Almost every day, I go to fetch milk in the evening to a nearby village. It's a 5-minute ride on my 18-year-old rusty bike. Generally, I go about it without a thought as I've been doing this as long as I had my bike. The journey is a no-brainer. I pick up the bike, start it, and off to the races. The road is bumpy. It has more potholes than concrete itself. Usually, this road is traversed by larger vehicles to transport material to and from a factory on the way. A very busy road I must say. The journey is not pleasant at all. One of the reasons why I usually speed it up. Although, towards the end of it, there is a patch of about half-a-kilometer which is nice. This small unpaved yet empty trail. Even though it's one of the only two paths to the village, it's usually quiet, peaceful, and has its own aura. Approximately 8ft. wide, it's a narrow patch providing the entrance to the village from the main road. This trail is covered by crops, herbs, shrubs, and some trees on both sides. Only on rainy days, it gets muddy else it's usually a blissful ride which hardly takes a minute or two on a two-wheeler. I drive slowly on this empty path as if it wants me not to rush it just like I've been doing with my life all these years. Sometimes, rarely, I'll stop for a few seconds, just to admire the beauty of plants and trees glowing in the sunset. I've never been on this trail during dawn but I bet it can't beat the golden rays and warmth of the sunset. Or perhaps, I need to see the sunrise before I make my judgment. In any case, those 2 minutes are perhaps, the most serene and pleasant moments I get to myself after a stressful day at work. But these days, I've been encountering this old man. He looks very old, old enough that I think he should not be carrying the steel milk container. Although, it's not the weight that is heavy which he carries by hand but rather on his shoulders and his back.
His face always grins like he just came out of a fight or an argument. I've never seen this man look straight-faced, let alone smile. He's about 5'6", a weak and timid old man, with all white hair and deep straight lines all over his face. His dark complexion alludes to years of hard work under an unforgiving sun. His head is always down, facing the earth; his back hunched a little by the weight he's been carrying all these years. His bare, weak arms help him carry his burdens and fulfill his duties with whatever strength they have left in them. His small, dark hands with nothing but veins popping out of them. He always seems to be talking to himself in his head. No murmuring, no lip movement, just a deep and dead gaze at the ground with a steady pace towards his destination. He seems angry and distressed. As if life wasn't hard enough, long enough, unjust enough, that he had more to endure, more to suffer. He doesn't look ill to me, not in a physical sense, at least. The reason I'm writing about him, about a man who is no different than almost anyone else of his age, is that he makes me afraid! Not of him, nor the old age nor the death which follows it, but rather the suffering, the hopelessness, the meaninglessness of life at such a stage.
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