A Portrait

The restless night had ended abruptly. Caught between dreams and consciousness, the town was arching towards the sprinkled light of dawn. A perpetual regularity reigned over the dusty path that led wayfarers and commuters alike in and out of this forgotten cluster of humanity. Somewhere out there, a man cursed, and, as if to answer, a woman laughed. A repetitive metallic clang—the whines of an iron plate being hammered upon an anvil— twisted with a dog's tedious, short barking to form a discordant ladder of dread, telling how the day might turn out. Punctuating that were the weary shouts of the night guard. An advice. A message. “Awake! Morning is here.” “Awake! Morning is here.” A woman walked beside countless others in a long, silent procession. Steps measured and heavy, hardly disturbing the dirt, eyes ever forward, locked at the sunrise. Life hadn't been kind to her. At forty-five she looked sixty. It was just her luck that age had been frivolous enough to come early, and sketch a crude lesson at cubism across the pages of her skin. The grey streams on her hair had become a roaring river of high monsoon. The frozen, dark pools of her eyes had given way to the smokestack dullness. On that day, like the day prior, she had woken up with honks of a garbage truck out on the street and drunk the cheap, inky tea that she had made for herself and her son. Bathing under a valveless tap, she had put on her helmet, and set out. The siren from the jute mill had blared with an obscene loudness and promise. She had to answer. She squared her shoulders and trudged on, reeling back into the open maw of her her slow, almost languid death, like a cassette on rewind. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: 31 / 12 / 2016