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?

The street looked as lively as always. Only this time, the number of people gathered were more than I had ever seen before. Hundreds of tiny silhouettes of people could be seen from a mile away. All these shadowy figures were huddled around the Hussainabad Clock Tower. Built in 1881 as a replica of London’s Big Ben, it is one of the largest clock towers of India. The Hussainabad Clock Tower, being adjacent to the Rumi Darwaza was once an image of the colonial powers clawing their hands into Lucknow. As the silhouettes come closer, placards and signs lying around come into view. The loud chants of “Azadi” pierced the morning mist far better than the sun could manage. Even in this chilly a morning, one could see nothing but protestors all around. When I showed curiosity, an old woman told me that they have been sitting here for weeks and will not move till their demands are met.

“Is faseewaad sarkaar ko ye asamvaidhanik, sampradayik kanoon hatana hoga. Is sarkaar ko jhukna hoga. Hamne angrezon ko khaded dala to ye Sarkar to phir bhi hamari naukar hai.”

Roughly translating to “This fascist government must repeal this unconstitutional, communal law. This government must bend. We are the people who dragged our British masters through dirt, so the government must remember that it is still our servant.”

The rage in her eyes while speaking these words turned a frosty January morning to a hot July afternoon. In a country with rampant corruption, apathetic masses and goonda politicians, an act of dissent is considered an act of rebellion. But the people of India, like their forefathers, have once again stood against tyranny and in the true spirit of democracy, they have expressed their dissent to protect the very same democracy. The Indian has once again rebelled.

Local shopkeepers, street-side vendors and small businessmen too, have joined in to contribute in whatever small ways they can. They give the people free food, water, warm blankets and whatever they can manage. And in doing so, they ensure that the backbone of the movement remains strong. The economically marginalized in a symbolic shift becomes the economic provider. An interesting aspect of this sit-in is that the number of women participating far outnumber the men. In a country deeply entrenched in patriarchy, where not just the positions of power but also the revolutions to overthrow that power have been dominated by men, this revolution stands in open rebellion to all of them. The sit-in was started by old women and is being led by the youngest of them. Young girls not above the age of 8 with their hair tied in ponytails and voices bolder than most grown men were raising slogans of Inquilab while taking names of Durga Devi, Savitribai Phule and Fatima Sheikh. The Hussainabad clock tower once symbolized the epitome of patriarchal colonial powers, today it is being reclaimed by marginalized, strong willed, Muslim and above all Indian women.

“Is faseewaad sarkaar ko ye asamvaidhanik, sampradayik kanoon hatana hoga. Is sarkaar ko jhukna hoga. Hamne angrezon ko khaded dala to ye Sarkar to phir bhi hamari naukar hai.”

Roughly translating to “This fascist government must repeal this unconstitutional, communal law. This government must bend. We threw our colonial masters away, and the government is nothing but our servant.”

The rage in her eyes while saying these words turned a chilly January morning to a hot July afternoon. The dadis’ will had turned cynics to the cause too. People who once questioned the motive of protests were now providing free food to the protestors, streetside vendors who barely earned enough to feed their families were giving away food for free. Young girls not above the age of 8 were raising slogans of Inquilab while taking names of Durga Devi, Savitribai Phule and Fatima Sheikh. The Hussainabad clock tower once symbolized the epitome of patriarchal colonial powers, today it is being reclaimed by marginalized, strong willed, Muslim and above all Indian women.