Part 4- Love, laughter, luxury: the metamorphosed Delhi

Dear Qi,

It has been long I know. Ever since I boarded that fateful flight on July 6, I haven’t had a second to reminisce. The earlier plan was to stop, see, go but Delhi enamoured me, most unexpectedly. As soon as I landed in all my hippiedom, the leviathan on my back, the daunting red stroller at my heel, I was gathered and buried deep in the arms of lush green & earthy brown.

The city after seven years looked like it had been manicured into a model for lavish living. Each red brick and cream coloured dome was breathing new history, writing a new future. If kindness could be measured, I’d be drowning. From renewing old sinews to weaving new wreaths, from the newly renovated “non-smoking” India Coffee House in Connaught Place to the mushrooming liberal East side.

I witnessed the urban underbelly in the graffiti adorned subway selling Tribal handicraft, I tasted Korea in their cuisine, soju (Korean vodka) & graphic novels in the seedy by lanes of garish “Punjabi” Pahadganj. I found an isolated English cabin called Sakleys in the midst of concrete buildings. As my friends kindly awarded me with the title of “cloud carrier”, we revelled on roads mirroring generous dark clouds.

There were pleasant incidents & experiences, then there were events that wringed my heart with regret for ever doubting the Dil (heart) in Dilli (Delhi).

My friend and I fixed an appointed hour to meet at The Monkey Bar in South Delhi. With my obsession for arriving on time, I was there early waiting for her.

A pleasantly smiling young man in the restaurant uniform walked up to me,”Do you play the guitar?”

I glanced at the tall black cover standing erect behind my chair, “I’m still training on my own”.

“I used to perform in a band in Manipur. I had to migrate to Delhi for money,” wistful glint of a smile.

“Would you like to play?” I offered. He jumped at the opportunity and played a local love song. His colleagues thronged to our table, lavishing attention & conversation as I waited for my friend to arrive. Next thing I know, word had spread far & wide till it reached the owner, coincidentally a friend’s acquaintance and I was on my way to getting pampered fancifully at their premium eatery!

After a brief stay with this friend in Gurgaon, I set out to brave the potholed, monsoon frothing streets. An eager cab driver pulled close, it was an Easy Cab with an aged, smiling face behind the wheel. I propped in with no knowledge of a cheaper means of commute.

 

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“How much would it cost me from here to East Delhi?”

“Roughly Rs.1100”, he said calculating quickly.

Sensing my disappointment, he offered, “I could drop you till the next metro station, it would be cheaper & quicker.”

He looked genuinely willing, but the skeptic in me wanted to smell a motive.

I smiled instead, “thank you”, the wheels set in motion.

“Are you not from Delhi?”

I decided to be honest, pushing my boundaries, “No I’m from Bombay.”

As though a switch flicked, “You’re from outside? Let me show you around Gurgaon”. Before I could protest he’d wheeled us into a less crowded lane which looked safe but desolate. There he began waxing eloquent of the skeletal structures which would soon turn into architectural marvels. He insisted I stop at a popular eatery for their unmatched Biryani. Had I not been attending to anxious friends I would’ve indulged.

“I’ll drop you to the nearest Delhi metro station. The station in Gurgaon is always crowded.”

I mutely agreed mentally calculating the money in my wallet.

After myriad stories of Assamese tradition (Did you know Assamese people add Tsri before their name to signify that the person is alive and Tsargiya for the dead?), his hometown in Assam & his 25 years of driving on Delhi streets, we finally arrived at Chhatarpur station.

“How much is it?” I enquired, partly pleading in my head to not exceed the currency in my wallet.

He chuckled, “I turned the meter off long back madamji. You are a guest here, you need not pay.”

How would you react if you were in my shoes? I was simply dumbfounded, even partly relieved. I still insisted to pay something for I had run out of words to acknowledge the goodness of his heart. He accepted a hundred rupee note and began to hand me back lose change.

I guiltily resisted but he politely insisted,”Keep it. You’ll need it at the metro counter.”

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I thanked him profusely and walked up to the counter. He was right! The change was more than sufficient, he had returned a lot more than the metro fare.

Over that one hour metro ride, I couldn’t stop smiling. Each time I felt there was a hint of a wayward glance or a wanton comment, I battled it inwardly with the strength of his kindness. It was like my Petronus charm.

I fall back upon your wisdom Qi. The world is a mirror, a reflection of your fiercest fears and brightest beliefs. I hadn’t just survived the city, I had conquered it. I allowed Delhi to cradle me to its bosom and in return, I’d found a new home.

My friend says kindness is like a boomerang, you put it out in the world and it finds you, no matter where you are. I promise to put it out without inhibition, I promise to harness the wisdom of affection, silently, unendingly. I promise to spread your legacy.

Until the next turn in the road,

PC

Priyanka Charan

 

 


magic
Magic

 

lisbeth
Lisabeth

                                                     Artwork By Judit Szakter

 

 

Trapped

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Jarring Orange

Amidst shrieks and wailings, Raghav opened his eyes to look up at weird plasticky tentacles.

He could not understand what it was because he was all of 4 months old again. This intervention was supposedly a device by his worried mother to pacify him.

It was a dingy room with orange walls which peeled at multiple places. Accentuated by the bleak bulb, was the orange jarred young Anita’s head.

Odds and ends lined open shelves engraved in the walls like morse code. “Why doesn’t he stop crying!” she spat.

It really was a mistake.

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Melancholic Blue

Tut-tut-tut. Raghav knocked at his son’s door.

A dull yet sturdy thud had interrupted the early morning musings. There was no answer. The blue walls of the swanky drawing room somewhat resonated with his mood.

It had been a while since his son had spoken to him in more than two syllables. While he had given up on any reprieve, he knew he was failing in his responsibilities as a father. He knew nothing about his 25 year old son’s friends, work or habits. When had they steered so apart? The mad rush to earn money had managed to do what he had feared all along.

Raghav hadn’t yet opened the door.untitled-1


Shades of Grey

Anny held Raghav tightly while their bodies throbbed in embrace. She hadn’t been touched so, ever in her life before. The pain was blinding but blissful — the euphoria only punctuated by the greyness of the ceiling she saw above her. They trailed to the edge of climax; almost animalistic in the throes of passion. “We should have used protection,” said she panting between heavy breaths. Raghav wasn’t worried. She was not his first in this bed.

He detested condoms.

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Shroud

Loud music filled the boneyard. Dirt on the floor reverberated in rhythm. Tiny


specks of cocaine, as
white as the walls around, slid from a packet on to the table.

It had been a few years since his last time during college. According to his friend, this lot was the most face numbing, he had ever tried.

Raghav was eager and jittery more from the lack of layers in the cold room, than apprehensions. He made 4 lines with a practiced hand and cleaned off every last grain on the glass top.

It hit his head like electricity. It felt different. Numbness overpowered him and he fell to his death unceremoniously.

Tut-tut-tut. Raghav knocked at his son’s door…

By  Ankit Kumar

 


 

 

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Jazzy Curves by Nidzoni

 

 

Love, Sugar, Self

I went scavenging for the meaning of love, no philosophy here, simple words that put a thought to context. As vain and vile as the first result on GOOGLE search. I’ve been tracing my pattern of an upsurge in love, inversely proportional to how consuming any activity is at that point in time. I felt severity, an all obsessive need for destruction, the all or none, the need to go all the way till the end and race back to start like you never existed, in this universe or my parallel one. It’s a game you see, a kind of politics where there’s indifference or destruction. I choose to not know you till you follow me halfway across my doom. Then, I surrender to your whim and start scraping you hollow, inch by inch, nook and cranny, till I’ve become you and inanely in love with this self I create. Then, as you begin to retreat from my hook, I dig my claws deeper until you’re nailed to my door like the inanimate collar of a comfortably worn out sweatshirt. Warm, habitual, homely. Then, it’s time to go. To run from you like anathema, like an empty cake tin that has been licked clean without any trace, nothing to offer except the faint waft of vanilla essence. The sugar in my blood has ebbed, the danger is diluted by your lack of mystery and attention, my interest wanes and I selfishly go chasing another cookie or caramel or chocolate even. The curse of our times love, is the idea of soul mate, monogamy, ritual and habitual love. It begins like freshly baked bread performing with an extra swell in the breast on a well stocked table till crumbs rest unattended to feed vermin. How can every fiber of my being sync with your scattered vibes? How can you satisfy flesh that is naturally designed to lust after rainbows? The body can’t eat bread and soup in a lifetime when there’s sweetmeats of unending range to offer. It tears me to love you and want you knowing you’ll only be that bakery display I yearned for once on a sugar high.

This body will decay, age, turn into a shrivelled bundle of loathing and repulse. When you begin to mark your journey in the creases and marks in the folds of your sagging skin, you would’ve arrived at your daily doze of optimum sweetness, maybe an artificial sweetener. Spend yourself on me like saccharine to boiling water. Blend and dissolve in me, leave me like I’ll leave you. A bitter dessert, sweet bacon, burnt caramel. I’ll remember you for the way you left and trace it back to the sugar you left me tasting on my lips. While craving strawberry compote.

Priyanka Charan

 

novemberrain

Artist: Ana  Mutavdzic

Artwork: November Rain

 

Ready – Set – Drift – Part 3

Dear Qi,

If you could retrieve my brain, presently nestled in some guarded orifice, you’d see how befuddled and convoluted it is. I’ve been using my anticipatory days, from the booking date till the final take off, to meet people who matter. People who wouldn’t question my actions to the point of collapse because they never understood my lack of reasons anyway. I’m trying to swim through the barrage of travel advice- from pre-booking to places NOT to visit to ‘substances’ to stay away from to cafes that matter to how much to carry and what not to eat, more dont’s than do’s. What if I don’t want to plan? What if I want the mountain to be my mentor? These winding roads have been treaded too trivially and often for a traveller seeking the uninhabited and undiluted. Hence, the hesitation to succumb to popular perspective.

My mind’s eye aches with the wonder of an infant, to see every step, served up on a platter, a first of its kind. I don’t want to lose my wonder in anticipation, in following dotted lines. I don’t want to miss the minutest detail in the changing landscape in the wait for a wanton station. I want to feed my lungs deeply and hungrily with the scents and sounds of  every passing second, that soothe my aching imagination with the balm of the unexpected. I want the bump at every interval of the road to throw me off my conditioned comfort and rattle and awaken me, still in awe of the unknown.

I know you understand me Qi, my inability to articulate my eagerness to wander, my agnosticism towards the burden of premeditated travel, my need for firing all my senses to life. I know that once I step out there will be no voice but my own to push me forth and pull me back. For you and for anyone who reads this, be with me, if not in mind, if not in body, then at least in spirit. I promise to experience every instance and celebrate it as a noteworthy passage of time. Perhaps together we may accomplish the spellbinding experiences to be printed on paper, as an indelible mark upon history.

Besides a shoulder bag full of clothing, a handbag stuffed with my gadgets and necessities (may seem slightly indulgent to you but I’m a woman), I’m carrying my 38″ Granada with me. This little leviathan shall accompany me under the star-kissed or moonless skies when I’m celebrating my solitude. I finally fly to Delhi tomorrow morning. I don’t know how long I’ll be there and with whom, but I’ll keep on writing here, as we together slide down this fine tapestry of adventure, even if so many seas apart.

Keep me in your heart,

PC

Priyanka Charan

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Artwork: The World Before Her

Artist: Ana Mutavdzic

Contemplating the road ahead – Part 2

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Author: Priyanka Charan

Artist:inkadelik


Dear Qi,

Do you remember that day when we waltzed down the village market nibbling on chocolate? There was a hailstorm in the forest that night as we shivered in the shade of a concrete lined tree. We stood staring for hours, our memories jogging back to that disconcerting amble down the familiar dirt track hidden in the lap of the mountain. You stood there in all your elaborations, tattered trousers with the seams giving way, browning at the edges after the sweat and toil in the dump yard where we planted fond saplings.

They broke through toxic lines of waste germinating with the hope of new life. You sucked deeply at the end of your local ‘bidi’ and remarked, “I’ve been working in this village for over a month now. The locals sometimes look at me in amusement, sometimes with familiarity. Some eyes welcome me quietly while others question my presence.” No matter how much you tried to fit in you always stood out, with your grey brown dreadlocks, your white tan that is our coffee brown one.

What you didn’t know was you were as much a stranger to this place as I was. You felt the need to keep your guard, wander with watchful eyes as curiosity singed your skin with sterile stares. I have always felt like a foreigner in my own country because I’m a woman. Maybe that’s why you haven’t yet been enamored with stories of female solo travellers singing praises alone of our hospitality.

Yesterday I called up a dear friend to tell her of my unplanned travel. She was livid and mortified at once as she warned me against spending too much time in the capital. “But you’re a woman! From Mumbai. You don’t understand how terrible the situation there is. I smiled, where is my neighbourhood then? Where do I belong if not on this planet. This poor ecstatic girl was unaware of how she sounded like a verbatim quote from some moronic media report, if not from experience.

I feel loved, cared for listening to her worry for my well being. I’m blessed that way you see. I’ve had the comforting cocoon of your wisdom equally matched by friends in Delhi who are at daggers drawn to keep me in the warmth of their hearth and their heart. I don’t even know how long I’ll look around in the ill reputed city that was once home to me in my formative three years. Maybe my feet won’t stop within the limits of this cemented skyline and I’ll gallop to the mountains immediately. Maybe I’ll stay, just to test waters, to sense how much this city can hate a free spirit trapped in a woman’s body. I don’t wish to accomplish anything at the risk of my safety, I just want to find one more place to call my own. A place where I won’t need a chaperone in broad daylight, where I don’t feel violated for being the person my parents cradled into this world, where I can walk like a man without ever looking over my shoulder or plugging the noise out with my cell phone. Maybe I will find home here to long for once I’m tired from trudging the hills. Be happy for me, my dear Qi, I know Delhi will be kind.

Your anxious story bearer,

Bags are Packed – Part 1 – Verses Inked

Bags are Packed – Part 1

Brogue – On the Road – Verses Inked

Verses Inked© logo
prose

 

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Dear Qi,

Last night I booked myself on the cheapest one way flight to finding myself, yet again. I’m a week away from taking off and my stomach is simmering.

I fondly rerun the balmy evenings post a hard day’s labor, spent at the same hole-in-the-wall, the same ceramic cups filled with watery black coffee. It was our conversations in the glow of the setting sun that made each cup that much more sweet. You said you could read my mind, from my caffeine cravings to my need to wander. You encouraged me to make music, seek answers, travel far and wide in search of what always lay within. That my hostile environment was a projection of my inner insecurities. That the world was safe and beautiful for those who had the eyes for it.

I haven’t travelled without a plan in six years now and caution is a baggage age has conveniently dumped on me. You were all of fifty when you set out to conquer uncharted territories in a language which could never be your own. I’ll create my own words, my own rhythm, with the love you taught me, the faith you invested in me and the music you nurtured my pride with.

I’m off to the wilderness, the solitary seas, the unmanned mountain. I’m beginning to get there, in becoming a better person, finding peace within, discovering my purpose. Like you always said, “If you can’t do it your way then chalo Pakistan.”

First stop en route Neverland- Delhi!

Infinitely soul sister,

PC

-Priyanka Charan-

Artist: Szakter Judit, Hungary
ART- „Look”

Painting- Wallboard sheet, acrylic
size: A3

Raftaar

It was a standard morning on a roman countryside. It was just another day in the life of a six year old Gladiator.Alejandro. It was after the days since the Colosseum had shut down. There was not much elements of interests in the day to day life of people, except, what except. There are no exceptions. We all do drugs. Yes drugs, the only form of recreation unless prescribed, which was for the gladiators, specifically were. There was LSD also known as acid, drops, blots, papers, grain, pixel, sniff, wuff, wurr, specially prescribed for those competing to be among the fastest. Now a particular requirement during experience of LSD was the smoking of hasish, as Anderso would say. The thing with LSD was that it was in plenty, available in nature, only need be tapped by the overbold of conscience. Hashish on the other hand was a product of the industrious, scythed by the contemptuous for the utter fulfillment of the life.

It was to be a tight rope race between the two gladiators where each would mount their rides, either on a green vespa, or a grey one. The prize of the race was to be a brick of the finest hashish, that would had been skinned out of the strongest of the stallions.

And so the legend goes, even among the followers of the usurpers. Alejandro, dressed in his hound armour, Anderso, bald as ever. Their vespas, tripping on their own throttle, their own anxieties, gyrating like the swirls of hookah, or at least that was what Anderso was pretending to be doing.  As for Alejandro, it was a matter of life and death. He had popped mushrooms thirty grams of sand ago. It had taken him a complete ninety grams of sand to gather all his score. He was in need of the herb, as bad whisky is in need of water. Anderso, the pretender in the mean while was quietly chewing on a gram from the hash that was to be the prize.

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[ n♠te: This perhaps is an extract from a larger piece in progress, perhaps just a piece to spike the imagination of the reader.] [ PARENTAL DISCRETION NEEDED ]

raftaar
Artwork by: Rollen Lasrado

The Ghost of the Lampost

1 o’ clock, 2 o’ clock, 3 o’clock, 4 o’clock, 5 o’ clock, 6 o’ clock, 7 o’ clock, 8 o’ clock, 9 o’ clock, 10 o clock, 11 o’ clock, 12 o’ clock, midnight ….Ghost in the graveyard…and the children would play and scurry around chasing each other underneath the lamp post. It was to be evening on account of which a group of over excited insects had assembled around dancing particles of dust  which were now visible under the tungsten radiance of the  lamppost. The children were in fact involved in the  mentioned  sport during the better part of the evening when the sun would cast  it’s long slanting rays across the face of the earth disinfecting ever another creek or a corner which the direct rays could not reach.  Now that the moon was visible and a cool breeze could be felt upon the skin as the light faded into subtle shades of gray filtered by the dense layers of atmosphere.  The children chose to call it a day against their better judgement. As some traced their way back home while others sat around the light chit chatting and gossiping and discussing daily chores and home work and school and parents and siblings amongst more friends and their stories. All under the watchful observation of the ghost of the lamp post.

The ghost of the lamppost, a dilemma in existence, like a left over from a long sumptuous meal, a mere reflection of its previous taste.  Maybe once a part of a bigger idea that long lay like a redundant thought that had somehow gone out of fashion and has ever since skipped creation. No form, no purpose, no destiny, no future, no memories of past or intentions of the present could the soul comprehend or proclaim to possess initially.  Like a trickle of water it held on to the glass even when it was empty and instead of getting wiped or washed, it got absorbed by the cruel surface.  All that could be described of it presently was a conglomeration of ideas that vibrated in perfect harmony to each other.  An independent force that neither transmitted nor dissipated and the shear absence of mass.

By the time the entity came to realise of its existence and abilities it had long forgotten its past. The only reflections that lingered on were of a huge rush of similar kinds. As if all of them were getting late for an appointment. Expressionless, emotionless yet they pushed along as each one tried to make their way forward.  Literally a mass departure of souls that had escaped the pangs of mortality and were on their way to face their greater destiny.  The cause of death most probably an epidemic  or a calamity. And their in the hullaballoo the namesake cum protagonist of our story gets lost and even looses consciousness. if we could only  estimate the spirit to possess a conscience till it discovers itself under the glow of the lamppost.  Internally consisting of two perfectly similar vibrations that completely cancelled out each other.   The ghost, aimless directionless and discretion less as it lay, incapable of perceiving its surroundings then discovered motion. It’s capability to travel through space even though adorned it was with no mass whatsoever.

Having journeyed through space and civilizations, galaxies and groceries, black holes and bedrooms. The vast nothingness and the little everythingness round and around again and again, inconspicuous, incognito, undetectable in its completeness  the ghost had thus settled upon the lamppost. Explanations went as such. Although the ghost had no recollection of its previous life the spirit was overcome by a great sense of belonging under the warm rays of the yellow light that as if covered the surroundings under a yellow blanket. Everything looked of the colour. Like a moment of brilliance the ghost was struck with great nostalgia as memories of yellow vision came floating like an ephemeral fume and decomposed itself somewhere in the vicinity of the soul. Maybe even got absorbed into it. Although through its various journeys, the soul had started developing a perception of other energies that varied from the turbulent surface of a star to the delicate folds of a woman, between the two it could not distinguish. Although it was able to pass through any vibration unhindered owing to the perfect equilibrium that existed within itself, yet no sense of discretion or judgement had the spirit developed.

The missing sense as if bubbled onto the surface under the sombre luminance of the tungsten light emitted by the tall standing lamp post. Memories of the yellow death that had slowly set upon the body of which the wandering soul once was a mere part strengthen the soul in the same way the heart , the lungs , kidneys and the sense organs did while it was still a resident of the body. The vital nourishments the soul required for its sustenance, once again was it able to derive. Only this time from an external source.  The intensity of the light became an object of expression for the soul, and the erect metallic body a safe hovel. Through varying brightness’s of the light as if the spirit was able to express its own feelings in terms of strength. The structure was the proof of strength itself.

Brightly would the lamp be seen glowing at times compared to the surrounding lights or else glowing ever so dimly that it looked out of order. And spark would it all of a sudden up astonishing every other passerby.” Voltage fluctuations”,” earthing problems” they would mutter as they went by ignorant of the electrician behind the show. “Wow that looks like a magic lamp” would say one among a group of youthful passerines and the light glowed ever so brightly as if acknowledging the compliments. It was only through perception of the vibration the soul would interact with the society as no cognition it had of language, speech  or any knowledge for that matter. But unlike before it was now able to distinguish between the harsh taunts of the unlearned to the witty remarks of the unlearned still and accordingly was it able to respond.

As a part of city maintenance activity that had been commissioned by the government all the bulbs were to be replaced by cheaper imported substitutes. A city municipal worker was assigned the duty to bring about the task at different localities. The person thus assigned for the particular locality went about doing his job as instructed till he was almost electrocuted at the haunted pole. The remaining poles were left un attended as the issue turned out to be of trivial importance to the society and the chosen pole been haunted was not yet established till a further funding by the government saw the uprooting of all the existing poles and replacement through installation of once again imported but this time complete poles and not just bulbs. Not only was it impossible for the men to dig into the soil surrounding the structure but they also complained of sudden electric shocks on touching the metallic frame. The spirit apparently had firmer control over its capacities and intended no harm. Thus a hue and a cry was raised about and thus now the officially haunted and the one next to poles, owing to the hardness of the ground, were left unattended. The fate of the neighbour was not to be similar as that of the occupant. The neighbour could not afford a replacement of bulb as they were no longer available in the market, whilst the ghost inhabited pillar glowed ever on bright and gay without ever needing a replacement of bulbs or any maintenance what so ever. More proud than before, now having the responsibility to enlighten a larger area due to the blacking out of  the adjacent pole.  And haunted it was, the fact was established. Thus as all the other street lights in the city were of a more whitish luminance as if exhaling out of bubbling lime, this one lamp post in some obscured corner surrounded by residential habitats held onto its pale yellow illumination provided by the resistance of beaten, coiled tungsten. . The very source of the wandering soul’s new found life.

Nourishing upon the yellow ambience the only thread of connection between the soul and the concept of existence.  The spirit embodied the lamppost as generations passed and new people moved into the localities and people on the whole started getting less supernaturally inclined. During the heavy monsoons when the moisture laden breath of the earth infused the surface with vegetation as long drawn climbers with heart shaped heavily veined leaves would wrap around the entire post like an oriental ornament to the extent of been a garment. Along the horizontal more twining branches would drop down and could be seen hanging midway in the air like fashionable laces along the sleeve. The grass was unkempt and thick around the base only periodically manicured by some voluntarily visiting herbivore or the unknown trampling of a jovial foot. Then the winter came as the vegetation would sustain itself yet the once turgid leaves would have now wilted and the abundance receded. Then would come the prolonged summer that encapsulates autumn and spring. A tug of war would be raged between the soil and atmosphere as moisture would drastically disappear from the surface. Still would be the withered, now brown branches be seen swinging to the breeze as during the months it would slowly turn black and blow away with the wind itself.

Thus  Due to its aesthetic charm and seclusion from traffic the place became a particular hangout for kids during the evenings , for an occasional loner or a chirping couple later still, and a rare drunkard or two at times late into the night. Not forgotten were the stray goat, or a lonely cow, once even a raging bull that tried what the municipal pile drivers equipping their drivers could not achieve. To displace the post, from its foundation and above. Came one sultry afternoon the starved, uncastrated, nomad bull  intending to vent it’s frustrations on the body of the post. Head long he charged ramming a part of his right horn and the adjacent skull into the hollow metallic structure as sound played it’s tricks upon the tube . No doubt a considerable  dent was made on the frame that was visible to the naked eye but never again was the animal seen wandering around the post nor such incidences had been recorded thus. Peaceful was the general demeanour of the locality.

The spirit all by itself gained more control over its intentions and actions, all owing to the sense of perception that the pale light of the post had rendered active. The perception of vibrations. Although inactive would be the spirit during the day when the sun was out but during the nights the ghost of the lamp post would play it’s tricks of fluctuating voltages upon the indifferent passerby’s, dogs been a subject of special interest. Ever so slyly would the bulb flicker when a group or even at times a solitary dog would pass by. Drawing their attention, forcing them to bark in ecstasy, or howl in retreat or at times jump in aggravation. And stark would be the light piercing into the eyes of the creature. Then slowly would it fade out of prominence as one among the group or the lone traveller all by itself would stamp it’s authority , relieve itself and thus move ahead in life.