For the love of the road

I like empty roads.

Driving through a stretch with the windows down, wind in my hair, the road stretching out without an end, with clouds gathering at a distance. A lone signpost shows the way…a silent milestone watches as I draw closer and pass on…

The car, the wind and I move on. The road further down and the horizon in the distance, keep beckoning.

Of late I have been thinking of just leaving everything behind me. Pack up everything and just leave- with a backpack and the money in my pocket (can’t ignore the utilities), with a notepad, camera, tickets and the landscape for company.

All for the love and charm of the road.

Stop only to walk where the yellow fields thin out into shallow squares of earth, grass and piles of hay, slow down only to round another bend, move off the road only to explore lesser known tracks…

The journey and time become synonymous, till the world begins to look like a loom, with a scene or an aspect replacing the threads. Stand by to just pick out and observe a particular thread or note how they come together – interwoven by the common weft running through them, unseen at first but definitely there. Or move at will and become a part of the weaver’s rhythm, the movement of the loom and the cloth of life.

I read somewhere,

Dreams are the whispers of your soul

I’d like to open the gates of mine.

Part II – What the boy thought

Cars honk at each other. He looks to the road while sprinkling water on the pots. Few drops land on his bare feet. The water feels cool.
He wipes his face and runs a wet hand through his tangled hair, more white from dust than the black he was born with.

Bikes and autos honk and beep, trying to wiggle out of the crowd.
His friends hop on the pavement across the street. Work done, maybe he can join them.
Mother calls out to him from the doorway. He keeps the mug down and runs off…heels kicking high.

Just another day at work

I look out and see him sprinkling water on the pots. Tangled mane…face streaked with dirt… dressed in ragged shorts.

Bikes and autos honk and beep, trying to wiggle out of the crowd. The car starts moving.

There’s a modest block with a hole in front. Maybe that’s his home…?  I see a person call out to him. He is not alone.
He keeps the mug down and runs off… heels kicking high. That should make me feel better.

Day disappears in the routine chores. I talk and smile.

And still, nothing shakes this feeling.

Just another day at work.