Posted in Musings

Whoosh Whoosh

As I stood on the balcony, I could hear the typical swooshing sound coming from opposite directions – from the two ends of the street. From my vantage point, I could see what could be termed as a quintessential morning sight in rural India representing all generations leading up to mine – women up and about in the morning, bending down with one arm behind their back and the other clearing away leaves and debris from their front-yard with a broom typically made of the dried spines of coconut leaves.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

They swept in unison, as if to the will of an invisible conductor guiding them to be in sync. Tied together in a mundane task, unknown to themselves, each aware of only one’s own path. Another joins, and yet another, and the symphony grows.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

I walked back in, wondering what intricate, elaborate, oblivious symphonies I might be taking part in today.

Author:

A wayward thinker hiding behind the facade of necessary courtesies

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