In the candlelight....
I pass by a busy road on a rainy day, the bus inching its way across the many vehicles whose sole aim was to get ahead, making it seem as though all of them were doctors called for an emergency case. The rain is still dropping, slightly though, it's done with venting all its fury, just the remaining tears that have to be shed, in order to get the desperation out of one's system completely. The trees are swaying soaking wet, with the leaves dripping, the drops falling on the earth, and blending in with the soil so easily and readily, without any thought of change or discomfort.
I see several small houses, I don’t know if there are called houses, a kind of tent, which have blue plastic sheets over them, as a cover for rains. They are people who mould clay into beautiful pots that we adorn our homes with. Their tents are open on either side, only a rugged jute carpet serves as their protection from the muddy surface below. I see the kids have long slept, their faces so peaceful like the people in love, glowing in the light of a small dying candle. It was a very small candle, and an even smaller flame, but that it served such an extensive purpose, the light seemed considerable. I see the mother emptying the contents of the aluminum vessels, smashed at so many places that it was difficult to guess the correct shape of it; into her little plate. She eats blissfully, swallowing slowly, grateful for every bite she takes. The candle does its every bit to survive, but its efforts are in vain, it goes off. I see the silhouette of the mother, squeezing herself into a small space, uncovered by the jute carpet. The road clears and my bus pushes off.
I get out of the bus, and place my feet on the soil, the soil they would mould pots with, which perhaps I wouldn’t care to buy, coz it was obscene to buy things from the road. The soil gives away under my feet, ever so slightly, just enough for me to notice, at once I feel like a burden on this earth.
I see several small houses, I don’t know if there are called houses, a kind of tent, which have blue plastic sheets over them, as a cover for rains. They are people who mould clay into beautiful pots that we adorn our homes with. Their tents are open on either side, only a rugged jute carpet serves as their protection from the muddy surface below. I see the kids have long slept, their faces so peaceful like the people in love, glowing in the light of a small dying candle. It was a very small candle, and an even smaller flame, but that it served such an extensive purpose, the light seemed considerable. I see the mother emptying the contents of the aluminum vessels, smashed at so many places that it was difficult to guess the correct shape of it; into her little plate. She eats blissfully, swallowing slowly, grateful for every bite she takes. The candle does its every bit to survive, but its efforts are in vain, it goes off. I see the silhouette of the mother, squeezing herself into a small space, uncovered by the jute carpet. The road clears and my bus pushes off.
I get out of the bus, and place my feet on the soil, the soil they would mould pots with, which perhaps I wouldn’t care to buy, coz it was obscene to buy things from the road. The soil gives away under my feet, ever so slightly, just enough for me to notice, at once I feel like a burden on this earth.
Comments