Little bottles

He thinks of areté and a subsequent argument against specialization. He has always known it. Perhaps that is why he likes it slow. Like a wave, high as a wall that comes through like a marching army, not the thin stream that speeds down mountain slopes.

He begins the day with a book. He has his books now. He likes to be able to set the inertia for the day rather than allow it to dictate. Mornings have always been his time. There are bits of music too. Towards the horizon, is a mask of dust. Outlines are faint, all's a grey blur. Colours seem to have gone into hibernation. He does well on the way, he is more comfortable. Being slow doesn't bother him at all. All he cares about is the attempt.

The blue, green and red partitions are silent today. There may be a storm brewing, but it would be outside. He observes the easy smile on a rugged, lined face, he knows there is much it conceals but is appreciative. He follows procedure. Seats are empty today and he begins with pleasant conversation. But some things are to be left out. He realizes this across the long drawn out notes, in the crinkly pieces of her voice, in all the little movements but this is not specialization. It is but a microcosm of a much larger reality. He chooses integrity in little pieces over the tug of war that ties all lose ends.

Much time is spent in the coffee room, multiple impromptu meetings, coffee that's too sweet and a tap with a mind of its own. But it leaves a sour aftertaste. There is cynicism he can't help but laugh at. He observes little mistakes that one pays for more acutely as one ages. The seeds are already sown. He finds some answers, sees roads he is better advised than to take, and some interesting ones he isn't aware of.

When he rides in the evening, he is as fast as he can safely be, his hearts beats with each rotation. Smells of delicious omlette wrapped around the evening air are replaced by burning fuel and dirt. He does not want to ride into dinner time. So he returns. Delhi is not far, he wonders. He makes dinner. He has gumption. He is stubborn and it is hard to make him do anything he isn't convinced about, but this time he is. Time stands still for a while, for there seems to be nothing else to be done. Suddenly the meagre act of making dinner has assumed utmost importance. He does it the only way he knows.

At night they go down. She rides and he walks. He shows her how to handle gears and how they can be useful. They find slopes to test their ideas on. The guards are not sure of protocol, which is good. When they are back, ideas are reinforced. It is a good day, he thinks. Though parts of it will be forgotten forever.


Image above - Little bits that arrived from Hyderabad, which deserve a better photo.