5, Scott Lane

Framed by mannequin busts in gaudy crepe kurtas (pointy blonde hair) and diaphanous twirls of saris, was the entrance of Rahman stores. A magic depot of uniforms where parents would hand over chits and efficient counterboys would hand over neat stacks of shirts, full pants, half pants and blazers in navy blues, greens and whites. I remember the blue starched shirt, the brief new-shirt-smell-induced euphoria. But more than that, I remember the sweat-laced new smell that nagged me when I wore it for the first time...

When I flunked a year and had to change streams, I remember the embarrassment of visiting Oxbridge bookstore by default. But more than that, I remember the heaviness of the polytehene bag full of new books in my hand. The New Radient Readers and the complimentary bundle of Oxbridge name labels that the salesperson would always hide between books. For years I believed that it's some sort of a personal gesture. That is why I used them on my brownpapered books though they were not pre-glued and one had to wet one's hand with glue while sticking them ....

Metro...
One could tell they are related by simply looking at their toes. Plump little balls with uncut nails. Dark cuticles. Dirt darkening the edges, dirt which can be scooped out in one go—a half moon of dirt. Eyes travel up polyester trousers, shirt (on the older guy), t shirt ( on the younger guy) and the same fleshy nose. Of course they are related ...

Rain...

The bed has a mound of clothes. Dull blues and mossy greens. A splash of orange, but no red . Or yellow. The white pajamas (rolled into careless balls) have weathered stains around the edges. It's overcast outside, but there is no way one can find that out in this room. The curtains have been drawn and the tinted windows are closed. The floor has a thin film of dust on it, a delicate thin film which registers footprints with heartbreaking accuracy. Like an eager child drawing alepona...