Typing out loud

It is amusing how certain roads always bring back certain memories every time I pass them. The green, soothing road that led to my school. Or the filthy, crowded, narrow lane that led to a claustrophobic doctor's chamber in Rajabazar. The busy market astride such lanes, that sold items of no specific order. The road that had a huge water tank I was scared of, as a child. Or the road where I got lost for the first time. The road along which, we shared a bottle of cold drink on a summer evening. Or the road on my way home, that had an old woman who reminded me of my late grandmom. The road where a transwoman returned me a change of ten rupees, noticing I didn't have much money in my wallet. Finding kindness amidst the scarcity of it is overwhelming.  Of the roads I walked with a friend, I walked with a date, I walked alone.  The roads that were kind to me and the roads that were too fast for me. Their footpaths, buildings, shops, cafes and ATMs. Their bends, lights, shadows, cha...

 Your apartment feels like home. In the course of the last few years while I befriended you, as if I befriended your apartment too. Completely unaware of it. I can't recall at what point the walls of your home grew too familiar to me.  I have grown too close to the potted plants in broken coffee mugs, the diwali decor that stays there throughout the year, the kept aside broken window but most of all the sunlight.  As I was brushing today, I realised your place has eleven windows and that leaves us with so many windows that we still did not sit by.  Your place will always be a reminder of shared Maggie's, best of conversations, first times, ugly fights,  and of how we said let's go and didn't make a move. And I will never know how to separate your apartment from you.  In the last two years of feeling completely homeless, your apartment gave me a home.

 It was that time of the year when the sun shines bright and the wind blows cold. As if it is summer in the hue and winter in the air. This is my favourite kind of weather. I get myself out of my sweater and put it back on every few minutes. Road trips, bright yellow and a familiar restlessness.  It has been a month since then. I joined a music class last week. Everyone plays something throughout the class. Seems like every conversation has background music to it. It feels weirdly calming.  Somedays I love how a harmonica sounds or the smell of turpentine while I paint. Pretty flowers, window seats and the pink sky during sunset. The other days, I don't.  Sunlight plummet on the white door of my room; making it look yellow during the afternoon. Yesteryear was slow and so much about such things. Leisurely and passive. Just the way I like. But March is here again.