Gentle turn of the wrists

After a brief stop for a chai break, the tarmac gave way to sinewy roads that were lathed with tamarind trees on either side. The march past was only broken by bland stretches with no potholes or speed bumps for kilometers sometimes. The four-lane road transformed into one lane serendipity, with the most feminine curves. The earplugs were still hard-pressed and muffled most of the noises. The constant thump from the exhaust deafens the best of the ears in the long run. Moving the jaw slightly made the silent whoosh that could hardly escape the mind's attention. The snug fit helmet though was protecting Kabir’s cranium, wasn't able to do much to contain the thoughts going berserk. The tamarind trees on either side of the road whizzed and woozed. 

This ride will be forgotten soon, just like the way you don't remember your last breakfast overlooking the snow-laden peaks. The countless maggies that were absorbed into the bloodstream. Impermanence presents itself in new ways but is always around you and in you. The morning sun will peak into the afternoon sun which will torch the greenery around in the approaching months.

As the rubber continued its spin, Kabir sat there thinking how these trunked beings kept the World moving. The rest of the mortals were engrossed in their own colorful lives. Monochrome levels the playing field only on a certain vector, with the rest remaining relatively unchanged. The unseen can only be hypothesized with relative certainty. The uncertainty infuses a romance that keeps the adrenaline going. What appeared as needles, was the fabric that knit the thoughts. The blades didn't rotate, but the wind was not strong enough to gravitate the thoughts into a whole.

Kabir’s jacket's zip had snapped by now. He was not sure if it was due to the joy that could not be contained within or due to the centripetal forces that had to be countered over the numerous curves. The breeze, rather the wind had taken the shape of the body and was experiencing the engine's vibrations. The odometer read a constant eighty-two, and the wrist slowly opened up the throttle to take one last jibe at the highway before it finally gave way to the last turn where the salty air could not only be felt but also be seen. With the sun to the left and the water to the right, this wasn't the setup to open the throttle. The wind ambled through the open beach promenade and slowed the heartbeat. There was a war raging between the morning mist and the saline vapors, but the two-tonne machine kept on its gait and moved on.