Road to the Centre

By Thejaswitha Rajeev

Down the tumultuous road,
lush green on either side.
At the crossroads—straight ahead—
up the hill, across the weed-choked lake,
where life aches to stay awake.
Grey mist overwhelms before it thins,
till golden rays from a far-off sun break in.

The Driver’s tear-heavy eyes blur,
still adjusting to the foreign light
Flashes of past selves, morbid events and sorrows—
scurry to her heavy throat.
Unfazed, her passenger and guide—The Wise Dog—
gazes at the unceasing landscape.
tongue out in the crisp air,
tail wagging a thousand jolly spins.
Bumps and cracks rise to greet their wheels,
slowing, never halting the steady drift.
The road loops into smaller circles, converging to the centre.
The Wise Dog peers at the Driver—
Like a monk looking inward.

Then—a sudden swarm of bees descends,
buzzing lividly, engulfing the sky
The car jerks and ceases; the Driver frozen.
But the Dog—calm and cajoling—
nudges her forward.
Through the storm of wings they pass,
emerging—untouched.

The centre is masked by purple clouds.
The car veers into the swirl.
The purple dissolves into murk,
where a bejewelled bridge begins to glint.
The Wise Dog leaps out,
swift as a comet,
sleek as starlight,
lands like a ballerina on glass.
Its kind eyes fix on the Driver,
gently shooing her onwards.

The car enters the ferry.
White, gushing waters pass beneath.
The Wise Dog shimmers away, on the bygone shore
From the drifting ship, the Driver greets:
Prickly cacti, bitter musk, buoyant township—
Its folks cheer on as the Driver floats through.
She cheers back—lavishly—though made of tired bones.
On the next shore, the Driver slows her pace
With a softened gaze and a steadier grip,
She steers into the next loop—
Wiser, unafraid.