Around dusk is when business truly grabs well. By well, I mean I might earn sufficient only to not go hungry to bed. Furthermore, when I say bed, I mean the encased tent with old papers underneath me. Couples swarm the shorelines on weekends, generally negligent of the breaking waves and the setting sun. Some stray crows and me add to the beautiful excellence of the night, or perhaps not. Be that as it may, now and then, a portion of the crows get hungry and begin flying close to the general population who appear to be amused at this behavior of theirs. I think they see it with a perspective of affection, which is fair enough. They start feeding the birds whatever eatables they have to offer. This is where I get the chance to sell corn. In the event that enough of them purchase corn, I get the chance to purchase some bread for dinner. On the off chance that they don't, I eat a part of the left over corn for dinner.
On weekdays it is distinctive however, individuals come alone and sit for hours gazing at the ocean and going frantic. Dusk is the hour of the defeated, loafing the shore probably accepting the fact that you need to die a couple of times before you go through petty days and get ready for the dangerous ones. Some accompany huge cameras and take photos of the setting sun, of remote water crafts and individuals, and in some cases I get a chance to fake a smile as well! What they don't see is that behind the smile is some another setting sun that once glazed and would willingly do it again. These eyes still have fire in them and also an ambition. On days when business is low life, my beach friend and I practice the art of barter system. I give him some of my corn and consequently he offers me lemonade. This is the means by which I get my break and how I utilize my corn store to beat the appetite against the chances of running a loss in my business by removing corn from the store.
On some occasions I feel tempted to leave this business and start a small shop of my own. I've heard it is easier and fetches bring better money. But I get to my senses when I remember how even after hardships, my father left me his corn trolley, tent and his spot on the shoreline. I don't feel right leaving all his stuff and proceeding onward to another business. So here I am, strolling on the sand offering corn to love struck people who know not that history of melancholia has everyone on its list. I graze my eyes on the horizon with aspirations.
Would you like to have some corn?
