As I move on the streets of Mangalore city on the west seafront, It is an afternoon and the sun is starkly overhead, Burning, roasting in the hot-dry sky of May.
While en route the beach I passed from a really silent street, Then I pass from the side of the Rosario Cathedral, The only person I notice was a young vendor.
The vendor is a little girl who looked determined to empty her stock, I peered into her basket and was pleased to see in it, Even today I believe she sits there by the street.
Sitting in the rain or in the harsh, merciless sun she prays to the God, Just back to her the church apparently has some priority line to Him, She bribes Him a beautiful sea shell or two if He sends some buyers...
Though I do not need any sea shells, but I still go and spare a look, I choose a pair of green sea shells and pay her for it, Because she sells the sea shells by the street side.
I have been to Mangalore, but this poem is partly a product of imagination. Mangalore city is a port on the western coast of India in the southern state of Karnataka.