My lunch was heavier than my work load today. No wonder my eyes are drooping. Also over enthusiastic efforts at a swimming pool the previous day are paying dividends.
I step out of office, to be greeted by refreshing car and bike horns and the one tree that's torn up the pavement, in denial of the city. I spot Deb from my vantage point. She holds up an unlit cigarette, blocking her face, underlying the pertinent question. I inquire if she'l ascend or should I descend. On affirming our presence at the same depth of boredom, we ascend to take a walk.
Deb is a free spirited copywriter who craves ice lollies and karaoke.
Further down, we come across the graveyard guardian, accompanied by his own mutt. Potbellied and moustachioed, his eyes are wide in a mixture of surprise, bordering anger, expression reflecting
"Arre tum yahaan kaise??!!" more than "Aaiye...aap hi ke liye to baithe hain". He holds a sword in one hand that impaled some fresh lemons. The mutt looked very friendly.
I step out of office, to be greeted by refreshing car and bike horns and the one tree that's torn up the pavement, in denial of the city. I spot Deb from my vantage point. She holds up an unlit cigarette, blocking her face, underlying the pertinent question. I inquire if she'l ascend or should I descend. On affirming our presence at the same depth of boredom, we ascend to take a walk.
Deb is a free spirited copywriter who craves ice lollies and karaoke.
As we walk, a piece of cloth flies out of a tailor shop and makes a disfigured arrow, which answers the question, the church or the graveyard.
Vibrant and multicoloured graves and tombstones were strewn till their advance is abruptly cut off by a sombre grey wall. It was almost cheerful. It was Hindu graveyard.
We scour for some interesting epitaphs. Instead, we find the final resting place of a pug, made famous by mobile service provider ads and infamous by sharing its name with Deb's first heartbreak. So of course Jasper's resting place was archived for Deb's peace of mind.
The fork in the road in the afterlife.
We scour for some interesting epitaphs. Instead, we find the final resting place of a pug, made famous by mobile service provider ads and infamous by sharing its name with Deb's first heartbreak. So of course Jasper's resting place was archived for Deb's peace of mind.
Further down, we come across the graveyard guardian, accompanied by his own mutt. Potbellied and moustachioed, his eyes are wide in a mixture of surprise, bordering anger, expression reflecting
"Arre tum yahaan kaise??!!" more than "Aaiye...aap hi ke liye to baithe hain". He holds a sword in one hand that impaled some fresh lemons. The mutt looked very friendly.
Walking back, we see two girls sweeping outside their home, that is housed below this huge tree who's name we cannot figure. (Deb names the tree after the flowers it bears). The girls sweep till the dust rises up to their knees, and kick it up again before it settles down. I wondered when they figured they were done. Maybe when their mother asked them to.
Down the bend, boys in the ages 5-8 years are engaged in their post academic sports. The game is to head a tennis ball back to the pitcher. This was a boys only sport, I observed. Also no spectators unless you're a player yourself. Kind of like cricket, where you spectate really up close till the ball comes rolling towards you or if you have skills beyond that, with the ball and bat.
The other sport had not only contestants but voracious coaches and cheerleaders, rolled into one.
The winner is the first girl who successfully balances 5 pieces of broken tiles on her toes and completes a lap. The most likely winner of this sport was a tiny girl with pigtails, going about her task efficiently. Her undoing though, would be the fervour she would work herself into everytime she finished a lap. In disbelief at her achievement, she would start hyperventilating and flapping her hands. making the tiles slide off, restarting the race for her.
The boys, playing the coaches and cheerleaders, made sure the fervour didnt drop and we lost count of how many times the game restarted.
This is exactly when Deb needed, because she turns to me, eyes as wide as the graveyard keeper's, asking if she should ask them if she could play as well. Not sure of why I'm being asked, say something to the tune of "Ofcourse!".
She enquires and is readily accepted as a contestant. But before I can cheer her on, I feel a poke in my back.
I turned around to see the kid who was heading the ball earlier, lets call him Kannad Zlatan thrusts a bare tennis ball in my hand. This done, KZ readies himself, steadies his grip (on the ground), eager to go, to meet the tennis ball, flying with equal and opposite energy. I toss the ball and he heads it, his face held in a mix of a smile and a grimace, enjoying the act while not sure how much it would hurt.
Not much, clearly, because soon I was tossing the ball with the same enthusiasm Amrish Puri has as he's tossing grains to the pigeons in DDLJ.
"AAo...AAo...AAo". (Monotone + Baritone)
Just like the pigeons, these kids didnt care. This would repeat till another kid volunteered his cranium.
This uni-dimension is dawning on me when I feel another poke in my back. I turn to see Deb grinning.
"I won" she informed me.
We exclaim "THAANKYOUUuuuu!!" to the kids walk back to office.
Down the bend, boys in the ages 5-8 years are engaged in their post academic sports. The game is to head a tennis ball back to the pitcher. This was a boys only sport, I observed. Also no spectators unless you're a player yourself. Kind of like cricket, where you spectate really up close till the ball comes rolling towards you or if you have skills beyond that, with the ball and bat.
The other sport had not only contestants but voracious coaches and cheerleaders, rolled into one.
The winner is the first girl who successfully balances 5 pieces of broken tiles on her toes and completes a lap. The most likely winner of this sport was a tiny girl with pigtails, going about her task efficiently. Her undoing though, would be the fervour she would work herself into everytime she finished a lap. In disbelief at her achievement, she would start hyperventilating and flapping her hands. making the tiles slide off, restarting the race for her.
The boys, playing the coaches and cheerleaders, made sure the fervour didnt drop and we lost count of how many times the game restarted.
This is exactly when Deb needed, because she turns to me, eyes as wide as the graveyard keeper's, asking if she should ask them if she could play as well. Not sure of why I'm being asked, say something to the tune of "Ofcourse!".
She enquires and is readily accepted as a contestant. But before I can cheer her on, I feel a poke in my back.
I turned around to see the kid who was heading the ball earlier, lets call him Kannad Zlatan thrusts a bare tennis ball in my hand. This done, KZ readies himself, steadies his grip (on the ground), eager to go, to meet the tennis ball, flying with equal and opposite energy. I toss the ball and he heads it, his face held in a mix of a smile and a grimace, enjoying the act while not sure how much it would hurt.
Not much, clearly, because soon I was tossing the ball with the same enthusiasm Amrish Puri has as he's tossing grains to the pigeons in DDLJ.
"AAo...AAo...AAo". (Monotone + Baritone)
Just like the pigeons, these kids didnt care. This would repeat till another kid volunteered his cranium.
This uni-dimension is dawning on me when I feel another poke in my back. I turn to see Deb grinning.
"I won" she informed me.
We exclaim "THAANKYOUUuuuu!!" to the kids walk back to office.
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