Vodka fuelled post #1

It is a warm summer night, so still that the driest of leaves falls to the ground like a ball of lead. The night is quiet, even the dogs find it tiresome to utter a bark. I step out of the station on to the unlit road, walk those hundred paces to the main road - no light here either.

I wait by the side of the road, maybe for a bus. An hour passes, no sign of anything. The loudest thing I heard was the pop of the marijuana seeds in my 5 rupee joint. They burst with a crackle, millimeters away from my eye. Then, I think a hear a faint whine, it grows louder with each passing second. Sounds like a V8, my brain says. The glow of headlamps climbs the gradient and with a whoosh THE DeLorean stops right in front of me.

"How far to 1985?", Dr. Emmet Brown with his frazzled mane asks loudly? "Not very far", I say. "Just that there ain't enough road down here to take you to 88." He is dejected. "But if you were to drop me along the way to 1996, I can sure find you some."

"Hop on laddie", he beams and we're off.

Guiding him through the narrow alleys of Lonavla, I lead him on to the Expressway. "Now when did you Injuns come up with these?" I just glare at him as the speed clock touches 88. The loudest sound a man can ever hear, the whitest white a man can ever see assault my senses.

I open my stinging eyes, my ringing ears. He opens the door and stares at me dumbly, that's my cue to get off perhaps. I do so, pointing the way to NH-4, "you can hit 88 again doc, provided you steer clear of the Tata 1210s". He nods, the gullwing doors close and he's gone in a flash.

"This doesn't look familar", I say to myself. "Of course, it doesn't you idiot - you were never here then, sorry now.... no I mean then... whatever!"

to be contd....

Blue

from White....

And then the invisible force holding him lets go....

He drops, miles below... gravity accelerating him

Hitting the surface with a flash, the deeps pull him

The cold water jolting him out of his daze

Struggling, he bobs to the surface... foam and surface feel like stinging slaps

He sees a plank and grabs it

The cold water turning his veins blue....

White

From Red

His patchy sleep is broken by the silence

The birds, the crickets, the rats nowhere to be heard

And then the wind starts howling, picking up with each passing moment

The boards start rattling.... violently and then they crack

He is lifted up bodily, along with the roof and everything else

Swirling, tumbling into the vortex of the twister

The howl shatters his eardrums, and then everything is silent

He rises, rises straight through the clouds and then there is a blinding flash

Everything goes white.........

.... Blue

Ringus Summers

Just past noon the train slowly pulls into Ringus, one of those blink and you miss towns on the edge of the Rajasthani desert. It's June, and it is roasting, the heat somehow managing to sear through the air-conditioned windows as well. Nevertheless, I get out and stroll down the platform. In seconds, beads of sweat are trickling behind my ears.

For a town of few thousand, the station is surprisingly teeming. A large family is spread out on old newspapers and trunks under the somewhat comforting shade of the platform canopy. The alpha male in his tattered vest and frayed trousers is sleeping contentedly, his train not due for hours I guess. There is the usual huddle of men around the tea stall discussing the fate of the ruling party in the upcoming elections.

A few with empty bottles run down the length of the platform stopping at the taps which perhaps ran dry months ago. Lifting them only results in a hollow hiss, the hot air in the pipes relieved to be released. Desperate, they look around, a woman with an infant among them. Her gaze settles on the bright blue water bottles displayed proudly at the tea stall. A bold hand painted sign proclaims TEN RUPEES per bottle. A day's earning for her perhaps.

Just then, the semaphore drops. The engine lets out a loud hoot and slowly starts pulling out with the rest of the train in tow. With no option left, she clambers back in to the packed coaches. Still by the door she sees an old man with two jerry cans of water dangling from either end of a bamboo staff, labour in. The look on the old man's face as the train pulls away matches hers as he recedes into the distance. Unable to take it any more, I close my door and head back to my seat - one of those cold ten rupee water bottles lying there .......

Dev Deepawali

Dev Deepawali is one of the most celebrated festivals in Varanasi. It coincides with Kartik Poornima. The Ghats of Varanasi come alive with thousands of Diyas (earthen lamps). It is believed that on the day of Dev Deepavali, the very Gods descend on Earth to bathe in the sacred river Ganga.See more here

Image Details:

Camera: Canon EOS 350D Digital
Lens: Canon EF-S 18-55 mm f/3.5 - 5.6
Aperture: f/10
Shutter Speed: 1 sec
Focal Length: 46 mm
ISO Speed: ISO 100
Exposure : Aperture Priority / Macro