Anaahat

That relentless squat, every day, rain or shine, holding a dirty bowl, waiting with patience, or resignation. Tattered clothes, and his bony structure, torn with karmic beatings. Wrinkled face, with a toothless grin, and a pair of thick, hazy glasses hiding his gaze looking for, some glances of sympathy, perhaps some gestures of kindness. A walking stick by his side, to run away, again, if need be. He looks up every time I pass, no eye contact, no conversation, not even a moment spent to drop a coin in his bowl. Just a connection of two steps, From the time I turn on his street, to the time I turn the corner. But there he sits, with a certain degree of dignity, with a fervent defiance against life’s trials, in his silent, unyielding begging.

It seeps slowly, through the bones, sags her shoulders like a breath through her being. Corners of her eyes, hold invisible traces, of hopes and hopefuls, dying and living, each day, every day. Dreams and wishes, in silence elude her senses, out of her system, through her feet, sinking, firm into the moist earth. Then she breathes, again life into the core, raises her eyes, clears the lines,on her forehead, takes a step, leaving behind, an imprint, of a disappointment.