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Travelling across the countryside. On work.

“Oh public road … You express me better than I express myself” – Walt Whitman, “Song of the Open Road”

You can hear the beckoning call of the open road, only if you free yourself from all those arguments you were part of behind the closed doors, near the windows left ajar, in the corridors, across the coffee tables, in the parking lots etc etc. And you feel like responding to the music started by one of many channels run by the open road.

You feel much stronger, all of a sudden, you wake up in the centre of a town with its winding streets and cobbled, crowded alleyways. A few stepped pathways with intricate steep designs lead you to beautiful old houses, a few corners of which, you run into the possibility of meeting someone with romantic interest.

Well, of course, the weather is kind enough to consider the fact that you still are not warmed up to some other man in your life. There is nothing wrong in coming back in the evening, exfoliate your tired face, and bury your little head in a book. First, you need to respond to the music of the open road.

Outside the speeding car, the monsoon, gradually is withdrawing, but the sweet smell of rains is still hung heavy everywhere. The raindrops are streaking down the windows, the world outside is still blurry. Everything is trapped in a wordless hum, while those raindrops left behind by the monsoon, are accommodating themselves to the new curvatures they have been introduced to, some time ago.

You sighed like a drama queen, lay back against the seat with your eyes closed. A thin air of sadness engulfs you, which you have not felt that before in the recent weeks. You turned back to stare at those cars and trucks coming up behind your car, trying to catch up with you fast. You looked at various other things that you left behind, which would vanish in the next moment – people tramping through puddles, the raindrops enjoying a free fall from many types of surfaces they clung to, filling the puddles with tiny circles of disturbance, vehicles splashing the collected rain water on the roads onto those unsuspected walkers-by, the fully drenched office buildings, houses with huge courtyards, breathing in all that fresh moisture.

But you appear so far away from this moderately high-profile celebration around, your lips stir annoyingly over the bitterness that was left by a cup of coffee you had in the flight. Or is this bitterness caused by the dinner you had all alone previous night? Ah, much to your chagrin, you are out of control again, thinking about some walks you shared with someone. If one can write a book on how can on forget someone who came in and vanished like a season, with minimal effort, you may end up buying the book on the first day itself. …………….

Each moment strives to be better than its predecessor. Each moment collapses either under the deep shade of Tamarind trees or on the top-most branches playing some game with the breeze or on that Village-woman in parrot green colored sari with her small child slept against her breast, a huge earthen pot flled with drinking water  at her feet or on teams of villagers in their local dresses, in varied hues basking in sun-kissed splendor, squated wth their baskets of fresh farm produce : Guava fruits plucked away along with their respective branch-homes, Tender coconuts bunched hung from the branches as if little wicked kids are undergoing some kind of punishment after having got caught amidst one of their pranks, sweet little corns in their pale green jackets etc, ………….or through or under or over…the journey is speckled with surprises in human and non-human formats. 

I search for the bookmark to establish a pause for the book. Each moment dies in front of me draped in such a luxurious fabric of life. With people who I never met before or I would never meet again in life. A few brief smiles tinkled across and shared with the other pairs of eyes. With green fields shivering in the sun, throbbing fervently with excitement for something unknown……

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