Thursday, November 26, 2009

Seeing Through-2

[Story continues...]

I recollected it somewhere from my memory: "the life is not worth living, when your thoughts are slaves".

'True. They can never see what the masters of their thoughts had done to their land. They all have participation in politics in the form of student's unions, in their colleges; every student in Kerala with the "fortune" of pursuing his/her career in a government college or school has this fate. How can they see the indolence with which these politicians are running the country since they are all under the spell of these master minds'.

I sat straight, for my back had started aching, in the undulating bus. My thoughts, Which were disturbing and embarrassing, faded. Pain is a good medicine for everyone, I thought. It was then I noticed something approaching. A vehicle, a truck, from across. It crossed the bus and a huge cloud of dust, it had brought with it covered over my bus. The bus, the passengers, and the girls, everything around was swallowed by the huge and vast cloud of dust.

I felt the grains in my eyes, I blinked them and they watered. That was an easy way to get rid of the dust from your eyes in your daily journeys. A very natural solution!

The bus resumed its journey again. I thought of covering my nose by using a hand kerchief, but it was stinking from use during the day. So I didn't take up that plan. I felt the dust particles thrashing against my face. The bus couldn't attain its speed in the gutters.

Through my nostrils, I had inhaled the dirt and dust. I could tell the path of the dust through my nostrils down. I had felt the tiny grains of dust in my mouth. I had already closed my eyes after the blinking and tearing practice. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't.

I reached home exhausted. It was dark and my mother was getting upset for I was late. She is so loving that she couldn't bear a moment's absence of mine from the every day time of my arrival. She didn't say anything for some moments, but suddenly blurted out: "It's the daily thing that you do. How many times have I told you to come early?"

"It's the daily thing. The usual." I repeated without much of the consciousness. That was the fact. This was the same every day.


[The story was first published in Authspot ]

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