Portrait of a vagabond

the old lady at the station

We have seen one of their kinds at least once in a lifetime. Old tattered clothes, unkempt hair and their mysterious sack knotted at an end, often patched at places to last a bit longer. We havent cared to look a second time or think about them. Their impression as volatile as their existence. They do not want attention, they get none. 

But each of them have a story to tell.They have not lived their lives like us.They have walked the path lesser taken; some abandoned their family, some never had any.They live without any obligations, without the fear to remain unknown, for anonymity is their strength. Are they losers? may not be. They are fighters, survivors on their own terms.

I remember a particular old woman I would see every time while returning hostel from home.She would sit by the roadside, right next to a pre paid taxi counter at Howrah station, staring into the blank,teary eyed.Occasionally, a person or two may feel generous enough to give her some food or money, even though she asked none. She would always be wearing a white sari and the whole scenario seemed rather odd, especially when you saw she had a fair complexion, elegantly aged features, graceful movements. It wasn't until a year that i overheard someone talking about the old woman near the taxi counter.Her son had left her with no means but to beg. I wondered for a while if she took this up on her own, did she run away? did her son abandon her? 

I though I could talk her into going to some NGO for help,but the next time i visited the station, she was gone. I have never seen her since. Such is the existence of a vagabond; volatile.

hi everyone, I am liliyya and this is my first time writing here.I write when i am in the mood generally. I just felt like writing the above excerpt. I am really looking forward to writing more and making some awesome new friends. Dont forget to comment/ like! . criticisms appreciated :)

keep it social . xoxo <3