tongkruid

An eastern city bridge stands over a wide stream. On it a daily hassle of business passes by. Along its edges we find all sorts of creatures, human and other. Some are languishing the sun, but most are here from a keen eye for the business that passes by, trying to catch it like a fisherman tries to pick from a stream. Some have the equivalent of the finest fishing gear: a stall, some lovely drapes on the floor, or simply the smile of an angel. Others have to get by with less appealing gear. A small boy sits close to the pillar, in a space where the bridge is too narrow for one of the lavish stalls, and tunes a worn-down ukulele. In front of his lap is a worn down cup, bummed and bruised. A keen eye can make out its tinnen material, under covers of grime. The inside is cleaner, as if used for drinking. Today, however, it holds the spare earnings of a beginning street musician. Takis knows about three chords. About, because in his better days he can muster up a fourth from adapting one of the three, and on his down days he struggles remembering the first two. The boy can't be much older than 13, and is probably younger. Why is his memory so bad, you wonder? His last meal was the day before yesterday. A friendly trader threw him a chunk of chicken rather than a coin. A feast for Takis! He remembers the flavour as if... well,... it... It was yesterday. Almost. The hunger gnaws a soft rythm under his belly while he attempts to string the chords to a tune.