He walks into the room, his hands behind his back with an air of importance surrounding his gait.... he looks up to find the room empty with no activity....The serenading silence sets his body into a trance... His hands no longer by his side,brimming with energy, pick up his brush and move like as if being possessed... The soft strokes of an artist at his best...He walks over to the window after his master piece is complete and takes a breath of the fresh cold morning... then he slams the window shut,sets down his brush and walks into the corridor to collect his due for the master piece... A sad soiled 10 rupee note to see him through that morning's breakfast...

I watched as a man walked out of the building where i study and saw him smiling to himself... He was the sweeper