The First Day of the Year

The first day of January arrived with an illusion of celebration. The city breathed loudly, restlessly, as if every house had emptied itself onto the roads. Markets spilled over, traffic stood still, and the evening air carried the impatience of thousands moving nowhere.

My mother wanted to go out. The plan had been for the afternoon, but the day dissolved into domestic rituals—meals prepared, time quietly consumed—until dusk arrived unannounced. Still, we stepped out. A flower show had opened nearby, and I drove my scooty with my mother seated behind me, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders.

The road offered no welcome.

Cars formed unmoving walls, e-rickshaws pressed forward with stubborn persistence, bikes and scooties wedged between them like thoughts trapped in a restless mind. Winter had reached its peak. Children clung to their parents on two-wheelers, small bodies folded into borrowed warmth. Some people were dressed in festive elegance, as if the road itself were an invitation to celebration.

Yet celebration had its shadows.

Among the crowd moved a few reckless figures—voices loud with abuse, movements careless, control surrendered to alcohol. Fear crept in quietly. My mother sensed it before I spoke, and we decided not to go further. The cold had sharpened, the traffic thickened, and the promise of joy felt distant and fragile.

Turning back was no simple act. It required patience, balance, and quiet resolve. Slowly, inch by inch, I guided the scooty away from the chaos. When the road finally opened before us, a car burst past at terrifying speed, grazing my scooty—close enough to remind me how thin the line between safety and disaster truly is.

I survived by a breath.

At the crossing stood the police—silent, unmoved. No whistle, no warning, no pursuit. Authority watched without seeing. In that stillness, something heavier than fear settled inside me: the realization that protection has become uncertain, and responsibility increasingly absent.

This is the age we are living in—where accidents gather crowds but not compassion, where help is delayed by indifference, where even uniformed presence fails to inspire restraint. Humanity feels diluted, scattered, as if everyone is rushing forward while forgetting what it means to stand for one another.

Somehow, I continued. Somehow, I reached home. My mother stepped off the scooty, safe, unaware of how close we had come to loss.

This was my New Year.