Observations || Stories || Ideas

I should probably get back home thought Bandu. I hope Geeta is back from her work. He smiled when he thought about Geeta. She was special to him. And why wouldn’t she be! After all they had dinner together; she would be part of tête-à-tête with him which would continue late night. Every Sunday Bandu would get her sweets which they ate at night with caveat that none would notice them. Today, it was Geeta’s favorite: gulab jamun . The other part of his mind was unhappy. Today was not his day as he was not able to fetch himself considerable amount of money. He strolled on the footpath of Marine drive with nothing in his hand except 10 rupee note. He elevated his hand bringing the palm parallel to his face only to feel bad that he missed his index finger, which was brutally ripped seven years ago by Killer Bhaiyya. The fact that many others like him in the wretched house were also subjected to some kind of physical torment resulting in loss of body parts pacified his pain. Bandu...

He came, with someone who looked like his friend-figure, with bag clung to his shoulder which appeared to have guitar in it. The road juxtaposed to him was Eastern Express highway. The footpath he was standing on was crowded by juvenile couples enjoying their private moments in public place. The Powai Lake has to be blamed for its beauty; had it not been there, don’t know where these love-birds would have spent time. The life of footpath lurks with cacophony hurled by vehicles on one end, thus debilitating the pleasing silence emanated by shying water on the other end. When one stands on the disputed border, footpath in this case, is compelled to choose: rest or restiveness. I chose the former after short-long infighting. He took out his guitar and after few tweaking with strings he started running his fingers over it blended with his voice. Singing few bollywood classics and rock music on footpath takes sheer grit. For most of us adhere to imaginary-bondage rules- whic...