I’m standing at my window, sucking on a spoonful of deliciously golden and creamy Dulce de Leche, trying to connect with nature as much as staying indoors can allow. From where I’m seated I can see the expanse of the colourful dhobi ghaat and hear their even more colourful words. There seems to be a tiff between two reasonably aged men who might have been close acquaintance once but in the heat of the moment have lost all semblance of friendship. I cannot see their faces but have learnt a lot about their mothers, sisters and other women of their individual families. In all this, I wonder where do the women come in? Why doesn’t it satisfy their abusive nature to condemn the father or brother instead?
There is a light breeze that sometimes breaks free to send shivering caresses across the clothes hung out to dry. Greens, whites and blues line my horizon such that the last rays of the dying sun seems to be lost in the backdrop. Somewhere, lost in the many huts that house hopes and dreams, a child cries out its dismay. Sympathetic goat kids bleat to give it company. A little boy filled with the mischief of youth chases hens around the ground while they cluck-cluck their disapproval at such rudeness.
The little world around me is in a state of awakening as they try to stretch and caste off the sleepiness from their eyes. The power naps have recharged them to face the remainder of the day with gusto. The house is filled with small noises…clinking of vessels in the kitchen, rustling of sheets being folded up hastily, light tinkling of the bell as someone put together the essentials for the evening devotion…small noises that make me realize that it’s finally time for you to come back to me.
Written for Photo Fiction #77