Every once in a while a visible shiver ran the entire length of his fragile body. His frayed trousers and threadbare shirt were barely resistance against the cold and foggy Delhi winter morning. Sitting hunched with legs apposed and only his forearms and hands moving, he did portray a wretched form. He took sluggish tiny crumbs of his chole bhature with his greasy right hand while his left hand held on to a green chilly from which he broke a fragment after every morsel to chew on for flavour. His eyes were fixed in a mid-distant gaze looking at nothing; happy about nothing and yet I felt, truly worried about nothing. It was like he had all the time in the world or maybe he wasn’t in a hurry to finish his dear meal. Like I could do it all day, I stood there watching him even after I paid for my take away. A while later, I left. In my hand was my breakfast and possibly the man’s only meal for the day...
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