Tangy

As a rickshaw and a few cars whizzed by forming a few dust clouds, the man at the counter deftly served Maya a succulent panipuri in the steel bowl she reverently held out. Under the gleaming streetlight, each crisp spherical wheat cover almost crumpled to sogginess with the sloshing sweet and tangy tamarind liquid it briefly held.

“Plop”, he went, dunking a tiny golden orb laced with bits of potato and pea filling into a large metal pot holding the chilled spicy liquid. A puri then quickly found its way into each outstretched bowl by turns. A semicircle of strangers bound for that moment by a spicy kinship, shared intent. No one looked at him, or each other. No one talked. Almost like a prayer, this act of ensuring that the puri reached their mouths almost intact. An act of sublime concentration, finishing each puri well in time before the next serving.

In a flash, the tangy juice, the blend of green- red chillies and the just about dissolving wheat cover worked their magic. Opening up long forgotten nerve endings, setting the brain afire, as the first of tears flowed. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not what he said – or didn’t. “I don’t particularly care for street food,” he’d said, disdainfully. “Oh, but I do,” she’d said, finally walking away.

(222 words for sub)

Technicolor, Dolby sound

In the chilly theater,Maya suppressed a knowing grin and drew her shawl closer, glancing at the row of college students seated right behind her. Fumbling, fidgeting, holding hands. Giggles and comments at star antics, a derisive hoot as the hero hurtled through a first-floor window to a shower of glass, entirely unhurt. A young college crowd not very different from the one on the screen- battle, overturn the political system, deliver vigilante justice in two hours and some. Fast paced, lovely colors. “Entirely kitsch, Maya admitted as she moved her wrist higher on the armrest, marking territory, edging closer to the wall on her right. A close shot of a red tram filled the screen, the pensive heroine seated by a window after a lovers’ tiff. The tram turned a corner, cut to a slow pan of the Victoria Memorial. Edifice in white marble, soaring fluted columns, white dome, cornices and statues of angels and gargoyles. Edifice in white marble, set in vast rolling lawns to channeled streams and a lake, a monument to British imperial might, Hail Regina! A cloud of pigeons wheeled into the sunshine, fluttering gray against quiet white.

Regal white set picture pretty against jade. Dazzling. Slightly yellow-tinted white, yet so solidly comforting. A seven-year old runs across freshly mown grass. Now I’m an aeroplane, watch me wheel, watch me dive as I zigzag this jade expanse. London bridge is falling down, husha husha, my fair lady. Shankar! Get the car around, NOW! Ayah! A glass of water! Comb my hair! Can’t you see- are you deaf or something?! School’s on! No! The white uniform with the red belt and red ribbons, white socks. Not the blue PT dress, silly! Music on Wednesday, art on Fridays, that’s the art bag, you never keep anything properly, do you? Bag flung, stomping feet. Lush green, dairy milk chocolate, the candy called witches’ hair and space to race on Sundays. In an empty home peopled with servants, sunlight filters past vast rooms. A child’s room, “my dump room”, she derisively calls it, toys books colors, higgledy-piggeldy and all over, wanting for someone to admonish. Voices from the past, can voices be sepia?

“ I’m not going back. Ever”, the heroine haltingly says to herself.
“Nor am I”, Maya admitted, arms crossed as she huddled deeper in her seat.

(394 words , for sub)