes, and in that precious time I must have envisioned a lifetime of fulfilled promises and accomplished dreams. I had remained standing the whole time in the train, not wanting to crease my freshly ironed terry cotton skirt. From Epping station I took the bus to North Ryde, a 20 minute bus ride, also spent standing. The bus dropped me off outside the Asia Pacific headquarters of The American Company. I looked up at the big and tall building standing so stately and proud, and a surge of quiet gratitude swept through my heart. The rays of the morning sun reflected off the shiny green glass of the top floors with the Company name proudly displayed in their characteristic blue. I looked up at my new office of the next three months and smiled happily, then pushing back the imaginary strands of hair back from my face, I walked towards the vast expanse of courtyard, interspersed with exotic plants growing in large decorative planters. My heart pounding with excitement and unknown expectations, I went past the swing doors and presented myself at the counter marked 'Reception'.

There were over a dozen of us waiting near the black leather single sofa chairs placed in small circles on plush, deep red carpet. Some people lounged around while the others stood making conversation and introduced themselves to the group. My feet were starting to ache for I had not sat since leaving home this morning, all for the sake of a good, well groomed first impression. I refused when a young fellow who introduced himself as Simon, got up and offered me a seat. I was protesting politely, when almost on cue a tall gentleman walked towards us and in an American drawl introduced himself,

"I am Dan Longfellow, and I will be your trainer", he said, smiling reservedly, but kindly. His wore a dark blue suit with matching tie and while he was impressive he was not intimidating. I was liking it here already.

"Now all of you here for Telephone Investigator positions follow me please, while the Data Entry staff may take the elevators to the Computer rooms on the 11th floor and follow the signs to the new recruits training room".

Dans words were like music to my ears. So we were really going to be paid $13 an hour for telephone work! My computer fears melted away and five of us followed Dan through glass doors on the far right, down the hallway and into what looked like a COMPUTER ROOM!  I was aghast. Tables were arranged around the room in a U shape, each with its own computer, monitor, keyboard and mouse, and royal blue swivel chairs, neatly tucked inside. My heart sank and I felt like throwing up. Dan was calling us by name handing out white placards, with our names, asking us to sit where we pleased, placards facing forward so he could get to know us. Since we were all women, the chatter between the ladies had already started.

Did I say my first name was Chatterbox? In that moment of infinite misery, I had lost my tongue. Having left a message for Daphne to say I would not be coming for the rest of the week, I suddenly felt bereft of all sanity and could sense the loss of the eight guaranteed dollars every hour at Marketing Management earned me. She would know if I went back now. I'd be one of those 'gone rogue' as Daphne would say, referring to the 'ungrateful deserters' that had come and gone before me.

I could feel the blood rush to my face as I realized I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Better fess up, I decided, not one to play Russian roulette with my career. They would find out anyway.

"Excuse me, Dan", I spoke up. "I had told the agency, but I'm sorry, but I don't know computers", I countered, trying hard not to sound defeated .

Dan looked in my direction but pointed towards the chairs and in a voice attempting to be louder than the feminine chatter, announced, "Ladies, please take your seats, we need to get going with the training." "Tea and coffee is in the kitchen facilities across the hall” he continued, “and the bathrooms are at the end of the corridor, past the lifts on the right".

Then there was the sound of casters rolling on the carpet as everyone moved around and took their chairs. Perplexed and flustered, and also tired, I just sat down for the first time since leaving home in the morning. I had done my part, trying to honest, upfront and truthful. My tired feet were sapped of any energy that I may need to protest my ignorance any further.

Dan came around and distributed pens, pencils, notebooks and a training manual.

"Some of you may have not worked on computers before, but that is why I am here'', he said and then paused as if in askance.

"It is my job to train you", he continued "and we will start by turning 'ON' the power button on your computers". He pointed to the elongated switch on his machine.

I touched my forefinger to the elongated button of the computer that sat on my desk, and the monitor screen lit up. A light also came on inside me. Life was putting me in places where destiny wanted to take me. I just had to show up and put in my best effort.

So it was, that day I learned to use a computer. I have not stopped using it since.

From India to Australia, to the USA, I have walked through every door that opportunity held ajar for me. Like a boat adrift at sea, we have drifted with the winds powered by Faith. There have been good times and tough times, there has been laughter and there has been pain, there has been loss and there has been gain. Yet, together we have made it so far, to the home of the brave and the land of the free. Each passing day now brings us closer to the shore, where we are headed to dock our dreams.

Copyright 2009 Veenu Banga

Music

Music: A short story

In her urgency to put the tape into the cassette player, she was fumbling clumsily, and dropped the plastic box of cassettes onto the floor. This created an unwanted problem of, what must seem epic proportions, at this most inopportune moment. Still flustered, she just let them lay scattered around. Randomly picking out one, she hurriedly shoved it into the deck, hitting the 'Play' button hard.

Rushing to the window, she eagerly but cautiously peeped out. Moving the thin muslin curtains ever so slightly, her neck leaning low and to the right, she checked to see if the cause of her joyful excitement was still there. He was!

Her heart beating excitedly, and an unconscious smile lit up her youthful face. She succumbed to a euphoric sense of nostalgia. The familiarity of this total stranger gave her a feeling of kinship with him, and she felt a wave of reminiscence envelop her. She did not want to take her eyes off him, and continued staring out into the street at the object of her fascination, while he sat unawares in his cab, oblivious to the excitement he had generated.

The notes of the music opened too softly, too slowly, for her intention. Impatiently, she turned up the volume, hoping he could hear it. She adjusted her position behind the curtain to keep up with his movement as he shifted in the driver’s seat of the taxi.

Finally the traditional sound of the harmonium picked up pace, stirring the stillness of the small ground floor room in their old Bombay building. “Oh please, please, please, start singing now”, she begged, looking imploringly at the tape deck. As if on cue the vocals accompanied the music and she increased the volume some more and looked out again to see if he was still there. He was! A loud sigh of relief escaped her, and with eyes sometimes squinting to get a better look, she held her glance.

He seemed to be oblivious to the loud music coming from the ground floor room, with its door and windows wide open. She was separated from his taxi cab wherein he sat, by just a five foot wide balcony and another six feet of sidewalk pavement between them. Up went the volume again until it was nearly full blast on her SONY deck, which was quite fancy for the 1980's she noted with pride.

She so desperately wanted him to hear the music. She kept gazing at him in complete abandon, knowing by just looking at him, that he would like the music.

Desperate times call for desperate action she surmised, and boldly went out to the front balcony, shielding herself behind some tall potted plants, every sense alert to his presence. She saw his head shake a little and he opened the door to get out of his cab. He now stood leaning against the door on the driver’s side with his back towards her.

It was early morning, and the sun, still low, had not hit the pavement as yet. It was hidden behind the tall buildings on the other side of the road. She became conscious of the coming and going on the street; people headed to work, children off to their school, old women going to the temple with offerings of flowers and fruits cupped in half folded hands and some retired men returning from their morning meet up in Shivaji Park. Uneasily she realized someone might stop to say hello and strike up a conversation. She did not want him to notice her, she thought almost shyly, embarrassed at her forwardness. She did not want him to associate her with the unreasonably loud music.

Abandoning the plants she hurried in and again took up position standing behind the window, where she might get a better view, yet remain hidden by the thin curtains and wide mesh of the wrought iron grill; the wide balcony and the sidewalk maintaining a convenient distance between them.

The song had picked up pace now and even though the loud volume created static in the room, he seemed totally unaware of its playing. Another sigh escaped her, and she resigned herself to just look, and keep looking. Humming along and enjoying the music, she moved in rhythm with the tune, softly clapping the fingers of her folded palms.

It was a happy start to her morning in a mundane life, where no day is the same yet each day comes and goes swallowing a part of her life and of herself. Life in this place with no personal family or friends, was changing who she was and she no longer recognized herself. (Something not uncommon amongst married women, in middle class India of the 80's and earlier.) Seeing him had brought back a sense of happy familiarity.

She saw him looking up at the tall building across the street where his passenger must have disappeared. She watched his posture change, probably with the anxiety of any waiting cabbie that must keep a tab on truant passengers. 

She turned up the music some more, desperate for a reaction from him. He was broad shouldered with a strong back, and she could just see the slight rise of his shoulder blades beneath the full-sleeved nondescript cotton shirt as he stood with his arms probably folded in front of him; yet the shoulders were upright accentuating his strong back. He has good posture she thought, and was probably over six feet tall with a robustness that was the hallmark of most Sikh men. His light colored turban gave him a relaxed, casual air.

She had felt an uncommon attraction as soon as she had seen him pull up in the black and yellow Bombay cab, as she waved the kids off to school this morning. Finding an unusual comfort in his overall appearance, which she could not define because of the perfunctory glance, she had giggled briefly wondering if he too slurped when drinking his tea, or if his moustache got wet? Since then she had been distracted and was behaving very oddly she admitted to herself, but she just couldn’t help herself.

She liked looking at him, or his back because that was the most she had seen since that first brief glimpse of his endearing face. A quick warmth had suddenly passed over her. So she now remained at her station, hunching slightly and looking out the window at a Bombay taxi driver she had never seen before and probably would never see again. She had just received this gift of unexpected joy delivered to her door, and she would relish it as long as it would last.

The loud music brought her to the present moment. She wondered what he was thinking, wondered if he was worried his Fare had done a runner? Was he therefore blocking out all else from his mind, so that he was deaf to the music? Or was it all the other morning sounds on the increasingly busy street, that prevented him from hearing it?

She knew with certainty that the music was being heard on the street. In fact she was sure they could hear it even inside the building across the street. She peered through the curtains again, but could not detect any reaction from him. His demeanor gave away nothing. Perhaps, she thought, because she could not see his face, just his shoulders and upper body and the side of his ear, and the back of his turbaned head which looked up every now and then.

Suddenly he moved forward and walked a few steps towards the building across the road. She heard someone talk to him from one of the top floors in the building. He came back momentarily towards his cab and he was smiling now, acknowledged by his passenger. He opened the door of his cab and settled back into the driver’s seat, resting his elbow on the window of the cab, as she got a better look and noted the strong nose of his profile. She liked his face and felt that warmth once again. After a long time she felt good, in this kind of way. A certain peace pervaded her senses, she felt a surge of comforting emotion, primitive, yet pristine, like sanity washing all over her.

The cabbie picked up a newspaper from somewhere inside his taxi and started to read it. Then almost at once he stopped, folded it and put it slowly down as if trying to focus on something, to hear something! Her heart missed a beat, and she realized he had heard the music! She could clearly see the smile spread across his face, as if mirroring her own happiness. She saw the expression on his face change as he sat back, relaxing deep into his seat, he started nodding and swaying his head to the beat of the music.

“You are my everything,” the voice sang, “in you my purest joys I find….” And she sang along, to the swaying of his head. For the next several seconds she had indeed found her purest joy.

It seemed too soon, when the door opened in the back of the cab and a man got in. The taxi driver leaned forward to start the engine. She saw his flowing white beard touch the steering wheel as the cab lurched forward. She closed her eyes, the tears streaming down her face, as she relished the short blissful moments in time, when riding on the strains of Sikh devotional music, she connected with memories of her grandfather.

Copyright Veenu Banga 2006