There is a certain thrill to the fear of the unknown. On my way back to Delhi from Kottayam, two sadhu’s, dressed in black, left their bags in my possession. “10 minutes,” they said. My uneasiness grew as the minutes they promised grew into hours. ‘El Diego’, the book I was reading continued to grow fatter on the left side, the pages flew.
The fear of the unknown grew along with the depleting pages. I took a walk to the other end of the bogie, stinking and unclean as always. Though I found a tonne of other Sadhu’s, in all sizes and shapes, brown and white and black, all with 90 days of uncut hair on them, the only two I was interested in was nowhere to be found. The same two who sat beside me, drinking coffee by leaking it between the cup and the lip.
The fear is there, the question remains, would I live to type this onto my blog site? Or would I be one of those countless pieces of unidentifiable flesh pieces, scattered and recovered from the site of the blast – seat number 16, S3, Kerala Express…
Six hours later – Ah, the Sadhu has returned for the baggage, I live!
The fear of the unknown grew along with the depleting pages. I took a walk to the other end of the bogie, stinking and unclean as always. Though I found a tonne of other Sadhu’s, in all sizes and shapes, brown and white and black, all with 90 days of uncut hair on them, the only two I was interested in was nowhere to be found. The same two who sat beside me, drinking coffee by leaking it between the cup and the lip.
The fear is there, the question remains, would I live to type this onto my blog site? Or would I be one of those countless pieces of unidentifiable flesh pieces, scattered and recovered from the site of the blast – seat number 16, S3, Kerala Express…
Six hours later – Ah, the Sadhu has returned for the baggage, I live!
1 comment:
vey cool post!
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