Finger "chips".... The ring finger

It was a normal sunny school day. Sharan was in his junior high school on THAT day. The day when the Fall took place. Just like how he had travelled to school all these years he took his red atlas bike (he had insisted on a gear changing one, but it was his uncle, Gayathri's second brother Keshav who had insisted on that one. Maybe that was why the Fall happened. Luck. After what Keshav had done, and as Sharan grew he knew his uncle's true colours, which made him to think like that.) His bag loaded with books, his favourite books, he set off to school, the same old 3 km route, which he had traversed all those four years. The route itself was like life , full of changing scenarios, a residential apartment from where he starts. Next stop: a below "middle class" locality, then the bustling urban heart of the city main road, a slum where people squatted on the road, whilst their children did their "morning jobs" alongside stray dogs searching for a treaure amid the rubbish accumulated along the sides of the road. Then came a fork to the left leading all the way to the hills to the north-west, a highly acclaimed religious centre, a temple atop the hill top. Ahead of the fork was a car show room and a petrol bunk. From the fork the road took a broad turn. The turn contained the showroom and the petrol bunk. The ill-fated turn. From where Sharan's life will take a turn. Turning his peacful sleep into nightmares. Turning confidence into self-doubt and the feeling of being a loser. Few shops ahead on the straight road. Than turn left. Few more shops and there lies his school. He loved his school. He was a different kid. He loved almost everybody. All his teachers. He admired them. He wanted to be a teacher one day. As well as a scientist. He had eclectic tastes. He wanted to know a lot of things. Lot of them all of them. On the way as he passed the slum he caught up with a class mate of his. They chatted as they pedalled. Ahead. Oblivious of what lay ahead. What strange turns the peaceful morning is going to take on the turn where the petrol bunk lay. They passed the fork on left and whizzed past the show room. Time took a slow motion. What happened next was so sudden so horrifying that would shake him out of his sleep for the next few days. Would make him horrified behind the wheels of his car which his family would buy after two years.

Thump!

Sharan's front wheel struck the side of a moped which had lost control in front of him screeching to the side of the road. And the driver balanced himself and took off as if nothing had happened. He didn't know unknowingly what he had done behind him. He receded to a dot as he drove down the road. Meanwhile, the lorry that had been coming down the road raced past the bend. Sharan lost his balance. And fell down. Down as he went. A lorry on the opposite side he saw it racing down. He fell along with his cycle. Down they went together as his horrified friend looked helplessly those seconds of imminent disaster. Sharan fell along with his cycle as the lorry whizzed passed. rrrrrrrrr... right over hishead. Splattering his brains. Red splats. Blobs all over the highway.

Vrooooommm... screech.... splat! one moment alive and the next under the wheels of a speeding lorry.

Sharan woke up. Sweat beading on his brow. There! The nightmare was running again in his head. It was like a superhit movie. Running non-stop for several days. On-demand from the audience. A horror movie. His right ring finger pained from the surgery that had been performed the previous day. It had been "set right" by using a wire. The docter said it would be "alright" in a month when the wire would be removed. But the effects of the incident will linger on as a bitter taste in his mouth forever.

Bheegi bheegi...

"
Today was a better day compared to yesterday. Your day. The day of the diary. The emptiness of yesterday transformed into wisps of white clouds bringing in hope. Rain of hope. Raining down on the lush green fields with crops ready for harvest. Harvesting of the past. Yet leaving out the roots underneath the grounds. Roots of the past. Readying for the next cropping. Cropping of the new seedings of hope again. Writing this co incidentally i hear the song.... Bheegi bheegi from gangster literally translated like this (i find this funny!!)
Wet, everything wet,
the damp night
damp memories,
damp happenings
look at your moist eyes...

Today was the day of joy. Of endless television viewing. Of never ending chitter chatter of the small boys who play cricket down the street disturbing the afternoon nappers. Of the moments of silence while everyone is out. Of the appetising "outside" food. Black forest cake and samosas. Of the dinner : a ladle of baby corn soup with veggies. The warm yet wet turned cool air in the evenings blew off the flames of despair dancing and prancing bout from yesterday's emotional power cut. Today I finished Arundhati Roy's "The god of small things"... evident here in my language ain't it diary. Its had its effect. Of the strange swirl of Kerala in the shimmering backwaters of my memories. All encased complete with the scents and sights. Of the coconut oil, and coconut tree canopies overlooking the murky waters, the plantain chips fried with the scent of burnt wood in the stove and the yellow chips with the black seed in its centre, the ripe mangoes whose strands lodged between two teeth and the lone boatsman down the waterways...

Tomorrow starts another Monday. Mondays have always been powerful days. Children rushing to school for a new week (some with a "Oh no. Dreaded Monday" on their minds), Offices opening well in advance, Start of a new week. The Som war starts...

"
Sharan's father worked in a private firm, which transferred him to different places all over India. Everthing has its advantages and disadvantages. Repeated transfers made him not develop friends relationships, didn't make him crawl out of his crabby shell. But just like the needle of an injection it administered bitter medicine, for good. Good things to happen. He visited many places, saw different people, customs, cultures. Observed them, Silently. Not asking, not interrupting. For he was shy. Shy of the unknown force which would gobble him up if he spoke. He sang once in the Republic day celebrations in the fifth place they where transferred to. A remote coastal village in Tamil nadu. To be there immediately after experiencing a big city like Howrah in Bengal would have been a culture jolt to some one who travelled less. But here he was for the fifth time. pat! the transfer order came. Pack your bags. And they were here. He was there singing in the middle of the group. Why he was in the middle just before the microphone? A question he cannot answer till date. Was he there because he sang well? or was it because he was the blue chakra in the middle of the national flag formation they had made? or was it just pure randomness. Whatever. Whether people listened or not, he sang. He believed he sang well. Not the higher ranges though. he was incapable of shouting. The plain shouting. The shouting you call people across the street. The shouting people use to call vegetable vendors, people selling ripe bananas yellow, green and the less common red. shouts for the keerai karan ( the spinach vendor) , shouts children emit when the ice cream cart comes with the never ending bell... ting ting... He didnt know why! He believed he wasn't here for shouting at anybody. His more than less normal anger levels were evidence to that. Bheegi bheegi... he hummed one of his favourite numbers... sleep engulfing him. Unknown to him what lay ahead of him. Had he known would he have slept?