A date

“Are you trying to save money?” “You never thought about other options”, “You must be crazy” ---- I have heard all of these with one constant expression of befuddlement. But this dissent changes nothing; my habit of romancing roads continues even today, and hopefully will.

I don’t remember how this beautiful association with roads began and when. But, the monochromatic / sepia-toned glimpses from the past pop up sometimes; in those hazy moments I see myself measuring roads of Srinagar, alongside the canal, heading towards my uncle’s office and lusting for my favourite “cassata.” It wasn’t just the lust, the shade of Chinaar trees never allowed the sun to peek through the designer leaves and sturdy branches; coupled with fresh breeze and strange calmness, my short strides and happy mind was always comfortable... and all the while I would just think about one thing --- cassata.

Over all these years, the relationship with roads got strengthened, like a life-long companionship; in the days of gloom and sparks, I tend to tread the road – thinking, wondering, observing, and singing. Today, the Chinnar's shade has gone, and the fresh breeze doesn't visit me anymore. But a rather queer feeling envelops me whenever I walk alone. To me, every new road is a discovery, and every hidden alley an invention; seeing new faces is a hobby, and spotting new things a passion. Perhaps, my childhood days are to be blamed: cousins would visit us during their summer holidays and the game of “Chor-Police” would be played throughout the day, till each and every bone of our body moaned in pain.

  This game was interesting: running away from the police and finding new places to hide in the dingy alleys of my maternal grandparents’ house was no less than a treasure hunt – only the smartest would escape – hence, I was never caught. Sneaking into the house of strangers, playing with their parrots, avoiding ferocious dogs in the lanes and just running for your life from the pseudo policemen – it surely was a childhood to cherish. Since then the affair with the roads and the streets and the lanes took off, got expanded and spread to faraway places from my home.

Henceforth be it Jammu, Aligarh, Pune, Mumbai or Delhi – the exercise has continued with same anticipation and love. These days, with my new job, I am getting more time to walk in the service lanes of Noida. Walking back home, covering a distance of four kilometres, five days a week has its advantages. Many strange faces look familiar: a middle-aged woman walking her dog every evening; three teenage girls chattering away with their school bags on; over-fed dogs refusing to walk even a few meters; two guards outside the house of an IFS officer; an old Sardarji out for an evening walk and the roadside tea shop guy. These familiar faces have made the journey more pleasant, more comfortable. How many of such not-so-important observations we miss every day? We hardly care, anyway.

  Since the Chinaar trees don't dot this urban landscape, I have the company of few withered gulmohar trees. They stare at me, perhaps with amusement, as I race against the timer at the signal posts; 43, 42, 41, 40... I walk fast to win the impromptu race and allow myself to save a minute. And it helps me to get out from boredom. It surely is not an easy task; walking past through speedy cars and motorbikes at a time when everyone is in a hurry – I have to be cautious. I manoeuvre through the stalled traffic like an agile snake: measuring the chasm between the vehicles, flexibly stretching and adjusting my body, exhibiting quick reflexes. A fun game indeed. Though at times, it comes with disappointments, especially when you miss the deadline.

You might surely put me in the bracket of eccentric people who find happiness in unusual things. But when was the last time you observed the tree at the end of your lane: how it sheds leaves in autumn; how beautiful it looks in rain; how lonely raindrops look on its leaves; how a few leaves have caught rare disease, and how it longs for a whisper in its hollow trunk and someone to listen to his stories; how the red flowers, you pluck every day for prayers, fear separation; how they too wish to blossom and hate to see you; and have you ever wondered why there are no more red flowers on it?

There is a pattern we human beings follow. The other living beings too follow some pattern. We just fail to appreciate and see it because we have no time for things that are deemed useless or foolish observations. Let the fool in me lust more for such observations that fill the garden of my dreams with a flush of various hues. Let me be a fool who aimlessly walks on the roads to listen to its story; to love what you have never seen and to appreciate what you will never see. Let the joy that I find in these strange things stay forever. Let the child in me wonder why a lonely bird is flying alone when everyone has gone home. Let me wonder and ponder over the simple pleasures of life.