East Indian man,
Through bus stop glass,
Greets the morning sun.
Fingers wrap the heart’s Desire,
Another day to serve the One.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
That’s the beginning of the poem; the part I tweeted on May 10, 2013.
Earlier that day, while driving to work, I saw a solitary, humble prayer being offered up amidst the chaos of Toronto’s morning rush hour. When I saw his lips moving I had to turn away, and regretted my intrusion on his sacred place. But I do remember the glow on his face, his upright posture, and his gently clasped hands. The few silver streaks of hair told me he was about my age.
A few days later I learned more about the factory collapse in Bangladesh, and I wondered who his prayers were for.
Of course it’s completely presumptuous for me to assume some connection between the prayer of a stranger and a tragedy half a world away. But somehow I feel the connection was there.
For about 15 seconds, at Eglinton and Martin Grove, this stranger and I were introduced by Chance. Now I look for him every morning, but have never seen him since. I wish him well.