Roadwards

Leaving behind the track of memories

And dry leaves blowing in the dusty road,

I step out

Head out,

Roadwards.

Penniless,

Bagless,

And soul-less.

The sweltering heat -

A sun as white as snow -

My eyes reddened

By the dust on the road;

My face, a mask of grime.

The road stretches forever.

Cutting across

Plains and palms,

Deserts and farms,

Railroads and dams,

Pains and balms,

Bhajans and psalms.

The road cuts through

Right and left,

Right and wrong,

Heaven and Earth.

The road is attempted immortality.

It never ends.

Its median lines

Never wavers.

The road is redemption.

The road was dug up

And leveled out

By eyes searching

Beyond the horizon.

And eyes, with regret,

Wanting not to look behind.

My eyes are burning

With the sweat

And heat

And a million colloidal dust particles

Peppering it

With the predictable unpredictability

Of Brownian motion.

No, they are not tears

Of sadness,

Weariness,

And worries.

No tears, no regrets

Anymore.

The cinematic silence is shuddered into the reality of dust, heat and acrid kerosene smoke as a 12-tonne truck pulls over; its brakes creaking in unison as it descends from Heaven or Hell or wherever on Earth it comes from. Its chrome grille gleams in the midday sun. Its orange face is as bright as fire.

The driver's name is Charon. He is blind. Not that it matters. The windscreen is caked with an inch of dust. All that matters is that, for a few shared cigarettes, he can drive you across to Oblivion.

Everyone makes that mistake.

Pinning spots down on maps

(Like insects to be dissected and have to be pinned down 'cause they may run away from scapels and spatulas and inquisitive human fingers.)

And pinning camp tents

And picnic baskets there

When you reach.

Jolly good holiday.

Without feeling

The dust in your eyes,

Grime on your face

And the taste of exhaust fumes

Of the thousand cars

Which never stopped.

The road is the destination.

The road is where it ends

And where it begins.

Like life itself.

There is nothing outside the road

Or beyond it.

A few threadbare memories

And dry leaves scattered by the dusty wind.