Prashant's Solace

There he was again. Amidst life on earth, a speck of dust, a blip, a grain of sand. The kulfiwallah walks into the street like he had countless times before. The same soft jingle, the same rectangular arch, hoisting the name of his moving establishment over a black pot draped with a red cloth. He looks the same. No. He looks the same! He keeps coming from an unknown place and disappearing down the street each evening only to reappear the next day. Day in, day out. Times, mutinies, 09/11, 26/11, economic meltdowns, World Cup victories, marriages, divorces, deaths, births, careers, pandemics, growths, developments, regressions, governments; nothing seems to affect him. 30 years on, he looks the same. The pace of his cart is the same and of course the taste of that perpetual kulfi is the same.  About 25 years ago, a game of lingorcha was being played on the same street. It was March, the middle of the exam season. But this boy couldn’t care less. He wasn’t the one to study till the ...

Adjectives met or may meet again or never, in a twist of fate.   Stupid, Ignorant, Kind and Charming... Four adjectives with little context in each other's lives met in the strangest of circumstances. Charming travelled half way across the globe from Washington to Delhi in search of a delicious meal. His ride was hit by a rogue speeding car in the old lanes of Delhi. He lost everything, except for life and locomotion. Kind, an orphan from the upmarket Greater Kailash happened to see the accident and rushed to help Charming. She didn't know then that Charming would become a liability for many days to come. Little because of circumstances, more because of her own nature. Kind took on the responsibility while she barely could help herself. Kind taught Charming how to beg, borrow and steal. Daily unsure but surely each day, they made a living. From the riches of Clarendon, Washington to the streets of rich Greater Kailash. From being the rich to being the recipient rich. En...

That halting sensation when tyres dig into the road sending high pitched sound straight into the guts!  I hear a van followed by commotion. The same van had circled back to my lane. Probably finding out the right address, it was passing by and ran over someone. I go out to find my love gasping! She was walking back home from the office. About to enter our house.   The society goes helter and skelter. In the desert of apathy called the world, an oasis called Westwood society sustained my quiet life and its troubles. Here, we were thrived on illusions of order and care, until... ...My corner in this ocean of calm had some turbulence; then this tsunami.  It is a regular day by any and all standards in Westwood Society. So regular that, I can recite the daily nagging of my neighbour. The weather is absolutely unnoticeable. No hint of imbalance detected in any of its components.  No shift in humidity or rains, heat or cold or the wind. The kerb cars parked outside homes...

Chaos and anarchy are the petrichor of the approaching rain. Their world knows and doesn’t know. Rules and democracy relegate themselves to texts.  The endgame has culminated in Syria. Gaza and Israel are, where they always were, Russia and Ukraine, one can only hope – what even one doesn’t know.  In India's immediate neighbourhood anarchy is just around the corner. And there are countless turbulences manifesting everywhere. Then, there are the frustrations of a commoner. This writer is not an affiliate and hence the use of the word- commoner. Religious, political, societal, gender-based, sporting or filmy; each of this person’s associations are momentary. This person can enjoy a game, vote for a particular leader in an election or move around with no particular sexual or racial group, brandishing as another one, for most of the public appearances. But there is no inherent preference. After committing to these roles, this individual goes back to the realities staring in the ...

Nostalgia wasn't big then. It had started raining. The pitter patter was steady. It rhymed with the wind, and the trees swayed to the music. No soul, as usual passed by in our silent lane; maybe a lone worker heading off from some site to the unknown.  I was back from school. There was no electricity but no complaints there. I stood on the porch my arms extended to feel the light drizzle as the wind spray caressed my face. Ms. Front Door too had come out to feel the same rains. Her arms extended her smile further more. It was time for many other things, but they could all wait; tuitions, football and friend meetings later that evening, cycle ride to school. The last one helped me understand how much I liked school and the thought-shelter it provided my brain.  The street smelled of nostalgia and looked like a black and white postcard from a distant land.  This is life as I have known, as I have seen. 20 years from now all playmates from colonies, mohallas and societies wi...