Walking

I walk and I write. I walk and I write. That’s my whole story. Walking determines the rhythm of my restless mind. I fight the madness within, and walking gives me respite from my inner war ever so briefly. The world is at war. Every one of us is at war. Within and without. We walk the earth caught in violent struggles over our desire-machines and ethical-reminder-machines. Be good, do good. Says the latter. We offer our alms to the poor beggar knocking at the car window on a hot afternoon. We tweet anti-war protest content. Buy things, lose weight, look good, attract and be attracted. Be a shiny thing. Says the desire-machine.

I sit and wait by the ghats at Vrindavan’s Keshi ghat. Re-moulded by concrete at the river-shore. Heaps of cement-sacks are lining the riverfront. Sunlight glistens on the sacks’ bodies. Very colourful boats, now driven by motors, are hailing tourists for a river joyride. Groups of devotee-tourists pile on to the boats with orange stamps of radha radha on their foreheads and cheeks.