The Dance of Shifting Landscapes and Cultures 

For the past ten years that he had been retired, Ramu found solace in a leisurely routine of waking up around 07:30 AM—alone though, for the past six years. Reaching the balcony as soon as the hour’s hand of the wall clock hit 8, he’d get lost in the newspaper world for another hour. But today he did not reach for the newspaper. Instead, he sat in his designated chair on the balcony, absorbing the bustling activity in the building and on the streets below them through the spaces offered by the safety grills. The dream he had right before waking up was too beautiful to not think about again. As he looked out, he recollected that he was dreaming about this very city: Ongole. But the Ongole in front of his eyes did not match the one in his dream. The aesthetic and beauty of the city, he realised, did not match. 

In his dream, from this very spot, he was able to see the Srigiri hills, the road that led to the hill, and the temple on each side of it, in its entirety. Looking lost into the Sirgiri hill that is now only half visible because of the tall new apartments, on top of being covered with an equal number of houses as the trees, he shook his head in grief. This shouldn’t be happening! 

“I think Canada,” Ramu heard his twelve-year-old grandson talk to someone inside the house but he focussed on recollecting the dream. Transcending to another state now, he could see the dream clearly now. 

Listening to the sparrows chirrup, hurriedly swallowing the grains his wife left on the sill purposefully, Ramu put on his chappal. As he stepped on the supposedly dirt road, Ramu realised its transformation into a muddy one was because of the rain last night. The shopkeeper adjacent to their house shouted that it poured down so heavy that her breakfast items are left unsold; a rare case. 

“I have my granddaughter’s marriage in a few weeks and the rains are not helping,” she added, referring to the sixteen-year-old Ramu has often seen around. 

He knew that it wasn’t the age to get married but he also knew not to meddle with another family’s decisions. For he had to get married at a similar age. Pitying her situation but not crossing either his limit of selflessness or boundaries, he bought one extra plate of dosa and idly. 

“Only for you, Devi,” he said, paying her. 

“This extra ginger chutney is only for you too, Ramu,” she replied, packing it all in a thin plastic bag. 

Walking towards the cycle rickshaw spot, he greeted a few people back and rejected a few requests from people to drop him on their bikes. A group of middle-aged men in their unofficial rickshaw wala uniform: a shirt with the top two buttons undone revealing their banians, coupled with a lungi that barely hid the shorts they wore inside it. The lungis only came down to their original length occasionally. As Ramu approached them, one such guy threw away his unfinished bedi, waved the smoke away and lowered his lungi. 

“Come, let’s start, Ramu garu,” he said as he bid his byes to the other rickshaw wala.

“When will you quit that godforsaken habit, Krishna!” Ramu knew it was a rhetorical question and there was no use bringing up the same old conversation they had on a daily basis for years now. 

Chattering about trivial topics only stopped once they arrived at the destination. Krishna received the food packet on top of his fare. 

“But, the USA has…” This time it’s his daughter-in-law’s turn to disturb Ramu from reminiscing about his dream. Before he could listen to what she was talking about, a crow cawed out loud close to him, startling him. Adjusting himself in the chair, concentrating on the crow, Ramu understood that the crow had landed because of the grains he left on the sill; a habit he picked up from his wife. Whatever happened to sparrows? 

Taking up the first offer to drop him home, Ramu headed back home as a pillion rider. The people that greeted him in the morning acknowledged him again. Some asked why he was home so early. 

“My wife’s cooking fish curry for me today,” he repeated to everyone with a child-like smile. Dragging the guy who dropped him into his house, Ramu made sure the guy enjoyed his wife’s fish curry as much as he did. 

Content with the work he had done in the morning, and the delectable fish curry, Ramu decided to nap. Noticing his wife beside him on the bed only after cutting one in the air, he asked her why the curry tasted better that day. 

“I switched coconut with cashew today. Guess that’s why you’re having gas trouble.” 

“Tatiah! Tatiah.” The grandson’s screams pierced his ears and put an end to his reminiscence. “Mom is not agreeing to take me to the mall.” Tatiah is the Telugu word for grandfather. “It’s the opening day; it will be too crowded,” the mother replied. 

Knowing that the grandfather is easier to convince rather than his parents, the grandson kept pushing. Ramu didn’t budge this time and kept promising to take him after a few days. “Why are you so obsessed with it anyways?” he asked finally. 

“Because malls are awesome. It will make me happy, I guess.” 

“The more theatres, buildings, malls, and restaurants, this world builds, the less happy, humans are going to be,” rubbing his varicose veins, explained Ramu. 

“Tatiah, if I can see more movies, buy more houses, relax in air-conditioned malls and taste new cuisines, it would make me nothing but happier, I guess.” 

Chuckling behind the Deccan Chronicle newspaper he has been reading, Ramu’s son chipped in, “It will boost employment and help your Ongole, won't it?” 

“This isn’t my Ongole anymore. My Ongole was a town; not a city,” looking out, Ramu muttered to himself. 

“Imagine you are the constructor of all those things. From the thousands of gated communities to restaurants that are springing up every year. If you have something to do with all of them, how crazy would you feel? How many new diseases would you catch trying to maintain pace with all of them? The ultimate creation or God as people refer to, is bothered with all this on a single planet. Imagine how frustrating it could be to take care of all the creation. It affects the buildings: us, too. Look at how weak people are right now. Because we are and we all share a part of that creation. That’s why even after having the most number of comforts and remedies, even more than a King in earlier times, an average person is sadder than they’ve ever been,” Ramu spoke his deepest thoughts out loud to no particular person. 

Understanding what Ramu is referring to, the son stopped him. And moved his eyes from Ramu to the grandson and was able to communicate. I told you no such talk in front of him. “What Tatiah’s saying is that if we have no empty spaces to build all these, you will run out of space,” the son explained to the grandson. 

“Hmm. Like how five years back I and my friends fought every day over which ground to play cricket. Some places favoured hitters, not the bowlers, some favoured left-handed batsmen, some were compact and suitable for summer and some were big, only to be played in winter. And, and, all these were just around our house, you know. Now, we can only play in either ABM or PVR ground. If an event is happening there, simply no cricket for us, you know!” 

“Start playing something you can play in the USA as well then,” the words from Mother’s mouth revealed what the earlier chatter was about to Ramu. Not a word after that coming out from the three mouths around him succeeded in reaching his ears. 

I moved from my birth village to this town for a job opportunity and basic healthcare. My kids moved to bigger cities for much better opportunities. And now my grandkids want to move to different countries for much much better opportunities. Did I take the wrong step back then? Am I to be blamed for this? How can I stop them when that is exactly what I did and am happy that I did it? If I knew this is where it would end though, I wouldn’t have done it! Isn’t it better to die with less Medicare but surrounded by your people rather than living with world-class Medicare amongst strangers? 

The grandson and son left Ramu alone, assuming they’ve lost him again. Ramu has been zoning out of conversations frequently and they assumed it’s part of ageing. And the possibility of having thousand more such conversations with their father and grandfather stopped them from continuing the current one. 

Being one of the rare 70-year-olds who can commute on their own, Ramu set out to visit his old workplace where he still has connections. As he stepped onto the cement road that looked flawless even after a downpour from last night, Ramu appreciated the mud from his dream. Unconsciously, he stared at the new restaurant that took the place of Devi’s small shop. Only if anyone inside cared about him would they have noticed him staring. But out of the unnecessarily frenzy crowd that filled the restaurant, no one even for a second noticed him. 

Walking alone to the auto stand, he reasoned why that dream was the most impactful dream he had in recent days. After getting rejected by a couple of auto drivers, Ramu was on the verge of walking furthermore when he found one more.

“I have to come back alone,” pretending to be disinterested and accelerating away, the auto driver replied without even looking Ramu in the eyes. “Old man, understand. The service rate applies only when it’s a shared auto.” 

Comfort brings arrogance with it. That’s when Ramu realised that the dream was beautiful because it was true. It was just his daily routine once upon a time he was viewing from a third-person view. To think that his greatest dream was once his routine, brought a curve to his lips and water to his eyes. 

The bass from the speakers was vibrating Ramu’s back seat entirely, hinting at him not to initiate a conversation. Even the driver did not utter a single word, confirming this. To overcome the relay of information between each person, we invented variety of technologies capable of connecting anyone from anywhere but barely call or text anyone anymore. To overcome not meeting people afar, we invented different modes of transport but do not use them to meet people but to get to work and show off. The auto-driver’s worried about coming back alone only for financial burden reasons, without realising that if he doesn’t try to converse with people, he or his family might end up alone when shit hits the fan. All those restaurant customers and staff too were constantly hurrying to better their futures without enjoying the present. 

After hours of conversing with the current employees and old friends around, Ramu started his return journey of finding another auto. No one offered to drop him unlike in the dream and the older days. Calling out for them, bargaining with them, he was glad to have found one middle-aged auto-driver. 

“I don’t want to be rude but back in time, the rickshaw walas treated people better than auto walas. Today’s generation thinks cabs will take over as they don’t have to deal with the bargaining and shouting,” halfway through the journey and conversation, Ramu expressed his thoughts. 

“We did discuss this amongst ourselves,” replied the driver, turning towards Ramu for a brief second. “No matter what we do, once someone can afford cabs, they will choose them over us. Development is inevitable. So they act like that to make as much money as possible right now.” Development is inevitable! Thinking about that one line, Ramu stepped out of the auto once his stop arrived. Walking the last half-kilometre of his journey, he mulled over many things. 

“I’m an outsider to my birthplace but a resident to a city I only got to and stayed in for a better life,” thought Ramu about his grandkid’s desire to study and settle abroad. Looking around, reminiscing about the dream and comparing it to the present, crushed his heart. The narrow road through which not more than a single auto can pass, allowed neighbours to sit in their own homes but talk to each other. The widened road allowed for cars to fit—not one but two at a time—but distanced the neighbours. Caged greenery around the roads that’s limited to certain dimensions felt forced and a half-hearted reparation. People seemed to contain themselves inside their houses, reasoning that the weather is not suitable whether it’s winter or summer. Every inch of what Ongole looked like had changed. 

Looking at his house from a distance, he could make out his grandson’s body moving around on the balcony. He was torn between trying to stop his grandson from leaving the country one day

or letting him live his dream. Mentally making a note to at least talk something about it, he took a deep breath when he heard the loudest female scream. 

“They should not mess up again. Tell them if they do, I’ll cut their entire pay this time instead of percentages,” a young woman who Ramu guessed to be in her mid or late 20s screamed at a grocery store delivery person. 

“Ok, Ramya ma’am,” said the delivery person. 

Behind all this drama, Ramu could see the name of the restaurant that he never really bothered to register in his mind: Ramya Tiffins. 

“Uncle, can you move a little forward!” Ramya addressed Ramu who was blocking her scooter unconsciously. 

Obeying her in dismay, Ramu quickly shook his head and asked the question that popped into his mind, pointing to the board, “Are you the Ramya?” 

Chuckling with what seemed to be a mixture of pride and happiness, she nodded. “Your father or husband owns this place?” asked Ramu, assuming that one of them is the obvious answer. 

The chuckle disappeared from her face. “No, uncle. It was my idea, my recipes, my passion, my business model. I brought in the investors, bought the land off of an old lady, designed the whole thing, and made sure it complied with the codes. Absolutely everything’s done by me.” “What a different but great world we live in,” was Ramu’s immediate response. Maybe communication with others is hampered because the inner selves are healed or vice versa. “Make sure to come and eat at our hotel once, uncle,” she replied while leaving, now her face only filled with pride. 

“We are going up the Srigiri hill for sunset,” declared Ramu, shocking his son and grandson. Following the lead without asking any questions furthermore, the trio got onto two motorcycles. Ramu got lost in observing the ever-increasing houses to his right as they rode up the hill revealing the modest skyline. As amazed as they were and eager to ask why they were there, the grandson and son fell silent for five minutes as they all watched Ongole below them. Once they all came out of the trance-like experience, Ramu spoke his mind out; everything that he has been thinking of lately which they called zoning out. 

“That’s the curse of falling in love with your home place. It never stays the same; whether it gets better or worse, time will decide. But make sure you have at least one person with whom you can climb the Srigiri hill and stare at the changing, rather emerging skyline once in a while. And remember that those people are home anywhere you go. I, unfortunately, lost one such person of mine six years ago,” concluded Ramu. 

Now the other two seemed zoned out for quite a bit of time before the son asked an important question. 

“If you can magically control everything, what would your Ongole look like?” “More and more,” chuckling because he has an answer ready, Ramu continued. He thought about it on the way and the answer felt obvious. “More companies, more restaurants, more

gyms, more jobs, so much more, that Ongole becomes the greatest city in this state, country and the world.” 

Looking at the confused faces, he realised he only shared his lamentations of the modernisation until now but hadn’t shared his new opinion that he knew he would stick to forever. “If only Ongole becomes the greatest city, none of its residents have to leave to other places for better opportunities. Because dying in the same place you’re born is not the sign of a loser or of cowardice who didn’t make it or explore the world but of the ultimate blessing that a person is born in the right place. Only a few people get that lucky in this world.” 

*** THE END ***

RAMU MOVED TO HIS VILLAGE IN THE LATER STAGES TILL HIS DEATH AND REMAINS THERE TO DATE, UNIFIED WITH THE LAND. 

THE SON ACKNOWLEDGES THAT HE IS THAT LUCKY PERSON RAMU REFERRED TO AND ISN’T SCARED OF DEATH ANYMORE. 

THE GRANDSON IS WORKING IN THE USA AND MAKES SURE THAT HE DONATES PART OF HIS EARNINGS TO AN ONGOLE-BASED NGO THAT WORKS TO MAKE SURE THAT DEVELOPMENT DOESN’T SCATTER THE BEAUTY OF ONGOLE.

The author in Pavan Karthik wakes up after working his regular techie 9-5 job. He is the author of two self-published books: "When the Sky and the Land meet", and "Three Hearts: An atypical tale" and is currently working on his third book based on this article.

This piece is part of Nagrika’s Annual Youth Writing Contest. Through the writing contest we encourage youth to think creatively and innovatively about their cities.