SLICE OF LIFE
Insignificance
“Life is a great tapestry. The individual is only an insignificant thread in an immense and miraculous pattern.” ~ Albert Einstein
We were intruders. Outsiders; unwanted, unneeded, irrelevant. But we were passing through; temporary witness to a little slice of existence. It was not the typical reason for someone to come here, and not the typical day, or even time, for that matter — hence the near-zero attention we seemed to garner from the inhabitants.
The various happenings at the place from the previous weeks have left their mark as used plastic covers, water bottles, the odd wiping cloth, unfinished breakfast parcels, and the hastily dumped food particles on the pavements. An old building towers over these ephemeral entities on the right side of the road. What would have once been a regal building now stands dull and moss-ridden, with a train passing by every couple minutes to remind us of its importance.
In my mind’s eye, I can envision the hustle-bustle of this place on a weekday, when the road leading up to the station would be filled with throngs of railway workers, road laborers, auto-rickshaws, taxi drivers, and a dozen roadside food vendors. Presently they have retired for the weekend, reminiscing their week’s experience around a makeshift bonfire burning with the unessential picks from the road. They are huddled around the flaming mound sipping a cup of tea, slowly waking up from the Saturday morning stupor.
A couple of autos remain in what seems to be the auto stand, and a lone food vendor has taken it upon himself to feed everyone this morning. His wife appears to be the only bathed soul of the lot, with the others slowly building up the queue in front of the public washrooms by the left side.
As our car makes a slow progress with frequent honks to remind the people of the road’s utility, they trudge on at an unflinching pace, slowly looking back to stare at our slightly irritated faces. They aren’t glaring — our urgency doesn’t mean much to them. We feel as though we are encroaching their private life — the intimate relationship they share with the place, come weekends.
The left side of the road has huge mounds of clay soil dried up, probably laid down a few weeks back to level the road. But as anyone can guess, it’s been lying there for a while. Our driver honks again to wake up the dog who has made a cozy bed for himself on the mud-covered floor. After realizing that the dog wasn’t going to move an inch, he swerves at the last moment, muttering a mild curse.
Further on we move, only to find another bitch who has made herself a kennel atop the dried clay. She looks down upon us from her makeshift throne with casual pride as we head our way to the U-turn. We turn around to go the same way we came while observing the place from a greater distance from the parallel road.
The mounds of clay have blocked out a moss-filled, weed-riddled pond with dirt, plastics, and carcass strewn across it. It did not smell of sewage — thankfully — probably because of the cleaning workers’ bare minimum efficacy. One of the workers seems to have landed in the dirt path adjoining the pond after his bout of drinking the previous night, for there he lay, in obvious incognizance, butt naked in the open.
It is often best to keep one’s eyes on the road in places like these, where those who can’t afford phones tend to answer nature’s calls. But how else could one witness scenes like this? Two crows have perched on the lowest branch of a short tree shady enough to protect them from the slowly scorching sun. They are having a quiet moment with themselves, playfully pecking at their food. Their murder has left them alone for the time being. There is not a soul to invade their privacy — well, except for our watchful selves. It is a painting in motion, and only because the tires of the car couldn’t care to wait. The crows, like the dogs, and the people there, pay no heed to us .
We weren’t unwelcome; we were simply insignificant.
