Faith in hand

A bus journey for three hours in Northern India: A panorama of the most incredulous yet unsurprising juxtapositions through the moving window. Disney Bakery and Gautam Travels take great pride in being flanked by blue coloured houses (shrieking of a certain TATA Indicom), while Airtel and Vodafone adorn all-purpose tea stalls next to (yet another) Agrawal Sweets. Red haired men indulge in spontaneous spitting tournaments, young couples exchange sheepish looks after glancing at ink smeared posters of YOUNG Monica, little boys run after buses with packets of water ” 2 Rs. ka ek” and women decked in their sparkling saris and sequin laden shawls, yell at their children ,while their men devour on ground nuts.
As much as I enjoy the varieties and surprises of this linear yet non linear sight, I cannot help but agree that this cannot be mistaken for a romantic reminiscence of a bygone era or nostalgia for small towns. This is the reality of a present, where a dishevelled bus will drop me at a cold metro station , post which I shall leave a numb tunnel and move out, only to be transported into a world of Louis Vuitton, Dal Moth and KFC.
I felt a surge of hopelessness, of grief and anger. Why? Will it never change?
Will I remain a part of helpless audience?
Questions am sure we all ask and in all likelihood move beyond and above.
I was coping with my oscillating reactions when I saw him, absorbing the sun and gloating in its warmth. He had his fists tightly clenched, kissed them twice, opened, and blew. In that indifferent cold, where people stood shivering, dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, that boy had made a wish. He had nothing but Hope. Faith in himself and someone much greater than him and you and I, he believed in change.
Thankyou dear boy, I hope that we can also have your spirit and execute than just narrate the often told.

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