Against the stark background of red muddy roads and small houses, we made a story.
I climbed trees with the sun browning my bare arms. I would sit there, watching the people go by, secretly looking for him, and holding my breath every time I saw a curly haired man. His curly hair touched his nape, resting lightly on the collar of his white shirt. He wore glasses, thin rimmed and intimidating. He carried a book covered in brown paper. I never found out which book it was, and honestly at that point it didn’t matter.
We spoke once that summer. He knew my father, he said. “Your father is a brilliant teacher. If it wasn’t for him, I would never have entered the teaching profession” He told me, shifting the book from one hand to another. I knew all that and more. I knew that in the flickering light of the candle, he taught old women the alphabet. The woman who worked in our house had told my mother this in a hushed tone. She begged my mother to never repeat this; she worried her husband would beat her if he found out.
I never saw him in the monsoons. The women said he had gone off somewhere, taking with him only his book and a small bag. They said he had taught them what they needed to know. Under the awning of a defunct temple, they read out words from children’s books, stringing letters together with the tip of their fingers.
I stayed out a lot, walking through the streets barefoot; footprints in a sea of red. I didn’t bother about the rain. My hair was always wet; lashing against the small of my back. It’s amusing, only in retrospect, that my childish heart was all knotted up over a person I barely knew. Somewhere along the way, I learnt to not hold my breath so often and that was a good thing because I didn’t see him after that.
He came to our house many years later when my father passed away. He touched my mother’s feet, and held out some flowers. He spoke to me in a very low voice, saying over and over again how he will remain indebted to my father. I didn’t have much to say. I offered him water and asked him if he’d like to eat something. He shook his head morosely. He had wanted to come for the cremation he said, but he had received the news too late. He left soon enough; I stared at his back until he became one with the dark. And that was that.
The truth is, in real life, these are how most stories pan out. Not all of the people we meet become lovers. Not all betray our trust or swindle us. Most people just walk in and out of our scheme of things altering our existence only in a negligible manner. That doesn’t make them or their stories any less important. It’s good to remember that in the dramatic lives we like to lead, there is also simplicity tucked away in the folds.
I climbed trees with the sun browning my bare arms. I would sit there, watching the people go by, secretly looking for him, and holding my breath every time I saw a curly haired man. His curly hair touched his nape, resting lightly on the collar of his white shirt. He wore glasses, thin rimmed and intimidating. He carried a book covered in brown paper. I never found out which book it was, and honestly at that point it didn’t matter.
We spoke once that summer. He knew my father, he said. “Your father is a brilliant teacher. If it wasn’t for him, I would never have entered the teaching profession” He told me, shifting the book from one hand to another. I knew all that and more. I knew that in the flickering light of the candle, he taught old women the alphabet. The woman who worked in our house had told my mother this in a hushed tone. She begged my mother to never repeat this; she worried her husband would beat her if he found out.
I never saw him in the monsoons. The women said he had gone off somewhere, taking with him only his book and a small bag. They said he had taught them what they needed to know. Under the awning of a defunct temple, they read out words from children’s books, stringing letters together with the tip of their fingers.
I stayed out a lot, walking through the streets barefoot; footprints in a sea of red. I didn’t bother about the rain. My hair was always wet; lashing against the small of my back. It’s amusing, only in retrospect, that my childish heart was all knotted up over a person I barely knew. Somewhere along the way, I learnt to not hold my breath so often and that was a good thing because I didn’t see him after that.
He came to our house many years later when my father passed away. He touched my mother’s feet, and held out some flowers. He spoke to me in a very low voice, saying over and over again how he will remain indebted to my father. I didn’t have much to say. I offered him water and asked him if he’d like to eat something. He shook his head morosely. He had wanted to come for the cremation he said, but he had received the news too late. He left soon enough; I stared at his back until he became one with the dark. And that was that.
The truth is, in real life, these are how most stories pan out. Not all of the people we meet become lovers. Not all betray our trust or swindle us. Most people just walk in and out of our scheme of things altering our existence only in a negligible manner. That doesn’t make them or their stories any less important. It’s good to remember that in the dramatic lives we like to lead, there is also simplicity tucked away in the folds.
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