Melancholy seldom sits on the pillion nowadays!Five days in a week I travel 150 Kms (30 Kms per day) in my good old scooty. My bike’s condition is worsening. My mom’s reason for its ruin is that I don’t keep it clean. My mom has neither ridden a bike nor planning to do so.
Well coming to my travelling routine. I do enjoy but it gets really dreary, as I have to pass the stretch again and again. Oh yes I tried going in different directions, reached home late, spoke to helluva lot of Autorickshaw guys which prompted me to form an eclectic assumption abt them. Finally I decided to stick to my route, which is one big straight stretch. I went through a lot of trauma while going through that for many couple of days. And then I decided to blow away this riding depresion and make it worthwhile.
Initially I started to sing loud, my favourite songs and this give me a kind of certainity that I sing well. As my singing at home took a prominent event, I, at the same time, observed my parents in deep mortification. Finally my mother who is a good singer was brutally honest and I stopped singing.
Then later I decided to get poetic on the road. I set out to gaze my eyes on either sides of the road to get inspired. I reached office and home late. I even had many disturbing sleep. But never managed to dovetail the contradictory words that used to pop up in my brains when I looked at the barren heavy loaded sand trucks, big enormous closed doors houses, pot holes in competition with each other, unreasonably placed different types of speedbreaks, children performing accident prone acrobatics, children with trishul and huge frames of gods and pple giving alms and even touching the frame so that their journey onwards is safe, so called elite dog owners showing off their dogs carrying newspapers(this shrinks me), lovers fondling while riding, lavender-yellow-red flowers blanketing the road and many more accompanied by lunatics honking mercilessly behind you.
In the midst of making my travlelling better, I have found two favourite spots in the long stretch of ring road.
One is some 15th cross jpnagar circle. I like this place a little less than the other one Iam going to mention later. Albeit it’s the next good spot I could find.
I have never found this spot without a long length of buses, lorries, two wheelers, jalopies and what not for more than 200 yards away from the signal.
I strive to be at the vangaurd of this assorted array of automobiles and I succeed merely by the size and weight of my bike. As soon as I come to a standstill when the signal displays red, I lift my bike on to the cobbled stoned footpath and ride zigzagging around the trees quite fast and reach to the front with an air of superiority, envied by all those who are motionless. I could never be satisfied as this triumph. The feeling of a sense of conquest is alluring.
The other spot is the one I get while coming back home. Its called Devegowda petrol bunk circle. We even have petrol bunks named after Primeministers. If you happen to travel in the wee hours of the morning, you might get a chance to see our former Prime minister taking a walk sorrounded by high profile security guys. Oh he remains inconspicuous in that protective ring. It’s quite an amusing sight. Well its defnitely not the reason to like this place.
In the evenings, this spot will always be buzzling with activities.
The circle is a well-maintained one whatever be the reason. U got to wait more than couple of minutes for the green signal to appear, a long one but an intersting one. There is a big drainage next to it and surprisingly never stinks that bad. There used to be a huge tree right in the middle of the drainage where few enticing birds had crashpaded. Unfortunately I don’t find that tree anymore. These days, the void of a tree is filled up with a swarm of small kids selling succulent drumsticks on the roads, pple buying and bargaining the sweat out of those kids.
I will be banking on those small children’s success accomplished by not getting hurdled down by those blinbling covered big chested women sitting in the car who wants to buy those juicy sticks for a nickel and whenever the kids succeed it never fails to bring a smile. Those kids wearing torn jean/trouser, unbottoned shirt, dirty hair, holding a bunch of drumsticks between their thin legs, sharing jokes and laughing, counting the pennies they got, with total enraptment, everytime they make a profit and safely keeping it in their secret spot in a plastic kept next to a huge big tree with huge branches right on the footpath is a very heart warming picture I carry further down the ride.
I have started singing again. Maybe get occasionally scared that somebody who might not have better voice than my mom might get offhandedly truthful.
