There he was.
Shoulder length greasy black gray hair combed neatly away from his face in order to reveal the maximum amount of dirt. Charcoal suit jacket wrinkled, collar bent, too long in the sleeves but at least it matched his suit pants which were cinched around the waist by a cracked belt. His hands were black with grime but his face held an expression of absolute calm. A breeze ruffled the leaves on the nearby trees but didn't even budge the stiff filth of his hair.There he was reading a newspaper.
He held it open wide. He scoured the pages. He shook it when the wind put a wrinkle in the wrong place. He turned the smudged pages carefully and didn't seem to notice that his own dusty hands were making the biggest mess of the paper.There he was reading a newspaper in the middle of a garbage dumpster all by himself.
Slimy half eaten instant noodle remains, paper cups, napkins with outrageous stains, shreds of cloth, broken glass, and plastic debris completely concealed his feet up to his ankles. It was impossible to tell if his shoes also matched his suit. It was impossible to tell if he realized where he had chosen to stand to read the news. It was impossible to tell if anyone else on the street noticed it either.I stopped to watch the man read. My mind fluttered around and landed haphazardly on this thought: Here is a filthy man reading a newspaper in a filthy place. Who gave him the newspaper? Was it good news? Was it good enough to make him clean? Perhaps, in another time, I was that man.
I looked up. The sky was so blue I shuddered in the Lhasa afternoon heat. The man remained standing in the garbage dumpster reading the newspaper all by himself as I walked on down the street.
