One Evening, by Shamsher
As the evening spreads, street lamps that line the roads begin to cast their light, and cars begin to race on the roads with their twinkling headlights.
The evening at JP is radiant. People have wrapped up their work, and with time on their hands, have come out onto the main road, searching their friends, and respite from the April heat. Those who work in workshops have dried their brows and have come out to lighten the lines forming on their foreheads. People passing by on the road continue to halt at and move on from the shops according to their needs. Everyone holds their everyday tightly in their fists, careful that they don't lose their grip, lest it slip out.
The evening at JP is radiant. People have wrapped up their work, and with time on their hands, have come out onto the main road, searching their friends, and respite from the April heat. Those who work in workshops have dried their brows and have come out to lighten the lines forming on their foreheads. People passing by on the road continue to halt at and move on from the shops according to their needs. Everyone holds their everyday tightly in their fists, careful that they don't lose their grip, lest it slip out.
Red sand from the shop nearby flies in the air with the gusts of wind that each passing car brings with it. Everyone stands along the road, as if on a railway platform, in small groups, exchanging stories from the day with each other. In the middle of this blowing wind and environment, is a road divider, on which one can see a stove, boxes filled with utensils, a suitcase filled with clothes and some cans in which grains are stored. And in the middle of all this sits a 60-year-old man, like a king on his throne, watching intently the weaving of the early evening environment in front of his eyes.
The moistness in his eyes makes them look around swiftly. The face is taut with age. His flowing beard and protruding veins make the expression on his face strong. The skin on his hands is stretched, and hardened with using heat to give shape to things. He is wearing kurta pyjama and his head is covered with a cap used for offering namaaz. His eyes tug at you again. It is as if he holds back and quietens the rustling sound of time in them.
He pulls out a small case from his pocket, takes out some tobacco and rubs it on his palm. His posture remains the same. Known for his skill, Mohammad Ahmed is from Nangla Maanchi. He is famous for his self sufficiency, skill and capacity for labour – he could if he wishes, dig up a well each time he is thirsty, and then leave it for others to quench their thirst from it. Each morning he leaves from his home in Nangla with a sack of plastic bottles on one shoulder, a sack of clothes on the other, and a stove in his hands. He is an expert in the skill of mending broken plastic buckets and tubs, and known for it in localities in Old Delhi.
With his age, he has held his home together in the face of uncountable difficult moments. Today a couple of words inscribed on his door have expelled him from his home of 25 years. Today he sits on the road divider, opposite JP colony, his collections of 25 years gathered around him – things he had collected since the time Nangla was still settling into the city, and the air was still saturated with ash.
Today he is sitting on the road divider, waiting for his sister's son to come and take him to a new place where he will begin again the process of making a home.
13-04-2006
The moistness in his eyes makes them look around swiftly. The face is taut with age. His flowing beard and protruding veins make the expression on his face strong. The skin on his hands is stretched, and hardened with using heat to give shape to things. He is wearing kurta pyjama and his head is covered with a cap used for offering namaaz. His eyes tug at you again. It is as if he holds back and quietens the rustling sound of time in them.
He pulls out a small case from his pocket, takes out some tobacco and rubs it on his palm. His posture remains the same. Known for his skill, Mohammad Ahmed is from Nangla Maanchi. He is famous for his self sufficiency, skill and capacity for labour – he could if he wishes, dig up a well each time he is thirsty, and then leave it for others to quench their thirst from it. Each morning he leaves from his home in Nangla with a sack of plastic bottles on one shoulder, a sack of clothes on the other, and a stove in his hands. He is an expert in the skill of mending broken plastic buckets and tubs, and known for it in localities in Old Delhi.
With his age, he has held his home together in the face of uncountable difficult moments. Today a couple of words inscribed on his door have expelled him from his home of 25 years. Today he sits on the road divider, opposite JP colony, his collections of 25 years gathered around him – things he had collected since the time Nangla was still settling into the city, and the air was still saturated with ash.
Today he is sitting on the road divider, waiting for his sister's son to come and take him to a new place where he will begin again the process of making a home.
13-04-2006
comments
No new comments allowed (anymore) on this post.