The terrace has a clothes line that can’t be seen in the dark. All of us walked through it and winced a little.

Somewhere far in the distance, we see smoke from a refinery or a factory or some such. We stand at the edge and watch it, our hands stuffed in our pockets, hoods covering our ears. It is cold; a lot colder than we are prepared for, but not so much that we can’t stand outside. The night is pretty much starless and what we see in the sky is what we wish to see, patterns from our mind.

He tells us a story from his childhood –pointing out places and locations in adjoining houses to make it real. It works to some extent because when he takes me by my wrist to show me where exactly he saw the disappearing figure in white, I suddenly don’t want to see it.

We listen to music from a phone; favourite songs and songs that mean something within. This always happens. The buzzed feeling always lends itself to feeling more vulnerable than you’d like to feel. We hum along, then sing with no inhibitions until our throats feel ripped.

We stumble down to fall asleep, the dark sky watching our backs, glad and disappointed at the same time.

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.

The one week hiatus

It was a break, from both the writing and the city.

A whirlwind Calcutta visit; the city that potters around in a lackadaisical manner.

Walking around aimlessly on a Tuesday morning, stopping at every curious looking shop, being unnaturally gleeful that everyone else you know back in Bombay is at work.

A marriage with the usual emotions that it stirs up - happiness, a wistful tug somewhere deep within and an overwhelming wave of "someone my age is now married"

A campfire on a terrace, that was only partially successful, but thoroughly enjoyable.

Driving around the city, trying to make sense of bengali billboards and drinking milky chai from clay pots.

Extreme generosity, hospitality and camaraderie.

I must have been 6-7 years old and we were visiting some relatives in Calcutta. They had a big house on the outskirts of the city. After the first few days, when the novelty of the big house had passed, we decided to go to the city. My enthusiastic uncle said that it was time we did some touristy things. He said we must go explore the city. Go take pictures at Howrah bridge and at Victoria Memorial and eat puchkas later.
We piled into the back of his old Fiat and set off on our little journey. There were way too many people to fit in and I had to perch onto my mom’s lap. The ride was very interesting. My uncle kept pointing out buildings that had been built in the British era; their structures subtle yet sturdy. My mother and aunt made a couple of stops to look at saris. I remember that there was a cow there that had very pretty eyes. It’s funny how tiny details always stay with you.
As we began to approach our destination, the excitement grew. Everyone started talking in loud voices. My uncle had to juggle driving and making animated gestures to spice up his anecdotes. In the middle of all this we didn’t see an oncoming car. My uncle hit the brakes at the last minute. The car made a loud screech. Thankfully, the two cars didn’t collide. The other driver shouted at my uncle in rapid Bengali. My uncle apologized and turned to see if we were all okay. We weren’t. At least I wasn’t. Since I was sitting on my mother’s lap, I had hit the front seat with the sudden jerk. My lower lip had a slight cut. But when you are 6, a slight cut is like having a fracture. I started crying and my entire family attempted to pacify me. My uncle apologized a hundred times and made promises of pastries and sweets. My mother told everyone, in a strangely high pitched tone, what a brave girl I was. “Isn’t she brave?” My mother asked the others. I continued crying. To make matters worse, my cousin pointed at my lip and said, “Look Ma, balloon!” what he was trying to say was that my lip was beginning to swell. That scared me more and my howls became too loud for my family to handle. Finally, resorting to being stern, my uncle asked me to stop crying if I wanted to see Victoria Memorial with everyone else. That did the trick, but only just. I switched over to whimpering.
The swelling however had begun to worry my folks. My uncle started driving towards an ice cream man to see if he had some ice. My sister, in an attempt to cheer me up, began to tell me a story to make me a laugh. It was a story about a king who had to stop a battle to go to the bathroom. I remember laughing a lot. The ice cream man didn’t have ice. He also cheerfully informed us of some massive power cut. He told us that finding ice now would be difficult. Then he saw my lip and my tear streaked face. He smiled and pinched my cheeks and said he had a solution. He handed me a cold pack of Frooti. It was semi-frozen. He told me that I could hold it to my lip for a while and then drink it.
Those were strangely simpler times. We saw the Howrah bridge and ate the puchkas, amidst all the other things. But my favourite part of the Calcutta trip was the semi frozen Frooti.