Woman and man

With minutes, hours, days, nights, months, months, years, her legs turn in, bowed; she taps alone the ups and downs of LIC Colony, her hair cannot turn any whiter. She is alone; name do not know; some say she lives somewhere in LIC Colony; she does not talk; the lady is a Good morning friend; we exchange good mornings; she taps along, me trudges along; an oldness, no specific age, share. She makes it to the Shiva temple ahead of others; none around to ring bells or yell the God's name; 'morning silences sooth', me over-heard her talking to her; or is it her whispered prayer to Lord Shiva, sitting on the stone seat. When the devoted crowds take the stone seats, she slips away; not always, sometimes; quite a few are aware, have given up as she does not talk. She wears her spectacles to gaze at Lord Shiva; pockets it on her walks. On Tuesdays, she walks into the open Shiva temple, offers dhruva grass to Lord Ganesh; she cant bend down. Every stray outside the temple is the fair lady's friend; the lady feeds them buiscuits, rotis, breads and some milk. They whiggle to her taps; she has names for them. Across the winding road wait a leper and his wife; every morning she chats them up, gets a chaiwala to serve tea and pav. Mostly in yellow or brown sarees; not a milligram of gold on her.Some claim to her being from an aristocratic family, whatever that means; yes the lady is elegant. A morning, she hinted at a smile after the good morning. 'Please can you give me Rs.10,' she asked; stoned, took a Rs 20 note out of the pant pocket, handed it to the Lady. She hobbled to the chaiwalla, ordered a tea. She is gone. Refuse to say she is no more. Do not know where. There was this middle-aged fellow in a torn shirt and pyjama, who made his home under the banyan tree beside the Karuna Hospital. Sometimes we chatted; he did not beg; did not accept any offering; mostly sat or slept on the raised roots of the banyan, smoking bidis; he collected old bottles and other scrap, for two rotis and dal; and then he scrapped scrap; was always seen with the banyan; mosoon got wet; sweated in May heat. Again had no friends or rather none came helloing. Was familiar with birds and trees in LIC Colony; he counted time observing bats hanging upside down from the banyan; in red fruit, there were other visitors. Been a while missing; two stories read and partly forgotten. That perhaps put some sense into walks, morning and evening or anytime walks. Walks have no starts, ends, medals. Basho writes: 'No matter where I fall/On the road/Fall will I to be buried/Among flowering bush-cloves.'