Towards Life!

The young man stood at the edge of the street, listening to the muffled sounds of a generation trying to keep its pace with life. Shifting his bag to the other hand, he stared down the road that stretched endlessly into the horizon like a guide into hopelessness. A cough rolled away into the din.

The gray-stubbed derelict stirred. His body decorated in intricate patterns, with dirt. His mud caked feet numb from the years of wandering. He stared straight, with his yellow eyes and the purple half-moons beneath, at the young man... who saw the derelict stir, from the corner of his eyes. He knew he would come. He knew he would whine.

“Would you help a poor old man?”

He heard the derelict rising. His hand held on to his chest by a sling; a dirty cloth draped around his waist. The hum of life in the fast lane rose up towards the Heavens.

He looked to the tramp. He was staggering. Falling. With a blind, sudden rush, the young man rushed to him and dragged him to the bench against the wall. He quickly pulled out a ten-rupee note from his wallet and stuffed it into a stench soaked pocket. Then, he picked up his bag and boarded a bus... he nestled in a corner, pretending to sleep. When the bus finally reached his stop, he walked home. A good four km. Because the ten rupees had been meant for an auto.

*

The world was in chaos. People were killing. People were dying. The papers poured the cries of desperation, agony, and pain into the drawing rooms of the world. The young man picked up his newspaper glancing at the headlines screaming death. At a remote corner of the newspaper, deprived of attention grabbing headlines, was a small news item. About an old derelict waiting near a bus top… set on by strangers… sprayed with kerosene… ignited.


*

Would you help a poor old man?