Candle

"Don't strain your eyes in dark".
So I lit one bulb.
Exasperated with my carelessness,  he switched on the tube light.
His "I love you" .
Then he left.
And on his side of the bed,  candle weeps silently.

The first touch

We discuss something frivolous and it sets me laughing. You stand there, looking at me with a desire I have never seen before in your eyes. It makes me incoherent so i stop abruptly and turn away to attend to some routine ... perhaps laundry ... but you hold my wrist and stop me. We look at one another, silence heavy and loud, and then I wriggle out of your grasp and start laughing again ... a fake hollow laugh ... to ease the atmosphere but your touch is stinging .. like I have touched a live naked electric wire. I turn away and you hold me by my wrist again, your grip is firm this time. And my resolve, weak. Then, with the slightest pull, you draw me close. I am a little scared, my heart is beating insanely and laughter is all but forgotten. I don't look up and you don't look away. The way you take me in with your eyes, I feel warm. This is new and different. I am not sure why but I step back. You don't move .. you are still holding me by my wrist. Your gaze moves. From my face to my wrist. And you loosen your grip ... like the other day you measured it ... with the circuit of your fingers ... "very thin" you had said. I could have withdrawn my hand and moved away in that instant but I stay. But then you trace my wrist with your fingers and kiss it lightly. My heart stops. Literally stops. And then you interweave your fingers with mine. I step back again, my heart thumping loud. You again pull me close. This time with force so that I am drawn close to your chest. I am a little breathless. You are cool, calm , composed, like you know what you're doing. And then you do nothing for a while. Nothing at all. You sit by the edge of table, I stand some centimeters apart from you and there is this teasing smile on your face.

Monsoon mayhem

"It will keep drizzling as long as you keep snuggling".
"Let's wreck havoc then!", she said as she cozied against him.
Outside, the drizzle turned to torrents.

Memoir

Smitten by her loquacious eyes, I committed my life to her, and for a good 30 years she helped me traverse this circuitous journey showering unfathomable joys but how swiftly joy and sorrow alternate and before the blinking of eyes, she receded to a painting hung on wall but sinking into oblivion would have been denigrating to our "we" time so I chose not to wallow in her sorrows and took to exploring the Himalayas and while the demons of her memory stalk me continually, I am glad she still joins me in circuitous travels, she with those loquacious eyes.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words challenge : Demon

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words challenge : loquacious 

Such pretty dolls

I and Yashika enthusiastically embarked on doll pilgrimage. What better way to spend International Doll's Day.

Two initiates in doll-cult enjoying an amazing collection from around the world. Dolls dating back to 1700s. Dolls gifted by royalty. Dolls depicting traditions and trends. Dolls intricate and dolls, crude and rudimentary. Dolls with broken parts and dolls finished to perfection. Antiques to modern. Collector's dream. Nation's treasure. Awe inspiring.

One section hosted life-size dolls from across Eurasian regions. Almost every doll there seemed alive. Even the three seated at centre stage. Though with their disheveled looks, blackened eye sockets, grim looks and soiled rags, they looked horrifying. Like they had been taken out of some horror movie. Looking at them made us uncomfortable so we hurriedly moved to next display.

For a fleeting instance, I felt the focus of those ghostlike dolls shift. Following my movement. I disregarded the feeling.

There were prettier dolls to look at and I started concentrating on the collection again. But those black eyes never left me. I felt they were watching my steps and marking my moves.

By the time I was ready to move on to next display, the other visitors had left. The hall was soundless. No rushing feet, no clamor of kids, no excited shrieks.

Where was Yashika? Where was everybody?

I rushed through the aisles, searching for both Yashika and exit door. The mobile network ditched me. A frightened mind commits many mistakes. Instead of moving towards exit, I had somehow traced my steps back to that miscellaneous section with those scary dolls.

No!

I moved away from them.

But ghostly scary dolls stared from every aisle, every section.

I was alone in a large lonely hall with scary dolls all around me.

Then a doll from some aisle laughed. Loud. Raucous.

More laughter followed. All dolls joined in.

Then the one seemingly from The Child's Play started moving towards me.

The others followed.

In a practiced beat.

I backed.

They marched.

I backed further.

Further and further until I stumbled.

Then I was dead and dolls were gone.

Wait.

I was not dead but the dolls were gone.

Or

Maybe I was dead but dolls were still there.

Muddled. Messed up.

Then I heard my mobile ringing.

Dead people don't have mobiles. So I was not dead. I had not fallen.

Happy Doll's Day, doll. Wanna visit the doll museum? Yashika raved.

Some nightmare!

I was totally distracted. Yet Yashika rambled on. Until she convinced me to meet her. To celebrate international doll's day. At doll museum.

Despite my misgivings, we embarked on our tour enjoying an amazing collection from around the world. Collector's dream. Nation's treasure. Awe inspiring.

One section hosted life-size dolls from across Eurasian regions. Almost every doll there seemed alive. Even the three seated at centre stage.

Such pretty dolls, I vouched before Yashika could comment anything and dragged her on to next section.

But in that fleeting instant, I swear those dolls winked.

TRUST ME !

Linking with Friday Fiction with Ronovan Writes Prompt Challenge #12

Mesmerizing, the ways of Lord.

Tiny hands foraged the canisters, scrounging home churned butter, the pitcher hung out of their reach.
Balancing intricately, the cowherds raised Kanha who doled out the delicacy for his kinfolk.
His shenanigans, simultaneously amusing and annoying Gokul.
Mesmerizing, the ways of Lord.

When the thorn bush turns white

When the thorn bush turns white, he thinks.
His hands worked in the farm with all sincerity, aware of the field supervisor's eyes that missed nothing. Tired, spiritless souls picking and stacking their hard labour for selling in bigger markets, waiting earnestly for 10th of each month when their effort would be rewarded with crisp currency.
It was for survival that he had first moved out of his hilly hamlet. Back in his home town, the winters were long and harsh. A burning hearth needed earning hands. So he came here and labored his days in the orchards of this valley which bustled all time with clamor of touring feet.
Out here, life itself seemed long and harsh; a frenzied subsistence.
He yearned for dreary winters and cozy quilts; ached for mother's lap; yenned for father's embrace and longed to hear tinkling laughter of his folks. He even pined for insular niches ringing with folktales. Every single mention of his village sent goosebumps through his skin. Every picture of his hometown coming to life before his eyes.
But he knows that survival of his ménage depends on his daily struggles. So, he burns in this leave. Endures the pain. Earns the money and sends a decent share back to his people. Hoping the monied message will translate into his love and affection.
Perhaps someday, he thinks, when the thorn bush turns white, he might be able to go home.

Linking with Friday Fiction with Ronovan Writes Prompt Challenge #11

Ramblings over cuppa

Milk blend occasionally. Black tea on Shatabdi rides. Green tea and iced tea almost regularly.
Remember how I used to be anti-tea. That changed when I moved to this new office.
An occasional cuppa now and then.
Distasteful. This hot beverage.
Quite unlike coffee.
Nothing beats a hot vanilla cappuccino.
Peculiar that I should be rambling about this, estranged as we are now.
And not that it really matters.
But I had to share my heart with you.
Over a cup of coffee.
Just like old times.
Peculiar too, that times never return.
And flow of life is almost ceaseless.

Linking with: Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 word challenge: Peculiar

Orphaned by cancer

Raivat Kumar.
No, not a very renowned name. Just another homosapien amongst the crowd of billions. Inconsequential perhaps but probably notable for family and us friends.
Raivat lost his mother that day. Rather his mother lost the battle against cancer and yielded to the tyrant malignancy. One more instance of death by cancers. Won't alter the statistics drastically. But will definitely be tumultuous for Raivat and his younger brother. To unimaginable degrees.
One moment, she was there. Sick, pale, weak, failing but present, warm and breathing. Her heart beating, though erratic but pounding beneath that hospital gown. The next, she wasn't.  Cold and stiff but absent. No breathing. No rising and falling diaphragm.  No heartbeat. Not even a faint one. A pin drop silence in vacuum. Sudden, swift, screaming silence.
Raivat clasped her fingers in his own. But she did not squeeze them back. He shook her but she did not stir. He called her but she did not respond. The heart negated the lack of stimulus, sleep, exhaustion and the likes of it. But the brain had processed the workings of electrocardiogram. Silently, the truth had seeped in. His eyes blurred. Tears stained his cheeks. And he made no effort to wipe them away. Perhaps his tears would bring her back from dark lands. Perhaps she would want to wipe away his tears one last time. Perhaps. But there were many perhaps lurking in her untimely death.
The flames on the pyre flared. Sublime now, the elements consumed her. Each claiming his share. A few hours later, she was reduced to a handful of ashes. A handful of ashes. Nothing accompanied her. Her needles. Her crotchet. Her spectacles. Her sewing machine. Her pestle. Everything stayed behind. Reminders of her being. Reaping of her life. He looked at the smoldering ashes and wondered if her memories of life spent with them would accompay her in her journey. Or had they turned to wisps of smoke with her? Did she think of them in her dying moments? Had she wanted to tell them something? Had she speculated her end? Had it pained her to leave this life behind? The questions hung heavy over the sooty remnants.
For a few days, he ached to hear her voice in the empty house, living in flashbacks. But then he adapted himself to the silence. To the misshapen rotis and cold daal cooked uncaringly by the maid. To no one bothering about his day. To the void around him. To the numbness. Ofttimes he sat like a retard, not comprehending his present sans her wisdom. Other times, he let his grief wash him over.
Someday he would marry some girl. But his mother would not be there to welcome his wife. There would not be that  adorable nagging between his mother and wife. No insecurities about daughter-in-law.  She would not be there to play with his kids. To tell them tales and sing lullabies for them. To teach them  pearls of wisdom. Would his kids ask him about his mother? For them, she could easily be a star in the sky or some beautiful angel. For him, a huge hole in his heart that will never heal. A picture on wall. A photograph in some album. A hand in his hair. Extra ghee on his roti. Homework on his school notebooks. Words when his voice failed him. Anger when he did something wrong. Pride and joy on his achievements.
So much unsaid. So much undone. So much unseen.  But one fine day, cancer came knocking and swept her away. Just like that. A flicker called life humbled forever.
That day, Raivat lost his mother. Raivat Kumar. A speck amongst a billion others.

A stranger on road

It was good to meet her. 22 days ago, we were all huddled up together under one roof. Amidst the chaos of renovation ( read cement dust and wood splinters scattered around us), we celebrated her bday. And soon thereafter we said our goodbyes. This is how our associations with each other had come to an abrupt end. When the paying guest arrangement had been suddenly made dysfunctional, we all had to look for new accommodations. And so we moved out. In groups of two. And today was our get-together. Over fried and tandoori momos, we spilled our experiences and shared our hearts. Until the glowering scowls of waiting crowd and descending night forced us on different routes once again. We ran a couple of errands and finally walked back to our new niche,  planning our dinners. (Yeah, when it comes to eating, we do have more than healthy appetites. And then we wonder about all those weight loss plans). Hurried steps soon brought us to the busiest road crossing. We cautiously crossed one lane and were waiting for the traffic on the other lane to become manageable before weaving our way across. The stream of cars seemed endless. Loaded with shopping bags, the two of us were getting a little impatient.  The market was no longer buzzing. The early evenings of winters had cast a shadow of hush and quiet and we wanted to get back to the room at the earliest.We were getting late with each passing minute. And then all of a sudden he stopped his car. Right in the middle. Oblivious to the honking horns behind him, he smiled and waved us through. Clear path. Before I could comprehend anything, my friend had already dragged me half way across. Only when we had safely crossed the lane, he resumed his drive, immense gratitude following him to wherever he was headed.

Linking with Warm Heart Wednesday # 1

Far, yet so near

500 kms separate us.
An overnight journey by bus.
Tiring, exhausting, yet refreshing to the core.
The warm embrace of my folks.
The pristine greens. Lush and verdant hills.
Icy cold mineral water of rivulets.
The songs and rhythms of Beas flowing in my veins.
I grew up with the beat of mountainous life.
And I am grateful that it has stayed with me.
We may be miles apart today.
Yet every single breath, every single heart beat, dwells in the footfalls of hills.
With my people, at my place.
Not here. Not in this temporary make shift arrangement in chaotic capital city.
I belong to rugged terrains and winding circuitous routes.
And I am on my way to my sanctuary.

My masked love

I fell for him; regal and impressive as he was.

Even lost my toddler-days devouring his comic-strips.

Phantom became the reason I wear thick eyeglasses.

He and transient surge of first crush.

Yet he chose Diana Palmer.

Masked men, I tell you!

The secret atop the hill

The eerie halo, blanketing the sacred ruins atop the hill, is torn apart by fluorescent flickers on moonless nights. Faint, almost like an illusion. Imaginations conjure bygone romances to life; reality, wizened manuses of a priest. Temple-tales weave themselves into our eventides.

Hunger pangs

The cans were all empty. Three hungry stomachs growling and not a grain to feed them.
It had been raining for three days now. And she had not been able to make her daily rounds, exchanging utensils for old, worn out clothes and then reselling them for paltry amounts to villagers and even poor.
But she was not poor. She was beggarly. She and her three kids. It had not occurred to her husband in the moments of his physical wantonness to worry about providing for them. He had planted his seeds in her life and drunk his way to an early death, leaving her alone to fight daily battles of survival. And fighting she was. With every single fiber of her being. A relentless daily fight to win over the hardships. The pitter-patter rain drops harshly reminded her of the hollowness of food cans. Rumination could wait. She would have to forage first.
She picked up a torn plastic bag and wrapped it around her head before stepping out of her lean-to. She drew back the bright blue patched tarpaulin to afford some privacy and security to her family before marching away.
Vegetables tend to go pricey in rains. Or may be she felt the brunt only because she had so little money with her. One single coin with 5 embossed on it. She held it endearingly and ran her rough fingers over the stamping. Many times over. It could buy them absolutely nothing. Such a waste of metal and minting.
They could all sleep hungry tonight. Like countless nights of past. One more night without food would not harm much. Or perhaps it would. She was not sure. For a moment there, her mind wavered between begging and stealing, and then rejected the options. Too despicable. No, they would sleep hungry tonight.
Drenched to her skin, she turned back. She walked past the market and its luxuries like they were not there. She had reached the outer-most limits. A little walk from here and she would be back with her kids, feeding them the imagination of her mind and lulling them to sleep.
The smell of fish wafted from nearby in the moist air. Even her own hunger, repressed for the sake of her kids, surged and leapt at the prospect. She had always found it difficult to cross this area, primarily because she was vegetarian and she found the smell revolting. Not today. Today the smell held the promise of a full stomach. No wonder, she found it difficult to cross the area this time too.
Her feet stayed rooted in the morassy puddle, her saree clinging to her like second skin while her mind and heart and every other sense fought with each other. Hesitant, debating, dithery. She willed herself to walk and then willed to enter the roadside eatery.
She looked ahead, seemingly where her shanty was. And then she looked up at the orangish steaks hanging above the counter. Behind the steaks was hanging a roughly scribbled pricetag - Rs.5/-. Catchpenny but affordable.
The battle was over. She entered the nameless eatery, handed out the coin, took the parcel wrapped in newspaper, and stepped out, holding her breath all this while.
She portioned out the steaks equally in three plates with shivering hands. Her kids ate in silence while she stared out at the incessant rain. They didn't question. She didn't volunteer. But as they bit into the flesh, she closed her eyes. A tear trickled down her cheek. Or perhaps it was a raindrop. It didn't matter. At least, her kids were not going to bed hungry.



Linking with Picture it and write

Melting at innocence

My last tele-conversation with Laddu*** happened in May.
The five year old nuisance has been pretending to be too busy running in the unpaved alleys between his house and ours, ferrying his Hotwheels collection alongside.
So today was a definite surprise.
An innocent hello of fresh-from-sleep chirpy nephew was last thing I expected to hear when I called mom.
"We have come over to stay for a few days.
Am sleeping in your room".
Is Noddy there, too? I ask.
"Yes, and ..."
"And who else"?
"Your Laddu!" pat came the reply.
I melted.
He kept up his naive yabber.


***Laddu is an Indian sweet and because my nephew loves eating Laddus, he is our Laddu, fondly.

Linking with Friday Fictioneers

All for a drink

Durga ran through the clutter of rickshaws ignoring the splatters of mud staining her soiled and frayed frock. In her rough and dry hands were wads of money, her reward for having slaved for a month in that palatial residence, scrubbing floors, dirty dishes and laundry. Finally, she would be able to pay her brother's school dues, long pending. But first she would have to hide this bundle from the bleary and glazed eyes of her wasted father. Drunk as he stayed, he had this amazing talent of sniffing the green currency from three houses away. She closed the door ever so gently, hastily and soundlessly making her way towards the attic where she slept. The plan was to hide the small parcel beneath her mattress before attending to her father. She was barely on second step when he called her out "lil princess ... Got a lil present for your daddy dear, have we, eh?" Firm and resolved, she shook her head, hiding her hands behind her, crumbling and crushing the crisp currency. But he grabbed her hands, "lyin are we here, missy?" his eyes fixed on her face. She had hoped to see her scared face in his eyes. All that stared back was green greed and Budweiser. She knew she would not be able to fight them both. Slowly she opened her hands. Tomorrow she would have to beg the principal to give her some more time.

Courtesy: Ermiliablog: Picture it and Write

Linking with: Ermiliablog: Picture it and Write

The blade of time

She was tall for her age. Lanky. Bony. And Spartan. She had that don’t mess with me permanence pasted on her face, even in her early years. Odette was not easy to be with. And Odette was not popular. Not ever since she had been reported in pre-school for mauling a boy thrice her size. He had devoured her lunch secretly before lunch hours.

Odette was counseled and reded before being re-admitted. All she had understood was that if she did not fall in line with others, she would be outcast. The doors of knowledge would close on her, perhaps forever. More than anything else, she dreaded that darkness. And then one of the teachers fed her with some story about the infamous crocodile well in the old compound. The unwieldy Odette yielded to the stifling discipline of school. It could be the fear of ending up being a nescient and ignorant or the fear of being fed to crocodiles. But somehow she managed to stay out of trouble, deporting with modest reserve in school hours. Though, at home, she was wild and untamed, engaging in ruckus and rumpus with her younger brother Dariel, all the time.

Gradually, it was like wake up and smell the routine.

Until that summer afternoon.

It was her class for numerals. She had mastered 1 to 5 in an unclear hand. She stood in the queue to get her sheet appraised. There were some 5 students in front of her. The line was moving at snail-pace.

4 students to go.

3. Ah! They were almost there.

2. Soon now!

The teacher started scolding the boy, twisting his ear and shoving him out of the classroom. Perhaps taking him to the principal’s office. But they had not been excused. So, she waited in the queue.

After a few minutes, Dariel rushed in. Scared. Panicky. Looking over his shoulder again and again. There was an unmistakable red blush on his face. A handprint. He hugged her tight and sobbed into her embrace.

Who was it, Dariel?

Norman.

Norman was year older than her. A confirmed browbeat. And Dariel was just a kid. Odette took a deep breath.

You stand here. My teacher is going to come anytime. You show her my classwork and tell her that I had to go out to talk to Norman, Okay? And don’t you cry. I will be back soon.

Odette handed over her notebook to Dariel who watched her disappear out of the classroom door, still sobbing and wiping his face with the cuff of his shirt.

Odette found Norman near the drinking-water facility.

Norman, she called out. Her voice stern and severe.

She could not wait to talk and reason. She had to do it fast and quick. So, she lifted her hand and slapped him on his face, loosely but forcefully. Her bony hand stinging and blushing by the impact. Her handprint distinct on Norman’s face.

She turned back almost instantly, expecting Norman to hit her from behind. But all she heard was loud shouts. Some commotion happening in the background. She did not look back. She had to reach the safety of her classroom.

Norman’s accusation was faster than her footsteps. She was detained in the corridor by his class teacher. Taken to the principal’s office. She accepted having slapped Norman. She did not volunteer the fact that he had slapped Dariel to begin with. She was suspended. For a week.

Her mother was surprised to see her home early.

Home already? Where’s Dariel?

He is getting my classwork examined … and I … I don’t have to go to school for rest of the week.

Her mother looked up from the sink, the soapy scrubber in her hands, the detergent dripping on the dishes in the sink, and water from the faucet running waste.

…

The water from the faucet was running waste. The detergent dripped on the dishes in the sink. She looked out of the windowsill, a soapy scrubber in her hands. Odette choked back the trees.

She had asked Dariel to help her convince dad about her boyfriend. There were too many barriers between the families and she was fighting alone. Dariel had simply shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

What can I possibly say in the matter, Odette. It’s between you and dad.

The match was never approved.

Hey, where’s your brother? Have to send him to market.

Left him in the classroom, haven’t seen him since.

Odette barged out of kitchen.

Grieving with Akshat

Sweltering June morning had a lazy feel. The day was ripe by the time Meira left for office. And by the time she reached there, the sun was almost overhead. The central air conditioner had been shut down due to some issues with voltage stabilization. And in the absence of continuous roar, everything seemed loud and blaring. The voices that sounded soft in the din of air conditioner now sounded unpleasant and penetrating. It was like they were accustomed to huge decibels without realizing the impact. It was okay initially, sitting in her cramped seat but with passage of time, she started getting a heavy feeling. She felt like she was breathing stale air, laden with warm dust. She turned around to ask Akshat to open the window. But Akshat was not in his seat. In the rush of work, she did not realize his absence. She got up and opened the window. A couple of pigeons on the ledge below flew away, flapping their wings noisily. But the whiff of fresh air felt so refreshing. A couple of heads turned towards her, spared a smile from their schedule and were again lost in computers. That was a due acknowledgment of her initiative. She sighed. She missed the young energy. The nearest in her age group happened to be Akshat. They had 10 years gap between them with Akshat leading the age board. But he still cracked a joke or two and made it a little easy to while the office hours. He had appeared to be busy today and so they had mostly worked in silence. Meira returned to task at hand, the fresh air making it bearable to work. The next time she looked up was after a good one and a half hour of dedication. But something had made her look up. A sudden clamour. She turned towards the source of disturbance and saw Akshat keeping his helmet aside. And he looked harried. It was strange enough that he had gone somewhere without telling her. The usual practice was to keep one another in loop just in case some authority calls you up. And it was disturbing that he was silent and brooding on return. Meira struggled with the question and then asked him, "where did you go at this hour of the day, with this sun and all"? If anything her profile was teaching her to draft things diplomatically; this sounded like concern and not question. Safer. Akshat managed a tired smile, "had to collect my son's reports". His son. His 12 year old thalassemic son. Who needs blood transplants every second week. Whose treatment was the reason why Akshat had sought compassionate transfer to capital city. Whose treatment was the reason why he had refused to participate in promotion process. Whose family spent the days hoping for a bone-marrow match. "What did the doctors say"? Meira instinctively regretted the question. Even before his face contorted with pain, with sadness, with grief. He muttered something under his breath. All she could catch was the word "worse". And then Akshat busied himself with some papers on his desk. Meira felt her throat go dry. She wanted to say something positive, something hopeful but words died on her tongue. How do you comfort someone who is watching his son edging towards death with every breath. You do not, period. You busy yourself with work and let them live their lives in peace sans the consolation. They do not need pity. They need lives beyond the hospitals. So Meira buried the sympathies in her heart and shuffled through the file on her desk. Often her eyes darted towards Akshat. But he was lost in some manpower planning data. At least he was working. He left a little early than usual. And Meira wondered what answers he would take home today to his wife and son.

When the cats are away

All the cats are busy preparing for the farewell of "The Tomcat". So us mice are having gala free time. Way beyond the lunch hour. Hushed whispers growing louder. Muted laughters sonorous. Very many grapevines sprouting. The clowder fretting, the nest celebrating.

Stealing a moment from Monday

Volvo or no Volvo, a 12 hour bus ride is definitely exhausting. So when I reach my destnation, the Delhi inter-state bus terminal, relief is exhilarating. And no the place does not extend an assausive, comforting embrace so characteristic to my hilly hamlet. It welcomes you with crass cacophony of a metropolitan that jolts you wide awake from your slumbers of the night before. So by the time I get off the bus, fetch my luggage and bargain with an auto-driver, finally making him succumb to my offer of 150 bucks (the metre works but only on papers), the four day visit to my hometown has already become a memory. The growing sun beats down whatever spirit is left in me as the auto crawls through Monday traffic on roads.
We are crossing the red fort now. The brick red pride of India with the Tricolor fluttering unrestrained. Trust me, you cannot help but feel awed by the striking splendor standing stoically amidst the lush green lawns. Delhi can be charming too, if it tries. But such moments are so rare and interspersed that more often than not Delhi is synonymous to a crazy frenzy. Atleast to me.
Digressions apart, we are crossing the red fort now in all its majesty. The place is largely by itself at this hour of the morning. The pedestrian-walks bare and stripped naked by the MCD workers. Save for one or two spots where the homeless have found free shelter. Yes, right outside the biggest monument of our liberation and emancipation as nation, you will often come across ragged and jagged people nesting in the twilights. They pack their bags by the morning only to return by the eventide.
Of the two such misfortunate, one is still sleeping, oblivious to the dawning of Monday morning. I envy his carefree sleep but then who knows he might have passed out on some drugs. The other one, a few steps further from the one sleeping, more animate, more sentient. Why I say so shall be clear in the narrative that follows.
Bare chest, his skin the shade of glistening deep brown wood, he sported mostly an even tan. His dhoti, soiled and greased, so much so that it is not possible to tell the color and stains apart. His feet cracked and soles blackened. His golden brown hair,beard and moustache, matted, tangled and knotty. His hands I can not see for one is hidden from view and the other hidden in an oversized canvas tote, equally soiled. His eyes lift skywards. Knowingly.
Suddenly a flock of birds appears, perching upon what seemed to be their regular positions, loud sonorous hungry bird calls resonating in the morning air, waiting to be fed. The hand in the tote moving hastily now, spreading the grains. He empties the tote and waits. The first of birds pecks the grains, followed by another and then many more follow suit. His expression that of pure exaltation. His eyes still skywards, his hand still in tote. Looking at his clowder with great satisfaction as it feeds.
The auto moves further with a loud crackling sound. But I carry the moment with me.