Today I met a friend, a friend yet unknown. He was sitting in the corner of a bus, just like every other day he sits in the bus, staring at his shoes. The world would pass him by, a blur of moving vehicles, advertisement hoardings and standing people. He would look at them all through the shine of his shoes. Sometimes he would while away his time by squinting at the words on the newspaper. He often pretended that these lines were tiny ants moving like a formation, changing their positions as their tiny ant minds would direct them to. Although these formations never made sense to him, he enjoyed their patterns every day.
Will anybody like this pattern, or will they like that pattern, do you know what patterns are?
His travels in this bus was always unusually usual ,with the scene around him always painted in a strange green that reminded him of nowhere .I would meet this unknown friend everyday on an uncertain bus top. It would please me immensely the day he had his face buried in the paper. Today was one such day. The skies were just stormy enough and the weather was dry, so I decided to ask him a question that I have been meaning to for a long time.
“Sir ,where do you go with your patterned paper?” he stared at me as if I was from a strange planet talking in Morse code .And then he scratched his bald head with exactly a single hair growing from its follicle. After a whole two minutes of waiting he replied “err……..