Yeats stands mondegreen-ed by Gypsy Noir.
The little demigod hanging unto the rear view mirror oscillates. Our perfect heads bob rhythmically. We're on a "Little Miss Sunshine-esque" family trip. I'm perched on the backseat, 'The Nice and Acurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter' in my hands, earphones clung snugly - roadtripping with my favourite allies.
Katrina Kaif has conquered Hazaribagh. Her luscious pout sticks out from every corner, droplets of mango drink invitingly resting on them. Vodafone peaks through other billboards in competition. Ramshackle huts lend their road-facing facades to other enticing consumerist agendas - "Night Label Local Whiskey", "Chotanagpur Homemade Batteries" and "Cure 95 Sex Problems Without Medicines - Guaranteed Results or Money Back".
That "Ranchi Road" is a town in itself, is a discovery. Presently, it rained in torrents while we passed the local railway station. A haggard jeep whirls on keeping pace with us. It is carrying 8 men inside it, 8 clinging on to its corners, and 8 and a goat sitting on top - villagers all, dressed in gaudy sequined kurtas now dripping in rain, off to see the Dussehra celebrations at town grounds. Only the goat bleats in distress. Its driver is a young lad of the soil and sunbaked in a way that makes his white teeth shine in contrast. As I look at him, he consciously runs his fingers through his hair.
A waning sun sneaks out from among evening clouds and stares directly at me. I shuffle my ipod to a suitable song - guitar loudly strums reverberating through my bones. When I shut my eyes, the sun is reduced to a shining green blob of nothingness on a bright orange screen. When I open my eyes again, it is still chasing me from behind solitary sheesham trees along the road, telephone poles and partly constructed water tanks, till trucks corner us on either side. Their tyres are thickly soiled. The loam beside the road is blackened with leaking diesel. Potholes are the size of craters, which in any other country would invite speculations of possible meteor strike.
There's a part of the legend they omitted to tell you from when Sita cursed the cow, for I'm certain she later made concessions and added "but then, dear Cow, you'll rule the roads of India till the end of the time".
Nothing is pretty, unless you are the beholder in whose eyes beauty itself lies.
Why do I love it? Because imperfection has a character that perfection can never hope to achieve.
Hey keep posting such good and meaningful articles.
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