Oxymoron Of Life

Crowded station. Heads are moving and tossing by the flow of time. Waiting faces are looking for the sound of the whistle. 

Hawkers are running. The very known rhythmic voice of 'station lady' is burning under the scorching sun: 

"Attention please! 34138, down, Sealdah- Budge Budge Local for Budge Budge will arrive on platform number 2." 

A peculiar kind of smell is disturbing the speedy face of people.

A middle-aged woman is sitting on the platform. She is selling vegetables, wearing a dusty grey saree. The weary sunny touch has paled her brown-sweaty face. A boy asked her, "what is the price of ginger?" Now I heard her voice. She replied, "40 rupees per kilo." He bought 500 grams.

When she was taking the money I faced a strange thing. While taking twenty rupees, she was telling her co-hawker in crying but low voice, "ওপর ওয়ালা আমায় তুলতে তুলতেও তুলল না গো... মরে গেলেই ভালো হত।" (The Almighty did not quite take me in his refuge. He forgot me midway) 

A drop of tear trickled down from her face. That young boy perhaps observed this. Without bargaining he paid and she put it in her sack.

She is unwilling to live. Yet she has to earn, she has to fight. She wants to embrace death to get rid of monotonous sufferings. I saw that sack in her hand, standing between life and death.