Under a warm golden sun , a new winter breeze is whistling in the leaves. We sit under a mildewed banyan. It’s fallen sun-dried leaves make dragon sounds on the road’s tarred surface. A yellow leaf has just passed us by as if it is the very banyan beginning with the wind.
The shadows of the trees move as if they are realistic and abiding.
I hear the titu bird’s cries opening our minds to spaces. Titu titu ,it cries out not asking for our life as it did in our childhood .A winter breeze brings a cock’s crow . It has just opened its bleary eyes to a Sunday morning.
Forum is a nobody’s discussion joint. It is a glitzy shopping mall that walks on curious gawkers. A third of the city crowd seems to be there as you can see from the cars in its underground womb.
We go to eat stuff from a capital joint. Not curious gawkers, we return with oily belches.
In the evening we walk through streets not full of sawdust but the fallen scraps of conversation from houses. Their words resonate through a dark silence that has descended upon the houses .
A dark silence is before men return from their walks. The men sit on stone slabs in the square and sip tea . When it is dark they will return to pick up threads from the earlier quarrels with the neighbours.
Looking back I have not noticed sawdust yet but I have just heard rice husk is no more. Rice Husk is the name of the loyal house maid in our inlaws house. She is 90 years of age. My memory is of a woman sweeping the house corners in a body wrinkled like a jackfruit. She had memories of my father-in-law’s wedding moments.
Instead of from a green bench let this day be of wild things. The peace of wild things. Key press devilry- piece of wild thongs.
Here I hide from a large sun behind a small tree . Tree carries a rag’s tag of some one’s colourful saree waving in the breeze. Saree might have had a baby swinging in the breeze while mom was carrying bricks in her head.
A crow caws a wild thing of peace. Another summer coming.
On the walk back are six puppies crossing the road. A man is sitting ,outside his canvas shack ,in a three-legged chair ,sipping tea.
A peace of wild things shall prevail
With another summer coming on us.
Another summer’s wild things come
Floating as shadows in its rivulets.
Another summer will soon be on us
And it will occupy us in its shadows.
To the people who are asking next ?
We say another summer is coming.
( Referring to Wendell Berry’s beautiful poem The Peace of Wild Things)
We were waiting for God’s doors to open. The priest is angry old man . He told us curtly to wait outside for the doors to open. Meantime we could pray to Monkey God behind the big striped red rock.
We had come from a 3 km long walk in the KBR park. There were just four peacocks in the park by the last count.
We decided to place a hundred rupee note in God’s plate . The angry old man was now less angry. He would give us God’s coconut . He asked us to sit in God’s hall under a fan.
Please make a chutney of the coconut. We will, we will, we said highly impressed.
On the walk back I see another water drill for a new house site. It’s tireless hum will fill a day’s silence.
By evening there will be rivers of soft white loam on the streets.
I knock at this man’s door on the third floor to hand over house papers. Wife opens the door and arches her eyebrows to enquire while her mouth is foaming with toothpaste. She then quickly shuts the door and bolts it from inside.
I wait in the corridor for the man to turn up.
Sure enough, I have to make a story. A parchi for early morning. A green bench narrative.
Now I sit on top of the foundation dangling my feet in its future space. Opposite to me there is the sun just above the brick layers of clouds. Tall sunburnt grass is waving to the wind.
Now the sun is up sprinkling his shine on my shirt. He is now blinding my eyeglasses like yellow fog and soon he will be all over the place.
An aluminium foil from somebody’s eating is rustling like a silver leaf in nearby breeze. Broken bottles lie in the grass as relics of drunken nights.