There's something hurtful about sitting next to someone less fortunate than yourself. If you're the person who gets depressed easily, stop reading now.
A few hours ago, I was waiting at the bus stop near Palmgrove and to my uneasiness (which will be explained shortly), there was a woman sitting on the pavement, eating her lunch. She was, presumably, a vagrant, wandering on foot from place to place asking for alms. Now, usually I'm repelled by such people, and I'll make no bones about it. I used to find them ignorant, lazy and worst of all, annoying. Today, however, was a different story.
As I watched this woman, in her shabby black nightdress with the blue rose print, carefully chew and swallow each morsel of food that she held in her bent hands, I started questioning my own ways of thinking. This middle-aged woman, with her salt and pepper cropped hair, large teeth and skin that had looked like old newspaper, made me realise how selfish and unfeeling I'd been all those years. You and I crib about the people in our life, the things that we want but can't have, the kind of places we'd like to see but can't go and worst of all, the kind of people that we'd like to turn into, but can't be. Whom would she turn to, to vent?
Today, as I watched this sad woman wash her hands with the water that she had in an Aquafina bottle, her actions pulled at my heartstrings. Here lay a woman who had nothing save the clothes on her back, the make-shift baton beside her and for now, a meal and some water for lunch. I wondered where she'd go when it rained, or when it got too hot. I wondered where she was originally from. I wondered why she bothered LIVING, when she had no worldly connections to this material plane. I wondered about how she had the will power to walk, when it was clearly evident that her bent and broken feet, battered from the sun and harsh terrain of tar and stone, were in no condition to even let her stand without having her double over in pain.
How does one stay alive, knowing that their presence in the world does not matter? She is neither the "aam aurat" nor is she the "kheton ki kissaan". She is one among the billions of people around the world, living for the moment with no clue about their survival. She is one among the zillions of people who have been born, who have lived and who will die, faceless and nameless as the world around them changes.
I don't know if I'm angry or depressed. I don't know what emotions I'm feeling because I neither know what to do with them, nor do I know how to push them out of me. I only know, that from this day forth, apart from the many things that life may throw at me, I'll always remember the Broken Lady at the Palmgrove Bus Stop. Does that make me grateful for the things that I do have? I wouldn't know. I guess I have tomorrow to look forward to. "After all, tomorrow is another day".
A few hours ago, I was waiting at the bus stop near Palmgrove and to my uneasiness (which will be explained shortly), there was a woman sitting on the pavement, eating her lunch. She was, presumably, a vagrant, wandering on foot from place to place asking for alms. Now, usually I'm repelled by such people, and I'll make no bones about it. I used to find them ignorant, lazy and worst of all, annoying. Today, however, was a different story.
As I watched this woman, in her shabby black nightdress with the blue rose print, carefully chew and swallow each morsel of food that she held in her bent hands, I started questioning my own ways of thinking. This middle-aged woman, with her salt and pepper cropped hair, large teeth and skin that had looked like old newspaper, made me realise how selfish and unfeeling I'd been all those years. You and I crib about the people in our life, the things that we want but can't have, the kind of places we'd like to see but can't go and worst of all, the kind of people that we'd like to turn into, but can't be. Whom would she turn to, to vent?
Today, as I watched this sad woman wash her hands with the water that she had in an Aquafina bottle, her actions pulled at my heartstrings. Here lay a woman who had nothing save the clothes on her back, the make-shift baton beside her and for now, a meal and some water for lunch. I wondered where she'd go when it rained, or when it got too hot. I wondered where she was originally from. I wondered why she bothered LIVING, when she had no worldly connections to this material plane. I wondered about how she had the will power to walk, when it was clearly evident that her bent and broken feet, battered from the sun and harsh terrain of tar and stone, were in no condition to even let her stand without having her double over in pain.
How does one stay alive, knowing that their presence in the world does not matter? She is neither the "aam aurat" nor is she the "kheton ki kissaan". She is one among the billions of people around the world, living for the moment with no clue about their survival. She is one among the zillions of people who have been born, who have lived and who will die, faceless and nameless as the world around them changes.
I don't know if I'm angry or depressed. I don't know what emotions I'm feeling because I neither know what to do with them, nor do I know how to push them out of me. I only know, that from this day forth, apart from the many things that life may throw at me, I'll always remember the Broken Lady at the Palmgrove Bus Stop. Does that make me grateful for the things that I do have? I wouldn't know. I guess I have tomorrow to look forward to. "After all, tomorrow is another day".
No comments:
Post a Comment