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