She had been taking time today unusually running from one thing to another, stopping by every bit of arrangement with an extra care, fingering every vase ; rearranging brown ceramic cup like ornaments on the wooden book case with square portals with different sizes. The smaller squares which hardly fits her head were her choice to keep her randomly picked up ornaments. The larger frames were full of closely fitted gold lettered books, we never bothered to read because they were too ancient for everyday handle. They all were brown too.
The bus announced her departure after five minutes of the scheduled time whichwould somehow catch racing against another bus later in the solitary part of the highway , yet, once again delayed for an old lady with a huge bundle of cloth makeshift bag. She funnily struggled at the door. The conductor getting down with an impatient countenance murdered something to the woman who in return rewarded an uncertain smile of not understanding showing her teethless gums. She was too small. An everyday woman of any public transport after her purpose was done bending every new day towards the earth walking slowly along the high walled streets, looking at her own bending shadow, carrying heavier things as if nothing matters. She was an everyday woman.
It was then everything was said alright to depart. A seller with a tray of tit bits ran to the bus was englufed by the noise of the engine and the sterio. She had already in her own world with the hands free listening or just blocking the noise. She would soon fall asleep only to be aroused when her head knocked against the small metal handle of the window.
It would be a long a journey. I wished it would be.
Looking around with a casual enthusiasm I tried to trace any familiar small town faces that we have been left.
Everything was slow.
The fruit sellers opposite the Mara tree have piled up the colours and shapes time to time sprinkling with water. Dark men with faces of no charcter. Small town people. Like dust rising with the passing vehicles, these people have settled here to rise every morning and come here and wait for the evening to go home and sleep. Small town people. Like small window frames.
I felt the heat then.
It would have been better if she closed the window now.
If Suresh comes, this evening, when the bats come to the Mara tree, we would be able to go to the station together.
Looked at her as again a dust cloud whirled lifting frantically tattered papers and polythene for a one more time. It was not lasting enough to carry them away. She did not know. When she comes after one week, everything had to be like the way she had left them and Suresh must have gone home taking another bus with a window seat with a small opening.
Suresh would bring as he promised his new collection of poems.
I want to read him his poems in the railway yard sitting on the old stack of sleepers under the florescent light as I had promised before all these. The evening trains were faster and noisier because they did not stope here. There were three tracked junction station after two stations that they all bound towards.
The bus has gone.
I followed the beach parallel lane to reach home.
Rearranged the bed.
Opened the windows as if in a spirit possessed vigour. The salt wind of September blew in with dust tormenting her white lace curtains. They twisted and twisted whirling with the wind. Suresh would sit here and write a poem on this when he comes home.
More windows. More salty wind.
Creaking of the bookcase.
I thought of him.
Two more hours for his bus to reach home.
Last edited by menakachaam on 2018-09-14, 9:13 pm; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Grammar)