I am seated in an air-conditioned Volvo bus, on my way to office. My life and my day have shaped up the exact way I had promised myself not to pursue 3 years ago.
With an hour-wise planned day ahead, and with very little elements that might surprise me, I stare outside the window. An old man is asking for alms on the other side of the road and the cold air that blows out of the air-conditioning vent angers the communist in me.
I then notice a cyclist riding his bicycle at a leisurely pace, earphones plugged in, and a peaceful smile spread out. He seems to be living life at his own pace, letting in only the music he wants to be affected by.
I then notice a cyclist riding his bicycle at a leisurely pace, earphones plugged in, and a peaceful smile spread out. He seems to be living life at his own pace, letting in only the music he wants to be affected by.
Would he still pay attention to the hungry wails of a labourer's child, the angry honking sound of a middle-class motorcyclist, the cries of help from an old man seeking alms?
Maybe he would. Maybe he would not.
But looking at the cyclist and the languid pace at which he is traveling, I want to borrow his ride. Perhaps, even his life. For a few hours.
And then, I wonder if he would be willing to borrow mine. How would I sell my life to him if I had to convince him to borrow mine?
"Hmm.... A slightly bumpy childhood but you would get to have the most amazing mother.. A short, dark phase at the end of school and college days but you would get to have the best friends life could offer..."
As I frame sentence after sentence trying to package my life in a pleasant way, I realize that I do have a pleasant life.
Agreed that I am not riding a bicycle at a leisurely pace. Agreed that my day is well planned with very few surprises, at least on the creative front. Agreed that life sometimes gets difficult enough to dole out poems like this. But all said and done, I realize that I cannot bring about myself to lend or replace the people in my life, even for a mere few hours.
Maybe he would. Maybe he would not.
But looking at the cyclist and the languid pace at which he is traveling, I want to borrow his ride. Perhaps, even his life. For a few hours.
And then, I wonder if he would be willing to borrow mine. How would I sell my life to him if I had to convince him to borrow mine?
"Hmm.... A slightly bumpy childhood but you would get to have the most amazing mother.. A short, dark phase at the end of school and college days but you would get to have the best friends life could offer..."
As I frame sentence after sentence trying to package my life in a pleasant way, I realize that I do have a pleasant life.
Agreed that I am not riding a bicycle at a leisurely pace. Agreed that my day is well planned with very few surprises, at least on the creative front. Agreed that life sometimes gets difficult enough to dole out poems like this. But all said and done, I realize that I cannot bring about myself to lend or replace the people in my life, even for a mere few hours.
What if my mother wants to recharge her mobile number? There is no way I am going to let some other person accomplish that divine task.
What if my dear brother wants to discuss about a great documentary he has seen recently? I would rather get into a gladiatorial fight before I let anyone else replace me in that discussion.
What if my friends at office want to get together for dinner at the office cafeteria just to make fun of my philosophical outlook? Sorry, mister. The spot has already been taken.
What if my dear brother wants to discuss about a great documentary he has seen recently? I would rather get into a gladiatorial fight before I let anyone else replace me in that discussion.
What if my friends at office want to get together for dinner at the office cafeteria just to make fun of my philosophical outlook? Sorry, mister. The spot has already been taken.
My people. My childishly possessive life.
As these thought waves crash on my conscious shore and slowly recede to the subconscious ocean, I am hit again by the cold air blowing out of the air-conditioning vent in the bus.
"Some of the essays on your blog are good but your blog description sucks," a dear friend had told me once. I wish that I had also attempted to put out a life description so that I would have gotten to enjoy the bus ride from its start.
Still, better late than never. The Bangalore traffic always lets you enjoy the ride a bit longer.
As these thought waves crash on my conscious shore and slowly recede to the subconscious ocean, I am hit again by the cold air blowing out of the air-conditioning vent in the bus.
"Some of the essays on your blog are good but your blog description sucks," a dear friend had told me once. I wish that I had also attempted to put out a life description so that I would have gotten to enjoy the bus ride from its start.
Still, better late than never. The Bangalore traffic always lets you enjoy the ride a bit longer.
:)
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