A wizened face.

A white stubble, weak chin, and grey-watery eyes filled with sorrowful silence. He looks as if a puff of wind could blow him down right away. He has a wizened face and a back slightly hunched. A resigned look, reflecting his knowledge about the fact that life at his age stops giving and only takes away.

Everyday, he wakes up before the sun, he makes some rice in a light metal pot, sweeps around his lonely home and heads to the main road to have some tea. He spends the entire morning observing the infrequent comings and goings in the street. He had done this for years and knew the schedule of everyone who passed by.



He gets home for lunch and again walks back to the only place that awaits his coming, sits there until sunset, watching the crows clutter the blue sky above the land he knows.



It's been a year since his beloved departed to the regions he believes to be above him. He had long since forgotten how it feels to be fed by gentle hands and looked at by caring eyes. Everybody seems to want a long life, but what good is it if your partner is no longer on the journey of your life? The look on his face is always asking this question, again and again - troubling him like none other.

These days, he doesn't talk much, he spends the day with his dear friend, Mr.Silence. He sits near the well infront of his house, lost in those good old days of their past.

His sons moved out for a better life in the cities. His grand children visited him while I was trying to catch a snap of him. He went inside, ignoring the fact that he had visitors, it might have been anger, loneliness and a hell lot emotions taking charge at him all at once. They waited for a while and walked in, all I could hear was the sob of an old man refusing to acknowledge his own grandchildren. He probably didn't want to meet someone who weren't there when they were needed the most. And then I heard high pitched voices of them, urging him to come over with them. He knows nothing beyond the boundaries of his village, now I guess it's too late to move out and adopt a new lifestyle. He refused.

He surely wasn't happy out there. Living a solitary life is ofcourse nothing less than hell. Inspite of that he chose not to leave his home. Why? I really wanted to ask him this and many more questions? Out of them all, I wanted to know what he thinks life is all about? I couldn't sum up the courage to go meet him at that plight.

The wrinkles on his face spoke of a journey nothing less than 7 decades old. The lines under his eyes were narrating stories of laughter and warm smiles they were once known for. Now, those very lines are frequently wetted in the memory of someone very dear. Probably, the elixir of life for him, are his memories and a place to relive them all - in the abode of silence.

Hope he finds peace. :)