The face you often see on the pavements, lanes down the street, the market place, church, beach and where ever you go. She wept often, but has never told anyone why she cried.
Maria would go away from the crowd, sit for long hours weep and rub her sorrows on her moist handkerchief.
One day I asked her 'Maria, why do you cry'?
Her reply condensed in an impassionate look; as if feared she asked me;
"How do you know my name"?
'I don't know your name, but I just called you Maria'
'I don't know, when I saw you, I just felt like calling you by that name'
"Still...why do you want to call me?", she broke into tears as if I had committed a grave mistake. For a moment I was perplexed, I sat near her and felt her.
She turned almost pale, and never stopped her tears. It went down down her cheeks and chilled her entire body, slowly I felt her entire weight on my arms. She smelled of sweat and tears. I felt that she has slipped into an unconscious sleep. I felt the real dillemma, but before I recollect anything I heard a braking sound and the loud voice of a man shouting.
"Lunatic! what are you doing at the middle of the road."
'Cant' you see this young girl'
"Young girl! what nonsense are you talking?
'Nonsense!' I turned to Maria with compassion.
But I saw out of surprise a marigold in my hand; Maria had already vanished from my senses.
I jumped to the other side to make way for the motor car.
Thursday 17 May 2007
at 3:03 pm