Imagine a proud father
looking at his son showing traits of his own profession. Imagine a proud
painter looking at his son dabbling with paint. Imagine a journalist looking at
her daughter reading Communist Manifesto.
The gray haired, middle
aged man sits on the pavement of the parking lot, looking, with weary eyes, at the
other end of it, as still cars stand in rectangular patterns all around, where
a kid is playing.
Imagine a mother teaching
her son for the first time to make chai. Imagine your father when he taught you
how to ride a bike. Imagine, say, those moments, moments you may find in the
hazy recollections of your memory, when your mother saw you draw the first
letter of English language legibly.
The look on his face was
neither happy nor sad, it sort of transcended these basic emotions. He just
was, looking at the kid play with a broom. The only thing palpable from his
face, actually his eyes, was an acute sense of tiredness.
Now imagine this, a
sweeper seeing his kid, the light of his life, the apple of his eye, play with
his broom.
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