Shack

Early evening is not a very good time to visit Panditji's tea stall...not if you don't like being surrounded by a swarm of overwrought bankers, choking on their samosas and deadlines... in afternoons, when the bankers are safely chasing targets in their airconditioned cubicles, a cloud of melancholy hovers about the shack... a drain trickles by (carrying with it its drainy smell)... mongrels curl up at the foot of the rickety bench... Panditji scrapes the aluminum mug clean, pours some water in it, sprinkles some tea dust and places it on the embers of his chulha...

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...

Phobia

There are three of them. The tallest of the three is seated in a chair with his back to me, the other two are at the counter, giggling and flirting with the attendant. One of them is wearing a black t-shirt with its sleeves rolled. He is short, about my height, but has a proportionate body. His t shirt hugs his curves snugly. He teasingly waves a thousand-rupee note in front of his friend who tries to snatch it out of his hand. The friend is slim and looselimbed but has an air of flabbiness about him. He is wearing a fitted shirt and jeans. He looks like a fat boy who has lost a lot of weight recently (takes one to know one). I can almost see the fat ghost of past hover around him like a pale shadow. Can he see my ghosts too?
They bring a tray of giant glasses to their table. The glasses are topped with whipped cream which they gingerly scoop out with spoons and feed each other. I look away...
It's raining outside and I'm wearing my shorts and a t shirt. My scanty mop of hair is plastered flat by rain and my bulky sandals are wet and ugly. I know I look odd. Not odd in a attractive way but just odd... “At least I am not a preening peacock,” I tell myself...
One more guy has joined them. He is wearing a polo shirt and is carrying a backpack... As soon as he joins them there is a round of hugging and cream feeding... limp-wristed cream feeding... I take sip of my lemon ginger tea, I make sure that my pinky is not up...

Barbed Wire...
Dark clouds fester over the Kohima sky in the month of August… a family of giant, black mushrooms over the blue-green hills…
On one such heavy, mushroomy morning, Titu (with a goldfish pout and a brown dungaree) followed Mithu (with her Halo-shampooed hair and patchwork poncho) to the Ao residence… A slippery step at a time… a breathless step at a time… Past the morning due-laden shrubs, past the pig sty with oinking, baby pink pigs… past the Dey household where Jhorna mashi (a shawled mummy) was tending to her begonias…
They stopped in front of the Ao house…

Dear Reader,

If you are here by some misguided desire of being treated to a slice of an unknown life then I’m very sorry to say, the show is over… in these five years that I have blogged I have treated this place with varying degree of sincerity… when I started off (and when I was evidently younger) I treated this as a scared place where unspoken truths can come into the forefront, where resolutions can be achieved through a particularly clever turn of phrase… Soon enough, insincerity and self-consciousness crept in and I found myself writing keeping certain people in mind… I can’t say I’m ashamed of that but I wish I could change that fact about my blog…
Today, as I sit here dipping a rusk biscuit in my tea, I wonder why should I do this at all… I’m the sort who believes that there should be a proper distance kept between strangers, you and me…
How can I strip my soul bare in front those who have never even shared a rusk with me? How can I tell you about my little indiscretions in the metro? why should i tell u that I was jumping moments yesterday in a munakka-induced hazed? my little truths needn't be subjected to your scrutiny anymore....

So here it is, without any awkward drama and self-important delay,

Goodbye,
Me…