Five a.m., We are on the highway; At the wheel, My trusted cabdriver,
A man cheerful and careful; A seasoned rider, No anxiety there. Traffic thickens:
Lorries, minis, transport buses, Two wheelers, Most polluting are most, Roaring, grunting,
Humming, spluttering, All kinds of noise; Noise pollution, Early morning air,
Thick with smoke and noise, Smoke, dust, embers, Sparks, carbon particles, Honking, musical horns,
Speeding vehicles, Vying with one another To go past; Speed is The way of the world,
The sight proves. Flow of materialism, An endless stream on the road. At a chapel my cabby stops,
A regular ritual of his, Prays to St. Anthony for our safety. I, too, bow my head in reverence. Beneath the glass altar,
I see a figure: A skeletal frame clad in rags, A bowl before her, No out-stretched hands,
But a blank look, Directed at none. Her frame almost, I feel, Flown with the wind,
A miracle she sits rooted. My driver doesn't look at her, An unusual act, I wonder
Why he does so. Maybe, in a hurry To take me To my destination.
The stereo begins to run: Melody devotional; My cabby, a Christian, But a role model to secularists. |