❝Live a life of Lies, die a death of Truth.❞
The one thing fate is good at is spinning dangerous turns and planting deathly bogs in the stream of life. When you are stuck in the eye of the storm, the truth can't set you free; but the lies can give y...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
July 30, 2017
The earthenware clay-made tumbler feels hard against my rough fingers as I take the last sip of the chai. The still-hot last drop brings a sense of sweet gratification to my tongue and my heart. A small boy, not more than 12 years of age comes up to me and gives me the bill he wrote on the back of a cigarette box. I look at the bill written in short words but beautiful cursive writing nonetheless.
"That will be 63 rupees, Bhaiyya," he says, tucking the pencil on the top of his ear.
"Don't you go to school?" I ask him as I reach for my wallet.
"I go to school. 5th standard, D section, Aryan Boys School." The boy beams as he answers in a tone of pride.
"Are you on leave right now?" I ask to which his reply is so simple.
"I asked for two days of holidays since my mother is sick and my father can't handle the dhaba on his own."
The sincerity pricks a small spot on my chest as I simply smile and give him a 100-rupee note and leaving without the change.
What a 12-year-old can do to his father I couldn't and haven't done in 25 years. And I don't have the chance anymore. He's just gone.
It has been 11 months since Dad died. And 8 months since I left the Mishra Mansion and never looked back. I've been a man of my own way, with my bike and the long road routes. Well, that would be the way I'd put it if I were a cliché 'wanderlust' person. But in reality, I know who I am. I am not a man, but a petty boy, who escaped from responsibilities and took the route of cowardice.
My Imperial Red Unicorn stands with the pride its owner doesn't have. I walk to it brusquely as I strap the front of my backpack tight to my torso.
It's a mild evening, today. The sun is dipping back between the clouds, pulling it onto its grand, bright body like a soft duvet. When I was young, I used to imagine that sun and moon were workers in the office of sky and sun worked the morning shift and moon the night shift. I was amazed at the sun's selfish attitude when it used to leave right on time, never checking if the moon is there or not. Sometimes when the moon never showed up, the sun wouldn't care. But I always managed to spot the moon in daylight too. It's duller than when in the night, but whenever it showed up, it was there both morning and night. I had one ultimate confusion: did moon get Worker of the Year because of the overtime or did sun get it for not skipping even one day? Would it be passion or consistency?
On a side note, you just imagine how my mind reeled when I was told the moon gets its light from the sun. Then I developed a whole other story, a better tale, but that's for a better day.
I kick start the bike and get back in the lanes of NH 60. I haven't stayed in one particular place these eight months. I travel to different cities, stop for food or petrol or when I really need to sleep. I came so close to Mumbai two days ago, forcing myself to just go back. But as I came to the outskirts, I tried to think of one good reason to go back. For what's waiting there for me. I came up with three things and just revved a U-turn. The three being: 1) Dad's absence 2) Mom's disappointment 3) Responsibilities.
Cowardice is written all over my body. In every living cell. In the most ironic way, I take it with pride.
On the left of my peripheral vision, I see the thank-you-visit-again sign of the City Of Mumbai. A weak smile plays on my lips, knowing I wouldn't come back in a while. Maybe forever. That's a tacky word to play with, but it's a comfortable mask for now.
The wind gushes faster against me as I increase the speed to 65 kilometers per mile. One thing I learned from this no-rest travel is that you can't overwork your bike. Your bike is your everything in trips like these. Give it proper work and proper rest too. Let the wheels of your bike kiss the road, not rape it. Before this trip, whenever I took the Unicorn out, I'd drive in the 80s for the most time. But those were fun times with a couple of friends. Now, it's different. Just like everything else.
My mind readjusts its stream of thoughts as a car steadily overtakes me on the left. It's a red Suzuki Alto 800 and it's just about packed with people. I wonder where they're going. It gets lonely out here sometimes. I mean, it's just me, my bike and the road. I have to entertain myself to stay away from the fire of guilt and shame I've built for myself and rightfully so. It's a confusing yet comfortable place of mind, knowing you're doing everything you can to prolong the punishment you know you deserve.
Anyways, to kill some sweet time, I think of where people I see are going. I wonder why they're going wherever they are going. I usually stop the wild imaginations when it boils down to this question: are their reasons like mine?
As I let my mind run its kite of imagination around the Boarders of the red Alto 800, my eyes go to note something. The right side passenger car door is not properly locked. There's a narrow gap between the body of the car and the door. If any force is exerted on the door, it will nudge open and people can fall out. My eyes widen as I think nothing further. Speeding up to them, I try to alert them by honking. But they pay no heed.
Cursing under breath, I press the accelerator harder and go parallel to the car and look ahead for safety before turning to warn them. Only to see that they have the windows closed. Groaning internally, I honk harder and constantly.
The window rolls down painfully slow as I turn straight to look at the road ahead of me before turning to see inside the car. My mouth opens to tell them about the open door, but they stay open.
Her eyes are bright even in the dim lights of the perishing dusk. They shine in the top corner like the eyes of angels drawn by great artists. The fullness of the round orbs is shown in the bottom end, where they blend with the white of her eyes and the soft skin around them, decorated by the thin, barely-there eyelashes. Her face slowly peaks out completely and the world stills for a second.
And it just does that. Stills.
When I heard tales of love, I imagined it would feel like the world crashing at your feet. But it feels nothing like that. It feels like you and the world are two different concepts because there is a re-centering of a universe happening right now. And it's around her.
A slap that this isn't a movie and that I can't just fall in love so easily comes as the sudden halt of the car. I snap out of the trance as I immediately apply breaks and just skid a few feet in front of the car.
"Oye, what do you want?!" The rough voice of a middle-aged man comes from the driver seat as he leans out to question me.
"Sir, the right side car door was open. They could've fallen out. Please lock it well," I say, having no idea how my mind is sane enough to say that in correct context and sequence.
"Oh, okay. Thank you," the plain reply comes from him and the car door is opened and re-closed with a powerful slam. I hear the locks come down properly and the car goes past me, once again.
But as it does this time, I see that eccentric pair of eyes follow me for as long as it could before the car whizzes by too far.
What is it about those eyes that makes me want to follow them?
