Parked my car by the side of the road, to type the previous post. On Sundays, the cops don’t ask you to move the vehicle from the flyover. It’s always a lovely setting to muse. I try to start the car but the battery is down.

I wait a while since I love the place where I am stranded, then start to call a few mechanics. But can’t find anyone to help me, today.  Message my friend, to inform him of my whereabouts. Over the past year, he’s been fussing over me like a mother hen and wants regular updates. Of course, he instantly calls up. “Leave the car and go home”. No can do.

I get off the car and decide to push my white elephant, myself. Of course,  I can’t move it at all. There I am-  trying to push my vehicle, laughing uncontrollably,  on top off my favourite flyover, when a family stops to help me.  The husband and wife with the help of their teenage children push my vehicle a little and then I’m able to drive it down the descending slope.

I park the car… hail an auto… go to the nearest petrol pump. The mechanics are leaving for the day but are kind enough to help me out. While, they fix the car a lady who lives under the flyover, stops to chat with me. We are old acquintances. Time flies by between messages from my friend and conversations, with some lovely people. What dull stories, the kindness of strangers make? That’s why we never recall all the times when we reach home safe, after dark.

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