Cat on the bike

 I met a cat on a bike today. It stood on its fours - the front legs propped up against the metallic engine, hind legs resting on the vinyl-covered seat. Head held high. The setting sun gleamed against its emerald eyes. Majestic. A creature aesthetic enough to be featured on record covers or Pinterest pages. 

I sat in the auto, waiting for it to accommodate my co-passengers. The cat, with its richness and potential, had my undivided attention now. It said nothing, not even the faintest meow, yet, it welcomed me into a wordless conversation. A talk of politics here, of the latest fashion there. A talk of celebrities and exaggerated gossip. I wondered how it knew so much. Typical human arrogance. 

I wondered a lot. I wondered about things too ordinary. I wondered if it had a family. I wondered what might have been its last meal. I wondered why it was so alone. Was it alone? Or was it basking in the glory of the solitude it had preferred for itself? 

I wondered about extraordinary things. What might have been going on inside its feline head? Was it solving the equation of life? Memorising an epic it had heard from other cats? Wondering about the essence of utopian freedom? Maybe all of them, together. 

For the first time, it meowed. How did it know that I wasn't paying attention anymore? How did it know of my audacity to have created a life for it unwarranted? Was it a meow of rebuke? Of disappointment? Of pity? I did not know. I would not know. As the auto fired up its ignition, carrying me away into my own life of dreariness, of remarkable sameness, perhaps the Cat on the bike meowed at me once more. Perhaps the cat forgave me for my intrusion. I would not know.