When running, I come across various sights. Couple of days ago, as I was completing my run, I happened to see a man sitting under a lean tree, at the corner of a lane. He was a vagabond, his clothes rugged, his hair regularly irregular, his belongings sparse. He had removed the wad of chapattis from the plastic bag and was dusting them against the thin air that was in the air that morning. The chapattis must have been a day old, stored in the refrigerator of the city’s cool temperatures at night, stored away from dogs who may have sniffed ’em, leaving our vagabond deficient of his food supplies for a day or two. The chapattis, stored in the vast refrigerator of the night in a city, taken out in the morning, dusted in the thin air … Come to think of it, it seemed that the man was performing what may have been mundane to his life and person, his mundane which is un-normal, un-natural, ir-regular for us who dwell in the comforts of our settled homes and refrigerators. Continue reading →
A Writer Runs 