Tales from a journey – Custard apple diaries


Snippets from a hometown

The roads looked alive with hustling cars, auto rickshaws, bikes and ramshackle lorries. The sidewalk, seemingly dirty with a thick film of grease and smut, glimmered under the irrepressible afternoon sun. She sits on this sidewalk every day enveloped in the busy noises of the street markets, under the shades of a giant aging tree. This is her spot. Her little shop of custard apples is what sits in a tattered woven basket. Mornings start with the unfailing ritual to set it all up (ripe, tender ones upgraded atop the pyramid arrangement) on a flap of cardboard against the blue walls of the samosa shop, before the bazaar is enthusiastic and alive. It’s a pleasing sight to walk by, a reassuranceĀ of familiarity.


I woke up craving for a custard apple kind of morning.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s