Crossed Roads

[another old one; luckily, stopped the gym-going 5 months back :)]

It was one of those dreary days when you curse the hour your great grandfather was born. Overcast, humid and with a 4.00pm, post-lunch gym appointment. Life can suck, and how! I dragged myself (duty over mind and matter) and pushed my being into the huge red tin boxes which pass for as buses. It carried me as slowly as possible, not missing any potholes, to my dreaded destination. The grueling 40 minutes of the bus left me with a dust-caked face and a runny nose (my allergy to particles floating in the air). As I moved ahead with the small crowd, a small mite of a girl, came up to me and asked me if I could help her cross the road ‘cause her tution classes were on the other side. She had sharp cut hair, framing her face in a square, pierced nose and shiny skin. She had worn a loose salwar kameez which hung on her bones and billowed in the air. She had a rectangular backpack. I said “hmmm.” And we walked to the crossing. I reached for her hand and at the same moment, by some deep seated human instinct, she put her tiny hand into my palm. We waited for the vehicles to pass. Me awkwardly holding her hand, she confidently grasping mine. We crossed the road and the tiny hand slipped away before I knew it. She quietly walked away in haughty tip-toes, then, prancing, as only a child can. I smiled, as only an adult can, with regret for my own lost childhood; and remembering the pressing matters at hand now. I went to gym.