Sunday Afternoons

Sunday afternoons.Still.Sunny.Bright.The road opposite my bedroom window is empty save a trickle of pedestrians; most of them people returning from the market with fresh broiler chicken.

A quirky sparrow chirping incessantly for want of attention.

The reverie of the Gulmohar disturbed by a gush of breeze that has probably lost its way in the heat and humidity.

Tink. Tank. Tink. Tank. Tink. Tank. The rhythmic strokes of a construction worker plummeting menacingly on an iron rod.

I smell the aroma of Garam Masala brewing from my neighbour’s window. Mutton probably.

A rich dark crimson saree walloping from the outer railing of a balcony, Wonder what it was in the empty space that it was trying so desperately to reach. The breeze likes to tease her. Tantalize her into believing that she might get successful in breaking away from the confinity of a steel rod that dominates her existence and dictates her space.

An indolent dog is stretching and yawning, safely tucked under the shadow of a bench in the compound.

There seems to be no respite for the kabadiwala who inspite of the scorching heat is shouting hopefully at the top of his voice, “Dabba, Batli, Samaan, Bhangarwalai…!!!"
The sound pierces the stillness, creates a ripple around it for sometime…Then it’s the same again. Disappointed he starts walking back out of the compound. Nobody around me seems to have anything useless to give him. With a tired and forlorn look, he makes his way out. Goes to the Gulmohar and sits on the Katta wiping the stream of sweat flooding his forehead. The heat has sapped his energy.

I can hear the vociferous noise made by a bunch of kids arguing while playing cricket somewhere. I guess someone’s out and not ready to part with the bat.

Sitting in the opposite balcony I see an old wrinkled woman staring down at the empty space. There are no expressions on the surface, I guess because there’s a vast chasm of nothingness beneath it. This was one of the few occasions where the exterior is reflecting the emptiness inside…Otherwise we are masters of disguise…we are experts in hiding our respective emptiness by our effervescent exteriors. Probably you are too tired to keep up the act at that age…

The tranquility of the burning roads is disturbed by a lone auto rickshaw. It passes leaving a trail of smoke behind.


Sunday afternoons…are still.

Sunday afternoons are still empty.