The bulging shops on either sides had encroached a large part of the road, what remained was a potholed stretch. The evening rush hour was as usual irritating, sea of humans of different sizes till the eyesight goes, front and back, left and right, whether on a bicycle or buggy or car, all were inching, the level of frustration increasing with every inch, the nerves throbbing with anguish. The scene of road rage was going on at one side where a hand cart had scratched past a plush sedan, on another side a woman with a baby clinging on her waist and two little ones crying following her, while they were making way through the jammed junk of immobile traffic. The babble was not deafening but it wasn’t a chorus either, it was wrenching the nerves.
Tell me a single person who can keep his calm or just ignore this scene of hell, I bet the honking beasts will miss their vehicles on the day of resurrection.
In this whole big neighbourhood, the only place seemed to be free of hassle was a disputed property, which was full of Bougainvillea, Margosa and other wild vegetation, someone had tied a swing made of old tyres on a big banyan tree and the children were enjoying their after school hours while mongrels were sniffing the corner of the plot which was used as a garbage bin by the adjacent houses, a Paan-vendor’s rickety wooden stall was set up right next to the rusty gate by the support of the dilapidated boundary wall, the age old, toothless vendor was said to be the caretaker of the disputed property and he had let a migrant labourer family to live in a tin shed in a gloomy corner at a meagre rent of a few hundred rupees.
As our executive friend was inching close towards his lane and all of the goings on were mundane, there wasn’t any sort of novelty… neither in that place nor in his perspective. He was drenched in perspiration, his temples were burning and his brain was throbbing under the helmet, though he knew the way but his eyes were clueless, so was his mind, a day’s work had taken its toll or a lifetime’s, it is hard to tell!
There were people and people and people, still the place gave the same disgusting feeling which was exclaimed by Mr.Kurtz in Joseph Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’, when he said – “The horror… The horror…” However that was in a totally different scenario.
The executive was actually dragging his motorcycle, he saw a grave on his left, it was painted green, the walls were green, the gate was green and the faded shroud was also green with golden brocade, obviously faded. There was no one in and around, some people used to come on Thursdays to light candles on the grave, it was said to be of a poet seer from Medieval times, graciously called ‘Peer baba’. There was a dried hand pump in one corner which also looked like a piece of archaic significance. On Thursdays pitchers filled with water were arranged on heaps of sand for the devotees.
The executive was stuck in the jam there, in front of the green gate to the grave, it was looking tranquil against the colourful maze of people, cars, buses, etc., etc. and endless inventions…
What came over him suddenly, seemed like he became unable to bear anymore, removed his helmet with a volley of expletives, ”Be damned…”, he said looking at the crowd and threw the helmet on the road with such a force that its outer shell went into pieces leaving the thermocol skull and the cushioning foam behind, the inching traffic halted for a while to see what had happened.
The executive tore his collar, threw the ID card-lanyard dangling from his neck in the open gutter which was picked up by a mongrel for chewing but then left after failed attempts because plastic didn’t excite its taste buds. The executive threw the tie hollering,”A dog’s collar! Huh!”
He was drenched in perspiration head to toe, he sat on his motorcycle his head dangling what seemed to be a sense of release. He was calm now.
Before going inside the tomb premises, he threw his shoes… Some people had noticed this strange behaviour by a young man. He sat on the ground leaning on the wall.
For a long time he sat there, looking everywhere blankly, glancing the still jammed traffic, nothing crossed his mind, sometimes he looked at the sky and did spot a few birds even after the sunset, he might have been thinking of escape, sometimes he looked again at the road, which belonged to him, his motorcycle – a prized possession. His body was still, he felt neither hunger nor thirst, nor the urge to reach home…
The immobility of sky repelled his vision or bored him, so his gaze fixed at the dynamicity of the road, he was looking but not noticing, the traffic has been eased by now, the ambience of the sanctum made him hum a few Sufi chants…
It was nearing midnight and the road was empty, the shops were closed, the executive got up as if woken up from deep slumber, reached the road where he saw a vagabond lying under a tea stall wearing his boots… He shook his head in mixed feelings of disgust and relief, waved his hands as if doing away with that lingering mixed feeling and left…
