Mercredi, le 26 décembre 2007
The air was murky; the dust of pollution clouded the atmosphere surrounding the city, creating, along with its aura of crepuscule, a somber yellowish orange glow. If it was not for the intense depth of effluence, the moment could have been compared to a page of a fantasy novel, where fairies and gnomes would suddenly emerge magically from their land of mysteries and enchantment.
The deafening sound of the traffic, the sound of people following their chosen paths leading each of them towards their own destiny, and, my own path, an attempt to look at myself from above and trying to contemplate living in awareness, along with the vociferous volume of the Ella Fitzgerald CD, as she pours her soul into the music - all this encompasses my bubble of serenity and complexity, and enthralls my senses as I try to make and join the pieces of puzzle of what I call my life.
She sat under the signal post. She sat in a crouched position and captured my glare and continued to look straight towards me in silence. She wore a blue salwar khameez, and a pink dupatta covered part of her hair. Beneath the scars that her face carried, the beautiful woman that once was, still existed. Her brown eyes, her hardened hair, her hands and feet that bore the marks of a hard life didn’t dampen the beauty that her eyes conveyed. She continued to look, without smiling or without being suppliant for a scrap of bread or a measly 2 rupees. People passed her by, and so did the traffic; I wondered if life did. As the traffic signal turned green, I passed her by. She would continue to sit in her bewildered calmness under the signal post and probably catch the glare of another onlooker.
I saw her for 3 days continuous.
Now, she’s not under the signal post. And, I miss her.
Merry Christmas.
The deafening sound of the traffic, the sound of people following their chosen paths leading each of them towards their own destiny, and, my own path, an attempt to look at myself from above and trying to contemplate living in awareness, along with the vociferous volume of the Ella Fitzgerald CD, as she pours her soul into the music - all this encompasses my bubble of serenity and complexity, and enthralls my senses as I try to make and join the pieces of puzzle of what I call my life.
She sat under the signal post. She sat in a crouched position and captured my glare and continued to look straight towards me in silence. She wore a blue salwar khameez, and a pink dupatta covered part of her hair. Beneath the scars that her face carried, the beautiful woman that once was, still existed. Her brown eyes, her hardened hair, her hands and feet that bore the marks of a hard life didn’t dampen the beauty that her eyes conveyed. She continued to look, without smiling or without being suppliant for a scrap of bread or a measly 2 rupees. People passed her by, and so did the traffic; I wondered if life did. As the traffic signal turned green, I passed her by. She would continue to sit in her bewildered calmness under the signal post and probably catch the glare of another onlooker.
I saw her for 3 days continuous.
Now, she’s not under the signal post. And, I miss her.
Merry Christmas.
posted by manu at 3:17 AM
2 Comments:
i always find it 'food-for'thought'.. this aspect of human nature to connect with someone you've only seen.. someone you only "see" everyday , someone you pass by on your way to work and then one day they're missing and you begin to miss them, like you did. can't explain it, but i do wonder why we miss them at all.
i don't know...past connections?
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