Chinmay Khare--Half A Tank And Nowhere To Go

There are times when everyone encounters situations where things don't go as they had hoped. You work hard; you do everything you're told; you make all the corrections you're given; you tell yourself that if you can be persistent, it has to go somewhere! Then there's a break without warning.

After preserving a lovely, almost two-year-long collaboration on a research paper I had worked on that afternoon, I got notified of its rejection. That fateful afternoon, I received the rejection letter for a research paper I had worked on for almost 2 years! It was hardly fair to call it a paper! I've edited it, rewritten it, protected it, questioned if it was real, and basically treated it as my own kid. This had become a document that was far from its original draft, with seven rounds of revision. Over the course of 7 rounds, I kept coming back to the same paragraphs, tables, arguments, references, and reviewer comments. Each revision went with the same subtle undertones: Perhaps this time.

Some things will disappoint you, and you can just rationalize that, and other things just deflate you.

I don't like to think about it too much because I don't remember when I decided to travel. No plans and no research of places to stay, no places we were visiting; there was absolutely nothing. I just pulled out my suitcase, shoved a few clothes into it, grabbed my keys, and I went downstairs.

On the outside, it was the August monsoon, resulting in a grey afternoon. This indecisive rain that falls in coastal Karnataka was neither violent enough to keep me down, nor was it negligible enough to leave no impression. Beneath the clouds, the roads glistened. Water was collected around their periphery, coconut palm trees were swaying in the breeze, and there was a scent of fresh soil and leaves.

There were two days that I had to be there: one was 15th August on Independence Day, and the next day was 16th August, which was a Sunday.

I could see nothing, but I had a great reason to run; it was on the eve of Independence Day.

Then I pulled up onto the National Highway without much thought as to where I was going. Swearing at them, trucks rolled on by, spraying up mist from their wheels. Buses could be seen in my mirrors, then they would pass by and shoot past me. Petrol Pumps, Shops, as well as Temples, Homes, and Road Stalls, began to merge into a long ribbon of civilization.

Initially, my mind did not accept that my thoughts needed to remove themselves from the paper.

I made myself go over every single thing that I had done! Maybe the methodology was not exceptional. I think perhaps I should have used a different journal. Maybe I was mistaken about what misled the reviewers. Or two years wasn't enough.

There seemed to be a stretch of the road where it was less busy. I chose on a spur of the moment, and I took a smaller road for no particular reason, it just seemed quieter. Then another. The scene started to shut off, revolving around me. Their buildings were replaced by those with tile roofs. Roofs were replaced and took the place of fields. The telephone wasn't as clear. It began to start pouring down.

Over these past two years, it's all about “WHERE” have I been going? Research questions. Objectives. Deadlines. Reviewer responses. Track changes. Submission portals. All actions had to be for a good reason.

I came to a very small tea stand, less a place of business than a place to take shelter, and covered with a blue tarpaulin on the top of a wooden counter. My raincoat didn't help, so I was still wet. The streets were strewn with mud, and all over the scooter.

Either the guy behind this counter or someone at some point asked me where I was heading.

It was served in a tiny glass of tea; very hot and too sweet for me. I would probably have complained about the sugar if it weren't for the fact that it was under normal circumstances. The night he ate it, it tasted good!

My rejected manuscript was unknown to anyone! No one has ever cared about my changes. I was not concerned with the trees' citations. There was no opinion of the rain concerning what I was talking about.

It was comforting to find out how insignificant my own disaster is, and God knows outside of my own head.

The road was on a slight incline. Damp mist started to fill the gaps between all the trees, and everything was beyond a few hundred metres, suggestion and not landscape. Some buildings, a few houses, a shrine, children on bikes in mud puddles, dogs under awnings above shop doors- once was a village.

It was at night by that time that it had become what was truly the middle of nowhere.

I did not make it to the dramatic viewpoint. No famous waterfall. No Instagram-perfect revelation. Only a bare road, a dense forest, and rain and the distant sound of water below.

But not utter silence, the forest was too alive for that. It was raining, striking leaves. Some insects buzzed about, somewhere within the vegetation. A rushing stream of water, unseen, flowed down the valley. There was a bird somewhere far off that once called and had never been seen again.

I had used the metrics of things to come for months, years possibly, in the guise of being accepted, published, completed, and recognized. It was a bitter rebuke, as I had given up, after all, two years of my life to one decision that I had taken by, and from, somebody I hadn't met.

It was obvious, slowly becoming like it would be in there, on one of the roads I didn't know the name of, on a rainy Monsoon night.

It was getting dark, and I began to feel my sense of reason return. I needed petrol. Food. Somewhere to sleep.

After a few hours of attempting to flee civilization, it suddenly became rather appealing.

I turned on the scooter and rode it along the road until I arrived in one of these little towns. So I rented a tiny room, put my still damp bag in there, and left my scooter, which was parked in the street, in the garage.

The room itself was not of any particular significance. A bed. A plastic chair. A fan. A window with raindrops falling on it.

That night I had to eat anything I could find and go back to the room, tired. Missed texts & phone calls were on my phone. My laptop was hundreds of kilometres away, perhaps; I mean, only emotionally.

Patriotic tunes were heard over a loudspeaker, somewhere nearby. I exited and gazed at children with small Indian flags walking down the rainy road to school. It was raining less, but the hills remained blanketed with clouds.

24 hours ago, I believed independence was getting away from everything: the research and rejection, the expectations, and an overabundance of pressure to produce something measurable.

At times, one way to experience freedom is to allow yourself to not have an answer.

Passed through unremembered villages, stood at unknown rivers' sides, beaches and feasted at inns I would never see again, and was entertained by unsuspecting hills' clouds.

I had found out where life was coming from, a place in the Western Ghats. I hadn't come home with any light or truth. I still felt sad, angry, and not sure about what course I would take with the paper.

Or maybe there is some truth to that, having learned what is too clear to mention about roads over those two days: They go wherever they go.

You take an hour-long drive to finally reach a spot in which you don't find anything special to see.

By the time I arrived at home, the scooter was covered in dirt, my clothes were full of slight rain, and the bag I had brought home didn't have anything in it that I hadn't put in my backpack.

I stopped parking, took it up the stairs, and it was right where I had left it, the laptop.

I had made it seem like my purpose, when it wasn't even my purpose; it was a turn in the road.

Everything I had started with was a half tank of gas, 2 days of unfettered freedom, rainy days during the monsoon season, and nowhere else to go.

Chinmay Khare is a dedicated economist and researcher currently pursuing his doctoral studies. He enjoys reading and expressing his thoughts on a variety of topics across different genres and writing formats. Always eager to learn, he seeks to explore new avenues and expand his skills in both fiction and non-fiction writing.

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