There is this weight on my heart. And it is not the heavy neckpiece. It is something which weighs and weighs your spirit down. It is something which weights you down. Something which makes a bit shorter, adds some grey hair in your dark blak mane, etches some dark circles under your beautiful eyes. Something which stains you. Which dirties the soul, which makes you a more thinking soul, and you start seeing things. Finding meaning in meaningless things. Searching for something more. Something philosophical.
And there she was, walking with her own weight of abject poverty. Where a christmas doesnt make her days brighter nor a Diwali. She walks alone on the wet streets. An unbrella clutched in her arms, her saree tied tightly showing a little of her ankles, and a desolation in her step. Fighthing and wading through the rain water flowing on the cobbled street.
I dont know her. I know the railing of my balcony I stand on. I know the two-storeyed parking in the opposite building. But there she walks under the carved steet lamp - a leftover from the British Raj. The light falling on her cheekbones, which are rather too high, he deep set eyes and broad forehead. And I see her. I see her hair, which is tightly tied on her skull. And she walks. Perhaps going for the last round of work at the last house of the day. Perhaps, going to fetch her child from school. Or perhaps just walking without any destination.
There is this weight every one of us carries within ourselves. The societal ways, the meaning of God is to make this weight lighter. Or perhaps just accept it as a part of your shoulders. And we continue to live. We continue to fall in the same pits sometimes. We continue to follow what we feel right. While there are other people throwing hurdles on your path. While people weaken you and destroy your sense of being.
And there my lady is. Walking with a determination in the heavy downpour. Continuing to fight the rain with her fragile umbrella and the twiggy legs.