One fine summer vacation day, early in the morning, I parked my cycle near the salt pans. Near the hill that overlooks the sea, I dreamed of a faraway land where life would be a fairytale. A land without adults.
Remembered all my earlier loves. Wondered what they were up to at that very moment? Had they found their soul mates? Were they too thinking about me at that very moment? Are they alive? In love again?
Do they wear whites even now?
Does she still go to
Does she remember her first kiss? Does she still sing ghazals on full moon nights? Does she remember the first person who saw her nude?
I watched school children hurrying home on the road below. People were always in a hurry to get somewhere. To become somebody. Except the salt workers in the salt pans down there. They seem content to keep gathering salt for the rest of their lives for Rs. 100 a day.
I never hurried. Never ran to catch a train. Never wanted to be anybody. I just want to live; exist. Drift. Drag myself to work everyday. See. Love. Read. Dream. Sit at home. Sleep. Watch late night movies. Masturbate.
Travel without arriving.
I looked deep into the well on the hill. It reflected me. I know I could never reach the bottom. I can only imagine.
I sat there watching the sun set. As the birds went back to their nests, I started my journey back home. So much so for Zen and all my other musings.
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