The TicketOct 16, 2009
|
|
Open road
Bihar Savannah
It’s been a long hot dusty day and I am sick of riding.
I climb off the Enfield on a rise overlooking the vast Bihar savannah stretched before me. I try to capture as many sunsets in India as possible. The Indian sunsets are a golden glow due to the fact that everyone cooks with wood.
The vastness of the savannah is astonishing. Without irrigation, the soil has given way to shrubbery that is spotty at best.
In the distance there is a village, “I hope I can find a sponsor.” All I have is a little rice and some almonds. Man, a shower would be nice. It’s been over a week. I would gladly accept a bucket of cold water. But if not, what the fuck is one more day.
The savannah trance is broken by the distant call of a man behind me, “Hey meeester…… hey meester.” I turn around to witness a man walking towards me. “Oh shit, what is this dude selling?”
Stick man appears to be about 85 years old. All he is wearing is a doitie that is wrapped around his loins. I grin and envision the doitie’s previous life being a rag used by some makeshift mechanic while trying to bring life to an old Tata five tonne. Karma has not been good to the rag.
I turn back to the sunset; I can not escape its gravity. I have seen thousands in India, each better than the last. It’s MY time to reflect.
Once again, “Hey meeester...you have dropped something.” I turn around and he is before me; all 65 pounds of him. In his out stretched hand is a piece of paper. I smile at his kindness and accept the note. I am ashamed; my hands have not seen water or a clipper in over a week but alas: his more than a year. Typical are my insecurities …coming from the west and all. I stuff the shard of paper in to the front pocket of my riding pants without even looking at it. I turn back to address the sunset. The old man and his doitie are forgotten; at least for the time being.
I watch the sun sink beneath the desert. Hhmmm, it’s done. “It would be nice to find some food before dark”. With hunger setting in I turn back toward my bike expecting to see the old man. Son of a bitch…he’s gone. He had to have dissolved into the earth. Remembering his paper, I pulled it out of my pocket for inspection. It appears to be a carnival stub of some sort. Printed is simply the word “RIDE.”
Thinking about the old dude, I smile, “This is my ticket and I am going to ride.” I stuff the ticket back into my pocket.
When I wake the surgeon is there asking me too many questions for my liking so I simply turn my head, tune out and let the opiates take over the show.
