Torn Pants, Torn Hands..!

It lay fallen a little distance from the clothesline that held my clothes. I walked over and looked at it, they were certainly not mine; gaping holes stared back at me, and these were not the tears carefully made by a tailor, as many modern pants have, but those that came from genuine brushes with earth and stone. And then I realized whose they were; I saw the scaffolding on the side of my building and knew they belonged to some painter who had at the end of the day, hung his pant on the bamboo to dry and the wind must have laid it low.

And suddenly those holes, those ruptures all along the thin fabric brought tears to my eyes. I knew that split above the knee came from.. Read On