Walking along the pavement, a rolling cart filled with bananas which have been soaked in the morning and noon sun till they suffer a bad tan pulls up the road, I see him.
Head wrapped in a turban, a saffron cloth folded and wrapped circumferentially enclosing the snow white hair that he hides beneath.
Sitting on the steps leading to a closed ATM, he pulls up the chillum to his mouth, inhaling the goodness of cannabinoid tobacco, smoke exhaled, senses submitting, he stares on.
Opposite him, the world continues oblivious, ladies dressed in saris, all drenched from standing in long queues since morning waiting for a doctors appointment, men dressed in capris and boxers, walking, joking, spitting.
Its difficult to pin point whose given up on whom, the sadhu who intermittently rolls his beads chanting prayers to the deities or the world, a by product of the goodness of the deities.
Carrying the bananas I walk away from it all.
