Skip to main content

Remembering Karl Marx

The Paradise Hotel crossroads is a busy traffic junction. On my way home, I wait for the lights to turn green thrice before I can cross the signals. It is not as bad as Bangalore, all it takes is around 15 minutes. Friday evening was one such evening and I was busy staring at bums of other cars. There was a little space between my car and another small car and a cyclist was busy trying to wedge through. His cycle scraped the mud flaps of the small car. An old man of around 74 came out of the car, shaking out of anger, clearly out of control. He held the poor cyclist by the collar, shook him a couple times and let out a string of choicest abuses!

The cyclist clearly was a white card holder (below poverty line) and the old gentleman was from the urban elite. Once the tirade was over, the cyclist shrugged off with a stoic face. The old man, happy to have got an opportunity to abuse in public, also went into the air-conditioned comfort of his car.


When two worlds collide, wonder what impressions are retained of each other. 

Comments

  1. Rajesh, you describe a scene in a street in India. The conflict is the same that is tying up the American Congress in Washington, D.C. Thanks for making it clear that the problem is a global one.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Hush

You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.