Gully Boy

It's Sunday, sunny Sunday. An occasional breeze succours the tire of the day, of the week. And beneath the sea of scattered clouds, lies a sleepy lane, static since the eighties. Of course, a fleeting glimpse of modernity persists in the eye, but there is certainly something romantic about its anachronistic aesthetics. 

The paved lanes, the houses, the opposite park, all induce nostalgia. A nostalgia issued not only to personal memory but to a collective conscience. The fresh air frees our industrialised souls and minds from the fetish of smoke, the merry children rekindle innocence in the current wayward and selfish times. As our feet trudge forward, the lanes take us back to the good ol' days...

The Gully Boy was hyped. His eyes furtively rolled about with wanderlust. The flaneur in me was presented an offer I couldn't resist. Together we set foot to explore the local bazaars of Rohtak.

The town's favourite transport greeted us at the Railway Road wherein we saw a plethora of shops boasting of sweets, jewellery, medicines and other electronic accessories (with "accessories" written verbatim in Devnagri). The shops and people looked timeless but aged as they could not have aged any more. The streets, old, crowded streets looked dominated by the meandering highway, as if it were a sign of modernity and development over the unchanged. 

Pointing at a shop in front of me, the Gully Boy said, "Lookie there! They used to sell cassettes there!" A sudden rush of adrenaline and serotonin pumped me up as I wishfully hoped for the existence of one in the present. 

Our next stop was the Gully Boy's home and school. And off I went without asking any questions, for if I had done that, it would have disrupted the flow of our unplanned excursion.  

Since time machines are quite expensive for the budgeted flaneur, we stopped at Arya Nagar.

These very streets raised the Gully Boy. He spent his childhood here, he spent his teens here, eagerly waiting for his friends to play cricket with. 

The opposite park as aforementioned boasted of a serenity in the merry hullaballoo of children playing about, having the time of their lives. The Gully Boy used to play cricket at about a stone's throw from this park - that park has been devoured by development.

Though this is not the site of that park, it resembles the kind of developments that have taken place in and around Arya Nagar and Rohtak. 

Reminiscing about his childhood and feeding me with nostalgic anecdotes, the Gully Boy walked me to his school. It was Model School. "Huh, colonial hangover," I thought as I heard the school's name. Well, all the odds were in my favour: there were broad roads with a roundabout, reminding me of the cantonment area of Lucknow. Plus, there stood a church from 1867 on my left. I presented my thesis to the Gully Boy. He thought for a while and then chuckled. 

We saw the school and then roamed around some more in the bazaar. The Gully Boy again pictured an impossibly rosy picture - cassette decks blaring with 90s songs, with the townsfolk busy buying their stuff. Listening to his stories, I questioned myself.

I questioned my urban existence. What joys did I receive sitting in the comforts of an air-conditioned house? What pleasure did I get by faring myself across my city through the lens of an Uber? What relations did I forge with my neighbours, even the first names of whom is unknown to me? 

The Gully Boy was from a place where everyone knew everyone. This social presence itself made me feel safe to walk around in the town. Moreover, it gave me a sense of being part of a community, which is slightly deficient in my present habitat. What do I have except a few good neighbours? 

"Opportunity", mother pithily replied as she put me to sleep after patiently listening to my adventure.

I slept, but the flaneur in me fought the night, thinking out loud, about where I am, why I am and where I belong.

Guess another trip to Rohtak will do just fine. What say, Gully Boy?