I saw him again. He was standing by the pillar, under the flyover. Numerous cars, buses and bikes were speeding past him, but he did not seem to be bothered by any of it. He was staring at something, or maybe not; I don’t know. Nevertheless, I continued to look at him. His face, it spoke of someone who loved, lived, won, lost, suffered and mourned. The wrinkles on his face opened up doors to the remains of a long journey. His legs were shaking. He transferred his weight to that wooden stick, he was holding on to, and stood there for a while longer. He broke his stare and looked up, as if talking to somebody, as if wanting to seek some answers. A man who walked through eight decades to arrive at that moment; to stand there as an old man, helpless and forlorn, that cannot be an easy situation to accept.

The traffic light turned to red, and in no time, a huge line of vehicles came in way of my vision. I tried finding him in that crowd, couldn’t. Just when I was about to turn to my book and iced tea, I saw him in front of the shut window of a sedan, hands folded, yet shaking miserably. He was there for a while, hopeful, misty eyes, looking at the brightly dressed girl; probably going for a new year party. She didn’t oblige the old man. He moved on to the next car, before he could fold his hands again, the traffic light turned green and the vehicles started honking at him. Nobody wanted to miss the signal, and get stuck, again.

Quietly, and slowly, he found his way back to that pillar. Numerous cars, buses and bikes, again, were speeding past him, but he did not seem to be bothered by any of it. He was staring at something, or maybe not; I still couldn’t figure it out. Nonetheless, I continued to look at him.

Time was a thief, an unforgiving, ruthless punk. It took more from him than he ever had to offer. Looking at him, I can see how he just did not remember what being young was like; as if he had forgotten his youth like a wooden stick left by a pillar, on a busy street. Never to be found again.