For nearly two years now, almost every day, when I travel to work, I see her. As always,
she is wearing yellow. A bright yellow today. Lemony-green yellow, the next day. But
always in yellow. The lady in yellow, I call her. She must be in her 50’s or older. A street-
dweller. Homeless. Clueless. Lost? Always at the same busy intersection. Traffic buzzing
by. She, of course, is totally mindless of it all.
I see her sometimes walking close to the divider, really fast. Aimlessly. Or with an
agenda of her own? That’s another thing about her. Her walk. Her gait is unbelievable.
Shaking her hips, her arms flaying, she walks, totally unmindful of all that is going
around her.
The other morning, one side of the road was blocked due to metro work. It was hot and
sultry. The traffic on the other side of the road was unbelievable. People were
belligerent. Everyone was in a foul mood. There was incessant honking, a small brawl
even, in the midst of bikes and cars. A traffic policeman was struggling to keep things
cool. I was bored, waiting in the traffic, waiting for the signal to turn green. An endless
wait, it seemed. But I was also looking for her, my lady in yellow, as I always do. And
then I see her. She appears on the blocked, empty road, moving forward, in quick, trepid
strides. She stops right in the middle of the road, all yellow, as usual, turns to towards
us, standing choc-o-bloc in neck-deep traffic.
For a moment, our eyes meet. She stares straight into my eye, all the while, smiling a
strange smile. I am taken aback. It is a bit unnerving. Then, she turns around, starts to
hop, skip and dance a wild dance, all the while chanting some strange words on her lips.
Gallivanting happily, she went her way.
That entire day at work, she is in my mind. She probably lives under the flyover; I think
to myself. I remember seeing her with a sack on her back. That’s probably all the
possessions she owns. I remember seeing her at the same signal during the pandemic
and I see her now, too. She has managed to survive and thrive through it all. She lives in
the now. She wears yellow. She prances on busy roads. No EMIs to pay. No boss to
answer to and no deadlines to meet. Most importantly, no shame nor reproach. The
shackles of societal norms have not bound her. She feels no need to fit in. Leaving her
free to do as she chooses.
It was then that I was reminded of Kahlil Gibran’s Madman, the one whose masks were
stolen and found freedom and safety in madness. I thought to myself, she is maskless
and she is free.
