Walking...Rickshawing... streets...
Each step I put forward at my pace on the white painted line beside the pavement is slowed down in my conscious mind. I can feel the ripple of the hard concrete on the sole of my foot as I walk.
The man held the cigarette in between his fingers for too long. The ash forming at the end of the cigarette extends, the ash loses balance, a soft wind blows, the ash slowly detaches itself from the roll, and dances through the air, twirling, waving, flowing as it gently settles on the muddy ground.
The wrinkled, forlorn old woman wearing a green and pink embroidery saree looks on at the cigarette man expressionless.
A beggar approaches me, child in hand and one nipple showing, and asks for money. I turn my face from her and nod in negativity. She adjusts her blouse, hides her pretty nipple, and begs again. I nod in negativity again.
A man rides his Honda Splendor. A woman is resting on his back, her arms wrapped around him, his elbows tightening the grip of her arms. As he lets go, her arms drop off to his legs. Balancing his bike, he adjusts her arms putting them across his chest. As he drives, her arms fall off again, and he re-adjusts them. And again, and again. Then, he lifts his left hand, balancing the bike with his right one, and feels her mouth and nose. She is resting on his back, her eyes closed. He then re-adjusts her arms around his chest. And this continues… I lose sight of them.
Two boys on a bridge above the river sit naked on the footpath, talk to each other as they shit. One of the boys is playing with his penis as he talks and gestures with his other hand. The other one listens to him attentively.
A bee sits on a flower and takes in pollen.
A group of young students dance and sing bollywood songs in the streets as they walk. One of them, collar up, gel in his hair, with an air of confidence a la Muhammad Ali, steals a few pakodas from a street vendor. The vendor, reading a newspaper, lifts up his head, looks at the boy and goes back to his newspaper.
I drift away.
I am ten thousand meters above sea level; her head is on my shoulder. Her hand resting on my hand is my happiness. L’amour est une mélancholie. I close my eyes and relive my happiness.
Outside on the stairs of the hotel, in this beautiful unknown city, my bags are packed and I wait. Solitude and a destination to go to… Beauty and hope of fulfillment…
I am back.
A grey Santro with the registration number MH 12 CY 2289 is honking although the car in front is at least 10 meters away.
The sun is hiding behind a tree.
Balance between awareness and getting lost in another world…
Living…
The man held the cigarette in between his fingers for too long. The ash forming at the end of the cigarette extends, the ash loses balance, a soft wind blows, the ash slowly detaches itself from the roll, and dances through the air, twirling, waving, flowing as it gently settles on the muddy ground.
The wrinkled, forlorn old woman wearing a green and pink embroidery saree looks on at the cigarette man expressionless.
A beggar approaches me, child in hand and one nipple showing, and asks for money. I turn my face from her and nod in negativity. She adjusts her blouse, hides her pretty nipple, and begs again. I nod in negativity again.
A man rides his Honda Splendor. A woman is resting on his back, her arms wrapped around him, his elbows tightening the grip of her arms. As he lets go, her arms drop off to his legs. Balancing his bike, he adjusts her arms putting them across his chest. As he drives, her arms fall off again, and he re-adjusts them. And again, and again. Then, he lifts his left hand, balancing the bike with his right one, and feels her mouth and nose. She is resting on his back, her eyes closed. He then re-adjusts her arms around his chest. And this continues… I lose sight of them.
Two boys on a bridge above the river sit naked on the footpath, talk to each other as they shit. One of the boys is playing with his penis as he talks and gestures with his other hand. The other one listens to him attentively.
A bee sits on a flower and takes in pollen.
A group of young students dance and sing bollywood songs in the streets as they walk. One of them, collar up, gel in his hair, with an air of confidence a la Muhammad Ali, steals a few pakodas from a street vendor. The vendor, reading a newspaper, lifts up his head, looks at the boy and goes back to his newspaper.
I drift away.
I am ten thousand meters above sea level; her head is on my shoulder. Her hand resting on my hand is my happiness. L’amour est une mélancholie. I close my eyes and relive my happiness.
Outside on the stairs of the hotel, in this beautiful unknown city, my bags are packed and I wait. Solitude and a destination to go to… Beauty and hope of fulfillment…
I am back.
A grey Santro with the registration number MH 12 CY 2289 is honking although the car in front is at least 10 meters away.
The sun is hiding behind a tree.
Balance between awareness and getting lost in another world…
Living…
posted by manu at 10:17 AM
1 Comments:
i just read this! beautiful, as always :)
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