Thursday, March 12, 2015

Ride back home

The good thing about having written close to 100 blog posts is that now I get the privilege of being able to reference back. So, here is my post about what places in between do to us -

It was 7 in the evening. Dusk was well on its way. It was spring with its promise of the slightest of showers. Tired, irate I stepped out of my office building. There was more office work to do, there was no way I would write. 

I am here. Writing. And you ask me why?

A cab driver, a man who looked a mixture of a benevolent Albert Einstein and my dadaji, pulled up right on time. I got into the car. There were flowers in the cup holder. Lavender and bright sunny yellow. A little droopy, must have been there the whole day. A tiny smile perked up within me. 

He started the car engine, and spoke with a friendly air, about which route we would take to go home. I thought, it was going to be a talkative ride home. The next thing he asked me was, "how was your day?". 

Now people ask you that all the time. Like most others I reply like a well oiled machine, "good", or, "fine", depending on which part of the world I am in. Hardly anyone really want s to know how you are. Or so many answers would not start with either of these 2 words. 

I wanted to rebel. Today I said, "tired". And the messiah in disguise said, "There are chocolates in the seat next to you". "Have some", he offeres. And this time I did smile. Widely.

Much later someone sensible will remind me I should not take chocolates from strangers. Sad, isn't it? Being anyone in this world in this era where we should not trust anyone..

At that moment however, for the first time in what felt like a very long day, I relaxed.With the eagerness of a kid, I unwrapped the silver wrapper. I popped that chocolate in my mouth and felt it melt, the sweetness trickling down my throat, washing away a bad day. 

Then I wondered, who did I make this happy today? No one. In fact, I did not even make my self happy today. Most definitely, that's the problem.

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