Corns popping on coal fire, scent of fish hovering around the thermocle boxes packed with ice, pork intestine drying in the rare sunlight that shines above the city.
”Maruti 800 are phased out from a rest of India.” The driver tells as his
old maruti tries to climb a steep slope.It groans.A child in red school dress giggles as she clutches her mother who tries to navigate the traffic.
There is a breeze that brings aromas and scents ; pickled bamboo shoots and excreta.A child squats over an open drain. The mother shouts something.The language wraps around me in complete incomprehension.
There are horns and sounds.A gawdy carnival tent in the middle of the city.
”This is the first time there is no bandh here on 15th August”. The tricolour blinds the vision;tricoloured pandals and tricoloured balloons. A turbaned man sells biriyani.The smell of beef and onion steaks waft in from the anglo indian stall. I miss the colored jimsems. A boy dressed as in starch kurta and gandhi cap cries as his parents coax him to participate in the fancy dress.
People laugh at the sight and smack their lips; fresh and free jilipi from Delhi Mistanna Bhandhar. The dustbin was already overflowing.Some one starts strumming his guitar.Music courses through the crowd.
I walk away and reach the cafe-solemn and deserted. They make good irish coffee here. It has been four months since I have written.I open my diary and look at the jotted points. Nothing comes to mind, it is as blank as empty pages that follow today.I sip the coffee..cream smudges around my lips.
I crave for smoked pork.