the walk back home.

 the bus ride homewards is rarely quiet.

it used to be a quiet twenty five minute journey,

but that was before i stepped away from the pedestal.

it seemed a bit lonely up there.

the bus ride home is full of chatter. inconsistent gossiping. hovering migraines. compulsive talking. the seat i sit in never has the air conditioning vent working. the vent has been bottled shut with a ball of crumpled notebook pages. the seat is worn out. the handles have chipped paint on it. a variety of profanities stretch across the backseat plastic.

i smile.

i am used to taking the window seat on the bus.

strange how i have forgotten how the road outside looks.

the bus jerks to a stop.

i have memorised every bump on the road, but i still lose balance to the last. some sort of familiarity, that breeds a weakness.

the minute i step out, i take a soft breath.

it is a long way home. 

and i always take the longer route.

a tea stall sits to my left.

a string of paan masala, local mouth fresheners and digestives with flashy packaging hangs for display.

on the counter, there are glass jars with fingerprints smeared on them.

there's oddly shaped biscuits, chikki and other sweet goods, now extinct on the streets of the city.

a middle aged lady sits there, but it is mostly her son. i wave hello to him and whenever possible, i try and pick out the aam candy i used to savour as a kid. 

today the coin burnt a hole in my pocket.

i walked ahead.

i hum a tune stuck in my head.

amar raat jaga tara,

tomar akash choya bari.

ami paina chute tomae

amar ekla lage bhari.

the schoolbag feels a little heavier on mondays.

i could say i turned towards home,

but i fished out a measly twenty rupee note, and asked for a

cold bottle of limca.

the water droplets against the glass race into my palms.

the trees above welcome a weary traveler home. 

the leaves crunch below my feet.

somewhere, someone plays the sitar.

i can hear the delicacy in their fingers.

the patience.

perhaps another day i will sit on the pavement, and fall in love to her strings.

but not today.

today i have to go home.

i take the dutiful right turn.  

i look at the ground

at my dirty black shoes.

in rhythm.

i can see home now.

that verandah.

my face lights up when i see an old friend sitting at a table.

alone.

she seems to be waiting,

resting comfortably on the cafe round-table.

her head tilts up.

i greet her,

and i sit at the stairs.

she leaps down, and sit on the stairs beside me.

head against my arm.

she reminds me a little of you.

we don't talk.

we sit for a while.

i step onto a pavement.

it is badly placed.

the tiles are no longer alternately arranged.

i smile when i remember.

these things happen.

i unlatch the big black gates.

the gaps at the bottom are too small for my feet now.

i can no longer swing on them.

i am growing up.

a middle aged man with a hefty moustache sits at the reception.

he nods at me with a grin.

i wave at him.

i count the steps upto the brown door.

every time it is a different number.

Ma, eshegechi. 

                                                     a bengali utensil seller - 1944 (calcutta)