What She Saw

The car stopped at the traffic signal for a few minutes. Slightly irritated at the short wait, and with nothing else to do, I looked around impatiently.

It was a hot Palakkad afternoon, and next to me, two ladies on a red Scooty were talking animatedly. Another youngster stopped beside my car on his cycle and started admiring his reflection in the adjoining shop window. People were walking along the narrow pavement, most of them bent over their smartphones, totally oblivious to their surroundings.

And then I saw her.

A frail, bent, dark, old woman, walking with the aid of a crude bamboo stick. She was wearing a faded green saree which had definitely seen better days. Her forehead, drenched in sweat, revealed the heat outside my air-conditioned car. I noticed her wipe it with the ends of her tattered saree before heading towards one of the glitzy kids' wear shops on the side of the road, filled with all things pretty and nice.

She didn't enter. Instead, she waited outside the door with an outstretched palm and a beseeching look, only to be shooed away by the burly shopkeeper inside, who might have been worried that her presence would put off potential customers.

I guess she was used to such treatment. Without a word, she turned back.

But at that moment, her eyes rested on the small child mannequin outside the shop, placed there to entice customers. Almost involuntarily, she affectionately fondled its chin with her fingers and brought them up to her lips to kiss them lovingly.

A spark of pure love and joy illuminated her tired eyes for a fraction of a second. And then she quietly turned around and walked away from the shop.

It was just a lifeless mannequin.

I wonder why she did it.

Perhaps she was recollecting some vague memory involving her own children. Or perhaps she was missing her grandchildren, whom she may not have seen in a long time.

I don't know.

The signal turned green, and I resumed my drive.