Prerita always complains, sitting on the pillion seat of our motorbike, “You have to look around! Why don’t you just look at the road?”. For at least one minute then, I would look in no other direction. I like to think of my bike as a flying eagle, which leisurely floats in the air. Even on a shiny black road, I don’t cruise it beyond 60km mark. I’m usually not in a hurry, I like to see things around. The child inside me doesn’t allow me to look just straight.
After miles of plains around, the Abu Mount is a sudden bump in the belly of the surrounding region. We measured a few kilometers on the speedometer since starting the ascent, and then this turn brought our bike to a halt. Down below, at a distance, we could see dark blue patches of water, fields that had the color of fresh seedlings, sunshine falling at an angle that made it all translucent and a tar-colored winding road that had seen all this distance. This was just another turn.
Spring had recently started taking its shade. This was evident from the stories those golden leaves were narrating to us, hiding many secrets under their layers at the same time. We could stay there forever. But just like a river, the nature of a road demands a constant flow.
Right beside the parking spot, we spotted a black object. Hidden under the leave bed, I picked it up. It was a vintage looking iron weight with ‘100 Grams’ embossed on top. Whether it was dropped by a street vendor on his return journey or a mischievous red monkey carried it all the way to this place, it had come to our custody.
When we started, our saddlebag was heavier by 100 grams. The iron weight was a part of our story now. 100 grams worth of story.
