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Monday, November 29, 2004 |
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His hair is tied up under a turban, only white facial hair showing. His skin is dark and lined from years of work, with no respite in sight. In a low voice, the man chants quietly in Indian. He smells of exotic spices and of far off places; of sun-baked hills and warm, clear nights. His look and attitude seem so grandfatherly that you practically see the small children surrounding him, pulling on his sleeves. I myself wish to curl up against him, breathing deeply of that exotic scent, and beg for a story of another world, in another time. His eyes closed, his head leans against the window, and I wonder at the thoughts that pass through them. I wonder of his childhood, and his family, and where he is headed. I wonder if he looks at me with disdain for being so uncovered. The bus stops suddenly, and his eyes fly open in fright. I catch his eye briefly and smile timidly at him. The corner of his mouth turns up slightly before he looks away. As we continue, he leans back, returning to resting tired, drooping eyes. I wonder if he ate curry for breakfast...
I take a long sip of my coffee, and turn to look at the woman across from me. Her bleached blonde hair falls down around the shoulders of a frumpy looking blue jacket...
posted by
Pixie at 4:17 PM
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