(written: March 2005)
Two people I can’t help but notice everyday:
One.
He sells colorfully wrapped stuff. Biscuits, chips and all. The kind of stuff we pay for and don’t bother to count the change. There is this small table behind the canteen on our campus that serves as his shop. He must be in his fifties. Graying hair but well kempt. No one would notice but the pair of clothes he wears is almost certainly the best that he’s got. He’s probably got only a few such pairs. He probably wishes that he were invisible. You can see it all in his eyes. He shifts his weight uncomfortably from one leg to another whilst trying hard to not show the exhaustion. He does not have anything to sit on. He probably needs to save. He won’t look at you in the eye. Reasonable. He doesn’t want you to see what he’s spending his life hiding. His workplace is weird. It is infested with rich men and women. Men and women in their twenties earning probably more than what their folks earned before retirement. He doesn’t understand what they do in those glass lined buildings. He doesn’t understand why these people get paid enough to flaunt those little colorful phones. Every where and all the time.
He probably wishes…only to sit.
Two.
He works on wood. Carves. I’ve seen him carving couple of times. But I see his creations everyday. He runs this shop. 10ft by 15 ft. Its on this nondescript road I take everyday after the infy bus drops me. It has couple of stools and some tables on which he’s showcased his stuff. He must be in his late forties. He has a shiny beard. Think he’s bald. He’s tall. I never noticed what he wears. You wouldn’t want to. I don’t know how many people buy his stuff. Don’t know if he makes enough to pay for the place. But he runs the place. I’d swear that he has no regrets. I’ve never spoken to him. But something tells me that he’d look at me in the eye if I did. He wouldn’t give a damn what I wore or what it looked like I earned.
Two people I can’t help but notice everyday:
One.
He sells colorfully wrapped stuff. Biscuits, chips and all. The kind of stuff we pay for and don’t bother to count the change. There is this small table behind the canteen on our campus that serves as his shop. He must be in his fifties. Graying hair but well kempt. No one would notice but the pair of clothes he wears is almost certainly the best that he’s got. He’s probably got only a few such pairs. He probably wishes that he were invisible. You can see it all in his eyes. He shifts his weight uncomfortably from one leg to another whilst trying hard to not show the exhaustion. He does not have anything to sit on. He probably needs to save. He won’t look at you in the eye. Reasonable. He doesn’t want you to see what he’s spending his life hiding. His workplace is weird. It is infested with rich men and women. Men and women in their twenties earning probably more than what their folks earned before retirement. He doesn’t understand what they do in those glass lined buildings. He doesn’t understand why these people get paid enough to flaunt those little colorful phones. Every where and all the time.
He probably wishes…only to sit.
Two.
He works on wood. Carves. I’ve seen him carving couple of times. But I see his creations everyday. He runs this shop. 10ft by 15 ft. Its on this nondescript road I take everyday after the infy bus drops me. It has couple of stools and some tables on which he’s showcased his stuff. He must be in his late forties. He has a shiny beard. Think he’s bald. He’s tall. I never noticed what he wears. You wouldn’t want to. I don’t know how many people buy his stuff. Don’t know if he makes enough to pay for the place. But he runs the place. I’d swear that he has no regrets. I’ve never spoken to him. But something tells me that he’d look at me in the eye if I did. He wouldn’t give a damn what I wore or what it looked like I earned.
2 comments:
Well written Kamal.
Hala.. just markign my attendance :))
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