The Station Artist

 

 

It was a hot summer afternoon in New Delhi. The railway station was abuzz with people, flies, mosquitoes, dirt. Yet, the station always had that sense of excitement, of energy, of anticipation of people traveling to meet their loved ones, to visit new places, and to attend some family function. Even those who went every day for work and moved about with a sense of urgency, never looking around unlike the vacation travellers, gave the station a vibrance, a sense of importance.

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the travellers, eager to reach their destinations, on platform number five, sat Sita with her mother on a dirty piece of rag, a bowl with a few coins in front of them. The corner which they had chosen today was not very good. It was away from the exit route which most passengers used. Only a few stray people came their way, the ones who had to wait and could not find a bench to sit closer to the platform's center.

The corner had red paan spit stains and smelled of