Sunday, September 03, 2006 ||
8:22 AM ||
It’s a scorching afternoon in the city. Hunger seems to have done strange things to me, and I find myself getting edgy by the moment in the restaurant, as I wait for my order to materialize. He’s about 7. The filthy rag in his tiny hands reeks of a nauseating stench, as he rubs it over and across the table with a fierce vengeance. His darting eyes scamper all over the place, as he tucks in the messy leftovers and plates on to the trolley that’s double his size, and scurry away. I wonder if he knows that its Onam, in two days.
The streets are bustling with activity and she has earned for herself a prominent place on a corner of the sidewalk. She’s about 5. Her grubby hair is all sweaty and grimy. My nephew is all amused when I kneel in front of her, because she just has a few glitter bangles to sell. Five rupees, chetta, – she mumbles, and as I take out my wallet she grins without an after thought. I wonder if she knows that its Onam tomorrow.
Caught in the middle of a murky traffic jam for about an hour, my patience is fast wearing out. The whiff of fresh rose buds fails to soothe my senses. He’s about 9. Standing all by himself amidst a sea of cars, in a soiled brown shirt that strikes up an arresting contrast with the red roses splashed against his chest, the flower-seller paints a poignant picture. He hands over a rose hopefully, and murmurs something incoherently. As the traffic starts moving again, I see him wading his way back to the pavement on the rear view mirror. I wonder if he knows that its Onam in a few hours.
~~~~~~Happy Onam, rest of the world!