Behind a Face | Arunima Saha
“I slow down my car’s pace and stare, at the human race.”
I look out of the window as the car comes to a halt, in the traffic.
I see faces, hundreds of them, all unfamiliar to me, all anonymous to me.
I see bodies, filled with despondency.
I see gazes, I see human mazes.
I find myself sinking in the roaring quietude of the engines, the honking of the horns.
I look ahead and there are buses and bikes and cycles and rickshaws standing in the queue.
I look back and I see the same.
I find mothers desperate to earn for their children.
I see men fighting their own fight.
There is a knock on my window pane and I turn around to see a little girl of eleven or twelve, with flowers in hand. Her eyes are swollen, with dark patches under them. She screams silently to be saved.
She is worth more than the money I gave.
There is a story behind every face but, in the end, it is all a haze.
There is a prologue to every epilogue.
Now, I know that the real world lies beyond a weekly catalogue and a daily monologue.
I see drained-out looks on certain strangers’ faces.
I find them tired of sitting in the very same cubicle from ten to five.
I look for genuine smiles, but all I come across is meaningless sighs.
There is more to life than unheard cries.
There is more to life than unexplained “Goodbyes”.
There is more to life, more than you realize.
“I slow down my car’s pace and stare, at the human race.”
