There was no wind .
It was a chilly day. Not a bristle moved on any of the trees that lined the road. Trees which became conspicuous only on ardent observation. It was not like there was no activity on the road. In fact, there was an abundance of it. In the morning, it was a whore to the countless people using it for their morning walks , their morning squats and their morning solitudes. Only the shabbily laid footpath knows the number of love birds it played host to , the number of make ups and break ups it facilitated. Hawkers slowly creep along its length as the Sun grows stronger. It becomes busy , or so it would want us to think, as the asphalt becomes hotter and shade becomes meagre. But the actual business , like on most roads like these , starts only when the brighness wanes. Hawkers one by one give way to hookers. Ordinary shops become opium dens. The trade that goes on can be done only by the night. The world sleeps at this time, or chooses to look away, conveniently blaming the darkness for this so called filth. The road does not understand the reason, nor does it ask for one.
Amidst all this activity, no one notices the trees. Their only shot at perceptible recognition is when the wind blows and a leaf quivers , and nature willing, falls on the road.
There was no fking wind that day.