It looks like they’re finally going to lay the road. I want to jump about in joy in advance because my optimism is short-lived. I remember the last time I thought the road was going to be laid, and the time before that, and how I waited with bated breath so I could dance to tunes that I set myself instead of being at the mercy of that stretch of land that seemed hell bent on breaking my bones. I’ve figured that I simply cannot wait to rejoice until they finish laying the road ( I’m afraid that day will never come).
Never mind the fact that my world’s going to shrink many times over when this road gets done. Never mind the fact that my parents will be happier that I’ll be closer to humans than to the apes, and that perhaps I’ll start behaving more civilized.
My horizons will expand.
My world will be more than plain sand.
My! Won’t it be grand ?
No, please. I won’t fall.
I don’t need to hold your hand.
I fear though, that my inability to make polite conversation will now be exposed. While everyone was talking about the weather and one’s health, I would talk about broken roads, potholes, dogs drinking from the water it held, and the fear of malarial epidemics due to mosquitoes breeding from stagnant water, ecosystems, and web of life ( how bad roads increase our expenditure on oil, how them oil exporting countries become richer, how other countries become greedier and how WMD’s are finally unearthed), the world and finally the universe. Now that potholes are going to be a thing of the past, ecosystems are passé and universe and infinity is clearly not to be messed around with, I am the last of the species that makes interesting polite conversation. To survive, I must talk about the weather and my health. “Nice sunny weather. Yes, I’m doing good”. That’s as far as I can say and anyone who talks curtly is rude, not polite. For once, the dismal road was the unifying factor. One always knew that they wouldn’t be faced with the horror of not knowing what to say. In fact, we’ve proceeded from being civil to being friendly to our neighbours only because we understood each other’s woes and back-aches, and why things got worse during the rains.
Perhaps we’ll realize that there are better things to do than to classify the potholes on the road. At one point it seemed like a very interesting idea. I’ve raked my brains about what the best system of classification would be. Perhaps one could classify them according to dimensions, and they could then be co-related to how accident-prone they were. For people who want to yell at someone as a stimulant apart from caffeine, I could give them exhaustive information regarding which diggings ( PWD, OFC companies, water lines, telephone lines ) lead to the formation of which pothole.
For nothing else, except for an extended coffee session and therefore delaying treading that dreaded road, GPS systems could be used to inform them about new potholes that got created the previous night because a bunch of very nice fellows decided that one way to remove all the obstacles that the road was causing to the leading of smooth lives, would be to construct a Ganesha temple ( ganesha is the remover of obstacles) right in the middle of the road and then leave everything to faith. Except, the extremely nice fellows couldn’t spot the middle of the road, or the side of the road, or the road itself because the moon provided dim lighting, so they simply dug everywhere.
Do I sound like I’m going to miss the non-existence of the road ? It helps to absorb the full gravity of the issue, because it’s important. I’ve fallen in those potholes many times over, because I didn’t know how much force I had to exert upon myself so as to not succumb to gravity.
Do I sound obsessed with the road ? I’ve got to be. My world’s revolving around a non-entity, an illusion called a road, a grand dream called a tar road, and a nightmare called a cul-de-sac. Sometime in the distant future, there’ll be a road that’ll never have been taken before and I’ll be among the first to take it.
The road ahead is pretty to tread,
Clearly a reason to get out of bed.
Come laughter, come rain.
And sunshine or pain.
Hurrah! The road ahead isn’t after my head.
The road behind is stony and rude.
Not the only reason why I brood.
Full of ups and downs.
Hardly like merry-go-rounds.
The road behind left me in a sore mood.
The road behind is dead and gone.
In its treacherous game, I am no longer a pawn.
No bone shall crack.
No trick behind my back.
I leave the road behind at dawn.
The road ahead is one smooth ride.
Time to get up with effortless pride.
Its colour may be gray.
But I feel no gloom, no way.
And as I go on, I might even humble the tide.