It was 10.30 in the night.He stood leaning against the grilled wall of a park, opposite to the restaurant.Appropriately dressed for the mild winter, he had a faded cap and a jaded looking sweater on him. What seemed to be a plastic bag, hung slanted across his shoulder. As I came out of the restaurant, I saw him delicately blowing the cool air into the 'blower'. As soon as he did that, tens of tiny soap bubbles floated into the air, rising slowly, and gradually vanished into nothingness, one by one.
I was then reminded of this 'indigenous' toy, that we as kids used to make at home, using lots of soap and water.It was fun then, to simply blow air and watch lots of miniature bubbles coming out of the 'blower'. There used to be a competition as to who could generate the maximum, even if it meant, inadvertently swallowing some of the acerbic soap water.

As I was watching him, he kept repeating the procedure. Blow air, watch the bubbles rise in air, disappear, then blow again. Though, what intrigued me was, his absolute indifference to the fact that no one was interested in buying or even watching his act. All he seemed to be interested was, in simply watching the bubbles appear and disappear. Karma yoga in practice, or sheer hopelessness, I failed to make out. But I decided that I had to buy one of those from him. I went to him and asked for the price of one. With an enigmatic smile, he replied "hattu rupayee saar".As I bought one and returned back, I saw him indulging in the same act again, with the same callousness - Blow, watch and blow...
Amidst the chilling winds of the night, for reasons that I cannot describe, I felt small, in front of him and the tiny soap bubbles.