The plastic bag

My eyes fell on a family standing outside a small shop. The daughter was holding a medium sized, stuffed plastic bag with her small hands. Her hair was neatly tied into two thick braids, of which one held a tiny garland. The son was pestering his father for something. Maybe a toy, maybe food. I could only guess his desperation from his grim face. Standing beside the daughter was, the mother of the two children. Her eyes, stuck over something inside one of the covers. Her smile made it evident of how happy she was with the new belonging. Her saree was old, yet neatly tied, her hands rough from all the work she might have done, holding in them, thin glass bangles, and her neck, bearing a black string. My eyes then went to the father a middle aged man of medium height. He was evidently tired and desperately looking for a rickshaw.

A short while later a rickshaw stopped. After a little bargaining, the family entered into the vehicle, which could only fit in three people. The daughter entered last, and sat comfortably on her mother’s lap, and the rickshaw took off. A tiny portion of the plastic bag flapped along with the wind as the auto rode, probably boasting over the little joy it brought to the family today. The kind of joy, which the family didn’t encounter much. The joy of a new possession….