The man sits cross-legged on the dirty sidewalk,
his clothes disheveled, no shoes,
as we stroll by the sea in Bombay.
“One rupee for some peanuts” he says cheerfully as we pass.
He gestures to fresh roasted piles on the tray beside him.
“Two packets” says I.
He smiles while rolling torn newspaper into perfect cones,
pouring peanuts into the open ends,
then twisting them shut with magician's hands.
I reach for the coins to pay him, as he hands me the peanuts.
He picks up his tray and heads for home.
I had been his last, (possibly only) customer of the day.
As he walks away, I notice a lightness to his step.
He must be happy now that he won't have to face his hungry family
empty-handed.
As the sun descends into the sea,
an eerie loneliness casts its shadow over my soul.
It is quiet, save for the chewing sound of my peanuts.
I realize that that man's office is a dirty piece of sidewalk!
And I who have all creature comforts
Am inspired by he who has nothing.
Later I turn in for the night.
As I lay my weary head on the pillow,
and close my eyes for sleep,
I recall the peanut walla and consider
his hopes and dreams.
Arthur Brownstein, 1992