The boy in the rain

 That morning, the city woke in steady rain

I can't really stop to care about, when I saw that boy.

The one with a chicken-plucked look across the rail track: his hairs were tufted circle on top. He was that caught my eyes in the madding crowd.

He seemed even to know his place as unworthy striver, of the one no one would look away from for long. He lifted his sack to collect rags: a ticket to buy his bread. 

The train was on the run but that would not stop him from collecting every bit of rag. People passed by him, pushing, dashing and the other boys smirked before the rain that was dousing and sweeping all of the rags stupidly into the gutter. I was half in love with his doing.

Nine, or maybe ten he would be. He then twitched in sublime irritation, cursing, maybe ,the rain.

Harder it poured, up again, hard to shelter his soaking head with the sack but he pretty much managed problems, and now came the move that got me staring on still. His twitch becalmed at last and he stood there without heeding the boys jeering calls, “Aye pagal, Aye pagal” (hey you fool, you fool)

He stood hunched, not looking up or down, and I could fore-tell what was running in his head.

 That's where he'll break off. But he didn’t react upon their nothingness. Filling himself with what's left, he took possession of his spirited bad luck for good.

 Let the rain collect behind his torn shirt and drenched body even when the rain kept patting at it harder and harder like an obsolete humiliated hand. 

At last, he turned his back on them.

He was not the clown but made those across the track full of clowns, you could both see and not see.

I watched him disappeared in courage.

If I would ever get to see him ?

But I knew that, his courage will be etched in my heart. 

That day... that boy... that courage!