 "Dancing hands")
It was a hot summer afternoon. Delhi was at its impatient best. And though I have promised myself that I will never let this city's intolerance get the better of me, on this particular day, I too was this city - irritable and on a short fuse, just like the traffic around me.
I was driving through a residential area of south Delhi, which is supposedly upscale but is the pits when it comes to the quality of roads and the cramped surroundings. On this one day, it was especially bad. The traffic was crawling painfully. Around me, horns were blaring constantly, as though by some magic the din they created would help clear the road. And, the blazing sun and the car's air-conditioner were together making me feel a bit sick.
Just when it seemed it couldn't get any worse, a baraat turned into the road. That's all that was needed. A Punjabi wedding procession, complete with the bandwallas armed with trumpets and drums and followed by a groom on a decked-up mare. And, of course, the plump, fair, caked-up aunties in their silks and georgettes dancing like there was no tomorrow, the river of sweat adding to the glow on their cheeks.
And then I spotted it. A school bus trapped in the middle of all this. The bus guard was on the road, desperately trying to help guide the driver out of the chaos. Poor children, I thought, looking up towards its windows.
I will never forget the sight that met my eyes. Inside the bus, little hands were up in the air, dancing to the music coming from the baraat, completely unmindful of the madness around them.
In that one instant, the picture turned. I felt my face relax and a smile break out. It was no longer the miserable situation it was a moment ago. I watched those happy hands for a long time as I inched forward with the traffic.
This little image has played in my mind often since. At times when the world appears to be losing it, when hope seems to be slipping away, those dancing hands sometimes pop up in my head and life, through all its misery and madness, appears beautiful again.
These last few weeks have been one of those miserable times. Day after day, we have woken up to unfortunate news. An innocent 19-year-old girl is among those senselessly killed in a terror attack on a Bangladesh bakery. Miles away, in Jammu & Kashmir, a young man, all of 21, is killed a few days later. If the first instance triggered, yet again, calls to put an end to terrorism, the second sparked demands for more violence. One newspaper reported the young man's chilling ability to "recruit (terrorists) from the grave". It made my stomach churn. That one death has since led to several more in the state.
Instead of dousing the fire, everybody seems to be rushing to add to the madness. Pakistan, our friendly neighbour, has jumped right in to make all the noise it can about it. Here at home, our pro-Hindutva leader, Sadhvi Prachi, has, while cocking a snook at the law of the land, offered a reward of Rs 50 lakh to any person "who will behead" Islamic preacher Zakir Naik whose television talks are alleged to have inspired the Bangladesh terrorists.
Ours is not the only part of the world that is burning. In Dallas, a heavily armed sniper, a military veteran at that, ambushed and killed five white policemen as "payback" for the fatal police shooting of black men in Minnesota and Louisiana. An eye for an eye seems to be the logic everywhere.
And then, on Thursday night, France battled another terror attack when a large truck plowed through the Bastille Day crowd, mowing down over 80 people.
Page after newspaper page has carried gloomy news: terror attacks, murders, woman gang-raped and set ablaze… So, the day invariably begins with a cup of tea and bad news.
But through these grim stories, when the weight of the world seems to bog me down, somehow, always, the spirit lifts and hope floats. Those little dancing hands come to mind, much like Wordsworth's daffodils, and small happinesses warm the heart.
veenu.sandhu@bsmail.in
