The Chief and the Sentinel

You would have seen him,the man in khakhi with those little openings on the shirt some sewn up and others left for his body to breathe .The bottom of the pants rolled up carelessly.His gait tilting rightwards, a  twinkle in his  eyes and his left hand perpetually twirling his  salt -pepper mustache.His long strides are sometimes broken by his sentinel, who turns around as if to  ensure his Chief’s well being.Yesterday,I saw them by the temple, the limping dog pacing ahead and the Chief striding along royally.Suddenly, the dog stopped in front of a stranger and looked up at him. The man responded touching the dog on his forehead,caressing gently.Then as if ,waking up from a trance, the sentinel paced ahead,limping a little but with a certain purpose writ large on his face. The Chief in tattered khakhi followed.

They redefined luxury, these two,in the sheer confidence they exuded,oblivious to the interested glances of onlookers.


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