21 February 2008. Lumpy gray clouds across entire sky, nicely filtered
light. Single figure in plaid shirt crossing 7-eleven lot, brisk, hands in
pockets, glancing toward the illuminated interior. Earlier: Javed, night
shift. Sleepy eyes, mass of graying hair--Pakistan--as always, small
styrofoam cup, "one hundred nineteen dollars," the sounds softly elongated, with a slight smile to himself, waiting patiently while I fish out the change. The change--could be almost anything, out of nowhere even. The infrastructure of Mumbai, for example, a zigzag of railroad lines, crisscrossing steel--chemin de fer--still from early Satyajit Ray, The World of Apu, two small children nestled in high grass at the edge of a vast field, expanse of India left, right and above, until somewhere, in the distance, the first sound of a train...
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