Back to

Window seat

What before was just an intermediary between two destinations, a car ride is now a destination in and of itself. Out the window so many people, animals, vehicles completely their own yet coexisting in a well-practiced dance.

A window seat has never felt like such a prize.

A row of old men sitting along a crumbling store-front. A woman balancing a tray of sweets on her shoulder walking elegantly in her colorful salwar kameez. So many lives I get to enter for a few fleeting seconds as the rickshaw pulls me passed. So many backyards cut through by the train I’m in that I imagine my young self growing up in.

  In an auto-rickshaw, traffic allows the time for stories to unfold. I watch as a man in a side of the rode barbershop checks his new shave in a cracked mirror. The traffic allows me to see his approving nod at the barber before we wiz off to the next scene.

 We pull up beside a crowded took-took- and one women reaches out her hand to mine with a kind smile.