LOST IN LIFE, FOUND BY A SAINT

I had no idea what i was going to do now. I had set a deadline for finding a job. It had passed. No oppurtunities on the horizon. Neighbours spoke in whispers about the boy who stays at home. Family posed questions on marriage and paying insurance. I was lost, for words and for myself.
Dornahalli is a small hamlet off the Mysore-Hassan highway. Legend has it that a wooden doll resembling St.Anthony was found here. A farmer was ploughing his fields when he dug up the doll, and miracles and omens were set in motion. Nobody goes back home empty handed. St.Anthony answers your prayers. He is the patron saint of all things lost and found. I was wandering and He found me.
I set off with a friend on a Sunday morning. The drive was excellent. The Catholic influence was obvious in the villages. Turkeys replaced chickens. But even they couldn't help but cross the road.  Crosses on the house replaced the usual dung. But, the village charm was still there.Read more on chickens and country chicks
In the vast lands, surrounded by fields both green and barren, lies the church. You can see it from a distance and hear the gong of its bell. Hardly ten were present for the Sunday Mass. An equal number of beggars at the entrance greeted us. We took a look around the church. It was calm and peaceful, a stark contrast to the feast of St. Anthony, when the faithfully congregate in their thousands.
I did have a look at the wooden doll. 'So, the legend is true' i said to myself. But, what blew my mind away was the painting inside of St.Anthony with a child in his embrace. I couldn't take my eyes of it. For the first time in a long time, i was surrounded by peace. I felt light. I felt elated, as if i had found something which was long lost.
I had packed some cake and bread. I distributed it among the poor, and soon we were on our way back to Mysore. All the way, i could not explain the strange yet happy feeling in my heart. Something in that place had touched my soul.
Back at home, lying in my bed, i closed my eyes for a nap, when it flashed me. I had found what i had lost, running behind deadlines and opinions of people, and the expectations of society.
I had found Myself.

FROM ONE MOTHER TO ANOTHER

A TEMPLE IN THE DISTANCE

OF COUNTRY CHICKS AND A CHICKEN

A ride into the countryside never gets boring. Just approaching the village on the highway, you sense the fresh air, the hay on the road, the farmer toiling away in the distance, the boys steering old cycle tires and the girls clutching their plaits. As you take in these sights, you have seconds to save the chicken that is crossing the road.
It is no more a joke. It never is a pleasant sight, a dead chicken. The roadkill sure doesn't have any resemblance to those served at KFC. Infact, you might attend the Kumbh Mela to wash off the sin. But that is least of your worries. Right now, you concern is, 'How am I going to explain this sh*t to the farmer?'
The farmer sure is not pleased. You have made the rooster a widower. The rooster will drown his sorrows in toddy liquor and not crow the next morning. Worst, you have snatched away from the farmer the local version of 'The Golden Goose'. His source of eggs, both for himself and The Egg Factory on Kormangala road is now scrambled.
You are negotiating whether a ride on your bike, your digital camera or your Aviators are the trading cards. Soon, the country bums join in and threaten to bash you up into, what else, chicken feed. In this commotion, your eyes, courtesy the male gaze and stare gene, fall upon the farmer's daughter and her friends. You realise why village chicks are known as pure, beautiful, simple and elegant.
But, this is only for a second. The daughter and her friends giggle at your gear and gloves, with that skull on your helmet. You seriously contemplate on one thought 'Man! are those sex surveys on villages true?'. 
Your options are to payup the farmer and beat it, or stay back as a guest, click pictures of the village life and  show the daughter and her girlfriends who's the real "Daddy". And the next morning, you're more faster than Farhan Akhar in Bhaag Milka Bhaag. But, alas! the country bugger and his cronies would not allow option two.
As you bid goodbye to the chicks in your rear view mirror, pop a smile, push the start button and throttle away, all you can say is, "Just another memory on a long distance ride".