I stuck my cheek to the window to look at the train curve around the intersection. I remember I used to do that as a kid, with my brother. Two little heads squeezing against the red window bars to see how long our train really was. Back then, that was the most important piece of information that we had to know.
And the home-bound train arrived at its destination at 7 am, and the two kids went home with pretty much bar-like parallel dents on their cheeks.
Hyderabad is the only home. Then. Now. Always.
The whole conversation with a soon-to-be-mum Persian colleague of mine earlier in the day replayed in my mind as the sub-urban train glided past the cubicle dwellings. She narrated reminiscent anecdotes of her time back home.
“In my city Tehran, I always had a connection with the city; a sense of belonging”
Money was scarce but there was enough trust to have ten-rupee debts at the local shops where I bought tennis balls to play cricket out on the streets. I knew, by heart, all those corners where cops waited for unlicensed drivers. I was friends with all the fast food dabba walas. I even knew which street dog lived which street.
“On the way home, in Toronto, I could just hop into a jazz bar and relax over a beer.”
After I got down the college bus, I emptied my pockets on pani puris, then scavenged my bag for more money. And counting the coins, I went to the next bandi – the board read: ‘Sugar Cane Juice – With ice -Six rupees Without ice: Five rupees’
“I miss the friendships…”
We sneaked out of the house 2 o’ clock in the night to eat biriyani. We copied home works from an already copied copy. We covered for each other when we went to meet our girlfriends. We lent money to each other and never got it back. Made mischief. Fought nastily. And still remained friends.
“…and all the love.”
Amidst the boisterous local crowd in the RTC bus, I stood holding the handrail and she, my sleeve. She giggled every time the bus braked and the inertia flinged her against me. Then in the night, after we went our ways, I snuggled into the scent of her kurti that still lingered on me.
Then, a computerized voice announced the stop, and the sub-urban train stopped by one of those cubical dwellings, which I called home now – seven thousand miles away from where that word really meant something to me.
maybeandmaybenot 