From my window I could see the rickshaw puller whose wrinkled face boasted of the numerous years spent ferrying ungrateful passengers. He was staring at the tall pole beaming down a blue light on the narrow lane separating the cluster of one-storied houses from the railway line. Fruit and vegetable sellers thronged the tiled pavement alongside, shouting bargains. A car horn blared and retreated in surrender as there was no way it could enter the jammed lane. The sweet shop at the corner was doing brisk business. Even the numerous flies pecking at the goodies could not deter the sweet tooth of the jostling crowd trying to grab the free taste on offer. A young mother sat in anticipation outside the shop with a copper bowl wiping her brow and cheeks which sometimes dripped with sweat. I noticed that she did not do the same for the baby on her lap. The local trains regularly stopped at the Borivali junction ensuring that the lane at no time of the day could boast of peaceful anonymity.
2. The bright buttons on his tweed coat stood out in his dimly lit study revealing an adventurous side to his normally sober countenance. The grey clock on the wall never chimed as if time had come to a halt. The dust in the corners of the room gleamed with a history of years passed without glory. His chair had no wheels and it stood like a rudderless boat on a stormy night waiting for the inevitable.
(Contributed by Amit Saraf, a Shillong-based blogger & creative writer)