Roads beckon travelers. And, the east-west highway of our country? Even more! For, it runs to my hometown. But even without my hometown at the end of it, that road is magnificent. So I got on the bus once again, heading home, to relaxation, to old acquaintances, and to whatever the road may offer.
The road is a somnolent, calm and inviting stretch. It is passively involved in the lives of those who tread it; always silent, always speaking. The highway only shows us the way; it does not instruct how to travel. It lays there in its flattened existence, perhaps looking skywards, studying the beautiful monotony of the sun.
Inside the bus my mental capacities are stretched as I try over and over again to concoct simple answers to the complex questions of a child. Innocence and curiosity are a dangerous mix, and I learnt that from a couple of hours of sitting next to the child. I have the window ajar, for the wind to flow in, and also to catch glimpses of the fleeting scenery. Irresistibly innocent questions are addressed to me by the child, as the bus attains a silence that comes with great speed. The child fears that a dinosaur might at any time overturn our bus. He confesses this to me, with a look in his eyes that is neither of fear, nor of comfort. I assure him nothing of that sort will happen. The answer does not satisfy him, but it gets him thinking, probably of another round of questions. For me, it is a rare respite. The bus speeds forward, swallowing long stretches of the road.
The glow of the sun begins to wane, with the red orb descending slowly in the space between two hills. The sun seems like a large coin being tucked by some invisible hand in the slit between the hills, which looks like a piggy bank. The picture depicts the action of giving. Nature had just pushed down another precious coin into the piggy bank for us to savor. And, nature will give again tomorrow. Maybe that is what makes sunsets so beautiful, the promise of a new day in the moment of another's death.
The bus seems to be chasing the road, the road the sinking sun, the sun the horizon, the horizon the falling sky, the sky the darkness to flaunt its celestial jewels. I chase in the thoughts, letting them wander in one direction, then another, and then returning to where I started. We are all chasing something. And, that, my friend says, is the best part. Our bus stops at a roadside eatery, with torrential showers usurping the silent reign of the night. The journey resumes.
Why teachers are important
I am woken up by the bus conductor, who is rallying the drowsy passengers, exhorting them to unite in opening the road block. Ahead on the road a vehicle had hit a girl—fatalities, financial compensation demanded, demands not met and thus, logs placed across the highway, with hundreds of passengers stranded.
As I walk towards the road block from by bus, I can see silhouettes of people, scattered in small groups. Small fires are burning on the road. It offers a scant light, but enough to see the anguish in the people's faces—the anguish of not having what one wants. The passengers wanted the block to be cleared so they could move on, the blockers, the villagers, desired to keep the road blocked so that the authorities took notice. Conflict was brewing.
There were small groups around the roadblock. Groups of rationalists trying to find an amicable solution; groups of cynics, despising the blockers as well as the passengers; petulant groups, restless and threatening to turn violent any minute. The night passed without any result. In the morning, we stormed the police station, shouting slogans, someone abruptly kicked down the fence, the sign post was turned down. I remember my friend Pravin remark about how we Nepalis are quick to unite for destruction. The road block is cleared soon thereafter, and we move on.
A few kilometers ahead, another blockade. This time a rainwater swollen stream. The water, undulating, lay in front of us—a fluid testimony of nature's strength. It took two hours to abate. And we were on our way again.
The road certainly teaches you one thing—patience. It is not merely an object, but a picture of patience. Laying there, motionless, yet always providing for motion to take place; it is educative. The road taught me to take things like it does, like a mirror, which the poet Chuang Tzu says, neither welcomes, nor refuses anything.
Suban is an A-Level graduate from Budhanilkantha School in Narayansthan, Kathmandu.
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