The raindrops played hopscotch on the pristine white lilies, I wanted to reach out and touch the softness, wanted to feel it drizzle on my lashes .... the snarls of the morning traffic brought my fantasy to a halt as the car slowly left the lily pool by the sidewalk behind and eased it's way towards the main intersection.
Crossing over to the other side never happened in one go, so I sat back once again while the irate driver reluctantly navigated the car towards the outer lane, ready to zoom out at the first sight of green. I picked up the day's newspaper...
The rough manly palm streched out in front of me seeking alms in lieu of blessings .... the aquamarine saree with large floral prints, the shaven green face , the coarse, bushy eyebrows plucked to arch over the sad eyes, lips coloured a cinnabar red and a head of thinning oiled, coarse hair plaited with precision - an anomaly of sorts, but Salma was a reality, who I met almost everyday. This was the crossroad where Salma and her sisterhood earned their daily bread.
I was scared in the beginning of the aberration called Salma, she was a departure from the right, the normal, the usual ....
Over time, I conceded that she will be a part of my mornings and when I crossed the signal I will leave her behind me ....
But today, I wanted to look into her eyes, wanted to delve deep into her soul and reach the core trapped in an unwanted, alien body, I wanted to know how it felt like to be Salma...
Today of all days the urge was more, the paper had announced "150-year old archaic section 377 sent where it should belong... back in history! Hail Democracy!"
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