Mg Road Quotes

I forgot the maid who works in my P.G. and struggles to make money, every day, who is in fear that one day her cruel husband will find her out eventually and beat her and her son to death. I forgot that auto driver I met on my way to M.G. road metro station, and who wanted to be in the army but gave up study due to the financial crisis. I forgot that security guard I met at IIT Delhi, and who was forced to leave the study and marry at the age of 15. I forgot those little kids I generally encounter at Railway stations and trains selling packets of pens @ Rs.25 per packet. I forgot that 75 years old ricksha wala I met in sector 23 market with only one eye and high power lens I forgot that washroom cleaning staff at my office who always welcomes me with a broad smile. I forgot the dead body of that martyred soldier I saw at the Kashmir airport, laden with garlands of marigold and people shouting," jawan amar rahe!" I forgot the scream of that pig near my office when a thick rope was brutally tied in its nose and it was forcefully taken by some people on a bike. I almost forgot everything!

Once, long before, we had had an argument over Browning’s poem, ‘The Last Ride Together’, and I had finally convinced her, over stubborn resistance, that a ‘ride’ meant horses, not a carriage. I smiled faintly, there in the MG, at the memory: she liked the carriage. But now we were having a sort of a last ride together, and it was a carriage, after all, or at least the MG. As we turned into the St. Stephen’s road, I said lightly: ‘You win, dearling.’ At St. Stephen’s I turned in, under the oaks. I could see only one or two dim stars through the bare twisting branches. I got out and picked up the box. There was something else, dimly, on the seat. It was the rose, so I took that, too, and walked into the graveyard. Still holding the box, I knelt a moment by the old stone cross and prayed. Something cold touched my neck: snowflakes were drifting down. I stood up. It was cold—the dead of winter. I opened the box and began to scatter the ashes, using a sower’s motion. When I had done, the flakes were coming down hard. I left the rose on the old cross. I said aloud: ‘Go under the Mercy.’ Then I went away, and her ashes were covered with the blanket of the snow. The deathly snows.