Breath
I’m stuck in traffic this morning behind a tempo. It appears to be on its way to a catering do. Stacked towards the back are cartons of bottled water, plastic packets of laddi pav and sacks of potatoes. Pav bhaji party? A large black tawa balanced precariously on its edge answers that question. My eye wanders past the young man sprawled over the sacks and bundles but then comes back to him. He is fast asleep, his mouth is slack, his body limp. His eyelashes are long and the face is young and vulnerable. It reminds me of my 20 year old son, sleeping in late after a night out. The innocence of his babyhood, now only visible in these few moments of sleep.This young man wears a dusty black shirt and his hair flops over his forehead. His entire body is in a state of exhaustion. This is a depletion of the mind as much as of the body. There is a pause between each breath, as if even to sleep costs him the little energy he has left. (It reminds me of my mother as she lay dying. One breath, then the pause, then the next. Till there wasn’t.) I may not presume to speak for his spirit but I can’t help think of the day ahead of him. Will he get a chance to eat a hot breakfast? Or will he also shrug off any hunger pangs like my boy and start on an endless whirl of activity? Has he been up all night too? Or working hard since the early hours of the day? I wonder about his mother. Does she miss this sight, the chance to smooth away the hair and offer a quick hug? I know I creep into the room in the morning to bend over him, sneak in a hug and a kiss, and sometimes be rewarded with a tight unguarded hug back. More often, though, it’s a grunt and ‘gerroff, mom’’ before he sinks back into slumber.I stare at the young man in the back of that tempo. Traffic is crawling. Every time it lurches forward, I wait for a sack of potatoes to fall and hold my breath. His body sways in staccato rhythm but his face remains peaceful, unchanged. The noise and diesel fumes and dust, the hard floor, the sun on his face, nothing disturbs these moments of rest. I envy him his solitude, the depth of his repose. He would laugh at my first world problems of too soft pillows and never quite right mattresses. Then the snarl of traffic up ahead eases and he’s gone. I think of his mom. And I will miss my son today.