The man in a tank top was grinding spices using two stones on a table

It was afternoon in Yangon, and the sun was slowly sinking into the ground. As I walked down the street, I saw a man sitting on the side of the road. He was wearing a tank top and his skin was streaked with sweat.

In front of the man was a large grinder made of stone. He was nonchalantly grinding what was probably dried chili peppers or something of the sort. He kept his hands moving quietly, as if nothing else existed in the world. There was no rhythm to it. There was just the necessary pressure and time.

As I watched his movements, I thought I could hear sounds. The sound of scraping, the sound of crushing, the sound of tiny bursts of fragrant particles. Of course, in reality, the bustle of the street was right next to us, and there must have been the sound of horns and dogs barking in the mix, but all I could hear was his movements.

A short time later, a reddish-brown paste was heaped moistly on the stone. It was somewhat like a physical memory, a chunk of time that could not be put into words.

I couldn't tell if he was going to use it for cooking, or selling it, or for some other purpose entirely. But it didn't seem to matter. What he was grinding there was spice, time, or perhaps the world itself!

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