"Why are truckers wary of the evil eye?" That malevolent Dionysiac gaze keeps him awake in the odd hours as the car whizzes past sleepy hamlets. He stops at a dhaba and lights up. 125 km left to reach Shivpuri. What if the town turns out to be what its named as. A tiger's hide in a dank cave is not what one expects to sleep on after having spent the better part of the day on the road. There seems to be a tiger reserve there though. Boards sporting a not so potent image of the felid. Seems to be part of a campaign to refurbish M.P.'s tourism. His gaze shifts to his Bombay Natural History Society T-shirt reading "Tiger Tiger Burning Bright". Then who's not burning today. Burning oil to reach home. Oil that fuels technocapitalism and wars over divinity. Burning the midnight oil to learn to look at the world reflected on an obsidian mirror. So many straight routes, lives being spent in cuboids. But then home is where the heart is. A Sanjay Dutt movie blares keeping the rather drunk medley of mustachioed burly men reassured of their machismo. He strokes his beard and boards the car. Another truck sports a woman in waiting. "When are you coming home ?". Women and their cosmic dance. The breeze is cool. The winds of maya blow across his face like a tiger spewing out time.
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