more on walking...

My bitter cup of hot tea is almost cold now, as I sit here and write. The long walk was good, walking hand in hand and walking alone. The wind strong on the bridge, and my hair blew like a thick mat of coir. And even the police on night patrol looked at me suspiciously. But I walked ahead, to the other side of the town. My tea cup is getting over fast, so I make another one; even more bitter than the last cup. More squatters on the road-side and even more dogs, strangely silent. I never looked anywhere, I knew that I wanted to come back. Come back on the bridge to look into the water, and the sky. There is only a little wind inside, my room is cool though, balcony is bliss. There were twenty five lights whose reflection I could see on the water, and I tried making meanings out of this. Somehow I was convinced that it would mean something. I am letting the tea get cold again, can't look for meanings in what I am doing now. Cold tea tastes better, even bitter at times, or so I like to believe. A broken light post, smashed by a speeding bus. More families on the road now, some chatting, some drinking juice. Odd how Ahmedabad comes alive at such odd hours. Even from my seat I can hear the faint buzz of vehicles on the bridge, an occasional horn inter-spread with eerie silence.