He is twenty something and races, speeds, skids, is a wild cheetah.
Last evening at Kamanatalli square, heavy with sunset in Chay Foods’ lime tea, onion samosa, spaghetti prawn:
we linger between halts. My new Fav Spot has that unhurried insanity of people not asking much, just being. The sidewalk is wide enough to pave your feet faster if you like. It is hung with blood red gulmohar trees and sweet purple Jacaranda. Gulmohar follows me thru different cities we’ve been: it is the flavor of this land & Bangalore, like Jacaranda. Rowdy rows of them, where city developers leave them be.
We get rolls to take home from “Ma’s bake & take.” The man is food-mafia, black apron, one eyed dedication to measure of toss and wrap of each roll. He will not smile; the entire transaction reeks of justice to the cause of delivery.
Daughter Kay & I window shop, get hair clasps, chat, browse past Art lovers’ store. Uh uh. I’m not painting yet. It’s my season of soak. I need to just be. This too shall pass, but I’m hoarding it in my treasury. The year calls for it. We have these Storewells in our 16000 cm2 of skin:
here we are touched, touch, reach, feel, be:
So, yeah, this Space that begs a FavFlag. Where a human can go hallelujah, yell Amen, take home some Citywalk reeking of differences in one square:
balloon seller woman and three kids from last time here grin back. This time I’m not emptying purse for her, but how deep is the thing of social displacement: we’re walking red seas between societies. We are many streets in one grip: we are rivers of many bloods, too many tongues to speak. The balloon woman is happy with smaller change this time, but there’s a whole row of her friends that ask for more. We escape into an auto rickshaw & driver. He is twenty something and races, speeds, skids, is a wild cheetah. Kay is small fury; I do my tender speech of how deadly these roads are.
Later he tells how he’s actually a racer. Was. Sweet, please.( This is a second time: few years ago, I was with an “ex- aeronaut”, driving crazy thru the worst traffic you can imagine. Why Lord my Jesus, precious One. You know I’m scared of speed).
“Give back.” Comes the Sacred Whisper.
My Kay watches with some disgust & a Lil eye roll as the young man gets my ears. He tells his tale of not qualifying to race (auto races in this city), after he injured a knee; sigh.
Life.
Odds always get together. This boy and I. The balloon people, Food man in black apron, in a Time heavy with darkness and Light like never before. My fav place will always be home, but am hostage of my streets, where reality bites.
Leave a comment