The voice of herd

I settle down in the backseat of the cab at 11 at night, my eyes burning for sleep, my back aching, I tuck in the wrinkled sagging shirt, after all the appearance of the herd matters.The cool night breeze brushes my face as i poke my head out of the window. I close my eyes and let it all drift away. I remember the sleepless nights i spent, not typing through the codes , but driving down the deserted lanes with my friends. I have money in my pocket and i eat in cafes , but the food i ate in crashed weddings had the flavor i can never forget. My boss shouts at me, but my ears crave for my mother's voice when i used to come late at night. The cafeteria serves world class food, but my tongue craves for home cooked paranthas. Today i wear white clean shirt, but the joy of getting dirty in mud with friends seem to be lost.
The dreams of a big house took me away from home and a bmw won't give the comfort of my dad's own choti si car.
Those were the days when i could do whatever i wanted, those were the guys that grew me up, my friends and my family. We didn't have money in our pockets but we had love and satisfaction. The aura of my house still lingers with me.
My sombre breaks as a truck rolls by honking and billowing smoke. I am still sitting in the backseat of my cab.