He sat there on as trains rushed by. On the platform of a busy Jamshedpur station. His craft at his feet. His rustic look keeping him company long after the train had left!
He stared a vacant stare. He didn’t speak much as my eyes met his.
As I looked at what he had to sell, crafted stone, I realised he spoke more with his hands.
(at Tatanagar)
Waiting for work.
Hand carts. They are an indelible part of every large train station in India. How must it be wake up in the morning and pull yourself together to go and pull carts. With other people’s bag?
Reality can bite. Numbing imagination and making routines the boundary of possible.
But in looking at it this way, I am making a flaw. Of imagining a paucity happiness in pulling carts. After all all of us pull carts. Our own carts. Sometimes with our bags and at other times, with other people’s bags.
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