26 September, 2013

Never Ending Noises

A huge crowd had gathered. No one had called for. Nor was anyone giving away something free. The crowd was waiting for the barrier to break. Nobody wanted to be there. At least, not with all the other people around, in that number. There was not much choice to walk away from the crowd, especially when you stand amidst it. Among those various head was mine. In the centre.

Traffic Jam

This uncalled for crowd was tremendous. If the air consumed was huge, the air let out was cyclopean. I looked around and found many lifeless souls waiting for the right time to proceed. All were longing for something or the other. But the foremost at that point, they wanted to get out of this mad rush, either by going ahead or by staying behind. Both were hellacious options. None can blame them. It was the wrath of the sun in the tropic city.

Suddenly, everyone moved. Rushed. As the deer would, upon sighting the predator. As the ants would, upon the first instance of disruption. As men would, when terror strikes. It was none of the above. Way was allowed. People swarmed, rushed and hurried to get in front of another as though there was a race. It was a race, in their eyes.

The Red made way for Green. The vehicles started to move. It was not a slow and composed movement as it normally happens at any signal but somewhat of a cutthroat competition to get past the signal before it changes back to red. And everyone was in it. Everyone squeezed through as much as possible between other vehicles as worms would to dig themselves deeper into the traffic, moving past other vehicles.

They did not move quietly. Horns were blown incessantly even before the vehicles started to move but they themselves took all the time in the world before changing gears and accelerating. They cared least about others, wanting others to be prompt while they themselves wasted others’. Among the mob was a man. With 200cc bike, loud and terrifying horn and trendy accessories, he was a new millennium, self-proclaimed street racer of not even a third class ability to participate in a real race but with enough artillery to show off in public.

The caitiff person on the bike started to sound his horn. The loud horn irked every man on the road. With some swift controls, he guided the bike ahead of a few vehicles. A kid driving a cycle along the corner was in his way. He moved close by and blew his horn and for seconds the kid’s ears were deaf. So were those of some other commuters. After pushing over many others and driving over an elderly person’s foot, the man was out of my view. He was not driving fast. He was flying slow and low.

I was watching the circus of the guy and had missed the one thing that had happened. I found every face that was brim with excitement and anxiousness, filled with dolour. The signal had gone off. It was red. Probably a tenth of the traffic would have gone past and it only grew. The expectation in everyone’s eyes, to reach home and kiss their family a good night was pellucid even amidst that turbid blanket of smoke from the vehicles. It was half past six in the evening.

The signals changed many times but the vehicles remained still. Despite this tranquillity of the traffic, the motorists’ hearts turned clamorous. Many got down from their vehicles and walked up street to have a look at what happened. Some shook their heads dismissively upon returning. I did not bother to enquire as to what happened.

It took a humongous hour and a half for the traffic to get streamlined and move as to what would normally take a comparatively easier time of half an hour to pass hundred metres to the signal. I drove my vehicle past the wreck that was lying at the road and was intrigued by the happenings around. I stopped my vehicle and moved towards the group that clamoured around a car. I asked a fellow what had happened.

“Accident. Three vehicles. There was this car.” He said pointing at the bonnet wrecked car, which I was barely able to see and continued his speech to show that he knew everything that had happened, “It came from that side” pointing to the direction that went against the one I came from. “Then this bike came from the opposite side. Bike was driven by this teen while the car’s owner is a mid-aged person from some IT company. They both ran the signal and got into an accident. To top the cake, a bus came and hit the car on that side.” He ended signalling the side facing away from us.

“The biker was thrown off and landed on the windshield of the car. See that. It is broken. The centre from where the glass cracks arise is where the biker landed. Then the bus came and hit the car pushing him down. He is taken to the hospital. The car driver is shouting at the bus driver for reckless driving. He is saying that it was the mistake of the biker that the accident took place. This person itself ran the signal. The only vehicle driving properly was the bus. It moved on seeing the green signal. These two vehicles were rushing to cross the signal before the other vehicles came in.”

I then tried to move forward when I saw a police officer entering the crowd. He called upon his two other colleagues who were in the eye of the storm. They were taking statements from the bus driver and the car owner. The biker was nowhere to be seen. I assumed that he must have been taken to the hospital.

I turned around to leave the place when I found the bike’s broken visor under my leg. It read ‘I am not riding fast. I am flying Low and Slow.’ He surely did fly, from what the person told.

I looked around when I got on my bike. Many people were still making their way ahead of others by trying to squeeze themselves through the traffic. It was just the same as what that guy had done. All the people were stranded because of the recklessness. It was not just the recklessness of two people. It was the recklessness of the whole society.

We don’t drive fast. We just fly Low and Slow.

--- THE END ---

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13 September, 2013

Shades of Silly Suns

Hail the sun of the morn that rose, 
Or so from it's place it thought. 
Shining bright since it arose, 
Line that others have also bought. 

Surface is cool, very hot within, 
On looking at the scums outside. 
It cools itself with some fine Gin, 
Following scums that live beside. 

When eve returns, it falls below, 
But forgets the fall on it's rise again. 
It's rise but superficial yet slow, 
Worlds nigh don't see what remain. 

Men are like the sun that rages again, 
Forgetting that it's a temporary gain.

The End

I have been planning to write two series from this month of September. Hopefully, I will be able to publish at least one this month while the other, which is a Fictional retelling of Historical events in India, may take some time. Probably next month.

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