The Pensive Point

‘Where exactly are you?’ It was my Manager at work.

At 1 pm, I had not yet landed for work. He was worried. No, not for myself, but for the turnover target for the month. And I couldn’t blame him.

Nor could I blame myself. For not getting down at my bus-stop next to my Office on the Bypass. For continuing to sit on the red and yellow minibus as it traversed outside Mahanagar Kolkata to some nondescript mofussil area that I never knew existed. For walking in the refreshing green fields and meadows, for breathing the air that smelled not of vendor negotiations nor inspection deadlines, for playing marbles with the children, and then, finally for heading to the Maidan, the one place that I could go to, without constraints, any time of the day, any day of the year. It was, after all, my Pensive Point.

‘I have not been well,’ I replied sombrely, as I lay spread-eagled on the green grass of the Maidan, my brown leather bag, imbibed with office notes, making for a very good pillow. A pariah kite seemed to fly in the speckless blue September sky while the toc-a-toc legato of a coppersmith barbet almost lulled me to sleep.

‘You were fine till yesterday?’ the interrogation continued.

For a brief moment, I felt like telling the truth. But the world prefers order. And masks. Lots of masks. It is scared of the inscrutable yet true angels and demons lurking underneath.

So, I politely continued to don my mask and replied exactly what he wanted to hear, ‘It’s just a bit of illness, I should be fine hopefully by tomorrow. And I had already mailed the inspection schedule yesterday. I had checked briefly in the morning and the work is progressing fine – the goods should be despatched by end of week and we should surpass our turnover target by more than twenty percent.’

There was a sigh of relief on the other side. The walls of Jericho had not yet tumbled, the world was still an orderly place. ‘Wonderful, take care, and drink water, lots of water, take some paracetamol even, and see you tomorrow…’

See. So easy, keep the mask on. Just don’t forget the real face underneath.

A horse-drawn carriage passed by on the wide asphalt roads a bit farther away. In the absence of office-hour traffic, the tinkling of its bells forced me to sit up and watch it pass by in a jingle. The marmoreal beauty of the Victoria Memorial gleamed in the afternoon sun. Life was good. For that day. I was after all, at my Pensive Point. The one place in the throbbing city, where you could sit down quietly, be yourself, and feel peace trickle down your tired self just so naturally. A place where time stops, where you can throw the baggage of the past, and the demands of the future, and return to your calmed, inner self and be happy at merely existing. How many times had I been there, I have lost count.

The entire Maidan, like a jaded emerald in the heart of the city, has been my haunt for years to throw away my jaded uneasiness. Walking from one end with the Victoria behind, to the other end near Park Street has often been a pilgrimage, offering me solutions like a philosopher-guide, as I have ambled aimlessly, watching children and grown-ups play with equal enthusiasm. I never strived to find an answer but in that dreamlike Kekulian walk, I would find my mind cleared and cheered. Perhaps in that clarity, the choices were more comprehensible, the answer ready (Kekule claims to have discovered the secrets of the Benzene ring in his dreams).

Or perhaps, it was the magic of the kati rolls on Park street, where my appetite would inevitably draw me after a long walk, that brought forth amazing euphoria. Or the bibliophile’s impending delight to stroll over to Oxford, where I could peruse for hours, hardbound books I could never afford. If I could walk farther, then there was the simple yet elegant Ochterlony Monument, or the Shahid Minar, strewn with buses from nearly every part of the state. Sitting on the grass beneath the Monument and watching its golden-ochre light coming alive in the twilight hours was like Meditation. All around would be kindred souls, wanting a bit of peace before heading back to the noise and humdrum of an inexplicable life.

One way or the other, there was peace. And an inner silence louder than the city’s collective noise. The Maidan was my Muse. Come summer heat or n’orwester rains, there was something magical in that place. I never returned empty-handed. Perhaps because there was never any expectation, even a grain of wisdom seemed like infinity.

Everyone needs such a refuge – it helps bring forth that peacefulness and composure without which life falls apart at times. I left Calcutta, but have always searched for that ‘pensive point’ wherever I have moved. At Mumbai, it was the Necklace of the Marine Drive that became my meditative muse, proving that the calmness of the mind far outweighs any disturbance that the world can throw. Marine Drive was far more crowded, noisier and more rambunctious than the Maidan, yet you could find a spot for yourself to watch the setting sun. Better still, you could climb on one of the tetrapods strewn on the Drive, and you would have entered a bubble with only brackish crabs for company. The sun would set, the golden lamps would come alive, and you would feel transported to a different place and time. I would often imagine the glow of the lamps to be a kind of time turner, a conduit taking me back by decades when the same routine continued, offering solace to similar melancholic souls as mine. Lost souls, who would come here to escape, lose their past to find their future.

Years later, I remember drenching in the cold, frigid winter rains of Wellington at its dim harbour, yet feeling that same energy as I had at the Maidan or Marine Drive. 8 o’clock at night was late for the locals, there would hardly be a soul, definitely not in June when the cold winds from the Tasman Sea brought down temperatures even further. Yet, in that human emptiness – almost the opposite of the Necklace - there was a joy, an ethereal sense of peace, and sometimes a few teardrops of warmth, enough to bear the winds and rains.

At Sydney, it is the vastness of the Pacific at Watson’s Bay that calms me. Behind the Bay, the sprawling city is beautiful: it is every tourist’s delight, but the emptiness ahead is what allures me. In that emptiness lies the blue of the Pacific, the roiling of the ocean, the lull of the relentless waves, and often, the voyage of a solitary ship, that brings forth a smile.  In that emptiness there is peace.

As I said before, everyone needs a Pensive Point, that mental refuge for himself. Peopled or empty, silent or noisy, dimmed or blingy, it matters not – what matters is if you have found someplace else, that makes you feel not extraordinary, but yourself - your true inner self. For it is when you meet that person, you feel awed even by the ordinary: he carries the wisdom of ages, and has that composure that ushers peace to balance the world – your world. And he has the wisdom to answer your questions, even if you do not ask them. For he is you, and we have all the answers within – all we need is the courage to accept what we already know. At a place that can bring forth this fortitude and thoughtfulness. At the Pensive Point…

24^th June, 2020