He calls me mad.
I stroll leisurely beside the road. I am having the time of my life in my skin and scanty clothes, under the sunny afternoon breezes. Life doesn’t get better than this.
He sweats. Profusely. His white shirt is stained in the armpits from over perspiration. He rushes off. He has a bus to catch to a place he will again rush off from. His pace is swift and urgent, and without even knowing it, he whispers to himself, his lips betraying him. The black bag drooped on his shoulder swings, and swings him back and forth as he moves.
I collect things at roadsides. I get my food without breaking a sweat. I eat with a grin on my patterned face. Then I yawn and make my bed. My dreams are just as sweet as my reality.
He buys things with money he works for. He walks long distances to get them. He eats in a hurry, then goes back to work. He doesn’t even have time to dream in his sleep; he must be up in time to run around. Again.
He amasses wealth, but shudders at night when he hears strange noises. He is afraid that the night marauders are on his tail, and when they really are, he runs for dear life.
The sight of me scares them. I chase thieves for fun.
And he says I am mad. We both know who is.