You don’t know where you are exactly headed to, but its somewhere. You’ve just left the city and already there is excitement; there is thrill and adventure in the air. A vast landscape of greenery is right in front of you; verdant forests near enough for you to touch, almost; rolling hills in the horizon; and the sky, overcast. Not before long there is a light drizzle, bad for you but good for the farmer.

You are riding a bike on the winding two-lane hilly road—the sight of the serpentine stream, a small sleepy settlement, a pair of beautiful blue birds—you are at a loss as to what to look at.

You don’t know where you are going but don’t have any intention of stopping. The empire of darkness is slowly approaching; you have to find yourselves a

little place to get warm and have some fun.

After 20 minutes into ‘the escape’, a long queue of vehicles appear; a jam, not one unexpected. You try to negotiate your way through the line and after an arduous fifteen minutes you finally get through; a sense of triumph, a feeling of liberation. As always victory does not last long. A fat policewoman stops you at the highway check-post and asks, “Can three people ride on a motorbike”. You feign innocence and the pillion riders, your old school buddies, try to help you. You get away without having to pay the small fine.

A secluded, almost abandoned-looking hotel finds you. Looks can be deceiving. After sometime you realise that it’s not as bad as it looks. You bargain a little bit and settle for the night. The radio is on; a voice sings of his lover and her beauty. He laments that they can’t be together forever, the time has come and he has to go. This friend of yours is such a sentimental fellow.

The song reminds you of the girl that you saw today in college. No more, no less, flawless, beauty peerless, the girl of your dreams. Everything comes at a price and you realise that you are indeed a poor man, not of the soul but of the world. You could make out from the phone, dress and language that she is a rich girl. You can’t ‘buy’ that girl. A torrent of emotions rain down, drenching your soul just like the rain spattering above your head on the tin roof. Memories melancholic, memories mad, memories sad, memories bad inundate the entire realm of your mind. The effect is felt on the heart. What can you do, the mind is a real monkey.

Time slows, space melts and you think to yourself, “Maybe, I should go to bed now”.

Oh ho! It’s already a new morn! The rays of the sun and the sounds of village life wake you up. You slept like a log. The first impulse is to ask yourself, ‘Where am I?’

This feeling doesn’t last long. Your two friends are there; one besides you and the other on the floor. Now, you know where you are. Looking at yourself reflected on the small mirror hung on the wall, you realise you look no better than a stray dog.

After a light breakfast you clear the bills and head out again to nowhere. The ride is not rough for you, but for your friend—sandwiched between you and your other friend—it surely isn’t comfortable. A good fellow he is, you hear no complaints. Traffic is almost non-existent here and you realise you’re on a by-road.

An old withered man tending his goats (most probably) appears on a sharp turn. His life seems ‘Sisyphusian’. What about your own life? Is it better in any way? Is anybody’s life better than anybody’s? Sisyphus reminds you of suffering. Suffering reminds you of Buddha and Buddha says, “There is no end to human

suffering”. Another realisation, another internalisation, who knows, you might suddenly receive enlightenment.

You have reached a higher elevation (probably 2000m) and the fog below you attests it. You stop for rest. The homesteads you see in the distance below make you want a family, a loving wife and many children. Many things are beautiful only in imagination. Your friend aims the camera at you and you strike a pose. He wants you to pull the hood over your eyes so that a classic photo can be taken. He is an art photographer after all.

A bird with red and black plumage sits on a branch nearby. It’s not exactly red. Your smartphone-wala friend says that it surely is a rare bird. Maybe, maybe not. He even tries to take a snapshot and failing, declares, “The sighting of this bird marks the climax of ‘the escape’ and we are not going any further”.

You turn your bike around, the anti-climax begins. You head back to the city, college, boring life, hopelessness, meaninglessness and twelve hour of darkness that you left behind for a brief period of time.

Paudel has a Master’s in Social Work from St Xavier’s College