The wooden wheels groaned with each revolution, their rhythm matching the irregular cadence of the cart’s passage over the fractured pavement. The sound was raw, unvarnished, and honest, like the brush of the elderly peddler’s calloused hands against the rough-hewn handles. This simple symphony of friction was authentic, with no pretence or artifice. It sang only of hardship.

Perched on a nearby lamppost was an aged crow, its dim eyes betraying quiet intelligence. It tracked the peddler’s approach. Dulled talons clenched tight as bitter January gusts blew across the New Delhi sky. The crow’s plumage, once a glistening onyx but now a faded charcoal, chuffed against the cold. The peddler, oblivious, pushed on. He took no mind of the crow, as it looked like all the others that infested the market. Yet the crow took notice of the peddler, despite his looking like all the other old men. Both were solitary souls navigating a world that had moved on without them.

The peddler barked out a phlegm-filled cough. His stooped and frail frame shook violently as he hacked, threatening to dislodge his dingy turban. After wiping the spittle from his silvery beard, the peddler positioned the cart in the same location as the day before, as he had done for countless days before that. With a gentle flick of his wrist, he removed the threadbare blanket covering his wares and then wrapped it around his bony shoulders.

Now exposed are the handful of displayed treasures reflected in the crow’s eyes—a pewter frame on a faded photograph, a dusty pocket watch, and some tarnished jewellery. Each item held memories that had long since lost their shine. The trinkets were like ghosts, echoes of the peddler’s past, not unlike the crow’s collection of shiny baubles it had scavenged over the years. At home, a glint would appear in the old man’s eyes as he rummaged and searched through his belongings for items to sell at the market, as it did in the crow’s when it found something twinkling amidst the dirt and grime during its travels.

The crow hopped from the lamppost to an electrical wire, seduced forward by the gleam of a jhumka. The morning sky was grey, projecting no rays from the sun, yet the turquoise and gold earrings still glittered. Its wings twitched, a breath away from taking flight, but instinct smothered desire. The crow understood it was no longer strong or nimble enough to execute such a daring theft. Not with the peddler so close.

The crow cawed in frustration as, just up the lane, it saw the younger crows dip, soar, and pirouette, stealing chunks of warm bhature from a food stall. The crow’s eyes were shadowed with envy at their youth and vigour. They would have no issue securing the jhumka.

The peddler’s eyes darkened with a similar shade of emerald covet as he gazed at the vast collection of electronic gadgets on the cart that had taken station beside his. The colourful boxes were secured in clear factory wrap and were so bountiful, they threatened to spill from the display.
The market, now fully awake, bustled around them, and the crow observed the peddler’s interactions with his scant customers. Some haggled mercilessly, while others merely glanced at his wares with indifference. It saw how the peddler’s eyes would shine with hope when someone showed genuine interest in his trinkets, just as the crow’s sparkled with desire when it first saw the earring.

As the day wore on, the peddler’s stoop grew heavier. His eyes were more distant, and he coughed into the crook of his arm more frequently. The treasures on his makeshift table seemed to fade away and hold less appeal for those who bothered to look.

In the afternoon, the peddler had his customary chai, but not his samosa. The crow, though not comprehending that the lack of funds in the cash box could not support high tea and dinner, sensed the old man’s hunger. Squatting beside his cart, the peddler sipped from the small paper cup as the crow remained on his perch, lustfully focused on the object of its desire.
The crow’s burning itch for the earrings simply did not outweigh his inability to steal them, just as the peddler’s need for the profit they would bring did not elevate his ability to sell them. The two were growing weary of their struggles. For the peddler, the market was relentless and draining, just as a life of yearning was for the crow.

Neither had a comforting soul with whom to share their burdens. The peddler’s wife had long since passed, as had the crow’s mate. His children had fled south for a better life, as had the crow’s offspring, for a better climate. The peddler slept alone on a thin mattress laid on a dirty floor, surrounded by his trinkets, as the crow roosted under a corroded roof of tin, abandoned by its murder and surrounded by its bobbles. Yet daily, they trudged on. The two continued forward, filled with nothing other than the ingrained impulse to carry on. Both the peddler and the crow, relentlessly pursued by mortality, soldiered towards the end of their dreary paths.

The peddler coughed again, and the crow cocked its head. The cough quivered with a sense of hopelessness—guttural, rasping—an ominous reminder of the fragility of life.

The old crow took flight to scavenge, spotting small crumbs and menial scraps amidst the bustling crowd. Each morsel was a reminder of a time when he was stronger and when he could swoop down to claim proper meals without hesitation. It flew over a small, forgotten alley and spotted a garbage pile. Among the sheets of crumpled newspaper and crushed cardboard boxes, a solitary piece of bhature lay, its golden surface dimmed by a film of grease and grime. The crow’s eyes fixated on it. It knew that hunger cared not for appearances, and in this harsh world, it often found sustenance in the most unappetizing places. The crow descended, landing beside the discarded bhature.

The breeze stirred, carrying with it the mingling scents of spices and sweets and the distant sound of laughter from the market. But amidst the refuse of the alleyway, there came no laughter, only the sombre whispers of necessity.

The crow approached the bhature, and with swift precision, its beak grasped the meagre fragment. The bhature was far from palatable, but to the crow, it was a lifeline, a reminder that in a world indifferent to age and circumstance, one fed where one could.

With the morsel clutched in its beak, the old crow took flight once more and returned to the peddler. It let the air slip from beneath his wings and descended to settle on the corner of the rickety cart.

The peddler raised his arm to chase the crow away, but was overcome by another cough and clutched his chest. The crow cocked his head and focused on the peddler, seeing his illness and sensing his sorrow.

After a tentative hop forward, the crow cawed mournfully and dropped the bhature among the peddler’s faded memories. It stretched its wings in a gesture of empathy and offering, and in that moment, two broken beings connected and shared in each other’s misery.

The peddler smiled a wistful smile and spread his arms wide, accepting the trade. As if understanding, the crow padded its feet and, with a single, razor-sharp peck, snatched an earring in its beak. With its new treasure secured, the crow winged away into the fading light of the evening sky to place it among its other baubles. The peddler removed the blanket from his shoulders and covered the remainder of his trinkets, issued a final watery cough, and began his journey home.

The next morning’s sky broke heavy and grey, and the crow was perched atop its lamppost. It peered along the footpath with unblinking eyes and cocked its head to listen for the telltale groaning of wheels. Yet the peddler never came, and no one acknowledged his absence. Each dawn thereafter, the crow would come and wait, and the peddler did not come until one morning. As a weary sun heaved itself into a dreary sky, neither did the crow.