Donkey-Man
Every evening, I return from my office like a tedious idler. The street where I live hails me by a
haze of smoke, heat, and noise. The scent of turmeric, wafting from open windows, curls around
my nostrils and delicately flows inside my nose and dances downward to bring tingling to my
lungs. Mothers call for their ch ildren as the light fades and dusk threatens to give way to
darkness. A big black cat meandering through the mess with her five kittens rekindles my sense
of direction. I stroll down the broken cobblestone street and turn right at the corner. A blind man
sits there with his dirty, old mat, and a begging cup clasped in his wiry hands. Among all these
things, a donkey always brings me to a pause.
I encounter the donkey as I turn at the last dark corner to my home. His master has left him,
abandoned him to die. His graying mane falls into his eyes, and flies swarm his ragged and dirty
coat. His front legs wobble and falter as if they both have healed poorly after grievous injury. I
look into his eyes and can see years of hard labor. The donkey struggles along, with a noble
sense of purpose. He seems to know where he wants to go, but despite Herculean efforts, he
manages only to proceed a few feet before falling. I watch, silently willing him on as he manages
to regain an upright position, but then, he trembles and collapses into a heap once more.
This donkey reminds me of Ditha, a figure from my childhood. He was a man, a good man, but
he led the life of a donkey. His face seemed carved from burnt stone with heavy wrinkles that
made him appear older than he was. His big front teeth gave the impression of a perpetual smile.
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