I saw this man a year ago in a striking pose (see The Thinker). And here he is again, in the same blue shirt rolled up at the elbow, same white mundu, clutching the same pillow.
I’m glad that he seems none the worse for wear after a year; the faded shirt color is the only sign of the passage of time.
What is his story, I wonder? And why carry the pillow around as a mother would a babe in arms?