Behind the Masks

Free AI web copilot to create summaries, insights and extended knowledge, download it at here

869

Abstract

ve to sit in the streets and beg. Did the virus take away his job? I wonder.We reached the destination, husband parks the car by the road, leaves for his chores.A woman carrying a baby taps at our car window. The baby stares at mine; his tiny grubby hand pressing against the half-closed windowpane. My boy reaches out to him with his tiny fair hands — two worlds, distinct yet so similar, separated by a fragile glass. The baby smiles. My boy smiles back. My heart twitches.The woman stretches her hand forward, I search for money in the car. None. I shake my head. I hide behind my mask; Suffocating. Crumbling. The mask does not filter her out. The scent of her sweat lingers on.I pull up the window. Pretend not to see her through the sheer windowpane. Even as the rays that fall on he

Options

r deflect on to me, layers of our minds protect me from her, and her from me.In the side-view mirror, I see her walking away down the street, her brown sari diminishing into emptiness.Perhaps she’s an imposter part of a money racket — that feels better; anything to not feed the shame.Husband’s back. Heading back home. Relief. At a traffic signal, a boy with a placard. soliciting for school fees. I urge the husband to pay a bribe for wiping away the pang of nagging guilt — a smiling Gandhi note. An act of selfishness to forget the faces that could haunt me tonight.Back home, I close my eyes to rest, here they are — The man, the pregnant wife, the schoolboy, the woman with the baby — the baby still smiling at my son, his grubby hand on my window pane.</article></body>

Are we hiding?

Headed out today. Bearable traffic. Peaceful.

Many shops shut down. Dreams too? Around a corner is a man, sitting down by the roadside cross-legged — mid-thirties, clean clothes, neatly combed hair, new to the trade; next to a placard that read “No money for wife’s delivery. Please help”.

Our car sped by. An image stayed on — pregnant wife at her doorstep as her husband takes his leave to sit in the streets and beg. Did the virus take away his job? I wonder.

We reached the destination, husband parks the car by the road, leaves for his chores.

A woman carrying a baby taps at our car window. The baby stares at mine; his tiny grubby hand pressing against the half-closed windowpane. My boy reaches out to him with his tiny fair hands — two worlds, distinct yet so similar, separated by a fragile glass. The baby smiles. My boy smiles back. My heart twitches.

The woman stretches her hand forward, I search for money in the car. None. I shake my head. I hide behind my mask; Suffocating. Crumbling. The mask does not filter her out. The scent of her sweat lingers on.

I pull up the window. Pretend not to see her through the sheer windowpane. Even as the rays that fall on her deflect on to me, layers of our minds protect me from her, and her from me.

In the side-view mirror, I see her walking away down the street, her brown sari diminishing into emptiness.

Perhaps she’s an imposter part of a money racket — that feels better; anything to not feed the shame.

Husband’s back. Heading back home. Relief. At a traffic signal, a boy with a placard. soliciting for school fees. I urge the husband to pay a bribe for wiping away the pang of nagging guilt — a smiling Gandhi note. An act of selfishness to forget the faces that could haunt me tonight.

Back home, I close my eyes to rest, here they are — The man, the pregnant wife, the schoolboy, the woman with the baby — the baby still smiling at my son, his grubby hand on my window pane.