Jose and I - Te cuento uno bajo el Misti

Jose worked at the garage run by the company. He had little or no mechanical background and was a quiet guy who was sure to mind his own business. He opened up a little and then some more. He picked up the trade real quick and was soon an asset. He was good with his hands and was given his own station real soon. 


Who would have known the mischief hiding behind those eyes. He turned out to be a very witty individual, in the simplest ways. Easy going and always smiling, he'd do his thing without being intrusive. The snide and the cheek was for those within ear-shot and only for those he chose to share the mirth with. There was something funny going on all the time in his world. Except when he got into trouble which he rarely did. He turned into a very worried person, downcast and apologetic when it did happen. But then I'm here to tell you only about the happy times.


Once, the company decided on participating in a show in another city. It was one of the largest cities after the capital and was up in the mountains. A regal but dormant volcano overlooked this city of cobbled, winding streets and adobe dwellings. Very touristy.


The truck was to carry the bikes, stands on which the bikes would be displayed and some other flashy paraphernalia to make the whole set-up appealing. I was to leave with Jose and go ahead to the venue - some 380 kms, partly on the Panamericana heading north. We were packed into the cabin behind the driver and his assistant, the co-pilot and we headed out. Once we passed the customs check post at dawn, we decided to head up and behind onto the trailer with the bikes. What a trip!


The stinging cold from the desert, from 25-30 ft above a beautiful stretch of road winding its way up into the Andes. The cold got to us through all the layers of warm clothes, the gloves and the leather jackets. Jose and I held on, bracing ourselves for each curve and every fresh gust of cold air. We saw vicuña herds far away, close to the foot-hills. We saw more peaks jutting out above the desert, some volcanoes. And we saw almost no one else. Traffic was light and far apart. It seemed as if we rode the truck by ourselves, in silence.


By the evening, our trip was punctuated with a few stops to warm up, eat up and fuel up. Arequipa was magnificent as we approached it at dusk. The Misti stood quiet and cold. There was plenty to do before we rested that night.

One more to the collection - One

"As we climbed higher, the air got thinner and colder. Every breathe would shock and fill our lungs with pristine, clean air. The greener, lower hills gave way to dry and stark crags on either side of the valley as the truck we travelled in followed the river upstream. The sky seemed to be closer, and couldn't be more blue.
We got around a hill that pushed into the valley, and the opposite slope seemed the closest. The road across the valley we'd come by tomorrow seemed within reach. We spoke about the possibilities of a bridge right there and wondered why it hadn't been thought of before. We noticed the debris from an abandoned construction site close by. We quickly forgot about it as the next bend caught us unaware with a magnificent sight of a range of snow capped mountains."

The story, or one version of it goes, that up in the hills, there was a new bridge being built across a valley. The new bridge would purportedly cut down travel time drastically over the old road that wound its way further up the valley. The engineer in charge of the construction, a young man from the plains, is taken in by the beauty of the place or falls in love with a damsel from a village or is drawn to the words of a wandering sage. He abandons the site and is never heard of. The construction of the bridge slowly grinds to a stop and remains incomplete.

A story like this is what you'd want to hear when you pass a place like that. But there was none.

Shop-a-holic

I won't tell you if it's a he or a she. Not for kicks. It's just that I don't remember. Let's just call this person Aholic (wipe that smirk off your face and go 'heh-he' or 'tee-hee' in your head). Aholic has been to the store, my store, too many times for me to remember a first or to keep count. What I do remember is the look on the face. It's the same every time. There's a hint of hesitance and unfamiliarity  that's quickly overcome by a look of bravado tinged with cockiness. A playful voyeur stepped out of that dry skin and into the store.

My clients almost never ever come back. Best thing about this business. And even if they do, I'd never know if it was them. But this one stood out. Helped by the fact that I do remember what she had bought the last time and several times before that. I am in the business of masks, so I do tend to get biased. Every one of the products purchased by him were totally unlike him. Here, in my store, people come to transform. Some desperately want to hide from their pasts. Some have known to be nothing in their past. Another face would give them the freedom to be anything they want to be. It's like moving to a new city where you know no one. You open a new book - fresh, crispy, empty pages. What you do from there on defines who you are. So much so that you become that person and you forget you wear a mask.

Aholic never went away. I thought I knew what it was that didn't work. My products had no flaws. They work because people like you who step in to buy one, desperately want to hide their flaws. They always pick what suits them best. It's the most obvious thing to do. You get it right. Simple. I never have window-shoppers who drop in on a whim. But my clients have their fancies. I think that was Aholic's problem. But I'm not sure. Why wouldn't you want to be someone you could be when given the chance? Why try something just for the sake of trying it out.

One thing was consistent. Aholic stepped into the store like it was the first time. Every time. Browsing through the galleries, Aholic's eyes lit up with child-like wonder. At the possibilities that lay waiting in the shelves. There'd be the bunch of masks towards the end to pick from. Then the confusion and struggle to make a choice. Which one looked good? What would happen with this one? Uncertainity always existed for all my customers, but they'd be thinking practical thoughts. Making the math work. This one just had problems picking a lollipop from a bunch of multi-coloured lollipops. And when that finally happened there was always the apprehension. Hesitance. A backward step towards the pile left behind, or a glance at the ones close to the cash counter.

I think nothing ever happened when Aholic went away with a new mask. Worst client ever - especially for my ego.

Sale on Soul

Another Sunday to himself. Morning, or what was left of it, reminded him of nothing. It normally felt good. An empty mind on a Sunday was a good place to build an appetite. So much he'd be able to catch up on and he knew nothing of that sort was to happen. He'd usually while away the day until he'd feel those pangs of guilt in the evening.

The watch, from under his pillow was the only way he'd know what time it was. Grey as they came, January was making its presence felt this morning. He knew it was all cloudy and cold outside, and that was because of the two blankets that were keeping him warm. The warmth that had kept him from getting out. He'd fought the urge till now.

Half an hour later, he was sitting down for breakfast. Toast with lots of butter and a tad of marmalade. Downed with some hot, milky sweet tea. Ignoring the empty bottles of beer on the table. The stale smell of cigarettes too were ignored. He'd come to that later. The opened windows and hopefully, cross ventilation would help for now.

The bottles went into the crate, the crate into the garage. The emptied and washed ashtrays lay face down, washed and dried next to the sink. His hands and feet got the work done. His mind still had to get back from last night. He usually forgot easily. It was convenient. But not this time.

He'd been the kind who could absorb anything. Pain, the physical type especially was his favourite. He hadn't know of any other kind. He'd conveniently kept himself immune from that. He shrugged it off with ease. Dealing with people was easy. The lesser attention he'd have to pay, the better. He marvelled at his own apathy. It protected him like a force field.

But not last night. For the first time he'd come to know about one small part of a different kind of pain. She'd laughed that laugh all evening. And then he'd made her cry.

He walked up and found the door to the room was still closed. He thought she'd have left. He returned to the kitchen and began preparing another breakfast. He turned up the radio so she'd notice he was up.

Dawn

The brightening sky before him stung his eyes. Rest was not an option as he drove on, wiping a tear now an then from an irritated eye. Dawn had long stopped being something he would enjoy, pulling over at the nearest dhaba and sipping on some hot 'chai'. What little was left of his reputation was at stake. But really, there was none to defend in the first place. It was long gone.

A light blue glow was gently overcoming the safety and coolness of the night sky. Hues of pink and orange were lapping around the edges. Shapes and contours of the countryside began to reveal themselves. A tethered buffalo mutely turned to watch him roar past. He remembered growing up in a place like this. And then the memories flooded back, surging past the morning.

He was never in class to begin with. His mother regarded it as something to add to the family heritage. A high school pass to present at the next gathering of relatives. It only gave him more reason to rebel. It wasn't his age, watching too many weekend movies at the tent or bad influence. He went looking for the bad influence and got into plenty of it. He was constantly being told on by his teachers at school and relatives who caught him playing truant. His anger only barely covering the fact that he was the least interested in sitting through a class. Studies were not for him. He resented the fact that he couldn't do well.

One morning he woke up well before the others, collected a bag with a change of clothes and left. He stopped only at the junction where the dirt road from his village met the highway and decided which way to go. He trudged on through the day, not looking back, until his legs couldn't take him further. He looked up and realised he had reached a halfway place for truck drivers. Trucks lined the sides of the road with dhabas filled with hungry and loud people.

He began as a help at one of the dhabas. Serving, washing, cleaning after the truck drivers. He was fascinated with their lives. All they had to do was drive across the country. Regular ones met up and exchanged stories of income tax check-posts, better routes to common destinations, a pretty new prostitute at the toll gate, growing up children and tiring bosses. It all seemed like adventure after adventure, every driver's story unique.

In six months he went on his first truck ride to a city. The driver had grown fond of him and his helper was about to become a driver himself. The strong, young village kid was a perfect replacement. He was hired by the owner of the trucks with a lot of reassurance and praise from his driver friend. The boy didn't let him down once. The moment he could pay off the local authorities to get him a driver's license, he walked up to the big boss and asked for a truck and a route of his own. Again his old friend was there to convince the man.

In three years, he made it big, and then went on reckless sprees of indulgence. He believed he had earned it all - the money, the fine clothes, women and merriment. His friends lasted as long as they could walk away sane and stayed far away as they watched the young man drown himself in drinking bouts that lasted weeks. Angry employers and a spiraling reputation amongst the community left him grasping for very little. His subsequent anger and the to-and-fro between binging and work almost ended where everyone expected it to - in a gutter or a hospital pallet. Some where, something made him turn back.

There was no elation on knowing he was getting back. He had no choice. There could be no better humiliation in the eyes that stared back at him as he passed each village. He wanted to tell them that he wasn't going anywhere other than back to where he started. The blues had moved away to the other horizon, making way for a searing white. Closing his eyes seemed such a pleasant option, but he knew he had to keep his word. Pressing down a little more on the pedal to fight off the tiredness that was spreading across his body, he realised he'd hit a lonely, straight stretch. Any other day this would have been a trucker's joy. Now, it looked like hell.

A form up ahead broke the monotony and it irked his senses for a moment. It seemed out of place. As he drove closer, he saw that it was a young boy walking along. He seemed lost between purpose and indecision. As he got closer, more features were lit up by a blazing dawn, the bare feet and a small travel bag. Not a speck of cloud. The yellow, searing sun lit up hell diligently. The truck swerved across the road and toward the boy.