How long will you sing of the lost child?

Sing, instead, of change.

How long will you sing of the pain?

Sing, instead, of guilt.

How long will you sing of the wait?

Sing, instead, of the found.

How long will you sing of the void?

Sing, instead, of the colours within.

Sing.

I listen.

Of the jolt, the fears, the tangled lines.

I will wait for your song, all through the night.

But, for how long?

Blocked

I took this picture whilst waiting for a bus at 11 in the night.

It is the rickshaw which dropped me and my mom to the bus depot, which was lonely and deserted.

Until our bus came, this rickshaw was the only vehicle there; and was also the only source of light at the depot other than the dim glow of the cellphones of waiting passengers.

Somehow, that night; this yellow rickshaw with its blue seating; had a life of it's own.

She had something more to her advantage than her pretty sun-tanned face, her golden bangles, humble yet beautiful attire and her adorable bundle of joy placed atop her swaying hip.

It was, I guess, her disposition.

She never did beg, and by that I mean, she never really did ‘ask’ for alms.

In a marketplace full of sellers and umpteen beggars, her strategy was not one to be missed.

She place herself behind a seller or another beggar, and fix you with a smile and sultry stare, all the while bouncing her baby up and down, making both their bangles jingle softly, as if to capture your attention and beguile you completely.

You just couldn’t miss her; and the clang of coins in her jhola got louder with her every stopover. .

Oh and that's hardly all!

Sometimes, her baby would get all hot and bothered during the afternoons, refusing to play it's role of her cute accessory in a sari sling.

She'd then swing it around, to face away from her, and charm the people herself, while baby bawled away . .

Milaap

All through the rough ride from Bombay to Renikunta Junction, she sat unmoving by the window, the wind on her face trying hard to blow away the black dupatta covering her thick braided hair. Oblivious to the smells, the heat, the crowd, the cries of babies and sellers and the silent admiration of the man sitting opposite to her.

Her face blank and beautiful, her eyes unmoving, fixed at the same point; located, seemingly, at infinity.

At nightfall, while the rest of the compartment slept, she just rested her head on the bars of the window, closing her eyes every then and now.

The next day, with Renikunta nearing, her restlessness began.

As the train slowed down, her neck craned, searching.

Just as the train screeched to a halt, two women, dressed in black and white showed up near her window, screaming joyfully in a language incomprehensible to us seated in the compartment.

With a wordless joy, her face lit up. She ran to them, and the three hugged, laughed and spoke loudly and with gay abandon, while the rest of us could only look on, and smile.

The man who’d been seated opposite her through the journey flapped down her seat and rested his tired legs upon it.

The men on the platform, didn’t give the trio much more than a second glance. . .