The dawn breaks into a smile on your face no matter the time of the day<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At bus stops we have sat side by side on the opposite banks of time, talking<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dusty Madras buses ferrying us to fetes in the summer heat have heard us<\/p>\n\n\n\n
mull the wine of thoughts, passing the cup back and forth, mixing our vintages<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I take walks alone in the city I\u2019m in now. Woven plaits of jasmine love to call<\/p>\n\n\n\n
out greetings and I never fail to give them your love. How to call this home,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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this city, when the sea and you are not in it? Most of this month, homed<\/p>\n\n\n\n
in by the hellhound of work, I have spent beating my brain into submission day<\/p>\n\n\n\n
long. Not yet dog days, and the summer is already raising my hackles. On calls<\/p>\n\n\n\n
your voice greets me, balm to the parched everything. Smiling, I let you talk<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and fill me to the brim with all that I\u2019m missing. Your city, events, you. Vintage,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the mint of even the gossip we swap. Then launch into pet peeves scratching at us:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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men, mothers, middling friends. What a miracle it is that the decade separating us<\/p>\n\n\n\n
is only a footnote in our tale, incidental. In the third-floor box-room you call home<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and will for another two years \u2013 in that building painted brothel-purple-vintage TM<\/sup> \u2013<\/p>\n\n\n\n that is also the favourite haunt of our snarling simian ancestors who ruin your days<\/p>\n\n\n\n and incur your wrath, I imagine the butterfly perched on your nape softly talking<\/p>\n\n\n\n to your cropped hair while you potter about. My heart clenches when I recall<\/p>\n\n\n\n the dips and curves of the tree-lined avenues there, familiar as a lover\u2019s body; calling<\/p>\n\n\n\n out to me from photos and memories now. Arteries to the city\u2019s heart, streets drew us<\/p>\n\n\n\n with their rhythmic hustle and bustle pulsing in welcome. Walking them and talking<\/p>\n\n\n\n the day over after an evening do, we gave time the slip. Long walks have been a home<\/p>\n\n\n\n we have built to the beat we sync and slip into, whatever the background noise, day<\/p>\n\n\n\n or night. At the slightest dimming of conscious lights, memory turns into an ageless <\/p>\n\n\n\n film these days and projects itself on the veined wall of the heart. It has been an age<\/p>\n\n\n\n since we performed the vigorous ritual of getting tea at all the three gates, cooing calls<\/p>\n\n\n\n at curled cats as we walked the length and breadth of a walled garden for a lark. Days<\/p>\n\n\n\n now are a long litany I\u2019m offering, biding my time. It is possible the wily world will get us<\/p>\n\n\n\n in the end. For now, this funny, feathered thing hope still has me in its claws. Not at home<\/p>\n\n\n\n entirely in the tossing gales of fortune and fate, but here is where I would rather be, talking<\/p>\n\n\n\n to trees and taking my chances, hoping to land on my feet than be lured by the rosy talk<\/p>\n\n\n\n buzzing around treading on the ground, down traceable paths. These days, as age<\/p>\n\n\n\n catches up, the peace that steals over at the thought of sea-waves feels like a homecoming<\/p>\n\n\n\n where we\u2019re sitting on the beach by a sleeping dog, an eye out for crab claws. The calls<\/p>\n\n\n\n of the hawkers, the sizzle of the corncob and the muted clang of church bells surround us<\/p>\n\n\n\n on a mild winter evening in Bessy. A dream I knit and hold on to for dear life. Long days<\/p>\n\n\n\n will only get longer this year. But imagining thousand lights trailing home, talking<\/p>\n\n\n\n each other into a last round of kebabs for the day from the age-old lanes of Triplicane,<\/p>\n\n\n\n calms my anxiety down. It will see us through: calling Madras home in our hearts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Cover image by Ananthan Chithiraikani<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" On calls your voice greets me, balm to the parched everything.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":381,"featured_media":28626,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3401,4968],"tags":[4996,402,4991,616,5000,71,4995,4997,48,99,4999,4998],"class_list":{"0":"post-28625","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-fiction-poetry","8":"category-friendship-and-sexuality-2","9":"tag-city-memories","10":"tag-friendship","11":"tag-friendship-and-trust","12":"tag-intimacy","13":"tag-longing-and-home","14":"tag-love","15":"tag-madras","16":"tag-nostalgia","17":"tag-pleasure","18":"tag-relationships","19":"tag-urban-memory","20":"tag-walks"},"menu_order":0,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28625","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/381"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=28625"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28625\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":28724,"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28625\/revisions\/28724"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/28626"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=28625"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=28625"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.tarshi.net\/inplainspeak\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=28625"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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