Displacement

Napkins or dusters…or some pens perhaps – the sort of ubiquitous thing you can pick up around the corner pretty much anytime you want. And definitely not the sort of thing that is likely to interest a harried pedestrian trying to beat an uncaged traffic signal.

“Please sir…very cheap” he urged, in an apologetic response to my impatient shove. Rush hour was ebbing and the last embers of the evening sky were being quenched to a smoky black behind the giant billboards that loomed over Gemini. I clearly wasn’t the first person to shoo him away that day…but as I thought of that frail old frame, desperately peddling his worthless bundle of knick-knacks, I was hoping I was the last. If he was seeking custom at that hour, it spoke more about despair than salesmanship.

As my embarrassed steps dragged me away, the figure profiled by the glaring headlights started falling into place. Or, should I say, out of place. The frayed white shirt betrayed its middle class origins; the horn rimmed spectacles, comfort with the written word. And his voice was a tremulous singsong that certainly didn’t belong to the street. A voice that should really have been at home, singing a lullaby to a grandchild….

I wondered about returning and thrusting a 500 rupee note in his hands. Or, less crudely, taking him to Marris nearby to decoct over a cup of coffee, the elusive aromas that had kept him from joining the contented hubbub of the Thathas and Pattis around… watch him plunge into life’s heady brew without, for once, worrying about the next meal…

But the signal turned green at the thought. The city was ready to move on. And I had to follow.