Rains, Sprays of water from the ocean.. waters of ages past and from places across the seas, places of eternity and places that might never have existed except in memories forgotten and remembered, like recalled dreams in afternoon siestas. Pitter, Patter of the Raindrops.. in the ocean, on the windows, on leaves and beggars and rotting chicken bones. Another gust of wind, a fresh Spray of water. A sprinkle on the face, a spray to wake me up, from the reverie of purposeful wanderings in a land that is no more mine. Like the lands across the sea, existing in memory and nostalgia. Nothing to bind me, Nothing to let me go. But a land nevertheless....
She pushed the wild purple flower, trying hard not to break it from it stalk. The bag of vegetables and papayas stood slumped on the ground. Beneath the bush, there was no telling where the ground sloped towards the playground. Her feet were firmly set on the ground, and she parted the bush aside, and craned. Any time now, she thought, the little iron bell would be rung by the ayah and the kids would come milling out. How would she spot her girl, she wondered. But another intuition suggested that she wouldn’t have a hard time spotting her. The first intuition was what drove her to the edge of the road, sneaking behind wild bushes, peering into the school grounds, on her way back home from the market. Today, she thought, she would see her little one in another world. The bell rung for the morning break. Ayahs in sari and cardigans instead of blouses walked around the ground as kids tottered out. 4 to 10 year olds, in maroon sweaters, and blue skirts and pant, bumping into each other...
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