The Middle Path

We were driving back from NH 22. Weather gods had been kind through the day, even though, a little disappointment lurched at the back of mind as the job at hand was not accomplished. It was usual chatter about the general decay around us, that we middle class love to indulge in. When my eyes saw, a man dressed in a neat white dhoti and yellow kurta, holding a white umbrella, collapse like a pack of cards on the road right before our eyes. I had never before seen a man collapse just like that. Our car was heading in the opposite direction.
For a few seconds we were quiet. Music became more pronounced in the car. We drove in shadowlands. We knew something should be done about the man. He needed help. We were also conscious of a few commitments awaiting us. Our humanity was knocking at the doors, callousness was responding. So, feebly we discussed, and came to a conclusion that we should report the matter to the traffic police on duty at the next traffic lights.
We did our bit. The traffic policeman was reluctant to move out in rains. “ The man must be drunk,” he dismissed. As though, drunks are justified to die an undignified death on road. At our insistence, he dialed some number on his walkie-talkie.
We returned. We had done our bit without checking out if the man received some help. Our conscience was flickering like those Chinese lights we put up on Diwali for decoration.
A newspaper I was associated with followed the practice of never printing unpleasant pictures of death and decay on the front page. Their philosophy was reflective of our mind set. We don’t want to deal with unpleasantness.
We compromise, we find the middle way. We like to play safe.

Flickr/on the road to heaven/ eSThER