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He was an untold story. He walked his talk. He had unquestioned answers and unfinished thoughts. He knows Nature very well and he had got good nature. He was slave to the clock of sunrise and sunset. Every morning he walked 4 miles into the forests, drinking the lush morning amidst wild animals, to collect water, drop by drop, in a pot from a small dripping. He would come back to a road and would give the water pot to the people tucked in cushions and gaping at the beauty of the nature in the AC Hi-Tech bus with colourful embellishments. He had been repeating the same activity thrice a day, since years, irrespective of the seasons and the reasons. Neither the sun burns nor the hot winds in the scorching summer had stopped him. His bare feet had left an indelible impression on the harsh paths of the forest. His gushing sweat used to wet his toes. His bleached bones could not separate the breeze from the wind. The water in the forest was still dripping, drop by drop. His walks used to bring out the memories of some horrible disasters and trauma happened in his life. He never drank even a single drop of water from that pot. People in the bus were so busy that they never bothered to pay him neither money nor attention. Everyone were blinded by the illusory version of success. He had never asked himself why he was doing this service to those people. He ran his own race. No one, including him, had the clarity whether it was his compulsion or determination or obligation or adaptation or sublimation or submission or satisfaction .
The number of buses kept on increasing and so were his trips in a day, but the pot size had remained the same. He was weak and dried up but he had never let his life to loose the sense of purpose. He used to push himself to the limit. How could he raise a reasonable doubt when no one were interested? He was enveloped by the emptiness by the strain of his frenetic pace. Nothing kept him on his feet, except his will. His dragging walks reminded him of his life he wanted to forget. He no more gave those morbid and glum expressions. It was him and yet it was not him. He was forced to work to the last atom of his strength. He moved like a prey of vultures. He was like a falling leaf that was blown and was turning around through the air, wavering and tumbling to the ground. One day, at the crack of the dawn, he died. It hadn't made any difference to anyone. Neither the dripping of water in the forest nor the AC in the buses had stopped. The grains of plain truth and hideous cruelty were still at game with mute spectators. He was not a Fool, he was a farmer, Indian farmer. He drank something else on his last day. His precarious existence and obtrusive absence were nestled in the forest. His son continued the queer and quaint service with the same unquestioned answers and unfinished thoughts. The Nature smiled and the forest mourned.
Anyway, who is the FOOL then?
Some are born fools, some achieve foolishness and some have foolishness thrust upon them, and most people don’t realize the above three points.