LIFE AS WHEELS- a storY

                                                               

It’s 5.30 p.m.

Train running amid of lush green fields of paddy .Grains glowing with a golden hue as the sun is setting down to kiss the earth.

Meera  taking a sip from her  frothy Cappuccino reading Tolstoy seated in an Air-conditioned coach. Comfortably leaning back in her lounge ,legs cross legged .Straightened long loose hair falling onto her forehead every now and then .To her eyes the fields are serene and scenic .She lauds herself on her sensibility of aesthetic alacrity of her senses.

As the coach is comfortably cozy, the heat of the rocks , chilled breeze of the forests ,dripping rain drops from window grill and mosaics of mist on glasses are at absence. All alone in the train’s tranquility with few of her thoughts as  co-passengers.

Akila playing snakes and ladder with her cousin in the reserved coach searching her jute bag for few coins to buy some boiled peanuts. Akila’s costume s simple, as a cultural icon following all the so-called social etiquette. Her lifestyle wasn’t a chosen one it’s a standardised way, which she has been following sub-consciously. She is now 22 completed her degree in commerce a couple of years back, and going to marry in a year or so.

For her it doesn’t matter how aesthetic and serene the fields are , the philosophy or the so-called art of living. For her life is well defined with a combo pack of husband ,children ,kitchen and TV.    Let the earth stood still , doomsday ,Market trends, terrorism never ever seem to bother her.

ENVY you akila. She is amid of passengers who are discussing the day to day politics ,films and few crime sensationalisms. Few laughs few cries.

Durga with her months child in the general compartment holding the baby in one hand and the ceiling in other .the malnourished child is trying to pull out  the last tear drop from her small round hazelnut eyes .Durga was wrapped up in some old half torn saree, where she has managed  stitching few rags. Her husband left for town and hasn’t been home though it has passed a week. No one to care ,bare and bother her troubles ,she now headed to town in search of her missing husband.

Badra, Durga’s husband is a heavy boozer, in spite of not yielding a penny home ,every night he rips her back spilling blood out. The golden glow of grains made her tears to roll down her face .Her father’s small field got all burnt in front of her eyes being prey to envious neighbours.

She doesn’t need to know any statistics of Indian population . She is feeling all of it right inside the coach. Various hands touching here and there, creeping over her curves putting no end to the avarice lust. Neither she move, nor she leave her child, nor the ceiling, nor the train, nor her life. Not only her body, even her soul has become callous and got buried into deepest core of the planet earth .

       In the journey between Birth and Death, on the tracks where time runs on wheels ,it’s inevitable to jump out ,to accelerate or to hook back. Once born the life train goes on .The same fields churns out various feelings out of the three women. Durga’s tears roll down to curve up a smile on Meera’s glossy lips .Meera’s pity for Tolstoy’s protagonist ends up in her coach failing to reach out to Durga. Akila doesn’t even know why and where she is going. She lives her life without a pause and cause.

IT’s the same train, they are in but, their coaches differ to matter.

It’s the same world they are in but their conditions differ which matters…!

            
Life is Hard......we can change it......but  a lot pots of  determination nd will costs it..!  

This is nt a story  of   "Bethal -the ghost"...to pause your thoughts with a objective question.
this is a story of nt just three but....allmost all the lives of a countrY......!

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