For him.

May you rest in peace, smooth criminal.

Incongruentia.

As I sling my duffel-bag over my shoulder, I am drawn to a face at the window. By the sleepy light of dawn, I can make out the soft contours of the face of a beautiful woman. I push the trolley towards a stone bench, my eyes not leaving her face as my feet slowly measure the yards. Her eyes, full of promise, follow my movements. As my lips nestle the cigarette between them, I sense her disapproval of my smoking in a public place, this is indicated by a crease that forms on her forehead. Still, her eyes do not leave mine. It is a torrid moment, as both of us debate whether to smile or ignore any desire to assert the others presence. But, I’d rather spend the erraticity of the moment on the visuals, and she knows it. The face is untroubled, yet I can see that it is not without sadness, if she is constrained and fettered, she hides it very well. The wind ruffles the strands lovingly, and she brushes the intruders away. As her hands touch her face, I notice the long, cylindrical fingers and the cigarette stops inches from my lips. The train starts to move, and I’m stunned at my own helplessness, my inability to plow through that inrush of human bodies and board the train. She strains herself to look at me for a last time, cranes her head through the foggy window and then it’s over. And the painful mirth of the moment is inescapable as I walk towards a dingy tea-stall. Even the choicest of humane encounters are replayed by that scratchy, yet earthly record and I look at the tracks still glistening with the dew of this morning and the empty tea-cups thrown carelessly around them.

Love me do, Book Panda.

I love Fort for one obvious reason – it smells significantly of mildewy papyrus and old wrapping-plastic. That is, the slew of second-hand books that the book-wallahs sell. You could go to them and demand your copy of Nabokov or Munroe, and the beaming, ecstatic man would scout around his wares for a minute or two, and then emerge triumphantly from the Cocoon with the said title between his fingers. He’d toss the book to you in a hurry, because some flushed customer would be asking for Maupassant or Frey, and you’d open the book, look fondly at the spotted flyleaf, smoothen the dog-eared pages with much affection, and then take the blessed thing to your face for some olfactory appreciation. And The Fragrance would spirit you to some distant Kafka-esque world, and you’d look at the next customer, red with embarrassment. And he’d nod and smile at you, gesturing his understanding in the briefest of moments.