An aeon passed

Every morning, I see her. Wrapped in an old tattered blanket, sometimes not. Her frail body wrapped in a sari that must have seen better days. Her hair is neatly parted in the middle, combed and tied at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are always downcast. I have never made eye contact with her. And I wonder. What will I see when my eyes meet hers?

I always make it a point to slow down when I come to that corner spot where she sits. Sometimes hugging herself to protect her weak body from the early morning cold, sometimes biting into a bun which some kind hearted philanthropist donated to her with a cup of tea. Her eyes are always downcast. What if she looks up suddenly when I cross her in the morning? What will I find in her eyes?

Today there was a child sitting beside her. Her yellow sari a clear contrast to his red shirt. She was holding her bent knee and was deep in thought with downcast eyes while the child played with planes, imaginary ones. Didnt the antics of that little child inspire her to lift her eyes from the ground? What was she thinking about? What would I have seen had she lifetd her eyes and looked into mine?

Why is she where she is? Where does she go once its night? What was she thinking about today? Of days gone by? Of younger years when she didnt have to depend on kind men and women to give her a piece of bread. Of days when beautiful childern came running to her as she picked them up wth the strength of her youth and swung them high as they wheeeeeeed and whoooeeeed in joy?

Or was she thinking about the young girl who crosses her everyday early in the morning. slowing down, hoping to catch a glimplse of her deep eyes, etched with experiences and memories. What emotions does that young girl carry in her eyes? She doesnt know. For she refuses to look up and meet her eyes. To meet the eyes of the young girl who reminds her of her bygone days? Maybe.

I would never know.