A homeless person stationed gloriously at that crossing I have so much spite for, fiddles diligently with his lungi, specially cautious of the loose folds that could slip. Does he think the world has any care for his underbody, or the fact that he isn’t wearing any underwear? I wonder.
I don’t like wearing underwear either, I high-five him on that in my head.
All cloth tucked, he looks ahead as he picks up his jhola ready to leave the spot. What does he look forward to? I wonder.
Endless unwitnessed wander, unless someone stumbles upon him one fluky night…
One terrain after the next, weather after weather, with nowhere to return to,
A one way trip.
New facing, trying to similarize them with those he has seen in the past, but nothing is none for sure.
Known to none, just him, his dignity, and a sack that has contained only wraps and light air for as long as it has belonged to the homeless man.
Even the sack has enjoyed belonging, doesn’t this dude miss it? I wonder.
Same skin, same smell, I bet he knows the smell of himself very well. He has got keep with himself the stories, not all, just the few stories he has been close to, for he has no illusions of homage to leave them with.
I am still wondering all this, when my rickshaw jerks to a start opening me up to so much sound and dull light that floods my plane of self before I can save any.
Just like that, I am washed aside. I can see all my stuff flowing away at a distance, going farther and farther away.
The homeless man. Still has his skin, his smell.