The city roads are turning suffocating-ly busy and chaotic. Sometimes I imagine them like ambitious river beds trying to contain the sea (of vehicles) . The smoke rises alike from the exhausts of the tin automobiles to the most sophisticated cars and thickens the air, bluring the vision .
It’s like all colors around have turned some shade of grey . The mundane of life mingling with endless smoky commutes and long pauses called ‘traffic-jams’.
Amidst this, morose unavoidable byproduct of a technologically advanced life, he walks-in barefoot on the burning ashphalt (or maybe he had some cheap rubber-barely visible-flipflops on).
He is in no hurry and holds a long bamboo pole with a ‘host’ of the most brightly colored balloons tied to the top of it .Perhaps I felt as delighted as William Wordsworth ‘when all at once he saw a crowd a host of golden daffodils… besides the lake , beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze ‘ .
The grey scene suddenly transformed and I stare at him while the traffic snails . I have all the time to look at those magically bright balloons ‘cos comically when everyone wants a fast life they end up slowing down on the road.
I watched unblinking, as if my eyes were feeding on those colors and marveling the beauty of the unspoiled air trapped in those rubber shells ( protected from the toxic air I was breathing in). As if this man had saved some air from getting poisoned and was carrying it treasured in these humble balloons.
It was strange but reassuring . A poor balloon-seller had infused life in a crazy-lifestyle and I couldn’t help but be feel thankful that he did.