A Pair of Eyes

 

A Pair of Eyes

(3 min read)

Once the baraat procession began its languid, unhurried crawl to the marriage venue, a mere hundred metres away; he materialised, as though out of nowhere, took position, and began scanning the road, dilating his pupils to zoom in and zoom out. Very familiar with the dust and pebbles, and the flying plastic pouches on the road, he was on the lookout for unusual stuff, a small circular metal, a coin.

To get the baraatis into the mood, the DJ belted out popular Bollywood dance numbers, the eager ones danced a few steps, and swiftly dragged in the hesitant, uncertain ones on the flanks, but the resolute non-dancers physically resisted being pulled into the dancing ring. The dancers were expected to demonstrate their overwhelming ‘joy’ on the momentous occasion, and did their very best, but the steps were stiff and awkward; not unlike the forced laughter in a Laughter Club by new members who had no reason for such full-throated laughter elsewhere in their life.

Upon demand from his friends, the groom emerged periodically from the sliding sun-roof of the hired Mercedes Benz GLA, and broke into a stationary, upper-torso only, cameo dance to motivate the street dancers.

The procession crawled towards the East, where the venue was; but one pair of eyes looked to the West. He kept the dancers at his back and the groom’s car in front, the little space being his sole area of focus. His eyes were riveted on the relative who chaperoned the groom’s slow-moving car with a proprietorial air, and held in a transparent polythene bag a mix of anointed rice sprinkled with turmeric powder, petals of marigold flower, and a few Fifty Paise, One Rupee, and Two Rupee coins.

Once a little distance had been covered, he dipped his hand into the bag, took out a fistful of the mix and tossed it into the air. The rice was for the birds and the coins for the needy - a customary act of piety to secure blessings for the groom on this special day.

He was about six, or a bit older. Spindly legs, matted hair, oversized clothes donated by a kind-hearted person or a charity. Malnourished, and stunted growth, no doubt, but there was nothing sickly about him. He exuded raw energy that derived solely from his fierce determination, it seemed.

Owing to the noon glare, the baraatis had already donned their designer dark glasses, but his eyes burned bright and steady, without a blink. The Sun was his buddy, and kinder on his practised, young eyes. Legs astride with the right foot arched, and the sole slightly raised, ready to sprint. Closely monitoring the movements of the man with the coins, this pair of eyes was on high alert, to catch the glint of sunshine reflected by the metal, and his ears were cocked to cut out the high-decibel Boom-Boom DJ music, and hear the soft and sweet tinkling sound of the coin hitting the road.

He not only tracked multiple moving targets in the air and on the surface of the cluttered road, but also deftly manoeuvred between a forest of dancing legs, taking care never to bump into a guest or soil their expensive clothes by accidentally brushing against them. He had to sprint, with speed and agility, beat his competitors, a few of them bigger and stronger, to win his trophy. Arjun had a much simpler task of severing a stationary clay-bird’s head.

Each time he picked a coin, a flicker of a smile appeared for a nano-second on his face and vanished as soon as it had surfaced, as though he were withholding an ear-to-ear smile for a worthier occasion.

The hired photographer-cum-videographer signalled to a relative that the boy was straying into the photos and videos and ruining it. The relative went up to the boy and asked him to get lost.

The boy didn’t immediately comply with the orders. For a moment that looked like an eternity, he stood his ground, not in insubordination, but in mute protest, and raised an eyebrow, as though asking: Sir, I’ve not trespassed into your home or property; you are a temporary visitor to my home. I get it that you don’t like how I look or smell. But should you really be asking me to leave my home?

But his mission for the day was to collect a fistful of coins, not to raise a rebellion. He stepped onto the pavement for a brief while and soon positioned himself at another strategic location for his WFH (Work From Home).

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Note: 

• Author's profile may be seen at http://amazon.com/author/pkdash
• Books by this author are available on Amazon.in, Kindle eBook, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai.

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