It was a blazing hot Saturday afternoon.
The red light was doing the job it does best; stopping motions.
I saw an old Indian man, queueing before the traffic light, on his bare feet. Hands on his hips, I couldn't tell what he's thinking. The grazel underneath his naked sole must be eating the flesh within. The heat was overwhelming, the coolness of an air-conditioned vehicle barely made any difference to me, inside. I peered through the rear-view mirror, his face looked haggard. I stopped scrutinizing, as I'm not sure I want to see what lies beneath his eyes. I shifted my attention, to look at what seems to be filthy rags hanging on his body. It was the colour of dirty coal grey. He didn't seem to have the faintest idea that he's actually in the middle of the road. I wanted to let the window slide down, I wanted to tell him to step aside. And by then, I knew the fact that he's a traffic incovenient wasn't the reason why I wanted him to get out of the way. Ignoring the mere reflection, I turned my head. He lifted his head, and my lips trembled at the sight of such pitiful pairs of eyes. As my fingers scrambled to push the window's button down, I felt a slight backward push as the vehicle gained acceleration.
And the last thing I saw of him, was a forehead crease.