Sunday, January 4, 2009


In the midst of the crowded hour, I sit in my rickshaw. A peddler with magazines in the most vibrant shades, a vendor of peanuts and other munchies, a distressed cop finding semblance in the mayhem that is his life, the beggar offering blessings from above in exchange for a little to feed his hunger, are all a blur. I am wound in my own thoughts, my own misery, and my own joy. The rickshaw-wala sprays his paan onto the road, splaying the grey with colour. There’s a frantic honk from behind. I hear the rickshaw-songs, though only faintly. It’s the music in my head that is clear to me. The background score is the ticking of the meter, the cry of the peddler, the whistle for order, the honk of the rickshaw, the jingle of the beggar’s coins. In this crowd, amidst the rickshaw-songs, I find the air coming to a still.