The Lone Old Man

As a child I used to walk with my mother to her mother’s home which was a few minutes’ from my place. My mother used to hold my arm tightly and drag me along as I lose myself in to the enchantment of the road side sites. And this leash let me drink the elixir of the dangerous world outside my nest in pell-mell gulps.
Many a things used to catch my attention. They became part of the plot of my childish freewheeling foolish fantasy. Many a characters that I observed became villains and comedians in my games. A few touched my heart and got my sympathy and I imagined myself to be their saviour.
As time killed the child in me, a lot of my fantasies too stopped living to become good jokes to laugh about now. But a few of them etched very strongly in to my heart, still surface in that very road. Time has taken its toll on them too.
Today as I observe them I seem to understand the gravity of their concerns, I only seem to understand. The oddity of each individual, though it is seldom realised, carries an artistically laudable tale capable of explaining their present state of existence. The freewheeling fantasy of mine mentioned earlier hasn’t lost that particular (in fact both) quality as of yet. The only change seems to be that twenty one years of existence has added as many colours to my imaginations, mostly shades of grey.
I have no realistic estimation of the age of this person’s existence in my mind. As a child, I remember seeing him. The man is tall. He has grey painted all over him, in his attire, in his beard, in his eyes, and if I may say in his hopes too. To me he loafs around the streets and probably according to him life loafs around him, hurting. Time hasn’t helped him much.
I do not remember the cause of my presence in the scene. It was raining heavily; nature was pouring her heart out. The road was deserted. Imagine the road without a child around, both sides covered in lush green, down pour, an umbrella, yourself and your sweet heart; romantic, isn’t it? It was an old tattered umbrella, probably older than I am. This soul in his black dothi, his lady and himself cuddled under this antique above their heads, walked away slowly, where to- I doubt if they themselves knew. Even in their dire inadequacies love flooded between them.
It was a few days later that I saw them again. His most and only precious possession was missing. I have never seen her after that. The last time I saw him, some pitiful barber had given him a shave and cut short his long tangled hair. Under the same umbrella he walked the same old roads with a new companion and a new support. To him cuddled a small little puppy and a stick walked him the miles to nowhere.