This is the story of a boy and a girl.
First, the boy. I saw him first, playing in the middle of the Bandra street. The road was paved with uneven bricks, but that didn't stop him and his top. He had one of those old wooden tops, the kind that you have to pull a string to start the spinning. I was pre-occupied at first, making glances at old men drinking juice in the evening, under white fluorescent light. Laughing at foreign words. Then, as a motorcycle whizzed past at what seemed like hundreds of miles per hour, I looked to the middle of the road, and saw him. His face was stoic in concentration, his tongue stuck out. He pulled the string like letting the clutch out; slow, but fast. As the top miraculously spun over the rough bricks, he guided it with the string, avoiding the cracks of death. It couldn't make it in between bricks, so he had to make sure this spinning vessel remained on this one small brick in the massive city of chaos. More rickshaws, cars, motorcycles, and busses passed by. But this boy faithfully came back after each passing, each honk, and spun again. Young men wearing tight polos and gelled hair zoomed past, as did old rickshaw drivers in their tan attire, with one leg crossed under their body.
The boy didn't seem to care; that brick was his universe. Every grain of sand contouring the surface was a mountain of danger, able to unbalance and destroy the order he created. I passed on, with the rest of the city. I hope he is still spinning that top; his happiness is a beacon to my weary sailor-heart, and brings me home.
Then, the girl. As I got closer home, coming down 21st road, a car pulled to the side of the road ahead of me. The lights turned off, and the driver door opened. A man came around the front, and opened the passenger door. As he leaned into the car, the interior light came on, and I could make out a child being transferred from the lap of a woman to the arms of the man. One step closer, and it was clear this girl was being passed from mother to father. She was wearing a red headband, and her hair was cut in a perfect black bob that reminded me of my sister's, in the 90's, long ago. Her attire, you could tell, was carefully picked by the caring parents now passing her from lap to arms. Maybe coming back from dinner, maybe a party, the daughter was undoubtedly exhausted. As she was handed over, she refused to perform any body function, and resembled a bag of sand; stubbornly lifeless. As the dad held her against his chest, her small body gave in, and she wrapped her skinny arms slowly around his neck. She tilted her head to lie against his shoulder, and moved her jaw in a slow sideways motion that was halfway a yawn, and halfway a protest to the motion. Just as quickly as she came to life, she was back to a sandbag, warm against her father's chest, and secure in his arms.
Right now, the boy and the girl are sleeping. He is dreaming, somewhere deep in his subconscious REM sleep, of his spinning world. He will wake up, and spin again. She is peacefully asleep, and will wake up to the warm Mumbai morning unsure how she got home, but unconcerned. The unsung heroes will be in the other room, and over breakfast she will chatter in a high-pitched voice about some annoying boy that won't stop spinning tops at school.
One time, long ago, I spun a top. I remember how fascinating the motion is, and how every dip and deviation from the center of balance is the scariest moment of the day. I also made it home many times thanks to the arms of someone that loves and cares for me.
Tonight, a boy and a girl welcomed me home. Curiosity, innocence, and love exist everywhere.
First, the boy. I saw him first, playing in the middle of the Bandra street. The road was paved with uneven bricks, but that didn't stop him and his top. He had one of those old wooden tops, the kind that you have to pull a string to start the spinning. I was pre-occupied at first, making glances at old men drinking juice in the evening, under white fluorescent light. Laughing at foreign words. Then, as a motorcycle whizzed past at what seemed like hundreds of miles per hour, I looked to the middle of the road, and saw him. His face was stoic in concentration, his tongue stuck out. He pulled the string like letting the clutch out; slow, but fast. As the top miraculously spun over the rough bricks, he guided it with the string, avoiding the cracks of death. It couldn't make it in between bricks, so he had to make sure this spinning vessel remained on this one small brick in the massive city of chaos. More rickshaws, cars, motorcycles, and busses passed by. But this boy faithfully came back after each passing, each honk, and spun again. Young men wearing tight polos and gelled hair zoomed past, as did old rickshaw drivers in their tan attire, with one leg crossed under their body.
The boy didn't seem to care; that brick was his universe. Every grain of sand contouring the surface was a mountain of danger, able to unbalance and destroy the order he created. I passed on, with the rest of the city. I hope he is still spinning that top; his happiness is a beacon to my weary sailor-heart, and brings me home.
Then, the girl. As I got closer home, coming down 21st road, a car pulled to the side of the road ahead of me. The lights turned off, and the driver door opened. A man came around the front, and opened the passenger door. As he leaned into the car, the interior light came on, and I could make out a child being transferred from the lap of a woman to the arms of the man. One step closer, and it was clear this girl was being passed from mother to father. She was wearing a red headband, and her hair was cut in a perfect black bob that reminded me of my sister's, in the 90's, long ago. Her attire, you could tell, was carefully picked by the caring parents now passing her from lap to arms. Maybe coming back from dinner, maybe a party, the daughter was undoubtedly exhausted. As she was handed over, she refused to perform any body function, and resembled a bag of sand; stubbornly lifeless. As the dad held her against his chest, her small body gave in, and she wrapped her skinny arms slowly around his neck. She tilted her head to lie against his shoulder, and moved her jaw in a slow sideways motion that was halfway a yawn, and halfway a protest to the motion. Just as quickly as she came to life, she was back to a sandbag, warm against her father's chest, and secure in his arms.
Right now, the boy and the girl are sleeping. He is dreaming, somewhere deep in his subconscious REM sleep, of his spinning world. He will wake up, and spin again. She is peacefully asleep, and will wake up to the warm Mumbai morning unsure how she got home, but unconcerned. The unsung heroes will be in the other room, and over breakfast she will chatter in a high-pitched voice about some annoying boy that won't stop spinning tops at school.
One time, long ago, I spun a top. I remember how fascinating the motion is, and how every dip and deviation from the center of balance is the scariest moment of the day. I also made it home many times thanks to the arms of someone that loves and cares for me.
Tonight, a boy and a girl welcomed me home. Curiosity, innocence, and love exist everywhere.
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