there’s a graveyard by the sangjani interchange, and there’s an uncle there—except he’s not quite an uncle yet. his hair isn’t fully white. some of it, yes, but not all. he’s in his 40s, maybe 50s, but he’s almost always there, come hell or high water. whether it’s summer or winter, i see him. often.
and there’s this boy who fills up a water tanker every morning. sometimes he’s wearing black, and i think he would look good in a picture. in black.
yeah, he would.
then there’s an uncle who has a furniture shop. he works with wood, polishing chairs with intricate designs. he looks so immersed in the moment. i’m sure he has worries, sorrows, and problems—we all do—but in that moment, he seems to have none. no worries.
oh, and there are mechanics by the road. they take breaks to have tea, grabbing their cups by the handles with greasy hands. they talk amongst themselves—about the world. some things big, some things small. maybe they’re not discussing hegel’s dialects or plato’s theory of forms, but they’re talking about something, and it seems important. but above all else, they’re having tea.
and did i tell you about the bus stops? the buses and vans there go faster than any horse you might have seen. they accelerate, decelerate, and swerve. inside, there are people going places. every day. where? i don’t know. but they’re going somewhere, and i hope they get there.
as i watch all this, i wish i had my camera with me.
the world isn’t made beautiful by just lights, colors, flowers, or music. it’s people—people who dare to live, despite it all. despite life.