Cherie..

2009-03-03T06:45:00.000-08:00

The street was dusty as always. Infact, it was a miracle how the same street sustained the same streak of grey , that would look the same in summer afternoons, in monsoon glooms, in spring sunshine and in winter chills - and all the seasons that I so irrationally forgot to mention.
Rows of old decaying big houses, the amount of decay is same in all of them, only some mellowed by a pale streak of whitewash, some, by a nippy yellow sobered by a tinge of chocolate with a slightreddish touch, others none at all except those stubborn patches standing proud against time, although forced into the Food Chain by generations of black mosses.
There was, however, a lone standing cotton tree at the right, and a lone standing tree at the left that use to give fiery - red flowers during the cooler periods of the year. It used to appear like a black and white photo on which an eccentric had swabbed with insane brush-strokes. And among those confused pandemonium of brickwork, there used to be real people who lived, loved, hated, laughed, cried and died.
Somewhere in the labyrinth, lies a queer little room, on the roof top, built more out of necessity than outof whim. It is hidden in a corner, almost stooping shamefully from the greater goods of the world. And in that room, an urchin sitting at the desk daydreaming. The room becomes unbearably hot during the afternoons, when hot winds blew harder than flying falcons. Harsh, cruel, physical like a slap in the face - the heat used to be visible in the room as a a humming shimmer. But as the sun goes down and the last of its rays smoothered the tip of the fiery-red flowers, and packs of ugly black crows gather on the tip of the cotton tree and suddenly fly away in all directions - the slapping hot winds slowly starts whispering telltale tales in more comfortable tones. And people might daydream, the perky sweet girl in the sixth floor balcony of the seven-storeyed apartment might step into the thrills of puberty over a secretly held cell phone, middle-aged housewives might seek for neighbouring gossips, an old man might stare blankly with a surprisingly wry smile and yes, a feverish urchin can daydream in a stealthily built room.
It is not necessary that every daydreams have a name, a shape or even a possibility. Yes, there might be some names,but that would essentially mean one person, but how about those whose face only shows. Or those which should not be spoken even to the shadows, those in which only he is the hero in its silly, crooked childish kind of a way. "Its okay he is brighter than me, I am stronger!", "I wish the teacher does not see that!", "well, atleast she smiled!" and mostly "Oh my God, I am broke!" Those unsaid dreams nurturing love for Morisson, or those experienced in the unseen world of Morisson. And those dreams at the study when it was only her in the whole wide world.
There was this one time when he had shoved a cat in a sack and kept it for a night before throwing it to another house - that scared the wits out of it - it sure did, even for a cat, it never stole his prawn- fries a second time.And the only time he tried what many people say dancing, he had banged his head against the window and developed an extra bit of skull - thanks to a much demented version of Khaled's oriental antiques. What authors say "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" is essentially a concotion of silent memoirs written on a fragile sheet of dreams.And then when night fell on those living dead structures of concrete, and moonlight shines upon them and the naked bricks smile like pre-historic monsters - nights with secret, almost tip-toed rendezvous for a cheap cigarette. There wasa mound beside the small roof top room - and how peaceful were those satisfied puffs upon acrid tobacco gleaming like a red firefly. He had once seen a white owl hooting relentlessly from the topmost ledge, and he had gazed at those ridiculously big round eyes, bland, dark and deep like infinity, and it had, for a while, glanced at him with more wonder than mistrust and then glanced away as if he was a creature not worthy of a second glance. He was so thrilled at the isolation in the company of the owl. And he had puffed his half- burned cigarette in silent satifaction.
And the streets were grey as usual. Although the faces have changed. It is a hot afternoon and he does not want to go. He is waiting for the evening, when the sunlight will fall upon the fiery - red flowers, and the crows will gather in a noisy ceremony, and the hot winds cool down and start caressing him with sensual kindness. The old man was dying,and he waited for the evening.

cherie

Cherie..