The gentle blue mist that envelopes the far trees on the hills yonder is pierced by the oncoming head lights. The trucks shrug past, the cars trundle, their double lights belying their struggle on the bumpy road.
The harsh lights flashing past were shining orbs in the distance only moments ago. I look for the moon. Its calm, steady golden glow has kept me company on many a long lonely night, keeping pace with me and mine. Where I went, it would follow, keeping a benign eye on me when all others had given up and gone to sleep.
But today the moon was too new. A scarce crescent in the sky. It had no comfort to offer. Nor did I have anything to give that would make it glow more. Magic had been put away for the day.
It been taken. Taken by the streams, racing callously down the hills. Unhesitatingly, the waters raced on, as if unaware of the ravaged roads they left behind. Like a shameless driver in a hit and run accident. The roads lay brutalized by the rains that must have lashed them mercilessly, their top layers torn away. All their pits and holes laid bare to the world that rode roughshod over it. Unseeing, unheeding of its pain. Lifting up their skirts a bit lest their hems get sullied by one so beset. They slowed down, not in respect, but to save their own.
The road had company. The waters had attacked the trees and the carefully kerbed dams, slashing through with a viciousness that was its own testament. And now, their job done, the armies gathered to flow downhill in orderly waterfalls. Their songs were surely songs of victory. The mist that rose, kicked up by their heels surely carried their tales of bravado. The rutted road had tales too- each of its scars bringing smooth journeys to juddering reality. But these were not stories to be retold. One looked away from the miseries below to the far hills and lush jungle. The rocks that glistened in the last of the lights. The mist that rose again with the blue dawn.
(Written from the bumpiest bus ride in the world, through rain ravaged ghats)