The street Sweeper

Deepa Gayadin - India


February 19, 2020

Early morning, I wake up to this fog outside my window, steam in my shower, mist on my mirror and incense stick smoke. 
My world masked in layers, I wonder where I'd stumble and fall, fall in despair, fall on my eternal cloud, a comfy pillow for an eternal rest. 
On my way, the street sweeper sends sweeping the street dust.
It blurs my vision, my vision of the world ahead, this country and my own. All I see now is grey; grey is a world of possibilities because grey is not black nor white. Sometimes I wish it was though, I wish the sun would pierce through this heavy grey shrug, just to warm me up inside. As I race through this cloud, things get a bit clearer but never enough for me to see further ahead nor behind. 
I wonder if it's just my eyes or my lenses, I wonder what others see and feel but I don't get to hear voices, just white noises in a grey world because it's the morning rush. A rush still presents in the afternoon and still there at night. I wonder if we ever stop to see where we are going.  
Maybe that's just how cities are, similar to life; blurred, you have a direction to follow but not fully sure what's there cause let's face it, you cannot have an aerial view from a rickshaw.
I wish the street sweeper had a larger broom, I wish he could swipe away this confusion, this hazy lazy air. I wish to see more of what's there, not under a cloud but a rainbow.
Am I wishing for too much? Please tell me
Please do not tell me, think about the blind   
Please do not tell me, that's how it is
Please do not tell me, you cannot have all that you want
Please tell me, Let"s swipe this fog away 
Together 
Image result for winter fog india street
Image result for street sweeper early morning india
The pictures above are only a visual aid and were taken from the web. 
This is actually a monologue I had written for myself not intending for it to be a monologue nor a blog but for me to help myself get things off my head. 
Written on a cold foggy winter day, on my way to school. Actually what I wrote in that rickshaw was Street sweeper blurs my vision. 
I am afraid of sharing a one-sided story but at this point, all my stories seem to never be balanced enough.
Therefore all stories will still be told but masked in layers.
Hint: This is all politics and people 

Deepa Gayadin