Ears Tight Shut...

The MG road in Delhi connects Mehrauli to Gurgaon. Everyday at least 10,000 odd vehicles ply on this road (this may be an under-estimation); and like all the roads in India and elsewhere, it is subject to wear and thence tear. There is another route, NH-8, one that further connects the capital to the pink city Jaipur. But owing to the construction of an 8-lane express highway; the traffic situation has skewed towards the MG road. And so anytime of the day, one would encounter automobiles of all types whizzing on the broken asphalt.

Roads are the most democratic of all the human constructs. On its surface the rich and poor alike find motion. And be it a Maybach or a humble Maruti-800; everybody is entitled and empowered to his share of the ride. Amidst the gleaming cars, and scurrying bikes; one can also find a few bicycles, a transport that is very rare here in the capital of Indian dreams.

But this post is not about the road, nor the vehicle ratios that finds the largest number of cars in the country to the disproportionate number of bicycles. This is about the little people that ensure that that the roads remain the roads, and mot turn into the friction worn memoirs.

It was just another of these numerous commoditized days, when i was on my way from Delhi to Gurgaon. It’s not very often that I undertake this little journey, and so I was not aware of the repair and maintenance work that was going on the road. A couple of kilometers from Mehrauli towards Gurgaon, there is a bend in the road; one which has swallowed quite a few lives. There is a white metal board, 3feet by 1 foot, which pronounces in red letters ACCIDENT PRONE AREA PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY; but like the countless many things that we tend to neglect it too finds its name appended to the list of the neglected ones. Vehicles have a proclivity to hit the road divider on this bend, and in their sheer inertia, break it.

On this very bend there was a woman. Young by the number of summers her skin had seen; and old by the woes that time had bestowed on her. She sat on her haunches, with a small mallet in her hand, working on the broken concrete slabs of the erstwhile divider. And lost in the growing grass leaves was her little girl, dressed in a dusty matted frock and with a flaming red ribbon in her dry wiry hair. Her underfed sight gave a unique contrast to the monsoon fed verdant grass blades. And her red ribbon defined her even more clearly. But what many eyes that would have been busy comparing their latest auto possession to the one that just zipped passed them; would have missed is the way in which she sat on the grass. She sat with her tiny feet spread in front of her, she sat with her hands over her ears.

Hands to shut out the drowning roar of the kilo BHP engines. Hands, that shut out the reality pronouncing her place in the race of time. Hands, that asked the world to stay where it was and leave the childhood untouched. Hands, that no one would see, leaving out the noise that would not be able to pass through the air-conditioned moving glass palaces. So maybe there was a story that was being whispered in her ears by a friend from her own neverland; a story that we shall never hear. Maybe it was a script of the future dreams that she nurtured, dreams that have a rare chance to come true. Perhaps it was a song of redemption, to salvage her lost childhood amidst the dust and fumes; songs whose strains will never be played.

When we all are rushing through in our own pursuits, who has the time to look and see what the sounds shut out have to say. And even if we have the time to listen, what are we doing to make a difference?

You are not, I am not...