The Route

There were college kids on the road. Some of the them in pale-blue shirts and dark blue pants and others in casuals. They were walking aimlessly to their college.

Big, dry leaves were scattered all over the dusty road.If you take one of them in your hand, it might rupture. If you rewind that act of taking the dry leaf, holding it in your hand, the rupturing leaf may look like a breaking blood vessel.

Broken pieces from a pothole awaited the next vehicle to get dispersed. I usually push a few of them under my car to save them from being run over.

A woman was sweeping the road and whipping up all the quiet dust to the air. In between she pushed a dirty waste bin.

There was a dictionary that I used to look at every day as a kid and it had pictures of utensils, guns and machines. Only nouns had pictures.

The autorickshaw I took had to take a diversion as right in the middle of the road stood a lorry unloading concrete blocks. Somebody always constructed something here. The driver, an elderly man with a high, white beard, stopped the auto and awaited my orders, as if I were his master.

At every intersection, the driver turned his head, signalling that I issue the next order.

I was a navigation map sitting with a laptop bag and with two hands and two legs.

All of us have felt this problem with the route to take. Our route.

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