6:00 am in the Martin Grove

Photo by Jaber Al Nahian (Rijans)

Photo by Jaber Al Nahian (Rijans)

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.


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