Rhythms of belongingness

Brazil shimmered in dance, drowned us in colour, and softened into silence — a mosaic stitched forever into friendship, write Manjit P and Vinod K

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The first thing that struck me in Brazil was rhythm. Not just the rhythm of samba spilling out from the bars in Rio, nor the sway of bodies along Copacabana beach, but something deeper as though the very air carried a beat. Vinod and I had stepped into that rhythm the moment we landed. After a long journey from Bombay, our bodies were heavy with fatigue, but our eyes carried that restless spark that comes only when you've crossed an ocean into a dream.

I remembered how, weeks before, we had sat in a small Irani café near Churchgate, poring over maps and travel blogs while sipping cutting chai. Vinod had said dramatically, "Brazil isn't a country, it's a festival." I had laughed then, teasing him that hed find no festival at the airport. But as soon as we walked out into the arrivals hall, a group of youngsters waiting for their relatives broke into an impromptu samba, their laughter echoing in the high-ceilinged terminal. Vinod pointed like a child who had spotted proof of a fairy tale. "See? Festival!" I shook my head, grinning. The adventure had already begun.

Even the taxi ride into the city was a performance. Our driver, an old man with salt-and-pepper curls, played Roberto Carlos on a cassette tape, his voice joining the singer's every other line. "India? Shah Rukh Khan?" he asked. We nodded, and he instantly hummed something that sounded suspiciously like a filmi tune, tapping the steering wheel with carefree abandon. I clutched the seatbelt nervously - his hands were off the wheel far too often for comfort but Vinod leaned back as if surrendering to chaos.