The shiny white clouds appear as glitter sprinkled on a painter’s blue canvas. Their pace is very slow, but they always outrun me, like the uncles jogging in our apartment’s tracks, in the early mornings. I prefer walk aimlessly, with the clouds, with nothing to prove. Some of the uncles jog steadily, in the company of their friends often laughing uproariously at their old dad jokes while other lone wolves prefer to jog around the society in their smart tracksuits, sweat beads dripping from their bald pates to their stubbly chins. The Aunties prefer to walk behind in large groups, with their intense, and often-heated discussions on the daily soaps they watch. They let the athletic wear be taken by the men and choose to dress instead in salwar kameezes with some light makeup on, and their movement is often accompanied by the clinks of their bangles. One can know a lot about Omaxe if they happen to walk within earshot distance of the morning walkers. I once overheard Mrs. Shastri describing how her cat fanged the television repairman’s face, taking him to be an intruder!
Though I never forget my earphones, seldom do I not regret bringing them along, as the birds cunningly bribe me with their melodious tunes to keep my wires away. The lush green leaves of the small herb plants, sitting in rows right next to the boundary wall, with shining pearls of last night appear like a thousand curious eyes watching me with caution. The flowers on these plants attract all kinds of insects with their beauty and aroma, though one can never trust them with their thorny traps. A few steps ahead, the main gate erupts into view with its morning humdrum. Children of all ages, dressed in their pressed school uniforms, wait near the gate for their school buses to arrive. The young ones jump around with boundless energy, the scent of coconut oil emanating from their neatly combed hair, their eyes shining like small orbs. The older ones on the other hand prefer to don the style of unbuttoned shirts and disarrayed hair, a pair of sleep deprived eyes to match. I smile on realizing it was not long ago when I was one of them too.
Walking beyond the gate, I spot a row of cars, which are covered in as many layers of dust as one can imagine. The cars are not antique, a quick look around reveals they are recent models, yet the paint of dust turns them into living oxymorons. It appears that the parking space has become a home for many such cars, which have been swiftly severed from their families and forgotten even quicker. But now their windows serve as a sketch board for local maestros to practise their artistry on. In that sense they are vintage, after all; they have seen more stories than an antique vehicle sitting in a restoration shop. The stories of children who come and scribble versions of whatever their minds have clung to recently, of young lovers who write their partner’s names as an ode, making the abandoned vehicle a part of their intimacy.
After clicking a few pictures on my phone, and having covered the majority of Omaxe, I move towards the grocery store within the society. Though mom never asks me, to I try and find ways to help her out. One of my favourite chores is to pop by Rampriya Uncle’s shop and buy the daily rations. His shop is probably the oldest one around Omaxe, run by a middle-aged man of thin build, armed with a wide genuine smile, Rampriya Uncle. My mother says that when I am in college, he asks about me with a mixed look of concern and curiosity. Though he only earns enough to barely make ends meet, it is hard to read any form of regret in him. He laughs at his own jokes the loudest, throws leftover stock to the street animals, and smokes like his life depended on it. But nowadays I rarely step out. Mom has bought enough supplies to last us through the lockdown and doesn’t let me step out.
I wonder how Rampriya Uncle fares, does his family have all they need? How do those cars feel left all alone once again? Who do the birds bribe nowadays? Who stares at the sky aimlessly?
Nonlensical 