It was a usual monsoon Monday morning, and I was already late. The rain had left behind puddles everywhere, and the road looked like a broken jigsaw puzzle. As I ran to catch my bus, fate had other plans. My foot went straight into a hidden pothole filled with muddy water, and I nearly performed an unplanned backflip. Socks soaked, ego bruised, and one slipper floating away, I shouted in frustration, “Not again!”
To my surprise, a deep voice replied, “Well, maybe if you watched where you were going!” I froze. Looking around, I realised it was the pothole talking to me. Yes, the pothole. The same villain of the road that had caused countless stumbles and scooter jumps was now speaking. “You again?” I asked, squinting at the hole. “Why are you always here to ruin my mornings?” The pothole sighed dramatically, “I don’t ruin mornings. I simply add adventure. Life’s too boring without a little splash.”
I stood there, dripping wet, and decided to play along. “You know you’re dangerous, right? People curse you daily. You’ve become a local celebrity for all the wrong reasons.” The pothole gave a muddy chuckle. “Fame is fame, my friend. But have you ever asked why I’m still here? I was born as a small crack, a tiny scar on the road. If someone had fixed me early, we wouldn’t be having this chat. But no, they ignored me, stepped over me, took photos and moved on. I grew—slowly, steadily and now I’m a landmark.”
I was half amused, half annoyed. “So you're saying it's not your fault?” The pothole replied, “Of course not! Blame the ones who were supposed to maintain the road. The Public Works Department filed me under ‘pending.’ The contractor came once, clicked a picture and disappeared like a magician. Meanwhile, I sit here collecting water, complaints and lost slippers.” I laughed in spite of myself. The pothole had personality.
As I bent to rescue my floating slipper, the pothole added, “All I want is retirement. A little gravel, some tar, and peace. But until then, I’ll keep doing my job—making people slow down, think, and maybe learn to pay attention.” I nodded. There was something oddly wise about this pothole. Before I left, it called out, “Tell your local authorities I’m still waiting. Not for fame this time, but for closure… literally.” I nodded. Everything he said made sense, sadly.
Potholes don’t grow overnight. They grow with official laziness, budget delays, and contractor vanishing acts. If only roads were repaired with the same care used to write tender documents, we'd all have smoother, safer journeys. Until then, even potholes have something to say—if you’re willing to listen.
