walk along

I took notice of him in one of those scorching days, when heat from the sun had parched the earth. With coconuts hung on his bicycle crossbar; he peddled through the lane, bartering them to thirsty guts.

I watched him intently as he stopped to rest under the shade of the palm trees along the lane. His eyes looked aged but the brightness in them retained. The crease around them seemed to narrate countless tales; of victory and defeat, of happiness and pain. His face was cloaked in wrinkles; the folds of skin on him seemed to veil umpteen roles played, of father and brother, of friend and foe. So many relations that once bonded him but today he stands here, alone. His hands were soiled with dirt, the tan on them were testimony of the ceaseless difficulties faced, of failure and betrayal, of confusion and regret.

With eyes full of hope he watches every passer-by, some who stop by to relish his coconuts while the others just cross by. A skillful attempt splits the coconut shell apart. It leaves me wondering, how he mastered the art. A knock at the top and the water sprouts, he offers the sweetened fruit to his buyers. The little money earned is crumbled and shoved into the battered pockets. Then he mounts back on his cycle to tread along, quenching many more thirsts. Faintly now his identity seems to mingle in the crowd of millions he too disappears.

A few have passes and I haven’t noticed the old coconut vendor cycling around the lane. His aging body would have crippled his spirit I thought. Until one fine day, I heard a trembling sound. The familiarity of which echoed in my ears. It was him again-but limp and worn. His eyes sunk too deep, their freshness all gone. His face looked tired, its firmness completely lost. His trembling hands tried to split the coconut apart but now they are too weak to show the mastered art. It hurt my heart to see him so. In him I pictured nature’s inevitable law. That all living beings will one day die. With stories bereft of words, wanting to be read by people known.

Another story bereft of words, lies on the face that stands across. Try and take notice of those anonymous eyes. Maybe you’ll find a story of your own.