Face

I complete an year at work very soon. Mumbai, Life, money. Maintaining a house. Paying bills, clearing dues. Did I lose myself to the city? Or am I lost in the city. I see faces in the crowd. A face running to catch the next train to office. A face trying to catch an auto, a face covered to avoid the dust and pollution. A face trying to board her son to school. A face running down the road to go to school and show off his new science project. A strange feeling of familiarity seeps in me when I see them. Strange. In a place I know very few. In a city that would deny doubly as quickly as it besotted me. I still find solace in these faces. Every face tells me a story. My story. A story of every face. A face in the mingling crowd. Strange, my mind thinks. I pay through my nose to find solace in solitude. And in solitude I yearn for company. And amidst all those faces, I find my story, but a sense of detachment engulfs me.

I am trying to be bereft of philosophy. It is too high a standard to achieve such thought. I am merely the inspired observer. Walking to the office, I miss the faces that are over powdered, with crisp white knickers tottering along holding their fathers’ fingers. I fail to notice the faces that are walking with the swagger after conquering the world, not caring much for anything. I miss the faces that are pleading to god that the bus be on time and the boss does not start his sermons again. All these faces telling me their stories and I walk by like I said, the inspired observer.

Nostalgia sometimes strikes. When some stories catch my attention. Like when some young faces laugh aloud in the dusk sitting around the parking lot not irritated by the mosquito buzz, or the face that counts the coins from his pocket to check if he can afford the veg puff. A face that would stare at me when I walk by like I never existed in his world, a mere aberration.

A face that listens to loud music and sings along. A face that fusses about the dinner menu till mom makes something better. A face that tries to explain to dad that 30 rupees is just not enough.

Memories they say are a tribute to times gone by. I pay mine everyday.