She paused briefly; the ink from her pen formed a blot on the milky white paper as she followed her train of thought into the past. The wind came gushing into the room with a violent stroke as if nature noticed an inconsistency in its working. Shook off the muse, she now noticed the blot, it was growing in size and spreading through the pages lying below it.
Holding the folds of the frock by her naked palm, she approached the window. A woman from the adjacent house was hitting her door mat against the wall, school kids were waiting impatiently for their bus, and a milk man accidentally hit a dog and spilled milk all over the road. A mother yelling at her boys to finish breakfast, another feeding a street dog the remains of the previous night, while still other cajoling and coaxing her twelve year old son that she would buy him a new pair of shoes that summer.
The whole street was vibrant and colorful, Hawkins pressure cookers whistling, auto drivers honking horns, vegetable vendors screaming, women panting and gasping, returning with a pot of water from the street tap, fathers dusting off their bajaj scooters, neighbors joining the hustle-bustle a little later, tenants complaining, owners cribbing. A neatly dressed man with his hair combed to perfection and shirt tucked to withstand the day’s pressure walks his four daughters out of the house and while they stand disciplined, he begins his tryst with the kicking rod of the fifteen year old bajaj scooter that is left listless with the previous day’s heavy rain. He bends the scooter, rests it on his knees, holds it there for a while and proceeds for the kicking rod again. The government servant finally manages to bring the dirty sodden two stroke IC engine to life without even letting his shirt escape the tight clenches of his impeccable ‘shirt tucking’.
A house wife immaturely drops bargaining with the vegetable vendor and shoots past an elderly to cook the best meal possible for her family, the elderly with bent spine and a stick in the hand, pulls her sack out, slips the pale yellow blood ridden fingers into the sack and whisks out the pulverized tobacco leaves.
‘it’s time for the financial accounting class’, the adorable friend from the next room with those words pierced through the thick layers of the protagonist’s muse and just as a surfer balances himself on the board against the impending force of the ever frightening wave chasing him, the adorable friend brought the protagonist away from the sea of memories balancing on the board of reality against the inviting waves of sweet pleasures one gains from the distant memories.