A lady wearing blue jeans and a pale yellow jacket walks across the Food court area. She is carrying a black background, white polka-dotted handbag on her side. She heads straight for McDonalds and stands in line to place her order. So, that is her favorite amongst all of Pizza Hut, Subway, Quiznos etc. Her standard fall back option. Mine would be Quiznos. (Any guesses why? Because I can expect a decent vegetarian meal from it). Another woman joins the line soon. This time its a a blue shirt over embroidered jeans. Good taste I think. After spending a few hours of shopping in New York over the weekend, my fashion buds are certainly excited. I can see myself taking special interest in watching what people wear, specifically women. I remember we used to do this often as a pastime during our college days, it was a lot of fun. Another woman just crosses my table. She is carrying a multi-colored Jaipuri printed bag. With blue and brown as the foundation colors on the bag, I notice that she wears a coffee colored skirt and a light cream top alongwith it. Everything matches so well. Would she wear any other dress while carrying that bag? Or is she one of those who have a matching bag and a sandal for every dress they own. I see that she also wears a white pearl necklace. Definitely fashion conscious, this woman, I think.
Amidst all this, I hear the siren of a moving cart. There are two old ladies and one young woman sitting on it along with a lady driver. They have a smile on their faces. A smile as if they are I class travellers in a train. Other class people have to walk on their own feet carrying their luggage. They would also give them way as the cart moves across. All the driver needs to do is blow the siren constantly. In another cart, there is another old family with a small child and a bunny (a person impersonating a bunny). The bunny smiles to everyone nodding and shaking his head. Some people smile when they look at him. Everyone knows its not a real bunny. But some smile. I would too if I was in its line of sight. I am not. A question arises in my mind. Why doesnt everyone smile when they see a bunny?
A guy comes and parks a cart close to other carts and takes out his 25 cent reward from the machine. I think some thing at the moment. I then start reminiscing about how Tom Hanks earns his money in the movie Terminal (its a must watch). I calculate, 25 cents * 10 (carts) = 2.5 dollars. So, you can at least get one burger a day if you can get hold of ten empty carts and park them here. Then I go a step ahead and calculate 25 cents * 20 (carts) = 5 dollars. So if he can manage 20 carts then he should be able to get food twice a day. How difficult would it be to manage getting 20 carts in a day, my mind prods. Somehow, I want to be settled that it is not difficult to do that. I want to be settled that someone doing this can easily manage to have food at least twice a day. If he remains hungry, it would be sad.
By now, I feel a slight pain in my wrist. I realize I am not using any hard board or support for the paper. I am scribbling uncomfortably on my lap and my hand posture is not good. Deciding to take a break, while I take a short glance around exercising my wrist, I see people looking at me suspiciously. They seem puzzled about what this woman is upto - looking around and scribbling something constantly. My neighbour even sneaks a peek into my writing but I am sure at the speed with which I scribble, my handwriting is so illegible, that she would only worsen the suspense for herself. For a moment, I feel like a criminal. I try to look normal and make a casual conversation with someone. I am not insane or prodding into your lives is the message I want to get across. Finally, I choose to stop writing.
Amidst all this, I hear the siren of a moving cart. There are two old ladies and one young woman sitting on it along with a lady driver. They have a smile on their faces. A smile as if they are I class travellers in a train. Other class people have to walk on their own feet carrying their luggage. They would also give them way as the cart moves across. All the driver needs to do is blow the siren constantly. In another cart, there is another old family with a small child and a bunny (a person impersonating a bunny). The bunny smiles to everyone nodding and shaking his head. Some people smile when they look at him. Everyone knows its not a real bunny. But some smile. I would too if I was in its line of sight. I am not. A question arises in my mind. Why doesnt everyone smile when they see a bunny?
A guy comes and parks a cart close to other carts and takes out his 25 cent reward from the machine. I think some thing at the moment. I then start reminiscing about how Tom Hanks earns his money in the movie Terminal (its a must watch). I calculate, 25 cents * 10 (carts) = 2.5 dollars. So, you can at least get one burger a day if you can get hold of ten empty carts and park them here. Then I go a step ahead and calculate 25 cents * 20 (carts) = 5 dollars. So if he can manage 20 carts then he should be able to get food twice a day. How difficult would it be to manage getting 20 carts in a day, my mind prods. Somehow, I want to be settled that it is not difficult to do that. I want to be settled that someone doing this can easily manage to have food at least twice a day. If he remains hungry, it would be sad.
By now, I feel a slight pain in my wrist. I realize I am not using any hard board or support for the paper. I am scribbling uncomfortably on my lap and my hand posture is not good. Deciding to take a break, while I take a short glance around exercising my wrist, I see people looking at me suspiciously. They seem puzzled about what this woman is upto - looking around and scribbling something constantly. My neighbour even sneaks a peek into my writing but I am sure at the speed with which I scribble, my handwriting is so illegible, that she would only worsen the suspense for herself. For a moment, I feel like a criminal. I try to look normal and make a casual conversation with someone. I am not insane or prodding into your lives is the message I want to get across. Finally, I choose to stop writing.
