The light spring rain rode on the wind, into the trees, down the road; it brought an exhilarating freshness to the air, a smell of earth, a scent of flowers; it brought a smile to the eyes of the boy on the road.
The long road wound round the hills, rose and fell and twisted down to valley of Jammu; the road came from the mountains and passed through the jungle and valley, and after passing through the Valley, it ended somewhere in the bazaar. But just where it ended no one knew, for the bazaar was a baffling place, where roads were easily lost.
The boy was three miles out of the main town. The furthur he could get from chowk, the happier he was likely to be. Just now he was only three miles out of the bazaar, so he was not very happy; and what was worse, he was walking homewards.
He was a pale boy, with blue grey eyes and fair hair, his face was rough and marked, and the lower lip hung loose and heavy. He had his hands in his pockets and his head down which was the way he always walked, and which gave him a deceptively tired appearance. He was lazy but not a tired person.
He liked the rain as it flecked his face, he liked the smell and the freshness; he did not look at his surroundings or notice them - his mind as usual was very far away - but he felt their atmosphere, and he smiled.
His mind was so very far away that it was a few minutes before he noticed the swish of bicucles wheels beside him. The cyclist did not pass the boy, but rode beside him, studying him, taking in every visible detail, the bare head, the open necked shirt, the flannel trousers, the sandals, the thick hide belt round his waist. A Boy with a desi katta gun in his hand was not a normal sight for the people of the valley. Specially not when the shirt had patches of blood. The cyclist was a low rank police man - hawaldaar sahab! He soon took hold of the gun and arrested the young kid.
Incidents like such is common for places we live in. Only if we surrender to observe we get to know what is hidden among the bushes is a dirty truth at the cost of innocence of these young kids who radically switch to militancy with a background of brainwashed mass. When we really observe the valley and the bazaar is it is nothing but a bizzare sight to witness how difference in observation may portray a beautiful walk or a journey to militancy or naxalisms.
Enjoy!
