Bird at Prey

Hand in hand with fiction

Grey water rushed through the ridges on the brick road to join the trench. Making patterns in an unknown urgency. Clenching her father’s arm, the little girl made a brief leap lest she breaks the mysterious trail. A familiar tingling of a bunch of metal keys caught her attention; round the corner uncle Rustam was bent to open the shutters of his ‘ladies tailoring’ shop. He gave her a warm smile and immediately broke into a dry cough. Post the short afternoon nap, the shopkeepers had started arranging their shops for the evening rush. Street lamps shone brighter with the setting sun. A rusty blue train screeched to a halt at the station nearby to let go of a crowd of strangers. Sounds of freshly made snacks left in hot oil to fry ringing in her ears as her stomach churned. Scared to ask papa for a stop, she walked on.

The street had started getting busy.. clusters of women around vegetable shops, haggling over increased prices, middle aged men rushing back home from work, a few young boys scoffing at each other over the lost gamble, faint trail of a 60s popular song playing from an old radio.. constant whirling of the sewing machine.. flicker of colourful glass bangles in the yellow street lights, a black-yellow taxi honking to make its way.. brushing of uncountable feet against the hard grounds.. friends laughing.. hawkers screaming attractive offers.. colourful clothes, new shoes, smell of old books, strange stares clubbed in to form a silent lull. She glanced through the crowd to get a glimpse of the known face, but in vain. Fear gripped her entire existence. “Am I lost?” She thought to herself. Stuck in the moment, unable to think of a way to move ahead or turn back.. until a tug at her elbow got her back from the reverie. She turned back to her husband. “Where are you going? You are supposed to keep to your left!!” he scowls. Relief!

Monsoons in this city has a strange tune, it stops for no one. She glanced at the clock ticking away.. half past nine. The wait seemed endless. The radio had not stopped yet. Rain lashed against the window pane as she walked towards it to look down. Apart from a couple or two black umbrellas hurrying through once in a while, the street was empty now. She had started worrying. How long has it been since he left? The shopkeepers had all returned home, tucking their belongings in layers of blue tarpaulin. Smoke rings in air, from a stranger taking refuge under the shed, stranded with his last cigarette.

A sharp knock at the door woke her up.

The rains had left.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

** Hand in hand with fiction, inspite of being purely fictional has a resemblance to all our lives. As we grow up in a very directed sense of lifestyle, its natural for all of us to lose ourselves on the way sometimes, being lonely, looking for constant support in the form of parents, friends, lover, husband, children and sometimes even strangers. While only the journey and its memories remain real.

In love with the canvas again