The precarious path

Strolling in the shadows of crumbling ruins, I could feel the enveloping, albeit elusive, security of being cut off from the rat race. I nestled in the cosy timelessness of a spent past. There were no deadlines to meet. No ticking of the clock. No horns honking in vain at stalled traffic. No furrowed brows or frayed tempers.nbsp;

A floodgate seemed to open as a torrent of dead leaves blew across the unbeaten path of the past. As dust got in my eyes, I could just make out a single hazy bird-like form shivering in the hollow of an ancient tree. I wondered whether the tree stood on the grave of one who had lived a life of fear and died an unnatural death. My reverie broke as soon as I turned the next corner. The sound of sudden laughter filled the air. Frozen, foggy shapes took human forms. Colourful costumed figures bobbed up and down rhythmically to the sound of drumbeat. I could not hope for a more poignant visual of the 21st-century rat race. It was the present-day rat-racers rushing to the precision of a clock going wildly fast. Rushing against man-made obstacles, following a clockwork routine.nbsp;

The message was clear. Avoid the obstacles with agility even as you race all the time. Or else your feet get crushed. The beaten track that we tread 8212; in the mechanical present 8212; is a tightrope. Now we brake to a honking horn, now we release the clutch, spasmodically heading towards targeted deadlines. We walk a precarious path.