Petrichor

The smell of lashed, wet earth leaking through the cracks of that mud wall. The white ripples on the surface of puddles amongst the grassy fields. The wet, wrinkled hair of the wild-hearted village women. A single drop flowing down the long ridge of her nose, slowly and dramatically. And the way, it stops and hangs at the bottom edge. Not collecting enough of courage or itself to fall down. Hanging like a nose ring. Broken bangles, bits and pieces, bouncing on the water polished rocks.

The way, the slim legged stork, prances about in the watery, green fields. The way she slightly lifts her lehenga, to reveal those nimble feet and glistening silver anklets, as she takes a hop over the muddy path in between the fields. The great big cumulonimbus overhead. Thunder and lightning as it slowly billows and blows over the Indian sub-continent. And, she looks up to see its coming and passing. Travelling from the south, bearing the aspirations of the dirt-stained, plough bearing farmers of varied language, clothes and customs.

She wonders whether it'll wash away the grime in the pans and pots inside the darkness of that thatched hut or whether it'll sweep the veil covering her unseen eyes. Or, whether it'll lighten the burden that she has become to her father, by reaching the age where she could bear a child.

The thunderclouds bellow. The anguish of the lowly and the downtrodden. Of the men and women, nearest to the soil. Yet, the rains bring a new hope. A new harvest. A new yearning.

Kilometres.

Near the top of the mountain, on those winding tarred roads, near one of those many yellow-white milestones, he stood with his messed-up morning hair, staring towards a far beyond looking into himself as much as into the Himalayas. He smelled of unbrushed teeth, of dried and scaly skin which had not seen a bath for some days and of long, repressed memories. And, there he stood drinking tea in that misty mountainous morning.

An overwhelming freedom seem to have enveloped him. It's not that he hated humanity, it's not that he hated bonds and people. But, there was something about solitude. There was something about a traveller's bag on his back and the worn-out shoes on his foot. Indeed, there was something about trying to fork those Frost-ian paths, which interestingly is on the verge of becoming clichéd. Miles to travel and all that.

Humans live many lives in their one life. And, at different stages, they turn to different things for solace. Friends who they can drink with. Relationships onto which they'll lean everything onto. Religion which promises them heaven, paradise, moksha and so on. Gods which bless them provided they paid their fees in prayers and cash deposits. Families so that they can beget children and see their dream happen through them.

But, it did him little good whether he cared little about the worldly or the heavenly. So, that's when he purchased a travelling bag, a pair of good shoes and just went to the nearest railway station. A journey to see India and maybe eventually the world. He wondered whether he was an escapist. Someone constantly on the run, especially from how life is to be lived. On schedule and with ties, purchasing diapers.

He suddenly heard the footsteps coming from the opposite side of the road. The village woman were coming down the narrow, dusty and grassy footpaths carved perpendicular to the mountains. Wrinkled skin and big nose-rings. Paan-chewing lips. With load on their shoulders and half naked kids by their side. Their lives untouched by time and seeping modernity.

How far can human beings run? An average person walks roughly half of equator's length. He can never circle the entire equator. Some say that it proves the fact that he needs somebody else to cover the rest of the equator. But, he surmised that it was to challenge the human in him, to persuade him to get out of this maze of regularity and to seek the extraordinary. The extraordinariness of a hot cup of steaming team on a mountainous early morning. The extraordinariness of observing the untouched and touched lives. The ability to freeze the schedule and the timetable on which the world runs so that one could take a leap towards undivided time, where the sun rose and set without counts.

That revolt was his raison d'etre. As he sat down on the muddy side, metres away from the precipice, all the faces that he knew passed through his memory. He smiled. Indeed, he had to find out. How far can a human run? From familiarity? From money?From schedules?From bonds? The steam from that hot plastic cup made his spectacles misty. He wiped it. He then took out a pen and a small pocket diary from his pocket. He began scrawling like he always did. The kilometres left and the places and the humans to be seen.