This is the end, my only friend
The end of our elaborate plans
The end of ev’rything that stands
The end
No safety or surprise
The end
I’ll never look into your eyes again
Can you picture what will be
So limitless and free
Desperately in need of
some strangers hand
In a desperate land
Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane
All the children are insane
Waiting for the summer rain
There’s danger on the edge of town
Ride the king’s highway…
The chance encounter with the Grim Reaper left a big impression. We just trawling along the highway, stuck in a clot of overloaded trucks wondering what’d caused it. Through the gaps, we spotted a group of men, clad like labourers are – in dust – stopping each grumbling truck and asking for something. Highway beggary?
Finally, some trucker took heart and gave them an old bedsheet. One of those sheets that’ve seen it all. The threadbare sheet bore a thousand stains, was ripped in places and was now going to its final destination.
When we got to the break in traffic, a characterful old Bajaj Chetak was stood in the middle of a circle of stones hastily collected from the roadside. On its other side was a sheet, covering a lump. A pair of lifeless hands, feet clad in holed white socks stuck out defiantly from under the sheet. A cold chill gripped my heart as I saw the apparition of the Reaper glowering at me, floating effortlessly above the sheet and his scythe still dripping. Death had claimed another.
Who was he? Was he the family breadwinner? Was he a lout? Was he respectable? Or a lecher? It didn’t matter. Death settles all differences. Now he just someone who would never walk the earth again. Why did he die? Did a unmindful trucker bump him off gently? Or did he just stumble and fall on his unprotected head? One will never know. Hell, I didn’t even realise when the traffic jam turned into a chaotic funereal procession.
Lyrics from The End by The Doors.
Filed under: Random thoughts
