Chapter 8 - Rich Cars & Buffaloes

 

8

 

            There are some scenes on the road that no city planner can predict.

 

            That afternoon, the bus was moving slowly through a narrow countryside road washed in the tired gold of the setting sun. Summer dust floated in the air like old memories refusing to settle. The conductor had stopped shouting for passengers long ago and was now half asleep near the door. A baby somewhere behind me cried without energy, as if even tears were exhausted by the heat.

 

            I sat beside the same window again.

 

            The same travelling frame through which life kept showing me unfinished truths.

 

            Outside, fields stretched endlessly under a pale sky. Electric poles walked beside the road like silent witnesses. A tractor overloaded with sugarcane moved ahead lazily, and behind it several expensive SUVs had formed a long line.

 

            Their polished bodies reflected the sunlight proudly.  White. Black. Metallic silver.  Cars that looked like they belonged to another world.  Cars with dark tinted windows, powerful engines, imported tyres, and shining logos that people often buy not for travel, but for status.

 

            But strangely, none of them were moving.  The reason stood calmly in the middle of the road.

 

            Buffaloes.

 

            A group of buffaloes had occupied the muddy stretch ahead after returning from a pond. Their bodies glistened with wet mud. Some walked slowly. Some simply stopped in the middle of the road as if the world had no authority over them. One buffalo even sat down lazily near a puddle while vehicles stood helplessly behind her.

 

            The SUV drivers kept honking.  Sharp horns pierced the peaceful countryside repeatedly.  But the buffaloes did not care.  The village boys walking beside them smiled casually. One old man holding a thin stick waved his hand without urgency.

 

            “Slowly… slowly…”  As though he was not controlling animals.  As though he was controlling modern civilization itself.

 

            Inside the luxury vehicles, faces grew impatient. A man wearing sunglasses leaned out angrily. Another continuously pressed his horn as if sound itself could remove reality from the road.

 

            But the buffaloes continued walking at their own ancient speed.  And for a few minutes, the entire hierarchy of wealth collapsed.  Engines worth lakhs waited behind creatures that knew nothing about money.

 

            I kept watching silently.  Sometimes life explains philosophy without speaking.

 

            The bus driver laughed softly and said to no one in particular, “In villages, buffaloes still think roads belong to them.”

 

            Maybe they do.  Long before asphalt arrived, their hooves already knew these paths.  Long before cars carried human ego, animals carried human survival.  There was something deeply symbolic in that traffic jam.  Machines designed to dominate distance had surrendered before creatures that measured life differently.

 

            No buffalo was in a hurry to become successful.  No buffalo was anxious about social status.  No buffalo cared who owned the biggest vehicle behind it.  And yet all those expensive machines had no option except patience.

 

            I leaned my head against the bus window and suddenly remembered a story from my own childhood.

            Not a story from books.  A story from mud.

 

            In those days, our village was different.

 

            The road leading to the village was not covered with cement or black tar. During summers, dust rose from it like smoke. During rainy days, it became a slippery river of mud where even bicycles trembled.

 

            Back then, owning a car in a village was not ordinary.  It was almost mythical.  In our village, there was only one man who owned a car.  Children looked at it with the same curiosity with which villagers once looked at airplanes. Whenever the car entered the village, people turned their heads. Some admired it. Some envied it. Some silently measured their own poverty against its shining body.

 

            The owner himself walked differently after buying it.  Not arrogantly perhaps.  But vehicles change human posture in invisible ways.  People begin feeling elevated from the ground they once walked on.

 

            One monsoon evening, heavy rain turned the village road into deep mud. Water collected in potholes large enough to swallow tyres. Still, the car owner tried to drive through proudly.  Maybe he trusted the machine too much.  Maybe success often creates that illusion. 

 

            But halfway through the muddy road, the tyres sank deeply.  The engine roared.  Mud splashed everywhere.  The wheels spun helplessly.  But the car did not move an inch.

 

Villagers gathered slowly under umbrellas and shawls. Some offered advice. Some simply enjoyed the spectacle silently.  Because villages have always understood one thing: Nature eventually humbles everyone.

 

            The more the driver accelerated, the deeper the tyres dug themselves into the mud.

 

            Finally someone suggested, “Call a buffalo cart.”

 

            And suddenly the entire meaning of progress became strangely funny.  A luxury machine had to be rescued by an animal-driven wooden cart.

 

            I still remember that scene vividly.

 

            The buffalo cart arrived slowly through rainwater. Its wooden wheels made heavy sounds in the mud. The buffalo looked calm, unconcerned by the importance of the car it had come to rescue.

 

            Ropes were tied carefully.

 

            Villagers shouted instructions together, “Pull!”

 

            The buffalo moved forward with quiet strength.  For a moment the car shifted slightly.  Then suddenly - Crack.

 

            One wooden part of the cart broke.  People sighed in disappointment.  Rain continued falling.  The car owner looked embarrassed.  But something unexpected happened next.

 

            The single buffalo, still tied firmly, leaned forward again with astonishing force. Muscles tightened beneath its wet dark skin. Its hooves dug into the mud. Slowly… painfully… steadily…

 

            It pulled the trapped car out.  Without pride.  Without noise.  Without knowing what achievement meant.

 

            That scene stayed with me for years.  Perhaps because it carried a truth larger than the incident itself.  Civilization often behaves as if villages are backward.  Cities laugh at bullock carts.  Modern people mock old ways.  But when systems fail, humanity still turns toward the raw strength of nature.  A farmer still understands weather better than many apps.          An old village woman still preserves seeds more carefully than corporations preserve ethics.  A buffalo still knows how to walk through mud better than a luxury SUV.

 

            Sitting beside the bus window, watching those expensive vehicles trapped behind buffaloes, I felt the same irony returning again.

 

            Modernity is powerful.  But not absolute.  We have built cars faster than horses, phones smarter than classrooms, buildings taller than trees.  Yet one flood stops cities.  One power cut silences entire neighbourhoods.  One virus locks nations indoors.  One animal standing calmly on a road can interrupt a convoy of expensive vehicles.

 

            Human beings often mistake convenience for superiority.  That is our oldest misunderstanding.

 

            The road ahead finally began clearing slowly. The buffaloes moved aside without apology. The SUVs accelerated aggressively the moment they found space, as if speed could erase humiliation.

 

            One car passed our bus with angry force, spraying muddy water beside the road.  But I noticed something strange.  The buffaloes did not even turn their heads. 

 

            Indifference is sometimes the purest form of power.

 

            As the bus continued moving, evening deepened around us. Smoke rose from distant village houses where women had begun preparing dinner. Children returned home carrying schoolbags larger than their dreams. Somewhere a loudspeaker played an old song broken by static.

 

            I kept thinking about roads.  Roads reveal human nature better than homes do.  On roads, impatience becomes visible.  Ego becomes visible.  Compassion becomes visible.  A rich man and a poor man may hide their realities inside walls, but roads expose everyone equally.

 

            Perhaps that is why journeys teach more than destinations.

 

            Near a small tea stall, our bus stopped briefly.

 

            I saw one of the SUV owners standing outside speaking angrily on his phone.  Probably complaining about the delay.  Maybe he had an important meeting.  Maybe time really mattered to him.

 

            But beside the same tea stall stood a farmer washing his buffalo gently with a bucket of water.  The animal looked peaceful.  Unbothered by markets, deadlines, ambitions, or traffic.

 

            And for a strange moment, I wondered:

 

            Who was truly richer?  The man who owned a machine worth lakhs but lost peace over ten delayed minutes or the man whose wealth breathed beside him quietly?

 

            Society teaches us to admire acceleration.  But nature respects rhythm.  A river never hurries.  Trees never compete.  Animals never suffer from comparison.  Only humans destroy their own peace trying to prove movement.

 

            The bus started again.

 

            Darkness slowly gathered over the fields. Electric lights began appearing one by one in distant homes like scattered thoughts.

 

            An old man sitting beside me suddenly spoke after remaining silent for almost the entire journey.

 

            “These city people become restless very quickly,” he said while smiling faintly.

 

            I nodded.

 

            Then he added something that stayed with me longer than the journey itself, “When a man stops understanding mud, even roads begin insulting him.”

 

            After saying this, he returned to silence.

 

            Outside, the buffaloes had now disappeared into village lanes.  The SUVs were gone too.  Only the road remained.  Quiet.  Ancient.  Unimpressed by both poverty and wealth.

 

            And as the bus moved forward through the night, I realised something deeply human: Progress is necessary.  Comfort is beautiful.  Technology is useful.  But the day human beings begin believing they have conquered nature completely, life sends buffaloes onto the road to remind them otherwise.

 

            Some lessons do not arrive through books.

 

            Some arrive walking slowly through mud.