Interdependence

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In a village forty miles away from Kolkata,

a farmer’s hands are weathered, his shirt is threadbare

and his rickshaw is loaded with gourds, melons, okras and eggplants.

He wakes up in the dark before the first streaks of scarlet have tinged the sky,

while the village lights are still dim and the reflection of the pearlescent moon ripples in the river.

He pedals for hours on cracked asphalt and uneven earthen paths,

past villages and banyan trees, empty bus stops and train stations,

the air silent without the rattling sound of trains and only occasionally interrupted by the screeching of crows.

On the solitary journey, he occupies himself by making up stories to tell his children,

and the thought of their giggles brings a light to his eyes and a smile to his lips.

The moonlight paints buildings in shades of muted gray and smudged charcoal and

a lingering scent of night jasmine perfumes the air, mingling with the smell of incense of morning prayer, as he follows the twisting ribbon of roads approaching the city.

He arrives at dawn

as the city slowly wakes from its slumber, the ephemeral stillness broken by the rising sun.

Morning fog clears, revealing graffiti on brick broken buildings and sleek five-star hotels,

while the sun hides behind the silhouette of swaying palm trees,

bathing the ink-drawn buildings in soft orange pastels.

But the pulse of the city is missing, its streets unrecognizable.

A few passerby dot the streets, hurrying on their divergent paths, faces covered.

The old market looks like a ghost town, empty and silent.

Streets cluttered with vendors selling morning snacks and paraphernalia are a scene of the past, the echoing of the boisterous customers bartering can no longer be heard.

The glowing screens outside malls advertise shimmering satin and silk dresses for weddings now postponed, billboards for canceled tours and concerts are a reminder of a world at pause.

In this new normal, he was forced to change his job for survival:

for the people who cannot come to the market, he comes to them.

He goes beyond the facade of urban high-rises, to the homes of the elderly–to flats, narrow alleys and gullies–delivering burlap bags of vegetables on their verandas and doorsteps, bringing the market to them so they will not have to risk their lives doing so.

These necessary acts of kindness do not go unnoticed-

The smile in their eyes convey a mutual sense of gratitude that blue mesh coverings cannot conceal.

He bikes back home at sunset, his rickshaw empty,

as crimson and indigo flood the sky once again.

A soft melody playing on the radio drifts out from a streetside store.

The acoustic guitar track recorded in a studio across seas sounds at once foreign yet familiar,

the universal feeling it carries transcends all borders,

binding the moment in time and space.