Sometimes, I wonder how I can sleep at nights.
The man who repairs my cycle. His shop is a small wooden box on the footpath. Of a colour that was once blue. And now is as beaten by the elements as he himself is. Both are a non descript, ancient colour. His one leg is a wooden stump. He is greying, like I am. And youth is also not on his side.
His protection from the elements is a piece of cardboard balanced on the wall against which he places his box. That and the sparse shade the neem tree gives him.
A cycle tyre hung on the lowest branch of the neem tree is the signboard his shop has.
He smiles easily. And has some friends sitting on the footpath with him who lend a hand.
He knocked my seat into shape today. Which had got bent after a small accident. And only asked for 10/-.
His reality, and my privilege. Juxtaposed. Suffocates. Crushes.
And a part of my soul dies as I block this picture out of my consciousness.
I need to sleep at nights.
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