In the crevices in the wall, live people that have lives worth mentioning because aren't all lives worth a mention?

There's Govind with his drying moustache that he oils every night. And his wife with the belly as brown as a stone. She smells of food, like dal perhaps or maybe oil. It's hard to tell. 

Aaram sells mirrors, because he thinks it's fascinating. He tells stories about his mirrors, like how film stars buy them off him because his mirrors are clear enough to reflect the future.

Sarika is the brightest student you've seen but all she really wants to do is be a part of a film where she can sit in a plane. Strange enough, just a plane ride won't do. It has to be a part of a film.

Lilavati, who calls herself Lala, does things she doesn't talk about for the fear of judgement but she enjoys them all the same. In the nights, when she comes home, she soaks her feet in lukewarm water and massages her neck which is terribly sore. 

In the cracks in the ground live people whose stories are as fascinating as their narrative, peppered with words that you'd fear to ask the meaning of. 

As the curtains are drawn, and the cracks are filled with plaster, these stories become rubble because the voices that tell them are unceremoniously silenced. 

There is a place, not far from here, where the benches are wooden and yellow and the sun sets behind the trees quietly, like most other sunsets. The darkness isn't compelling and nothing about the place is intrusive.

The people there look through you and walk by because they are fighting with their own demons, or the lack of them, and don't really need to worry about why your eyes look swollen or why you have lost questionable amounts of weight in the days gone by. The couples there are fighting but their voices make no sound, it's like bubbles under water or fear that lets you scream in silence. 

Then you walk by and you break into a jog and before you know it you're running full pelt, the wind breaking against your face and your nose running diffidently. Then eventually you come to a point from where you started and you realize that you have gone around the scheme of things once and finally you don't feel better per se, but you definitely feel different and that's hardly a bad thing. 

The girl at the bus stop waited for a while before she pulled out her phone and dialled a number. Then she dialled it again. After the third time, she gave up and sat there with her head hung low.

The sun went down a little and when she looked up her face chalky and pale, and she had aged ten years in sixty minutes. She looked at her phone again while her eyes leaked defeat and her hands trembled a little.

By the time she left, she was a changed person. Something somewhere had snapped. Some cog in the machine had given way. Her gait was a little altered, as though she had forgotten how to walk and it was now a pointed effort.

I saw her world rattle a little, while the rest of the real world walked by like it was just another dandy Sunday evening. 

The little girl with the cropped hair danced in the middle of the street. Her head was wrapped in a red cloth with butterflies. When she stopped, her face was red and feisty  like a child warrior taking over the world.

Her parents, standing close by, looked on with pride, as their daughter jumped around without a care in the world. They clapped along, uninhibited, because their child looked happy and perhaps that all they wanted. The rest of the people threw her a generous glance, maybe a small smile, and went along their lives.

Once she was done, she walked away, holding her parents' hand, saying something in a manic chatter, where her words tumbled out without pauses. The parents understood her perfectly. They asked her questions and made comments. It was clear that all she needed was the right audience. 

The city was beautiful today.

I whizzed by the sea face in a bright red car, that I pretended was my own while it wasn't, and I took in the magic that the sun creates while it's dipping into the ocean.

The colours were delectable; like honey and hay and diluted ink on handmade paper. The tyres made a crunching sounds on the gravel and the wind danced through my hair. The smell of the sea clung to my clothes and hugged my skin until I got home.

And by the time I reached, the breeze tugged at my scarf, like a little pet does when you get home after a long day.

It was comforting.

The milkman died in a car crash. The car crashed into him. "This morning, around 4" his wife told us while yanking out her green bangles because those signify marriage. "What do I do wearing these now?!" She said in Hindi, in a voice that was mostly drama lined with grief. The person next to her tried to pat her back but it seemed more like tap-tap-tap with some non-gentle sobs.

The people flocked to his home like garrulous women at a convenience store. The sounds of their bereaved voices carried all the way across the street. The sorrow and the ensuing depression manifested itself in loud shouts of protest. They screamed at God that He took away their friend, a man who was not only honest but also a generous soul during cricket matches being telecast on TV. 

His kids, X and Y because I don't know their names, sat in one corner looking stricken and largely uncomfortable by the constant show of affection towards them, a concept otherwise alien.

When they carried his body, a fight broke out about who got to carry him to the crematorium. The man with the loudest voice started chanting something but stopped abruptly because someone else wanted to chant too. In the end, it sounded like a terrible medley leaking out of a radio and the poor milkman looked small and insignificant on the stretcher, amidst the little army of people fighting for importance.

The street lights looked brighter and more exciting, for a reason that I couldn't point out, from the 22nd floor. They looked like fireflies.

When you kept your eyes halfway open (or halfway shut if that's what you you prefer) they looked like jagged lines below. Thrilling but also slightly dangerous.

The air was crisp and our cheeks felt raw. There was a vague floral smell, like lilies and drugstore room freshener. We took pictures with the skyline behind us. The pictures were pretend candid- where you pretend to be deep in conversation or you have a faraway thoughtful look on purpose.

By this point, the concert across the street had taken to a display of fireworks. In the noisy evening, a bunch of electric pinks and greens shot into the sky and disappeared, like sparks of brilliance on dull afternoons.

Cold Saturday mornings aren't all that commonplace in Bombay.

I had to fish out my sweatshirt from my unpacked Calcutta luggage and wear it while drinking tea. The sweatshirt had a vague travel smell; of perfume and dust and moisturizer that we used in copious amounts while we were in Calcutta.

When I left the house, I felt my lips turn dry and my nose sniffle. This is the closest we will come to knowing what winter is. I kept myself wrapped in a scarf until I got to work. For the first time, the it was warmer inside the building than outside.

It was a green lamp-post in the middle of the street. 

The birds sat under it in a zen manner. A dog sniffed at its base, wagging its tale perhaps to the dying smell of food. The beggars showed off their earnings to each other, a cheap cigarette cradled in their chapped lips.

All their silhouettes danced as the night grew darker and the lights came on. It looked like a puppet show, except the puppets were dark outlines of real people with feelings and lives. 

There was nothing noteworthy about the lamp-post or the people it sheltered, even if for a short period of time. But still it caught my attention and held it for a while, until I passed it by and it became just another thing on the street. 

In the morning, much too early to have been woken up, the man unloaded coconuts under my window. He stood in the truck, amidst the brown spheres that could have passed off as smooth rocks, and dropped them in the hands of his colleague. The colleague was a thin man with arms like sugarcane sticks. He put the coconuts in cartons.

There was a constant plop sound; the sound that woke me up. It went from being annoying to pleasant, like a rhythm you discover around you. The trees around them rippled and there were faraway vehicle sounds. It was all comforting in a vague, distant manner.

After they unloaded what they had to, the man packed the cartons and jumped into the truck with his friend. The two just lay there on the coconut bed sharing a beedi, that seemed to be fizzling away, and making small talk. I wish I could hear what they were saying, I am sure there’d be a story in there.

Death is being protested.

Not untimely or cruel death. Not death that was unfair or unjustified.
But natural death after a full life.

In the darkness of mourning, there are floodlights outside to keep the bereaved company. In the unspeakable grief, there are monologues of self-glory. In the harmless life of the commoner, there is unrest and uncertainty.

These are the days when everyone walks with their heads down, questioning the city and their presence in it. 

Pushed along on a wooden cart are rows and rows of shimmering lanterns.

They’re made with the paper that loud gifts get wrapped in. The morning sun lights them up and they trot along, like spoilt little brats at a party. The festivities are everywhere. There are heaps of flowers lining alleys and streets and women walking by with marigold garlands wrapped in newspaper. In their homes, they tuck it away in the fridge to keep them fresh. The next day, they will hang it on their doors and cars, standing on quivering stools on their toes. A couple of days later, a few flowers will leap only to be crushed under the foot of a sprightly child returning from cricket or a disgruntled maid who has to clean up the post festival mess.

There are fairy lights covering trees. Houses have lights in their windows, blinking in their epilepsy inducing glory. They form shapes and figures and cling onto newly cleaned grills to call out to passers-by. It’s a call for joy and attention.

In the midst of plates of sweets and dry fruits, are children stuffing their faces. Their mothers pat their backs encouraging them to eat more until they can’t move for a while. Ten years later, they waddle around, still unable to move.

I am making my way through the Monday, in an auto that tilts to the right on a road that looks like a smoke bomb exploded there.

The smoke I am told is to ward off mosquitoes. The auto tumbles along, and all the pests within in possibly die. On the cement divider between the street, the surviving pests of the human variety, create a racket with fireworks. The anticipated festival is more than a week away but that doesn't really hold anyone back.

The reds and greens of the signal lights blink at us, and watch us not follow a single traffic rule.

Bombay’s sorry excuse for an attempt at winter can be tasted in the early morning air.

It gets the back of your throat, a little at first and then all of a sudden when you aren’t expecting it. If you’re jogging, it cuts at your eyes. Your palms continue to sweat but it’s a cold sweat this time, like there’s something really bothering you. The trees drop leaves on you, shedding their old skins in the novelty of a breeze. The cars that pass you by have their windows rolled down and you hear dawn music instead of the noiseless rattle of air-conditioning. The old homeless section of people stand around wrapped in tearing sheets, rubbing their hands together. Most people are still asleep, oblivious to what the weather is like at ungodly hours like this one.

After you’ve jogged for a while, you realize that the brief period of the absence of humidity has passed. Your face feels like it’s burning and the day is beginning to break. The streaming yellow sunlight begins to peep and the breeze leaves in silence, like a shamed lover. The morning spell, like a lot of things that feel too good to be true, remains a secret of sorts.

The chic beggar has dark streaks in her hair. The exact shade is hard to ascertain but I would go with a mix between mocha and mud red. The hair is held back with a fraying red ribbon; a more laid-back version of the kind that is wrapped around cheery gifts. Her face is expressionless, but her eyes leak condescension – it runs down her face is a gummy mess.

Her skirt has little bells at the hem, but they don’t make any sounds. Her shirt is tied in a loose knot at her midriff, it’s all very casual. Silver bangles snake around her dry arms. When she raises her hand to beg, the bangles all fall to her elbow in a cowering heap. She says something under her breath but I don’t hear it. Finally, she points to her feet. Her left foot is covered in a yellowing bandage.

I don’t see the wound though and either way I am sure it’s fake. What I do see is the tattoo above the bandage. It’s a fish jumping towards her knee. It’s jumping towards another fish which is half hidden under the edge of her skirt. I look back at her and she smirks.

I remove a five rupee coin to hand to her but she walks away, brushing me off like I am a pesky kid. I sit back, still holding the damp coin, unsure what I feel about the whole thing.

My sun was purple today.

It threw some of its grape toned light on my arm making it fascinating and disturbing at once. I threw my head back and shut my eyes. I kept them shut throughout the ride, watching the things you see only when you aren’t looking.

There were concentric circles in orange with dark streaks, perhaps the berserk sun, and green spots. There were miniature versions of us, blowing soap bubbles at home and playing catch with balding tennis balls. There was a 5 year old me holding up a box of leaking paints.

When I opened my eyes, the green spots stood by me for a bit and then went away. The sun danced around the trees in a morning rush. By the time I got to work, it had snuck behind a cloud.

When I looked down at my arms, they were normal coloured again. For the smallest fraction of a second, I missed the purple.

The people from the huts came out after the loud sound. All kinds of heads appeared from behind the blue tarpaulin sheets and the yellowing canvas walls. In the distance, the rail line exploded people. Like worms from under a rock, the tiny specks moved at a dizzying speed.

One of the men from the neighbourhood, who had been squatting near the tracks, looked at where his arm used to be. His blackened face gave away no emotion. He had no emotions. Instead inside him there was just a hollow; a hollow in which he occasionally poured dry rice and country liquor.

Around him, the city bled in the darkness. The cumulative cacophony of everyone’s pain surrounded him. He tried to stand up, but his feet wouldn’t co-operate. A man who had survived the blast, and apparently his cell-phone had too, tried to call for help. He gave up when he realized the lines had jammed, and began using his cell-phone as a torch. The torch bearer walked around trying to do whatever he could, but he kept halting to take deep breaths.

Our man turned to one side and threw up his lunch. The smell of burning flesh and gunpowder was twisting his stomach into a tight, angry knot. When the torch bearer approached him, he called out for help. The torch bearer came and tried to help him stand, but in the push-and-pull of the situation, he fell down into a heap next to the man. He sat there for a bit, with his head tucked between his legs, and sobbed like a child. The man tried to pat his back, but then he realized that he had lost a limb, and hence was now physically incapable of sympathy on his left side.

The police came in, hitting their sticks on the slick ground, because they somehow believed that would help the situation. The ambulances carted people in like packing fruits in a tearing paper bag. The night stood still against the backdrop of grief and anger.

The two men sat next to each other, watching and wondering. The cell phone light died on them soon enough. By the time the police and paramedics found them, they had fallen asleep on each other, like blood brothers.

They sit against the spit streaked wall; scrawny and bug eyed. When people pass, they raise their hands, asking for money. They shake their steel containers, up and down, making a racket with loose change.

The shoe-shine boy sits cross legged next to them. He plays a little tune with his instruments. The dull thud of the wooden brush hitting the rusted can of polish plays out a popular film song. The men stop by and raise one leg on to his pedestal. His cloth runs across their pseudo expensive shoes, back and forth. In the end, they watch their grim faces in their gleaming shoes and hand him five rupees. He touches the money to his forehead and drops it a nook in the pedestal.

The barber tops the pecking order. He sits on a chair waiting for an unshaven man. He taps his feet against the warm ground. He observes his fingers, trimming the nails idly with the scissor in his hands. The old man who comes for a shave also gets an enthusiastic neck massage. The barber pummels and pats the man’s neck with a clapping noise. The old man falls asleep somewhere along the way.

At night, they wrap up their things and thoughts in boxes and containers. The sounds of their trade seep through their things, running along the cracks of the sidewalk; they lie still only to pick up their song-and-dance the next day.

We drove over a wide bridge. The wind filled up the car with a fierce sound. Everyone laughed, because there wasn’t too much else to do. There weren’t too many other cars.

At the end of the bridge, hovering above the water was a ball of silver. It writhed and struggled like a creature in agony. When we drove closer to it, it rose higher and towards us. It wasn’t really silver. Everything glitters from a distance, and all that. It was powdery grey smoke coming out of a plastic tub from the water below. It was dense and foul smelling.

We tried to lean over and see what was being burnt. It was a toy – like a doll or a stuffed bear. There were probably more ingredients in this smoke show because it seemed unlikely that a soft toy would put that up, just by itself.

All the made-for-TV horror shows would suggest that this was a concrete case of black magic. We wondered, as we drove away coughing, if there was a child somewhere far away bleeding from its ears or shrinking into a lump of flesh. Or if the only thing coming out of this was an asthma attack.

Every corner I turned – the sky was a different colour.

The cab I was in drove past a school and I looked up at an orange-pink sky. The children trickled out of the school. The tiny ones, whose school bags where bigger than them, wavered a little under all that intellectual weight. They looked ecstatic on seeing their mothers who’d come to pick them. They dropped their things and began to run about in circles.

As we drove on the sea link, the sky soon became blue, with only a slight hint of the dark side. We crossed all the young couples sitting on their stationery bikes. The sea wind drove their hair into a frenzy. They had to chase after their scarves, which hopped away with the fierce breeze.

As we turned onto the all-too-familiar street, where trees swayed lazily and the home winked at us from a distance, the sky turned a dark graphite grey. People quickened their pace and cars rushed past so as to reach home before the it started to rain.

I walked into the building under the slate coloured expanse above me, with all its stars tucked away. There was a sense of doom to the whole thing, but only in the nicest possible way.