In the sleepy yellow sun of winter

Walking along the Ganges River, in the sleepy yellow sun of winter.
A kid ran past me, like a wind,
chased by the ghostly dust cloud behind him.
In my hand, Half A Life, V. S. Naipaul,
from the gloomy corner of a bookshop of the day before.
The book had an unusual smell,
as if it had enveloped the scent of this country.
I leafed through the pages, as people leafed through me.
In the exchange of glances, in this random moment of time,
we entered each other's lives and exited unawarely.