As usual, I walk outside the house, and things start running into me.
First, there was this rickshaw, The same torn flaps, ragged sunshade, with the faded picture of a modelling Katrina at the backside. The driver had one of those rural model phones with unbelievably loud speakers and nothing called earphones. It passes by sharply, just near my feet, scaring the hell out of me, blasting Bhojpuri songs.
Then the neighbor's dog comes to nibble my toe, and he has this uncanny habit of lying down with his belly exposed to you, so you could pet him, and the minute you shower him with affection, he starts pissing. Yes, you got that right.
My lame ferret bangs into me, and quickly darts away to a more respectful distance, and that aunty next door who has an unhealthy obsession with my cheeks and hair, appears out of nowhere.
Going outside, is a disaster.
Off the pakka and onto the kaccha streets, I walk along the sides and admire how our area had the traditional Indian rural village look, but was probably way more developed than most so called "urban" cities. A well connected network of roads, a flotilla of canoes, landscaping foliage, and excellent irrigation for the always flourishing crops.
Some houses were even at the side of the roads, huts rather, with long rooms inside and children playing. My ferret resided in there. A few children sat on the porch with an old man, learning to sketch with chalk on the mud.
There was a time when drawing and color fascinated me. I pestered my mother so much for it that she got me a teacher.He was this old guy, who came from very far off, dark, sunbaked skin, a crazed look in his eyes and Einstein hair. All he looked for in a person was "interest". All you would need to do was get that glassy eyed look when you doodle nonsense, and voila! He wants to teach you.
He was the guy who I'd like to thank for my neat handwriting.
Then, well, I outgrew the phase and Ma discontinued it.
I went up to the kids and watched their classes for a while. Nobody objects when I do so, because I'm "Bade Sahib". The kid at the center was drawing the ice cream cone wrong.
I took the piece of chalk, and gently corrected it. He stopped me.
"What's the point when the rain's going to wash the beauty away?"
I gave him a half smile, half astounded look. The kid was barely five years old.
The drawing teacher, a lady with white air and deeply unsettling eyes, also enjoyed my company. I entertained them with jokes and puns, occasionally using my fingers to smudge chalk lines for a smoky, shaded effect to beautify the pictures. Their laughs and snorts reminded me so much of the fun me and my sister used to have at our own drawing classes.
That evening, I was found clutching my mother's foot.
She was holding a thali of hot, molten ghee, and was getting seriously alarmed as drops started to trickle down the plate and scald her exposed toes.
"What do you want? Get out of the way you pest!"
"Pleeease?"
"What?! Ouch" Another drop.
"I want my drawing classes back."
"You're too old for it! Aah!" This time, a huge tablespoon full.
Practically in tears, she said "Whatever you want. Just let me go now, will you?"
****************2bc**************
First, there was this rickshaw, The same torn flaps, ragged sunshade, with the faded picture of a modelling Katrina at the backside. The driver had one of those rural model phones with unbelievably loud speakers and nothing called earphones. It passes by sharply, just near my feet, scaring the hell out of me, blasting Bhojpuri songs.
Then the neighbor's dog comes to nibble my toe, and he has this uncanny habit of lying down with his belly exposed to you, so you could pet him, and the minute you shower him with affection, he starts pissing. Yes, you got that right.
My lame ferret bangs into me, and quickly darts away to a more respectful distance, and that aunty next door who has an unhealthy obsession with my cheeks and hair, appears out of nowhere.
Going outside, is a disaster.
Off the pakka and onto the kaccha streets, I walk along the sides and admire how our area had the traditional Indian rural village look, but was probably way more developed than most so called "urban" cities. A well connected network of roads, a flotilla of canoes, landscaping foliage, and excellent irrigation for the always flourishing crops.
Some houses were even at the side of the roads, huts rather, with long rooms inside and children playing. My ferret resided in there. A few children sat on the porch with an old man, learning to sketch with chalk on the mud.
There was a time when drawing and color fascinated me. I pestered my mother so much for it that she got me a teacher.He was this old guy, who came from very far off, dark, sunbaked skin, a crazed look in his eyes and Einstein hair. All he looked for in a person was "interest". All you would need to do was get that glassy eyed look when you doodle nonsense, and voila! He wants to teach you.
He was the guy who I'd like to thank for my neat handwriting.
Then, well, I outgrew the phase and Ma discontinued it.
I went up to the kids and watched their classes for a while. Nobody objects when I do so, because I'm "Bade Sahib". The kid at the center was drawing the ice cream cone wrong.
I took the piece of chalk, and gently corrected it. He stopped me.
"What's the point when the rain's going to wash the beauty away?"
I gave him a half smile, half astounded look. The kid was barely five years old.
The drawing teacher, a lady with white air and deeply unsettling eyes, also enjoyed my company. I entertained them with jokes and puns, occasionally using my fingers to smudge chalk lines for a smoky, shaded effect to beautify the pictures. Their laughs and snorts reminded me so much of the fun me and my sister used to have at our own drawing classes.
That evening, I was found clutching my mother's foot.
She was holding a thali of hot, molten ghee, and was getting seriously alarmed as drops started to trickle down the plate and scald her exposed toes.
"What do you want? Get out of the way you pest!"
"Pleeease?"
"What?! Ouch" Another drop.
"I want my drawing classes back."
"You're too old for it! Aah!" This time, a huge tablespoon full.
Practically in tears, she said "Whatever you want. Just let me go now, will you?"
****************2bc**************
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