Ride and the day

There are advantages of writing about oneself in the third person person. I was reminded of it by a blipper who is not only an excellent photographer but a very creative writer. Though I make far too many errors with the my tenses, I'll give it a shot today and see if it works for me. So here goes.


When his eyes open he searches for shadows. He feels he has become adept at telling time from them. They aren't up on that spot on the wall, which lets him know it's time to wake up. But the whole room is glowing in a kind of strange white light. He doesn't feel sleepy but he waits. Periodically opening his eyes between intervals of half-sleep until his wife tells him it is 9:15. Almost 3 hours past his time to wake. The sun, laughing behind clouds pale like torn cloth crippled with dust has failed to cast the kind of shadows he depends upon. His calculations are haywire. He resigns himself to the inevitability of being late, but is cheered when reminded that most of his work for the day was done the previous week. But something feels amiss, like having been woken up in the middle of dream that tempted him with the hope for answers.

He does not want to drive to office, but his wife compels him to. In hindsight, it is a good idea. The car groans when it is not supposed to, but he is slow and cautious. He cares more about avoiding an accident than the car's well-being. Beads of sweat tickle him beneath his shirt. Even the diffused sun packs a heavy punch. The air shimmers. The seat-belt is too loose but it is the least of his concerns. He manages the distance without a hitch and is pleased. The day has begun, and not much has been averted.

He takes it slow and tries to tick off the list of pending items. His good friend is in Bombay on the threshold of a possible change and has much on his plate. He wonders what it might have been to be in his friend's position and realizes he can't fully fathom it. His imagination is stunted. Like an unused machine gathering rust. He finds a bit of time to call another friend after more than two years. He has memories of interesting ideas and table-tennis firmly etched in his head. Though his friend lives dangerously close to the wild side, he has no doubt that some interesting encounters are in the offing. In between he packs in pieces of work. Things are comfortable.

He observes that one of his friends from Hyderabad triggers off a bit of goofiness. He is fairly imaginative then. He sees a need to milk his imagination again, in the fear that whatever little is there might just get lost. Imagination has always brought him joy. He does not fear of it. Recently he was told, that if we are to give our hearts free rein, we would turn into Van Gogh (implying the ear cutting). He laughs off that fear. For the moment he believes, due to no fathomable reason, that imagination can lead to good.

He again drives back home. In the middle there is a phone call, but he is in no position to take it. It is too early. And then he rides. He has been looking forward to riding and takes the bike out as quickly as he can. He does not even change his clothes from office. And finally he carries his camera with him. He speeds up, the roads beckon it. As it happens in the beginning, breathing through the nose isn't easy but gradually that changes. The roads feel lifeless, deflated from weathering the day's excesses. He rides through them mercilessly. He isn't as alert as he would like but realizes the importance of being cautious riding into the dark-walled evening on a dark bike. The air is a river of haze, and street-lamps and car-lights choke in it and lose their way. And so does he. He is told of tales of terror along the highway, someone even says they are a dumping ground for the murdered. He has his camera on him, his watch, his bike and a phone. The thought of losing them bothers him a bit, but he tells himself his fears are misplaced. He has a vague idea how he has to return and follows his intuition. And this time, it doesn't mislead him. It takes a while before his sweat dries, and he feels better. He awaits dinner and a good evening. He looks into the mirror, sees those searching eyes but doesn't look away. He hopes for all things simple and spontaneous. He hopes for tomorrow.