The Nobel Prize for Medicine 2017 went to a troika of scientists for their discoveries of the molecular mechanisms controlling circadian rhythms – the 24-hour body clock “embedded in our mechanisms of working, it’s everywhere… a real core feature for understanding life.”
I discovered this universality recently when I took a short break. A mixture of anxiety and prescribed drugs kept me awake and alert almost 20 hours a day, a circumstance that had me spending many waking hours on my terrace overlooking a road, or walking the markets and parks.
A road paved
So it was that I was privy to a 1 a.m. road-paving activity; it kept me spellbound with its efficiency. How do you lay a road that is overrun by traffic at all hours and has cars parked on both sides, some seemingly permanently? Obviously, over several days, at 1 a.m., with cranes that lift parked vehicles out of the way and a migrant workforce that fades away with dawn. Leaving behind smooth, shiny roads overnight, like the effect of some skin cream, till the potholes return.
Next I watch the morning frenzy of vegetable-sellers as they load their carts, artfully arranging their wares, ready to race off to various nooks in the neighbourhood.
Children in school uniforms accompanied by mothers, some dolled up and others self-conscious in their night gear, or fathers, smart in gym wear, spot the road as they await school buses.
I dodge the traffic as I head into the neighbourhood green that abuts the road. As soon as I duck into the small door carved into the wall, I feel like Alice in Wonderland entering another world: quiet, green and calm, with the chirping of birds and the fragrance of the surrounding vegetation.
I walk the old paths passing fellow-walkers, some familiar but leaner or greyer, others new and watchful. The laughter club and the yoga group are going strong. The young men lounging on swings and slides in the children’s play area are a sight from the past and the energetic antics of the aunties in the open air gym are fun.
As I get deeper into our urban forest, I sigh in contentment at the antics of the noisy babblers, the calls of the bulbuls, the sighting of a peacock or the flash of parrot green with the fragrance of the har singar (night jasmine) carpeting the ground.
Exiting to the main road I pause to buy tender coconuts, flattering the vendor into giving me the best of his crop. A little further I stop at my favourite vegetable-seller, the fresh produce left on the pavement to entice. I pick up luscious peas, mushrooms, red radishes and just-right bananas, and head further down the road for my dairy fix. The vendor, an old acquaintance, hails me enquiring about my welfare, while he helps me load my already spilling bag. I head home for my cuppa .
The evenings, I have noticed, have their own separate rhythm, this time centred on the neighbourhood market.
Set alongside the road, where cars are interspersed with hawkers and beggars, shoppers and dawdlers, it exudes a certain colourful chaos.
The shops spill out their wares into the common square with its mehndi artists, flower-sellers and the momo vendor.
The sweetmeat shop incongruously abuts the brassiere-seller, while the flavours of tandoori kebabs waft across to the strictly vegetarian namkeen shop. Cows, garbage and ATMs are interspersed with tailors and watch repairmen. Chemists abound, while a surprisingly well-stocked book shop and a big liquor vend (with a separate entrance for women!), provide other vital fixes. The flowing sea of humanity all around me seems to ebb and flow rhythmically.
At dusk, I am back on the terrace watching for the odd avian visitor who usually stops by for a wash or drink in the bath on the terrace before retiring for the night. As the azan from the nearby mosque fades away, the old crow appears, like clockwork, at his favoured perch. We watch the growing line of headlights on the road below in companionable silence before it flaps away.
In the night
As the night deepens and traffic fades somewhat, I hear from my bedroom the rolling barriers being drawn across the roads and know without looking at the clock that it’s 11 p.m. and the cops are setting up for their nightly vigil. Even if I am asleep, I know that at midnight another group will stop by, their vehicle lights flashing, for a quick chat before driving noisily away. As dawn breaks, the pigeons on the gulmohar outside my window awaken, almost in unison, cooing and fluttering, to greet another day.
The circadian rhythms of my neighbourhood will not win a prize anytime soon. Nevertheless, its routine, both familiar and comforting, is embedded in my life.
nitasha.devasar@gmail.com
