You are waiting.
Nobody else at that crowded bus stop knows you are. Everybody here is waiting. You are a part of this teeming, tired mass with glazed eyes, like stale gelatine. You cannot think of yourself in isolation here. For shadows that pass by, for passengers who stare out of their bus window-frames, you are an invisible part of that galaxy of stale-gelatine eyes.
You stop thinking. And start looking. At the man with grey shoes, his laces kissing tar. At a woman with lips beautifully swollen like an almond soaked overnight. Then at a woman with the empty jute bag. The bag’s empty. It’s sagging. Emaciated. You think it could do with a shopping binge. You look at the woman’s forearm, which spills from her saree. You conclude that that Punjabi forearm has either worked-out all its life or has shopped at Lajpat nagar an hour every week. You smile. Now you realise why you are accused you of being a damned regionalist.
You curse softly. You wonder why the bus you wish to board always passes on the opposite side of the road, half empty. You watch it approach and stop for its harvest. Your eyes are glued to it. It moves forward with a lurch. Your eyes, dulled by the day, miss the lurch. They continue to stare at the place where the bus was a second ago.
The bus pushes off. You continue staring at her. Behind her is a wall. Behind the wall a building, which goes up some way. She was dozing from the moment you spotted her as the bus moved. Seated on the pavement. Legs crossed. A blue blouse, covering her to the wrists and a dirty skirt. She is thin. Thin as a noodle. Noodles that Maggi sells so successfully. But her body is too stiff to roll round and round like the Swiss-styled wheat string.
Her left breast is being sucked at by her child. It is too far to see if the child is asleep. Perhaps it is content with the milk it has sucked off her mum. Or perhaps it has learnt to be content with less. It does not move.
The mother does. In fact she sways from one end to the other. Waking up only when she sways so much on one end, that she cannot go further. At this point, her body jerks like a boat that has just struck a bar of sand. She wakes up, lazily stakes stock and sways the other side.
Her right hand is cupped under her child and the left is outstretched begging.
On this side of the universe, my bus has not arrived. You see the flock has changed. The old man with loose, long laces is no longer around. The woman with the almond lips has also left. The hand is still clutching the emaciated jute bag though.
You have been watching the woman for an hour now. She continues to doze while she begs. The kid too is sleeping. You know that for the past one hour, not a coin has been dropped or flung in her direction. You wonder what’d her day’s collection. You’ve heard that beggars earn enough to…
…And then your bus arrives. You board it. The jute bag climbs in through the front door. You rush to stare through the window at the beggar. She is still dozing. If your luck holds, you know you could see her again tomorrow. You know you will find her here again. You gaze at the building above her. It’s Mount Kailash apartments. You decide to call her Parvati.
