Traffic and Me.

I remember when I was younger that I was a cheerful person. Content and at peace with myself all the time. I had a short temper, and if provoked I was a demon on fire, but when I was on my own, it never lasted.Nice things just floated in and out of my mind, I couldn’t help it. They say ignorance is bliss, and with my under-developed social-observation skills, I was at complete bliss. My moods generally were of a sunny nature. Unfortunately though, over time I became too busy to notice or care about anything but what was going on, and what was expected of me.

Today I walked home.

The bus stopped at the other stop, further than I’d expected, but as always, I’d squared my shoulders, turned up the volume and did what I had to.  Sometimes it’s as if my phone is testing my patience – it’s idea of full volume changes every time hit the ‘play’ button. So instead of drowning out everything around me, as it sometimes does, I was still very conscious of my surroundings.

I heard the bus as it blared for someone to get out of it’s way. I heard the man shout back violently, defending himself. I heard a car zoom by me faster than it was supposed to, a motorcyclist honking as he swerved in and out of traffic. For mid-afternoon, I was faced with simply too much teeming activity. I trudged on, my books heavy on my back – as if I needed a reminder about my upcoming doom in the form of exams.

The heat penetrated from all directions, the sun straight at my unprotected head, the ground heat burning through the soles of my favorite, well-used and worn-out shoes.

I heard girls my age giggle and laugh as they exchanged encounters and replied to the text messages they got on their expensive, stylish, over-the-top cellphones. I heard the guys comment as every girl passed by them. In all probability, both the groups, by their relaxed postures, seemed to suggest they were in no hurry to escape the heat. They were likely to have friends who’d come at the drop of a hat and whisk them away into the security of their homes. It’s what came with being popular. Or normal, I really wouldn’t know, being a bit of a recluse myself. Taxis stopped, asking me if I needed a lift. A man from behind the counter of his shop asked me if I wanted something to drink or eat, and one glance at his fly-infested display had my stomach reeling. More autorikshas stopped to see if I was going their way, or if I needed to go somewhere.

I did, but I wasn’t going to pay them for walking a mere kilometer. Okay, so it was hot and yes, I’d have done anything at this point to spike the volume of the songs I was listening to, but after the rather worrisome week I’d had, I was in desperate need of some time for myself. I sorted out the route I would take, in my head, and began walking in my headstrong, brisk walk that I’ve been told is distinctively mine. I tried to let the music take over me, but just as the song was about to… “lift me up”, the drilling began. Ilooked up from the road I walked on to see that the road I’d chosen, was the one less taken – no pun intended.  This one looked nothing like the image the poet’s (Robert Frost) words painted, I was in the middle of a concrete jungle and a concrete dig lay ahead of me.

The roads had been cut off crudely with what looked like toy diversions, rocks were lined unevenly around the surface of the road which suddenly dropped several feet into the ground,

deep enough that I could see only the necks of the cranes and heavy-load machinery inside the pit. What caught my attention more, was how people, as if inheriting the quality from goats, were waltzing through the maze of the rocks, stones, mud, gravel, sand, flint, concrete, cement etc etc with such ease. And by the way I was being jostled, clearly I was expected to do the same. There was just one other alternative for me, I had to turn back and go the longer way in the heat – or, I could walk… er,  tackle this out. I was secretly broke, having spent my last travel money for the copy of some notes in college I would never see but had to have in case I was asked to produce them on-the-spot.

So far, as was a habit, I hadn’t completely stopped walking, I’d merely slowed down to the speed everyone normally walked at, but if I was to successfully make it to the other side of the ravine, I had to quicken my steps.

I felt the sweat trickle down my shoulder blades, my back already protesting from the load I was forced to carry. The shoes were on their last leg, so I had to tread carefully, a leap there, a slip here, oh better hurry out of the way for the-ridiculous-motorcyclist-who-thinks-he-could-fit-a-moped-through-where-one-couldn’t-stand-steadily-with-their-two feet-on-the-ground, scurry past the horde of workers who for some reason stopped their work to stare at me, leap over that wire, use the electric pole for help as I swing to the next safety spot – there! Aching feet and back, dress soaking with sweat and holding my nose so I could avoid the smell, hair plastered to the skull by some mis-fired water sprayed at us back when we were crossing the pit, hands red from clinging to all the extra support I’d needed…

I was out. I’d made it to the other side.

There was a weak sense of accomplishment in me, slowing building up. All week long I’d been succumbing to the fear that I was changing, but for the worse. I’d never been comfortable with frills and flower patterns, but lately people told me I was becoming more feminine – and that scared me. I was used to being rough and crude, blunt and bold; femininity suggested I do these things differently, or even not at all. I looked back at the male-infested road (or whatever it was called). It took me only a second to realize that I had been the only woman/girl who walked through the pass, which was probably why the workers had stopped to stare. I let the embarrassment fade before the pride kicked in again. I had done it without a word of complaint, and honestly I’d do it again if I had to. The giggling girls and their cellphones could take a hike, this was they way things were done.

I continued my quest home, only half done, but the rest of the roads that led me there were easier. There were uphill and steep, had their own fair share of pot-holes, but I was looking forward to the shade and the relative quietness. I saw leaves now mingled with the mud, dirt and sand I walked on – what we roughly refer to as “road”. Just that, a few greens amongst the angry shades of orange, had me smiling.  I felt the volume of the song increase, and even though the song playing wasn’t particularly my favorite, it lifted my spirits further.

By the time the giggling girls and the pointing men whizzed past me in their fancy cars and bikes, I was soaring. The music was back again, lulling my senses into a state of false security and isolation. I didn’t acknowledge their pitying looks, instead I pitied them. They did not share with me my sense of accomplishment. They would go home and continue with their lives, just as ever before.

I was not changed. I did not have an epiphany. What I did feel was reassurance. I knew who I was – that I hadn’t changed from who I’d worked so hard on becoming. I was still me. I still looked a challenge right in the eye, without flinching. Longer hair and girly sandals meant nothing to what lay inside. So I might have become more soft round the edges and easier on the eyes, it did not mean I had become any different. And yet… different – what did that mean any more? I hadn’t found joy in so long, it seemed like a fairy tale to me. I no longer thought of myself as living, “surviving” seemed more appropriate.

I reached home to an empty house. We didn’t get any direct sun rays, then again we never got any wind. I walked into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. I slapped cool water on my face, then let it drip dry as I bit into “lunch”. I sat alone on the table, the music lulled by the softness of the song my phone played.

I chewed my food as realization struck me.

Unbelievable, but it seemed that after so long, I was complacent once more.