The mini-truck looked old. The paint on the hood was faded and was full of scratches. The bonnet had bulges and dips here and there. The bumper was bent a little at the left side, perhaps due to a minor collision. But there is no reason to infer from these that it was involved in any serious accidents.
The driver too was not much different, though he looked rather younger; maybe in his mid thirties. The grey color and the fine dust on his shabby hair made him one with the vehicle. It cannot be otherwise, for he had been driving it, he had been traveling with it as a companion between towns and cities across rocky hills.
Both of them do not cut a sad picture. They certainly do not; even if we wish so because they are miles away from our mind’s silly, sadistic pleasures. They have been wandering and their happiness in that is much more than our vulgar pleasure in attributing boredom and melancholy to them. They are happy in gratifying their primordial need – the want to wander. And what else is worthier than quenching the thirst of one of your basic instincts?
Both the man and the machine – The man uses the machine to honor his fickle, vague and at the same time compelling instinct to say farewell to known lands. The machine uses the man to get driven to faraway lands and feel new forms of perennial lifelessness (its own kind).
Man needs the machine to speed away while leaving his homeland so that those who he leaves behind do not see tears of weakness sparkling in his eyes. Machine wants the man to forget its inherent paralysis, the truth to which it will fall back after every stimulating lie (lies like a “firing” engine).
Machine gives man its wheels. Man gives machine his legs.
