Legacy. Your own personal inheritance from your predecessor. Must be good to have your own personal gift to avail when you enter this world.
Imagine a proud father looking at his son showing the traits of his own profession. Imagine a proud painter father looking at his son dabbling with paint. Imagine a journalist mother looking at her daughter reading Communist Manifesto.
The gray haired, middle aged man sits on the pavement of the parking lot, looking, with weary eyes, at the other end of the parking lot, as still cars stand in rectangular patterns all around, where a kid is playing.
Imagine a mother teaching her son for the first time how to make chai. Imagine your father when he taught you how to ride a bike. Imagine, say, those moments, moments you may find in the hazy recollections of your memory, when your mother first saw you draw the first letter of English language legibly.
The look on his face was neither happy nor sad, it sort of transcended these basic emotions. He just was, looking at the kid play with a broom. The only thing palpable from his face, actually his eyes, was an acute sense of tiredness.
Now imagine this, a sweeper seeing his kid, the light of his life, the apple of his eyes, play with his broom.
