The scene belongs to a railway station at eight o' clock on a Monday morning. People move like droplets of water on a wave.
In limitless colours and shapes, people move. Someone has just worn his favourite shirt. Someone is adjusting her hair. There are bags of different sizes - leather bags, sleek pink bags with handles, bags with broken hooks, bags with open zips, bags full of goods, school bags. They dash against one another as the person makes way through the crowd.
There is an old couple making way slowly through this crowd. A young boy and a girl are standing in a corner looking into each others' eyes. A shabbily dressed ten year-old girl is selling garlands. There are ticket checkers eyeing everyone passing them and looking for prospective law-breakers. A newspaper vendor is at his swift best as he collects coins, returns change and hands them the newspapers. There are eunuchs moving around in groups. There are dabbewallas balancing their tiffin boxes on their head.
Somewhere, a lady stands grasping her daughter's hand. Somewhere, an executive talks to his colleague on the telephone.
It's not just people but there is a wide range of emotions on display. The lovers looking into each others' eyes, a confused person tries to figure out which train goes to Dadar, a person hurriedly making way, someone is screaming at someone who stepped on his foot, a ten year-old storybook seller calling out in his squeaky and worn-out voice.
It is a city of people indeed. They fill up the local trains. Die in bomb-blasts. Get stuck at places during monsoons. Flock when the trains get delayed.
It is a city of people. The people that flow out of a train at night. The people that hurry towards the overhead bridge.
It is a city of filled up garbage bins. Of buzzing mornings. Of local trains that leave the stations empty at night. Only to be full the next day...
In limitless colours and shapes, people move. Someone has just worn his favourite shirt. Someone is adjusting her hair. There are bags of different sizes - leather bags, sleek pink bags with handles, bags with broken hooks, bags with open zips, bags full of goods, school bags. They dash against one another as the person makes way through the crowd.
There is an old couple making way slowly through this crowd. A young boy and a girl are standing in a corner looking into each others' eyes. A shabbily dressed ten year-old girl is selling garlands. There are ticket checkers eyeing everyone passing them and looking for prospective law-breakers. A newspaper vendor is at his swift best as he collects coins, returns change and hands them the newspapers. There are eunuchs moving around in groups. There are dabbewallas balancing their tiffin boxes on their head.
Somewhere, a lady stands grasping her daughter's hand. Somewhere, an executive talks to his colleague on the telephone.
It's not just people but there is a wide range of emotions on display. The lovers looking into each others' eyes, a confused person tries to figure out which train goes to Dadar, a person hurriedly making way, someone is screaming at someone who stepped on his foot, a ten year-old storybook seller calling out in his squeaky and worn-out voice.
It is a city of people indeed. They fill up the local trains. Die in bomb-blasts. Get stuck at places during monsoons. Flock when the trains get delayed.
It is a city of people. The people that flow out of a train at night. The people that hurry towards the overhead bridge.
It is a city of filled up garbage bins. Of buzzing mornings. Of local trains that leave the stations empty at night. Only to be full the next day...
well description Aadi!!!!!
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