The winding road

(on board a Shivneri Volvo, from Pune to Bombay)

This morning,

As I sit on the bus,

The road leads me on

Through the undulating hills;

I have seen them lush green,

In the flush of monsoons,

But now they are grey,

With specks of green.

At times I think-

Are we like this;

From green to grey,

And back to green?

Ecstasy at times,

Weariness at others,

Taking their place at the driver’s seat?

The bus gives a jolt,

Then lurches forward,

There are people around me,

But it’s a lonely road.

Our worries are our inheritance,

But our journeys our own,

We live to love,

But die for living.

The distant houses

Come and go;

Home is a place

I have struggled to find.

Love is a metaphor,

Life is a maze,

Where is the harbour

That anchors the mind?

The bus enters

A dark tunnel-

Light at the end;

Is that how our lives

Must necessarily be?

Drudgery tolerated

To find delight,

Ages of melancholy

For a minute of ecstasy?

I know not the answer,

I only know I must trudge on,

No matter what,

How heavy the load,

So says the tarmac,

As I look out the window

At the lonesome, weary, winding road.

- Jan, 2012

Somewhere in the Western Ghats, from Pune to Bombay