Monday, October 02, 2006

Inner Ring Road

It is cold and eerie; it had rained some time back most probably during the day lending bite to the air putrid with stillness. It is not the comforting ticklish cold enjoyable in front of a TV set with a steamy cup of milk; neither a memorable cold cherished with a group of friends spent in a rickety bus heading nowhere.It is a sort of cold which makes you pity yourselves. It is the cold you feel when you wait for somebody you are sure is not going to come and the only person you are waiting for is yourself to come to senses. It is the cold which tells you to brake all of a sudden and dive headlong under the next tempo passing by roaring. It is that bone shattering / teeth chattering cold.But he has to endure it; like Ashwathama bears the wound on his forehead. At least Ashwatthama did not have a choice. In his case, this wound is given by himself. Has he ever wondered when the shining diamond of his being was taken away from him and replaced by the curse of immortality till death? Most probably he is too much engrossed in living the curse to evaluate. One more day of fighting somebody else's battles is over. It is very easy to fight others' battles once you have lost your own. He thinks about this and gives a little chuckle. Grips the dew-wet handlebar and pedals on.


The still air suddenly feels alive, biting with thousands of needles. Suddenly it is the only kin he has; causing pain ; helping to forget deeper wounds. The wet road sliently slips under the tyres. Blood starts pumping through tired legs; red eyes are actually enjoying the biting cold after the strain in front of the monitor. Head is clear of all the feelings; feet push pedals and the ever obliging cycle responds. It creaks because of no maintainance;but has not lost the speed. He is the knight in the shining armour; he is Alexander leading his forces across Hindukush; He is Columbus coaxing his men through unknown seas; dreaming about pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; he is Horatio Nelson; writing his own Trafalgar; taking on the world. A secret world of his own.


A truck speeds by blowing horn but suddenly the horn also does not seem loud; its sound suddenly freezing in the cold air; hanging like a mist; caught in the frame of time for eternity.It distrots the stillness a bit;making the picture more beautiful; it shakes for a while like the still water of the pond shakes by mild summer breeze only to settle in its old harmony and he pedels on.

He pedels for eternity; thinking about the good deeds he did. Thinking about the diamond on his forehead. In this case he is not like Ashwatthama; he has not lost the diamond; actually the wound is there only because the diamond is there.That is the advantage of having an invisible diamond; the disadvantage is that you have to carry both; diamond as well as the wound; together. It hurts more. You do not lose it for good as Ashwatthama did; you do not live forever with the festering wound either. Something deep within knows this truth and breathes life into him even if he himself does not know.This is the life force that drives him and many; most probably all; even them who cause the festering of his wound.


And then there it starts. He has reached his most favourite road. A mad grin suddenly appears across his lips.Surprisingly all the lights are on. The moon is hiding behind dark hideous clouds. Lights seem to be losing the eternal battle between them and the darkness. They are somehow holding on some yellow frozen cones; barely trickling till the ground. It looks like twenty frozen yellow gulmohors hung in mid-air. The darkness is incandescent with the arrogance of the victor. But he does not miss the mischivious light shining sometimes on top of a cold improptu pond; sometimes onthe dark emerald of the tree leaves; mocking the darkness. Only this city can have a forest in the middle of it. The breeze in now moving as he moves away from the buildings, freezing or evaportaing the beads of comforting sweat he is proudly holding across his forehead and the back of his neck. The vegetation is pretty thick. Suddenly something jumps in the nearby pond. It must be a tortoise. He was really fond of the one he'd caught long time back.Curous animals; there tortoises; he thinks and gaily pedals on.


There is a stable nearby and some horse changes its standing position in sleep.tawk,tawk; the noise surprises everybody ; him; the cold night; the steady breeze ; the pond and the lights seem to be shocked for a second; oh, but of course!! and everything gets on with their own business of pedaling, being cold, stinging and so on. The black road offers a nice slope and suddenly there is a big turn. The road is banked and he pedals till the road is just a blur under the wheels. It keeps slipping behind the tyres and he could not watch it as it somehow hurts the eyes.



The speed keeps increasing and it suddenly frightens him. The wind is pretty cold and his ears are almost about to fall off due to it.Even the comforting sweat is not ready to appear again. He wants to slow down but could not and pedals on. The road keeps unfurling heavy with expectancy; not ready for the events that any way are not going to happen. It is not a single turn like a shock but it is a contineous curve of surprises. There are no edges so there is no beginning or end; it unwinds at its own pace but it is now pretty steep and it causes one or two butterflies in his stomach. He wants to move with the curving of the road;being one with it.But he has his own pace which carries him faster. He regrets nothing more;he'd've surely liked to go with the road but like many others animate/inanimate things; has his own tuning frequency and does not rhyme well with the road; but still creates ever enduring notes etched in the fabric of time. What a pity these notes are not contineous; OR are they there because they are not contineous ?? Are they more beautiful because they are not supposed to last; neither are supposed to be reproduced with any sort of familarity with the original??Does the fallibility of life makes it more enduring ?? Do things are liked more because they are to be lost?? Do people are liked more because they are to be lost ??


But he cares no more and pedals on. The dawn smiles innocently like an infant on the east side nearly in front front of him.Smiling and again rhyming with the darkness before blasting it into oblivion.He has to sleep for sometime before he gets up and back in his favourite chair to fix his favourite problems; some more time pass to be done for the next day. Some more skirmishes awaiting eagerly almost making the sleep impossible.