My nose twitched at the cocktail of smells: a wave of rotten tomatoes here, a whiff of chilly powder there.
Homely smells that kill, and revive.
Provision-filled jute bags moved around me; and vegetables that bulge and stick out. Home-bound.
The evening was fading and I walked with no aim, holding a kilogram of sugar packed in a piece of old newspaper beginning to turn yellow, secured with a rustic jute-string knot. I had spent half an hour in a crowded provision store buying it, standing amidst people sticky with sweat hollering their lists.
I glanced at the packet with affection and pride, and felt belonged.
The littered road was full of movement, squeezed on both sides by shops and wayside vendors.. Fast yet unhurried. Chants of the vendors pushed me on. 10-rupee-a-kilo oranges, freshly plucked lime, gooseberries, mangoes, pulses, pumpkins.
I walked in circles, clinging to my precious pack of sugar. It was my ticket to this haven of anonymity.
I had exiled myself into my hometown.
An old woman full of wrinkles waved the free end of her sari at me, from behind a pile of lime. May be she was too tired to shout. Or she no longer cared. I bent down to examine a lime.
"Ten rupees for 25...Makes good pickle sar," the old woman croaked.
"How about five rupees for none, grandma?" I said in a whisper.
She looked up with reproach in her eyes. She was not there to play games, and I was.
I fished out a five-rupee coin from the pocket and threw it into the basket, even as her eyes wandered off to someone else.
I felt cheated of my fun. As if I had been left on the platform, while the train sped by. I decided it was time to go back to my hotel.
At the heavily carpeted lobby, the crude packet of sugar perched in my grip guiltily, like an anomaly. The receptionist kept not looking at it with her trained eyes and polished smile, as she handed over the key.
Inside the room was stuffy with a sweet fragrance, the air conditioner humming soothingly. The packet of sugar sat on a side table, serene and immobile as a Buddha-bust. Clad in the saffron of a soiled newspaper shred.
I missed all those unwalked circles at the littered market, and drowned myself in the folds of sheets and pillows. And darkness.
It was raining in the morning and I walked wet and gloomy to the bus-stop around the corner. People came up, dripping wet, to the waiting shed, their folded up umbrellas making muddy pools. I shivered slightly and looked up at the buses, in feigned anticipation.
Buses came and went. Ancient city buses painted in statutory pale-green stopped by the waiting shed, panting. I looked at my shed-mates scrambling up the foot boards and vanishing into the buses.
The rain was becoming stronger. Heavy drops splashed on the asphalt, blossomed and merged into the wetness at large.
The strong scent of freshly wet soil came up and revived me. I wiped my sleep-laden eyes and looked about. There was nobody left in the waiting shed. The road itself had become quiet and subdued. A few autorikshaws swam through the rain, covered up in their waterproof cowls.
There was a movement near my feet and I jumped away startled. It was a bundle of rags that had been totally camouflaged on the muddy floor. A late-riser. The rag unfurled, and a woman emerged and swore at the pelting rain. She took out a mirror and peered into it. I noticed that she was shivering slightly.
"A bit cold, eh?" I ventured.
"Want to make me hot? Bah!" She spat into the rain.
"Well, I got something in my room," I said.
She looked up with suspicion in her eyes. But I could read the thirst in them.
I stepped into the rain and walked across the road to my hotel, which was a little off to the left, motioning her to follow. But she wouldn't move and sat there, muttering into the rain. At the gate I looked back through the rain and traffic, and saw her distant figure sitting still, folded into herself. There was much more than the rain separating us.
Soon I was back, with a plastic carry-bag in hand.
The rain had reduced to a drizzle. She was sitting in a corner of the bus-waiting-shed, lost to the world around. I held out the plastic bag and said nothing.
She dug into it and came out with the paper packet. There was vigour in her movements now. She untied the jute-string eagerly, with a hungry look. But the clumsy packing gave way and the sugar fell splattering on the muddy floor. My ticket to the amusement park of rotten smells and greedy hands.
She started, stared at the tiny crystals that lay wasted on the floor and gave me a strange look. I laughed aloud, threw a currency note (I was past caring of how much) into her lap and stepped out into the road, not wanting to hear what she had to say.
The sky had brightened. The road lay before me, promising a wonder-world of mazes, motor bleats and human sighs. Home.
I stood before the rushing traffic, feeling naked and helpless.
