ON RIDERS AND COMMUTERS . . . . . . His eyes sparkled. It communicated bliss. The air hit his face, and felt his kiss. He was smiling, his lips kissing the ear lobes. Bud Bud Bud Bud … … It was music to his ears, symphony at its best, with just air and metals. Who wants Rahman and Ilayaraja? The white clutters in his mouth fully visible. It was a grin. He was a happy man. Heaven. Oh my God! I am God. And the God was riding his Bullet Period = + = + = “I hate her. I envy her. I feel like ramming into her right in the middle of the road. Bitch. And he. Let him cross me just once. I will ram him as well. Damn! He comes near me, with traces of happiness, at times. He comes inside me slowly. (Goodbye happiness). Where have the smiles gone? There he smiles. He is looking at her. That bitch again. Ever since he was with her for a week, he loathes me. He loves me, atleast used to. What does he get from her which I am not offering?” From the diary of a Commuter’s Car titled “A bitch called Pali...
art and science of rambling . . .