He let the world spin madly on.

The old man squatted alone, on the small, grassy bank between the murky green water and the dirt path for walkers, joggers and cyclists. His knees, thin and bony, were hunched nearly up to his chin. His back was thin, his ragged shirt clinging to it against the gentle evening Bangalore breeze. He looked out at the lake in front, ugly and polluted and hollow. All he got back was the stale stench of waste. His boat, old and creaky and alone like him, swayed slightly on the tip of the embankment.

He let the world spin madly on.

Not ten feet to his left, a group of young vagrants tugged at another boat. A few threw crude fishing lines into the water. Empty, eroded plastic bottles hovered half submerged not too far away. Behind the man, a college couple fought about adolescent feelings. Two men, their bellies sagging over their belts, strolled by talking business. Two middle-aged women walked, in salwar-kameez and sweaters, walked briskly past. A young cyclist struggled to peddle with the weight of another kid riding pillion. Another couple sat near a row of bushes, their heads buried in each others arms. Behind the grilled fence, a girl on a scooter was swapping phone numbers with a boy on a cycle. Behind them, life passed by in a blur of vehicles.

He let the world spin madly on.


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