Wet Veranda

The window panes were dancing wild!

It was a thunder shower for a while. More of thunder and less of shower. The general humidity is replaced by spell of cool breeze. It is all over leaving my veranda wet. The sun was yet to set and a streak of orange slowly smudged on the sky.

The housing complex opposite to mine stood fully drenched. The aura was romantic. The apartment just opposite to mine belongs to an airhostess. Have seen her once decked in a well pleated branded saree hurriedly getting into a car. It is generally mid night that her office car drops her and I hear her shutting the door hard. Kalua, the sleeping dog on the road barks once and then resumes back to sleep. Occasional am late to hit the bed. Laying on my cosy corner, attempting to fall asleep I conclude soft profession do call for a hard attitude.

It is her little daughter who I saw a number of times. The small veranda opposite to mine is the whole world for the little one. Pervading privacy I snatched some such moments which is just hers, from some length. I feel very entertained watching her out in action. It is her imagination that turns the small veranda to a classroom, often into a kitchen and once in a while ramps for catwalk.  Her unadulterated playful acting have made many a morning of mine. I am a silent admirer of hers. There is an elderly couple too, possibly her grandparents who keeps eyeing her time to time.

By proximity we are neighbours.

The time that we live - is full of at your door services – pizza to pakora, can connect Calcutta to California on click of a finger, makes us feel comfortable to text than talk, probes us to start with doubt more than trust leading to an unconscious step forward in devaluating a relation we once called neighbour. Thanks to my countries democracy. Be it corporation, state or general almost every year we get an opportunity to vote. The local school hosts the event. More than exercising rights, it is a nice feeling of being a part of a community who lives in the same place. We exchange social notes standing in the long queue. Life moves on, new voters join and some old voters are missed. Colours change, so do face of political agents, we as neighbours keep celebrating a journey of graceful co-existence knowing very little about each other.
Is the story sounding familiar? Never mind. That is not a crime. Its Newton’s third law probably. As global breeze gets more space local has to compromise. Nonetheless the little that remains made most of it this evening.

There is absolutely nothing but air between two face to face verandas. Boundary walls have ended much below. We share the messy lane in between the two apartment walls that is full of political party festoons lying all wet. Like the unbound milieu today she was brilliant. Managed to drape a cotton dupatta and kept walking with a style quotient on their veranda. The cotton ware was blowing behind her and she looked ahead of her age. She had a fake handset and was enacting as if she was speaking to someone. Must be sharing loads of home chore with a close friend. Her mom must be flying high in the air, grandparents watching some popular TV channel – endless political debates or some old time cinema or may be just flipping remote buttons to beat the arms of the clock that’s ticking.

The sun has set. With fall of night the vapour lamps on the street corner was glowing. The little one have slowly retreated back leaving behind the semi lit veranda and her bundle of dreams to take rest for a while. The evening traffic in the neighbourhood lane is gaining usual momentum with stereotype hustle bustle. The moist sky had spreads its spell with occasional lightening as the neighbourhood chills. The phone is vibrating for some time now. Puddled over the dimensionless pool of water on the veranda into my room.

Picked up the handset that was loaded with texts pouring from contacts all over with emoticons and remarks ...“Enjoying Kal Baishaki?”, "Heard it's bad thunder, take care!" and many more..

Can hear faint blow of conch shell as the thunder is growling beyond limits. We who share the same pie of the sky feeling jittery together. Yes the fear that is engulfing me must be worrying the little one too. Her mother is yet to come back home tonight.

 

Pencil Box

I was standing on the boy’s playground watching every bit on the ground that I would not usually get an entrance too. It was the most coveted boys’ school of the township, I grew up. I was still not in teen, yet could sense the soft pulse of what it would mean standing in a man’s world. The man who actually gave me this entrance to the restricted territory was in an interview. It was the second one in two weeks for him.

The school had a few Eucalyptus trees on the boundary. I started comparing as my school missed one. The campus was crowded with many – a few known and mostly unknown faces. He was made to sit on the long bench with a few more like him. They were mostly look alike in size yet different in behavior. He was waiting for a few instructions to follow and a few performances to make just like the one we did at home all in sports. But what made it different was the players were different. He had to play a new game with a few unknown players.

His last performance was fair. But guess everyone around had expected him to outperform this time. Just that he didn’t know what an interview means. It was a considerably new game to him. His eyes were observant but his comfort feeling was low. From the other end of the corridor through the painted grills I observed him, just to wait for a moment that he looks through the rigid grills and accept the bundle of good wishes that stood by as an assurance to succeed the game he had to play for himself.

I desperately wanted him to succeed. It was a still twenty minutes that we all waited for him to come out with an elderly woman. She was Mrs. Chapel. A name I competed with for a year. She was his kindergarten class work teacher and I tried to be her counterpart as his homework teacher. He was surrounded by a flock of unknown faces and more like an un-objective press he was asked to share his experience. He started crying. I felt sorry!

Later in cozy bed under the same quilt he shared what happened in the room. I inferred he answered all except one. His numeric education started from ‘1’ and ended with ‘9’. He was asked to result out “1 + 0 = ?”. Funny teaser – right! Zero was a new concept to him. I promised to teach him and wished his interviewers pardon his ignorance. He was only four and had lot many years to know what others have invented to make world more complex.

It was early spring. We were playing hide and seek. I was at a disadvantage being a foot higher than normal bushes in the company quarter – our residence. Just when we had the final call to wrap up the free-flow leisure hours, the postman came knocking. It was the first mail that came in his name. I was hesitant to receive not knowing what it was. Our next door neighbor was watching us play. She stepped forward to accept it.

Breaking rules of privacy I opened up his letter. The old style blue envelope, we called it Inland letter, had all letters neatly typed in black. The most wanted news of the time had fallen on my hands. Yes, he made it to the elite parlance. It was exuberant to feel that I was successful as a good wisher.

Life had its share of success and failure. In this journey of togetherness good wishes stood like the colorful pencil box helping with tools to write, erase, sharpen, color and pack them safely with the magnetic lock – open it to show the pride possession of relation which stands strong to wither many a difficult nights and soak in joy of many more bright morning.

The most priced gift that I could manage from the album “un-clicked” on Rahki to my brother!

Gyan #34 - Take a break!!