Every day I woke up with just one purpose. To see it. To relish every bit of it. To enjoy the mystery that surrounded it. To imagine the truth behind it.
I enjoyed my mornings. They were bliss in my opinion, lunacy in others’. I spent every second of my morning staring at it, as the winds gushed past me.
You see, I just had mornings for this sacred job.
Afternoons, I spent doing something I hated doing, but had to.
Evenings, playing; which was a job in itself now, took my time. I had to do it, else I’d be proclaimed a loser. And I just couldn’t stand it. Especially, in front of it.
And nights, I just couldn’t afford to look at such a beauty in darkness. Never. Never ever.
I was a street urchin, in the common man’s language. I lived, well, in the common man’s language, on the roads. When the day came to its close, I returned back to what many wouldn’t like to call a home. Because there wasn't any. It was a mere roof.
A roof like no other. A roof so plane and rugged. A roof no ‘house’ can have. A roof no person would ever want. A roof, like the flyover.
Afternoons were dreaded. More for the humiliation they got along with them. Who would like people shouting at them, refusing to buy something as cheap as flowers? But I had to succumb, as there was no other way. I had to fill my belly, in addition to my mother and father’s as well. I had to live, I had to survive. I couldn’t stand the thought of living without looking at it – the flyover.
The flyover was perhaps the only memory I had of what is called childhood, in the common man’s language. Well, if you omit out memories of a bickering mother, and a seemingly non-existent father. And I loved it more than anything else in the world. It was vast, expansive, and majestic in all its views. What, in the world could be more beautiful than this? With cars driving, zooming around. With a never ending blue sky above it. This is what I could call salvation. I wished I was a flyover, at times.
My mother said it led to some huge city. When I had asked what a city meant, she had shouted at me for asking too many questions. I knew why she was angry. Not because I asked too many questions, but because I asked too many questions about the flyover.
You see, no one liked the flyover. Infact, they detested it, and cursed it.
I had often heard my mother whispering to my father about how this wretched thing should be broken down, as they weren’t able to see stars. Whispering, as they couldn’t say it aloud, when I was around.
I was very defensive about it. I didn't have any particular reason for it, though. I did, actually, but not in the common man’s language.
I spent my mornings staring at the huge structure. It gave me peace, it made me feel serene. It was so much better than kicking around a tattered football. So much better than selling flowers. So much better than hearing nonsense from nonsensical people. So much better than, well, life.
I often wondered what life was, beyond the flyover, in what they call the ‘city’, in the common man’s language. What was a city? A place better than this? A place that gave joy? Joy, greater than staring at this wonder? Or just another word for problems, tensions, and trouble? I wished someone from those speeding cars would stop by, look at my innocent eight-year old face, in the common man’s language, and take me to the city.
I wanted to go there. You see, the flyover taught me to be positive. Maybe, the city was all about joys and happiness.
Life under the flyover, however was mine. Well, at least mornings were. So what if I couldn’t see the sky at night? At least there was place to lie down. So what if it was just a few inches, and it smelled gross? At least I had a bed sheet to cover my nose with. So what if it was a tattered, torn one, that was hardly of any use? At least it gave me hope that there was something better in the world.
You see, the flyover taught me to be positive.
At least I had food to eat. So what if it was partly stale, leftover food that I hated to gobble down? At least someone, anyone made a point to offer it to me.
You see, the flyover taught me to believe there was someone, up there. God, in the common man’s language.
In the common man’s language.
In the common man’s language.
I wasn't a commoner. No.
No commoner thinks of a flyover as his life.
No commoner thinks of a filthy, dirty and wretched life, as a good one.
No commoner has a flyover to teach them stuff, when they need to learn.
No commoner has such an unusual, mute, and lifeless sibling as a flyover.
But then, who wants to be common?
