It is a Thursday and it feels like three entire lives since last evening. The station has faded, so has the name. I daresay I have it written down in my diary somewhere, but what matters is the words that haven't gone in there.
Hello.
Hello.
It's almost nine, you must have been bored. Bet you bought one of those chhamia-chhaila novels. What, I can see them. There. Look.
For one moment I stop and look at the Wheeler stall. There is a sudden gush from a drinking water fountain, I hear someone gargling loudly and spitting out a mouthful, and then everything swims back into focus again as I realise I know how to play this.
Ohho, it was a detective novel. Proper murder and everything. Do you plan to go anywhere for the night or do we sit on the bench here?
Let's ask around.
Suddenly it is night, but I don't communicate nights well. I don't communicate unknown rooms with noisy table fans and rickety beds well. Besides, it's Thursday now. It is Thursday and we are at a tea stall in the morning. We eat crumbly biscuits out of a glass jar, and get reacquainted with each other, noticing differences in face and body not visible in artificial lighting. I say 'we' but that is a force of habit now, within just one day, it always happens this way; the truth is that I have no idea what you are thinking.
There is a sudden decisive gulp of tea and you tap a biscuit like you're ashing a cigarette. The crumbs fall on my toe and I look at you and think, he's going to speak, what will he say?
Let's stay here another night, you say. Another night of proper sleep and tomorrow we start walking.
Turns out I do have an idea. The cloud of foolishness lifts away slowly and calmly - we did this the last time I ran away too. We did this every time.
Hello.
Hello.
It's almost nine, you must have been bored. Bet you bought one of those chhamia-chhaila novels. What, I can see them. There. Look.
For one moment I stop and look at the Wheeler stall. There is a sudden gush from a drinking water fountain, I hear someone gargling loudly and spitting out a mouthful, and then everything swims back into focus again as I realise I know how to play this.
Ohho, it was a detective novel. Proper murder and everything. Do you plan to go anywhere for the night or do we sit on the bench here?
Let's ask around.
Suddenly it is night, but I don't communicate nights well. I don't communicate unknown rooms with noisy table fans and rickety beds well. Besides, it's Thursday now. It is Thursday and we are at a tea stall in the morning. We eat crumbly biscuits out of a glass jar, and get reacquainted with each other, noticing differences in face and body not visible in artificial lighting. I say 'we' but that is a force of habit now, within just one day, it always happens this way; the truth is that I have no idea what you are thinking.
There is a sudden decisive gulp of tea and you tap a biscuit like you're ashing a cigarette. The crumbs fall on my toe and I look at you and think, he's going to speak, what will he say?
Let's stay here another night, you say. Another night of proper sleep and tomorrow we start walking.
Turns out I do have an idea. The cloud of foolishness lifts away slowly and calmly - we did this the last time I ran away too. We did this every time.
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