I was leaning back on the wall near the door of the first class compartment when he came in. A whole of four feet or may be three and a little more. His legs little and in slippers so big that the bands vibrated loose as he walked, he had to hold them between the fingers of his feet. A small head he carried on his shoulders with a thin neck, the hair was thin as well, thinner near his ears revealing he scalp. His forehead clear and smooth, and so are his cheeks, smooth and flat. His nose, like a button, flattened at the peak, and resting on his juvenile countenance. His eyes clear, sharp and shiny like a dark pool of wine. A shirt he wore and a short, both faded, and over his little shoulders was a bag made of cloth, a bag that reminds me of the grocery bag my grandma has, it has thin walls and a simple handle, the walls are opaque and they want me to ask myself about what it must hold. The bag is as big as his torso, so he has one hand busy trying to mind it and keeping it from slipping off (the cloth looks supple).
He has crossed the length form the door he entered to the door that I was near, the door that was far off the ground, the door that looked into the door of an adjoining local. He jumps off it and lands on his feet but can't take the impact, he must use both his hands, even the one that minds the bag, I see his little hands with their palms resting on the hot dusty ground, fingers outstretched, It must hurt, he steadies himself and the bag which is now on the ground (he used both his hands) he lifts. With some effort it is on his tiny shoulders again. His legs, I now notice are small but radiate a certain vibrance. Jumping over the gutter between the two rail tracks, with the merciless sun penetrating the thin patina over his scalp he jumps over again, into the other local train this time. My eyes still following him, his tiny hand is now in his bag, and out comes a shoe brush and some wax, I see his silhouette moving into the channels of the compartment, boot poliss! Came the cry.