monday morning. the usual ride through Nelson Manickam Road, on my way to my workplace.

it wasn’t the rush hour traffic. it was getting there, but not yet anyhow. it makes sense to leave around 8 30 in the morning, so that one can strategically avoid the traffic congestion that typically peaks between 9 & 10. not that its quiet or peaceful or anything, but the degree of madness is comparatively lower. and it gives me the advantage of looking around, and noticing the people and other general things.

there was this man riding just ahead of me, on his scooter. middle aged. man, i mean. he wasn’t very fast or anything, but definitely fast enough to fall off and get injured badly enough. looking at him from behind, he had his head tilted in this funny sort of way. and whats worse, he was swerving to his left & right alternately. i’ve been riding for a few years now and the adrenaline rush of the initial years, the teenage madness, have gone. i am, in most instances, riding pretty slowly. and ‘responsibly’ (dad, u listening?)

so i gradually pull along side him, and realise he is talking on the phone. and riding. must be a very important call, u know. bush, consulting him on strategic oil locations or something. sehwag, maybe confabulating on how to overcome his slump in form. a life-or-death call, no doubt, being answered promptly, and on the move.

kaadu kekkaley….” (“can’t hear you”)
yaaru…? yaaru…? hullo…” (“who is this?”)

“this is yama“, i told him, as i passed by. not too loudly, but loud enough for him to have heard even in spite of the din. i don’t think he did hear it, though.

how often do we hear death knocking at our doors?


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