flip flop haha what a nice joinder to sitara's bata chappal vignette, but thanks to both of you such sweet compliments that I feel like I am being born as the illegitimate son of Halwai Panna lal, plop in the cauldron of gulab jamun
But to return to those tykes, at the field claimed by the throbbing pulse of puberty, which oddly rested by the boy hood innocence that in the crisp morning of the valley, right after the dharmic karyakram finished and kids of all shapes and sizes jostled to line up to receive pristine bottles of nepal dairy...came a sing song voice above it all, "nilocon nilocon...." as the oblivious tyke, with out a penny in his pocket to sit in the milk line, sauntered by the street, hands in his pockets singing about a ctachy tune that advertised prophylactics on tv
you envied the freedom, chained down by that ominous match tests, the letters and brackets of algebra closing you in,....
you'd rather run into the corn fields, the rough leaves abrasive in your young skin, chase the monsoon puddles deep inside the field, exploring the Amazons of your mind, and emerge out the other end, the tall stalks glistening in the sun now somehow more radiant after the clouds and the down pour
in your mind you are still galloping in your horse, in your mind, sometimes even propelled by the dramatic Bollywood tune that you had lifted from the movie of three weeks ago, you are alert for villians are bound to ambush you at precisely these times
one moment passes, as you walk
so passes another
and the bugs that bit you in the amazon jungle you were in, start itching and big spotches swell up in your arm, you are following the tykes of the 'hood faint suggestions are made of magazines with naked pictures, confusing you as you try to gather what it must mean...
but in the movies you see lots of side glances, and peeking from behind the trees, the spinnings and the twirlings....which is what ought to have happened after galloping in those horses...you look around
some ways down, in the gulley past down the bhattis, and sidewalk stalls and stores where portly sahujis measure wares in scales, you see some one, hair damped, and t-shirt wet, her arms flailing making the bangles dance up and down, as you follow the line, you see the frayed denim, 'rafu'-patterned flowers in the back pockets tripping your mind, and as you notice her "bata chappals" are stuck in the mud, and she is struggling
this is very familiar you think
you want to go and help, but the tykes all break into laughter!
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