Speaking of highways
I'm on the highway.As Ahalya was stoned by the curse of Muni, so I am like a long python sleeping in someone's curse through the forest mountains, through the shade of the trees, on the chest of the vast desert, encircling the country for a long timeI am lying in bed.I am waiting for the cursed time with infinite patience. I've been lying in the same position forever, but I still haven't rested for a moment. There is not enough rest that I can lift a single young soft green grass on top of this hard dry bed; There was not enough time to plant a tiny blue forest flower near my sheer. I can't speak, but I feel everything blindly. Night and day footsteps. Just words. In my deep slumber, the sound of millions of footsteps revolves like an incessant nightmare. I can read the heart at the touch of a foot. I understand who is going home, who is going abroad, who is going to work, who is going to rest, who is going to festivals, who is going to the crematorium. He who has a happy family, a shadow of affection, draws a picture of happiness at every step; At every step he sows the seed of hope in the ground; It seems that wherever his feet have fallen, one by one the vines have sproutedWill blossom.He who has no home, no shelter, has no hope, no money in his steps; His steps have no south, no left; As if his feet were saying "why should I go or why should I stop" - his footsteps seemed to dry my dry dust even more.
I can't hear any story of the world completely. Today, for hundreds of years, I have been listening to millions of people laugh, sing, talk; But I only heard a little. When I listen to the rest, I see that the man is gone. How many broken words of so many years, broken songs have become dust with my dust, fly with my dust, does anyone know that. Listen, a lazy person said, "I didn't tell him anymore." - Ah, wait a minute, finish the song, listen to everything. Where else to stand. Wherever he went, the end could not be heard. That single verse will keep ringing in my ears for half the night. I will think to myself, who did he go to. I don't know where he is going. What is not being said is going to be said again. This time when he will meet again on the way, when he will raise his face and look at its face, then if it is not said again. Then he bowed his head, turned his face away, and when he came back very slowly, if he sang again, "I told him no more words."
Ending and permanence may be somewhere, but I don't see it. I can't hold a single footprint for long. The non-stop sign is being read, again the new term is coming and the sign of another term is being erased. He who leaves does not leave anything behind, if something falls from the weight of his head, he is trampled under a thousand feet and in a short time it is reduced to dust. However, I have also seen that some immortal seeds have fallen from the piles of some moneylenders which have fallen into the dust, germinated and expanded and are permanently present beside me and giving shade to the new passers-by.
I'm not targeting anyone, I'm just everyone's way. I'm not anyone's home, I take everyone home. My grief is always: no one puts a foot on me, no one wants to stand on top of me. Those whose houses are far away curse me, where I get gratitude for the absolute patience with which I bring them to the door of the house. Pause at home, joy at home, bliss at home, and only the burden of fatigue on me, only unintentional labor, only separation. Only from a distance, from the air conditioning, from the sweet laughter fan, as soon as it comes out of the sunlight and comes to me, it will disappear into the air in a jiffy. I will not get that little particle of joy in the house!
Sometimes I get that too. .The boys and girls came to me laughing and playing. The joy of their home brings them along. Their father's blessing, mother's affection, coming out of the house and coming in the way, let them compose the house. They caress my dust. They pile up my dust, and with their tiny hands they gently strike the pile and try to put it to sleep with absolute affection. Bimal sat down with his heart and talked to him. Alas, even with so much affection, he can't answer her.
You feel big hard when the little soft legs go over me; It seems to be playing on their feet. It is possible to be gentle like Kusum's team. Radhika says:
Wherever Arun-charan goes,
Let him be the earth.
Why Arun-charans move on such a hard ground. But if it doesn't work, I don't think green grass is born anywhere.
I especially know those who regularly walk on top of me every day. They do not know that I am waiting for them. I imagined their idols in my mind. .For a long time, such a person used to come from far and wide every afternoon with his soft feet sadly. I understood that his lips were not the lips to speak, I understood that his big eyes were looking at his face as big as the evening sky. Where a branch of mine on the left side of that paved banyan tree had gone to the locality, he was standing silently under the tree in exhaustion. Another person would go to the locality at that time after finishing his day's work and singing in the other mind. I think he didn't look in any direction, he didn't stand in any place — maybe he looked in the stars of the sky, he would go to the door of his house and finish the eastern song. When he left, the girl would return to the path she had taken in exhaustion. When the girl returned, I knew it was dark; I could feel the dark touch of the evening all over. Then the crows of the twilight would stop altogether; The passers-by are no longer big. In the evening breeze, the bamboo grove rose and roared. For so many days, every day, he would come slowly, go slowly. One day, at the end of the month of Falgun, in the afternoon, when the hair of the vast Amramukul was falling in the wind, the one who came did not come again. The girl returned home many nights that day. Just as dry leaves sometimes fell from the trees, sometimes a drop or two of tears fell on my dull hot dust. Again the next afternoon the girl came and stood there, but no one else came that day. Again at night he slowly returned home. Some went away and he could not walk. It fell on me, on the dust. She covered her face with both arms and burst into tears. Who's mom! Today, on this lonely night, does anyone come to take shelter in my bosom? Is the one you came back from harder than me? Is the one you did not respond to call dumb more than me? Is the person you want to drink more blind than me?
The girl got up, stood up, wiped her eyes left the path and walked into the surrounding forest. Maybe he went home, maybe he still does the housework every day in peace — maybe he doesn't tell anyone about his grief; Only one day in the evening, he sits in the courtyard of the house with his legs spread in the moonlight. But I have not felt his footsteps since the day after.
How many such words have become silent, can I remember so much. Only the sad anklets of those feet are still remembered from time to time. But I have time to mourn. For whom will I mourn? How much comes, how much goes.
What a hot sun. Uh-huh. I was breathing once in a while, and the hot dust was turning the blue sky gray. Rich, poor, happy, miserable, old youth, laughter, tears, birth and death, all have flown over me like a stream of dust in the same breath. That is why there is no laughter or crying on the way. The house mourns for the past, the way for the present, the hope for the future. But the path is busy with hundreds of thousands of new visitors in the blink of an eye. In such a place, believing in his own glory, who is trying to keep his footprints by taking very arrogant steps. The sigh that you leave in the air here, when you leave, will they fall behind you and mourn for you, bringing tears to the eyes of the new guests? What lasts is the wind above the wind. No no, try in vain. I don't let anything lie — don't laugh, don't cry. I'm just reading.
Many thanks to everyone for reading this story
