Wayfarer's window!

On a round metal moon I stand, Barefoot, bronze, and bravely canned. Upon my shoulders—what a sight!— A parliament of pots in polite delight. I carry many compartments in my head, They clang like empty kettles instead. Lids rattle with important steam, Spouts point outward as if to dream. Oh, how I fancy I’m brewing tea For thirsty crowds who look to me. I tilt my thoughts, I strike a pose, I pour from every eager nose. But listen close—no liquid flows. Just echoing tins and windy prose. The glasses dangle in my hand, Clear as truth I barely understand. For kettles shine and kettles boast, They promise warmth, they host the toast. Yet empty vessels only sing A hollow, hopeful, tinny ring. So here I stand, all noise and show, A stovetop sage with little to bestow. Until I fill what I contain, My tea is thunder without rain. Perhaps one day I’ll learn the art— To heat the water of the heart. And then these clanging thoughts above Will steep in silence… and pour out love.

While returning from office last evening, I halted at a traffic signal behind a small but unusual goods vehicle. The rear carriage, meant for transporting cargo, had been ingeniously divided into vertical tiers. On the lowest level, two family members sat among neatly stacked clay pots arranged almost like a storefront. The middle tier resembled a compact storeroom. Above, bedding, clothes, and curtains hung along the frame, forming what appeared to be a makeshift bedroom. This was not merely transport: it was home, shop, warehouse, and livelihood woven into one moving structure. In my travels across India, I have often seen travelling trader families walking with tents and bundles balanced on their heads. This vehicle felt like an “upgrade”: a mobile ecosystem of survival. Yet mobility for such tradespeople is not adventure; it is economic necessity. They move from town to town selling pottery, utensils, tools, toys, or offering repair services. Weekly haats, roadside halts, and vil...