The road was his friend.
Sometimes he thought that the road was his only friend. Everyday after coming back from school and taking the late evening lunch, he would sit down to complete his school homework. After completing his school work he would take out his battered old bicycle and go out to the road. And then he would roam around, alone.
It was like a ritual, not the doing school homework part, he did that to appease his parents, but going out on his battered old bicycle on the same old roads in his same old locality. He felt a strange sense of freedom when he was on the road, a freedom from his house, his school, his parents and from his myriad of other responsibilities. There was he and there was the road and thats all that mattered. But even then he knew that he was never quite completely free. This was because more often than not he tried going around the houses of his friends hoping that somebody would stop him and call out his name. Then he would go into their houses and play. He never played in his own house, because there was nothing to play with. His house had books lots of books, and all the books he had read twice, thrice and sometimes the fourth time. Now the house only had ghosts, ghosts from whom he had to run away.
But he enjoyed that roaming around part the most. He knew that because sometimes even when somebody stopped him, somebody called out for him. He politely refused and kept on cycling ahead. At those times he did not understand why he did that. He knew that he wanted to play with those people, not because he particularly enjoyed their company, but because they had things he did not have. Things that he desired but perhaps was too proud or maybe too afraid to ask for.
But the road was not for asking, the road was for journeying on. And he liked that part of the day the best, the journey, his small journey away from the confines of his home, away from the ghosts that haunted his house to the big,wide,bad world where he could loose himself.
Often after he had come back, listened to the daily rants of his parents, watched some television and done some more school work (again to appease his parents and also because he was afraid of his school teachers) he would lie down in his bed and think about the road. He would dream of being small, small but indestructible. Perhaps he would be riding one of those miniature cars he had seen in somebody's house. He would become small and get into one of those cars. That car would have infinite fuel and very high speed (given that it was small) and he would ride the car out of his bedroom, leaving the ghosts behind, across the patio down through the frontyard and into the road again. He would drive on the road in his small car passing by giant houses and giant vehicles and nobody could see him. But he could see everybody. His car was indestructible, huge giant cars would go over him and their tires would roll over his car and go on but his car would unscathed. And he would keep on driving, on that long tireless road, forever.
Sometimes he thought that the road was his only friend. Everyday after coming back from school and taking the late evening lunch, he would sit down to complete his school homework. After completing his school work he would take out his battered old bicycle and go out to the road. And then he would roam around, alone.
It was like a ritual, not the doing school homework part, he did that to appease his parents, but going out on his battered old bicycle on the same old roads in his same old locality. He felt a strange sense of freedom when he was on the road, a freedom from his house, his school, his parents and from his myriad of other responsibilities. There was he and there was the road and thats all that mattered. But even then he knew that he was never quite completely free. This was because more often than not he tried going around the houses of his friends hoping that somebody would stop him and call out his name. Then he would go into their houses and play. He never played in his own house, because there was nothing to play with. His house had books lots of books, and all the books he had read twice, thrice and sometimes the fourth time. Now the house only had ghosts, ghosts from whom he had to run away.
But he enjoyed that roaming around part the most. He knew that because sometimes even when somebody stopped him, somebody called out for him. He politely refused and kept on cycling ahead. At those times he did not understand why he did that. He knew that he wanted to play with those people, not because he particularly enjoyed their company, but because they had things he did not have. Things that he desired but perhaps was too proud or maybe too afraid to ask for.
But the road was not for asking, the road was for journeying on. And he liked that part of the day the best, the journey, his small journey away from the confines of his home, away from the ghosts that haunted his house to the big,wide,bad world where he could loose himself.
Often after he had come back, listened to the daily rants of his parents, watched some television and done some more school work (again to appease his parents and also because he was afraid of his school teachers) he would lie down in his bed and think about the road. He would dream of being small, small but indestructible. Perhaps he would be riding one of those miniature cars he had seen in somebody's house. He would become small and get into one of those cars. That car would have infinite fuel and very high speed (given that it was small) and he would ride the car out of his bedroom, leaving the ghosts behind, across the patio down through the frontyard and into the road again. He would drive on the road in his small car passing by giant houses and giant vehicles and nobody could see him. But he could see everybody. His car was indestructible, huge giant cars would go over him and their tires would roll over his car and go on but his car would unscathed. And he would keep on driving, on that long tireless road, forever.
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