Man in a Box

The poverty of Kolkata seems far from here. Until you look closer. There is a metal box on Jogibara road. It is rusty and has a small opening covered by a dirty yellow tattered plastic sheet. It stands between two Tibetan stalls selling their wares of pearls, turquoise and coral stones, prayer beads and woolly hats. Outside of the box people have stuck their posters to advertise their power of healing - Reiki and Yoga. The posters are written in English and Israeli.

Inside the metal box on Jogibara road there lives a man. When the dirty yellow tattered plastic sheet flaps open it is possible to catch a glimpse of his house. He must sleep in the fetal position as it would be impossible for him to stretch out, or to sit up without banging his head.

For some reason, in the mornings, the Tibetan Welfare truck which attempts to collect the towns rubbish, and sweeps it outside the box of the man in the box. The man in the box sits, dangling his legs out of his door, head to his chest, eyes to the floor, rubbish all around. Sometimes it is possible to see the man in the box outside of the box. Standing on the street. Wrapped in his blanket of a tattered plastic sheet. He is filthy. The brown grey black colour the destitute always are - regardless of the original colour of their clothes - or tattered plastic sheets. The man in the box has a grey dirty beard and a head full of grey white hair, for the man in the box is an old man – an old Indian 'man'. He never begs. He never interacts. He just is. A man in a box.

The strange thing is that it took two days before I noticed the man or his box. And he is not homeless – he has his box.