"A hundred miles, a hundred miles, you can hear the whistle blow..."
Who knows what lies awaiting a hundred miles away? It's hard to judge, even in spite of having a map to tell you what, geographically, you can expect to see there.
That's because facts are born liars.
In a small town near Chennai, there lived a young boy. The town was at a proximity of less than a hundred miles to the city. The boy called himself Maitranna. He was the newspaper boy of his own town. He cycled to a half-day government school, quite far away, and adventuring further away from home, he would inspect peripheral Chennai. He would usually shy away from city-folk there, but he was always tempted to read the city newspapers at the newspaper-shop.
Days passed. Maitranna was running through the daily regime of a conversation with Jayant, the 'man at the counter', at the newspaper shop, on a sultry morning. They seemed to have struck a pleasant rapport with each other. It was pleasant enough to wear away the gloom of that morning.
Maitranna was not as silent as he was shy. Everyday, Jayant would get a misty dose of entertainment from his young companion's stories. Of course, a less perceptive man than Jayant would tire out of these. A less sensitive man would have the heart to reprimand Maitranna. But never did that happen.
One absolutely fine day, when lemon ices were being sold in town, Maitranna did not wish to speak to Jayant of the newspaper-shop. Not very shocking, considering that, he was more interested in the newspaper. He had found a very photogenic Maitranna on a newspaper page, accessorized by a plain cricket bat and a helmet. So the conversation with Jayant would be put on hold, and I would be grateful for it, because I know that when they spoke, Maitranna would be too overwhelmed to speak.
Who knows what lies awaiting a hundred miles away? It's hard to judge, even in spite of having a map to tell you what, geographically, you can expect to see there.
That's because facts are born liars.
In a small town near Chennai, there lived a young boy. The town was at a proximity of less than a hundred miles to the city. The boy called himself Maitranna. He was the newspaper boy of his own town. He cycled to a half-day government school, quite far away, and adventuring further away from home, he would inspect peripheral Chennai. He would usually shy away from city-folk there, but he was always tempted to read the city newspapers at the newspaper-shop.
Days passed. Maitranna was running through the daily regime of a conversation with Jayant, the 'man at the counter', at the newspaper shop, on a sultry morning. They seemed to have struck a pleasant rapport with each other. It was pleasant enough to wear away the gloom of that morning.
Maitranna was not as silent as he was shy. Everyday, Jayant would get a misty dose of entertainment from his young companion's stories. Of course, a less perceptive man than Jayant would tire out of these. A less sensitive man would have the heart to reprimand Maitranna. But never did that happen.
One absolutely fine day, when lemon ices were being sold in town, Maitranna did not wish to speak to Jayant of the newspaper-shop. Not very shocking, considering that, he was more interested in the newspaper. He had found a very photogenic Maitranna on a newspaper page, accessorized by a plain cricket bat and a helmet. So the conversation with Jayant would be put on hold, and I would be grateful for it, because I know that when they spoke, Maitranna would be too overwhelmed to speak.
Comments
Post a Comment