COLOURS

She sold superstition and love. On the streets of Mumbai, she lived, she dreamt, she slept, she worked.

Her mornings began with yellow and green. Scanning the cars and rickshaws, she’d head for the open windows, sleepy eyed. She’d sell them hope in a string. They would buy it. Superstition was too cheap to buy, anyway.

When the sky was a little red and when wants had been ordered for, from the immortal one, they’d hope other mortals wouldn’t hinder the delivery. Hence the nimbu-mirchi. 

She’d saunter around looking for the regulars. Hanging the string without a word, taking her change and walking off. With some she’d have to haggle. She always won though. How lower than Rs. 5 can you go anyway?

In the evenings, she’d sell some red. She’d look for the alone man or woman who wasn’t lonely. The ones who had a strange smile on their lips. They were easy to spot. They always bought her roses.

That’s how she spent her days. It seemed there were only 3 colours in her life. Red, green and yellow. When the signal turned red, her work started and momentarily stopped when it turned green. She’d sleep on the street when all the lights were yellow till they became red again. She sold the wares as solutions, as a remedy to problems, as a gift. To the hopeful.

One night, she sold her last rose to a boy. A boy with green eyes. And in the moments that followed, she was the one being handed the rose. He smiled at her and ruffled her hair. And as the rickshaw drove off, she smiled too.

He was what she waited for everyday. A splash of rainbow to end the day with. Suddenly, there were more colours to look forward to. 

He came diligently every night, bought her a rose. And some happiness too.

One day he came with another woman in the rickshaw. He was holding the woman's hand. And as the girl sold him the rose that day, she knew she wasn’t going to get it back.

The signal was still red. She turned to walk away but lights of yellow crashed into her.

She fell back on the street, her eyes closed from all the pain. She noticed the street turning red with her blood.

It turns out some people don’t observe colours as closely as she did.

- Trupthi Shetty 
Editor 2012-13 &

Founder of The Poetry Club, Mumbai