Street Walking

Stiff lumpy hands play awkwardly with a shimmer of steel coins. Attempts to order and to control. To pile neatly into a palm that needs to be convinced to comply. Thick fingernails eagerly 'counting' the meagre collection. Mission accomplished and the counter continues on his way, stepping forwards into the moving human stream feeding his calculations. An old man, cleanly shaved and with comb-toothed hair shelters a fresh skinned infant who watches from the ledge of a bony shoulder. Watching the purples and reds, blues and whites, browns and yellows of the passing people programmed on a predestined route of routine. A wizened white haired and stingy bearded barber holds court around a rickety wooden chair. He leans close to his subjects as the chatter bounces from one to another and back to the compare in the centre. The barber talks as he works, theatrically snipping the air to emphasis his views before freeing the blades to continue their professional mission; as invisible strands of hair are disconnected from another talking head. Amid the debate a small hand mirror is held for affirmation, reminding of the history of barber stalls – where expert eyes are yet to be replaced with reflective glass. Past and future customers sit on stools animately discussing, continuing the argument long after the initial participants have departed – hair trimmed, cheeks liberated from ancestoral clues, eyebrows plucked to order with string.

English words are shouted out as a waving arm reaches forward. It is only a brief distraction before the desired state of passivity is returned to but a reminder that the watcher is always watched.

The morning bakers have transformed into butchers as the afternoon market centres around stalls of hanging beef. Hearts and brains are nearly arranged on the table, as creamy offal hangs in a never-ending ribbon. Unidentifiable organs sit in a discarded pile, while waiting dogs watch eagerly from the gutters. Men stand up and squat down, like the keys of a human accordion, while puddles of urine collect at the edges of the road, lazily searching for the iron grids hiding under soggy lines of old news and recycled roti packets. A nimble man steps down from a tabacco stall, carefully placing the folded green leaf into his cheek, which bugles in acceptance. He jumps into the stream of shoppers, walkers and talkers, as his blue tartan lungi stretches to reveal his skinny bones. He bounces up the opposing step, straight into a conversation with the butcher boy. A chubby kid sits on the shop floor, with his legs dangling into the street; flip flops fighting gravity as they cling to his dirty toes. To his side he is playing with a string of gristle, cutting deep ridges into the meat with a small steel blade.

Identifying and dodging undesirable human waste – flesh which the dogs or crows haven't retrieved, the hacks of coughing men, the splash of dirty water as it is thrown into the road.

Another two men beging a conversation with a shout and continue with fluent signing. They are conducting their conversation across the narrow width of the street as each one remains stationed in their opposite stalls. Shop neighbors for many a afternoon. Two girls wearing identical bright pink dresses and heeled shoes play in a smooth patch of mud. The intensity of the pink screams out grabbing attention against the backdrop colour of urban decay. A soggy bicycle tyre has been hung on a permanently hibernating tree as a semi deflated ball is successful thrown up and through; street basket ball. A rubbish collector drags his cart to a pile of old ashes, fruit peels and unidentifiable decomposing waste. A packs of dogs are lazily laying over the heap, warming their bodies from above and below as the sun seeps through the smog and the ashes smoulder below. The rubbish collector thoughtfully attempts to persuade them to move before he adds fuel to the make-shift kennel. Further along a rag picker is poking through a similar pile, pulling out straggly plastic bags on the end of her metal stick.

A old woman sits against the wall of the building as she tries to wedge up her tattered sari to change into a waiting piece of cloth. Her efforts are clumsy and her movements of vanity awkward. Her stomach rolls forwards as her nipples are then covered. A man in with a moustache and woolen jumper slows to a stops He lets two shiny coins drop from his hand. The woman hurriedly leans forwards to catch the coins in her joined palms. The power of 'giving'. An older man moulds a wedge of tabacco into his palm, expertly massaging the dried plant into a cheek sized ball. Water splashes out of a doorway, bouncing off the street and appearing to stick to the wall before dribbling down into dirty puddles.

A line of teenagers walk by. The same tactic as always, as one is pushed in front observing carefully placed steps. The boy is quickly dodged as a smile is masqueraded with neutral passivity.

Two women line up outside of a tailors stall.The tailor is surrounded by an air of precision, measured by the long tape hanging over his shoulders and the watchful stares of his apprentices, who are squeezed into the tiny space behind his work table. Passing the mosque, mutterings of greetings fill the hidden silence, as 'Salaam alikum' mixes with 'Alikum Salaam' creating a mosaic of religious sounds and continuous welcomes. Men wearing clean white prayer caps, trimmed beards and crossed legs, carry with them their distorted limbs, as they perch on the window ledges, receiving passing alms, which come quickly and are received with the sending of more 'Allah's' into the thickening air.

The corner is marked with a brandnew shining sign urging witnesses of 'Power Theft' to report to the sequence of numbers it boldly advertises. Behind the sign rises a church - full of statues and slogans but without the busteling activity of its lively Isamic neighbour. Opposite sit the same collection of old men; all wearing thick rimmed glasses, with their patch of territory marked out with a square of plastic or cardboardand their bag of belongings protectively stacked by their sides. The elders wisely consult their oracles of papers from around their city, county and country. The newspapers they hold up towards the sky reflect English, Urdu and Hindi script; invisble news made literally physical in a range of tongues. These are educated, literate men, holders of history who now sit, collecting their keep from the familiarity of their slab of pavement while they wait for time to become finite.

Reaching the intersecting tram line, and dodging the speeding cars and taxi's, which accelerate at the glimpse of potential human contact. An impatient four wheel drive blows out a infinite 'beeeep' as he encroaches upon a rickshaw puller. The rickshaw puller is desperately trying to maneuver his awkward clumsy and obviously heavy wooden cart through the collection of 'brumming' stationary auto rickshaws. His passenger is a small boy, clad in a navy school blazer and surrounded by woven bags of fruit and vegetables, which bounce around following a short delay of logistical negotiation. Another rickshaw puller lurches forwards, running into his worn flip flops as two large women lean back into their open throne, distractedly observing the scenes below them as they enthusiastically share their thoughts.

The street opens up into a road where cars would be able to pass by in both directions if it were not for the lines of parked yellow taxi's waiting for their human car washer to spin through. A heavy Enfield motorbike reves past. As the driver pulls the machine through the confusion, his tiny small blue Tom and Jerry rucksac swings to the right and then to the left – managing to mirror his movements while smiling at all those who pass by. The bike and the rucksac rush past at the same time every day. One of millions of paths crossing the paradigm of parallel lives as children, men and women, Hindi, Muslim, Christian, Bengalis, Biharis, refugees, poverty tourists, historical tourists, diplomats, homeless and housed, materialistically rich and eternally poor...each moving around their patch of pavement, street, road or city surrounded by the clues of its never ending depth and superficial synchronicity.

The more I walk the more I see, the more I see the more the senses surrounding imagination delves into the dreams of reality. What an indulgence to walk the streets of this world.