The air has almost lost its moisture --- dry and taut, a blanket of gloom across the city. The sky, too, seems to be in no mood to rain down relief. There is no sign of those proverbial pregnant clouds, dry days are sure to stay for long. The Met department has made no such predictions, but sometimes age-old intuitions, too, should be respected. And, I do that. Call me a fool, I don’t care. My mind, remains in a state of suspended animation most of the time. And it’s during such hours of life, I long to go back to the hills.
I have always been a child of the hills. I have grown up in the green, deep valleys of Arunachal, my umbilical cord still tied to the land. I’m sorry this city culture and comfort don’t suit me much. Interestingly, sometimes I feel I’m a threat to the city.
No, I have no connection with any of the terrorist groups of Northeast India. The guns drive me crazy. After witnessing victims of bomb blasts on several occasions in Guwahati, I shudder even at the mere mention of it. At times, clarifications come handy as most of the Northeastern people are ‘suspects’. If you are a Northeastern, like the Kashmiris, you can be easily arrested under the monstrous Armed Forces Special Powers Act AFSPA. AFSPA is a special law and applies to not so special citizens of India.
I have reasons to say that I am a threat to any city, though a few genuine and some nonsensical. In spite of spending years of my life in various cities, I am yet to understand the psyche of motorists. They make me spend agonizing moments under the sun every time I have to cross the roads. As the busy world moves ahead of me, I wonder if I am the only one who has got all the time. During such moments, I jaywalk my way braving past the motorists, who scream and hurl abuses at me for violating traffic rules. That way, I am a threat to the city. Someday I could be the reason for an accident, I must confess.
They also call me an outsider, the self-claimed city dwellers. I don't speak their language. In fact, there isn’t a single language that I can speak properly. Not even my mother tongue. I suffer from learning disability. That way, I don't belong to any country, or city, or any one land. In a way, I have become a curious case of homelessness, a vagabond they call people like me. My crime is that I cannot speak any of the recognised languages properly. This is freaking. Now, I can choose to speak gibberish, hope nobody has a problem with that. I can actually write songs in gibberish. Don't worry, I won't make you listen to them. These are my secrets. Every individual has the right to carry secrets in their hearts -- secret bank accounts, secret defence deals, secret affairs … the list goes on. I, too, have a few secret engagements, and I don’t have any regrets about that.
Thankfully, my absence never raises questions by friends, relatives, colleagues… no one.
A self-acclaimed non-city dweller with a few secret engagements… This again makes me a criminal. But, I know the law won't follow me. It doesn’t have the time to follow petty criminals like me. So, for the time being, I, and all those of my ilk, can run amok and enjoy our freedom with those uninterrupted feet.
But then what about traffic jams? The cities are infamous for that. I stand almost 90 minutes on crowded buses to travel 14 kilometres. These days, I don't have a steady posture. My steps are always shaky, unconfirmed. Perhaps, that is why people give me those strange looks. Moreover, my features don’t go down well with the mainstream crowd. I bring inclusiveness to the unicoloured society. I threaten the system, which is known for knowing, loving and appreciating only established facts of life.
Threatening a peaceful, established society is a crime and I don't want to be privy to such crimes.
My crimes are many, but my skin has become too thick to get affected by accusing fingers. I am unabashedly uncivilised. But I, too, need to breathe, breathe easy and breathe my share of air. Where else, but the hills I can take refuge in.
