perceptions

PERCEPTIONS


It could not have been any other time, any other ambience, any other setting; the mise en scene had a major role to play as it connived with the weather to bring in a roaring thunder shower on a certain summer afternoon, when Raktim had seen her for the first time.

Raktim, of middle class family habits, had grown up in no unique way. Yet he cherished a mind that could think. He studied in a more than decent school, where his friends came in private cars. Raktim didn’t have a car, though he did get money for the bus fare. But he liked to walk. It took him exactly 20 minutes to reach school. During his stroll, he started to observe the pedestrians, the roads, the fast food shops; he watched himself in taxi aisle mirrors as they whizzed past. He liked his own fleeting glimpses. In that way, he thought, he looked perfect. If he would have seen his image in a mirror for long, he feared he might find a thousand defects.


It is that time of the year when winter had almost taken its leave and summer had forced in. The city is Calcutta, where winter is a mere matter of a couple of months. New leaves have started to show their innocent green faces on every branch. Sun rays have strengthened and the roads emit heat that has invited bothering for pedestrians. The days were torrid, the nights were cool; torrid days brought in grey clouds and occasional thunder showers, making the nights cooler. Raktim had seen this girl on such a summer afternoon on his way home from school; on the other side of the footpath. The girl was from a different section; he had seen her before. Grey clouds had brought in heavy winds that swam around her blue skirt and danced with it. Her hair was flowing all over her supple features; her school bag was swaying on her shoulder. The blue skirt, the flowing hair, and the swaying bag- she was in a helpless position that had a rhythm in it. Raktim watched her with blinking eyes; lest the dirt blown in by the winds got into his eyes. Soon swirling dusts filled in the air where no eye could see. Raktim guarded his eyes with his hands only to see the girl vanish around the corner. He ran in the same direction. Rain drops had already started making frequent spots on the road as he crossed the road.


Distant roar of thunder filled his ears, as the old man turned downtown. He took quick feeble steps in spite of the big black polythene bag in his right hand. He had already seen reflections of incoming grey clouds on the glass door of the grocery shop. Instead of the stifling atmosphere, a cool breeze was creating a coolness that had the forecast of a storm in its lair. With timid steps, he entered the shop. A pretty girl was standing at the cash counter, her hips pressed against a cupboard full of various pickles and jam. The old man took a few household things, salt packets, soaps, and handed them over to the counter. A sudden gush of cold air and the old man looked to the glass door. A little school boy had rushed in half drenched in the rain, that was slapping the glass door and falling incessantly. The road outside the glass door was in semi darkness; with each clash of thunder, shadows became harsher, the lighted areas burnt white. The old man shook. A cold hand had tapped his shoulder.
“Sir, your balance!” the girl replied, irritation curling at her forehead.
“Thank you”.
The old man approached the door and searched for the kid. He found him standing near a glass window viewing something minutely outside.
Is he lost? His mother might have been searching the roads to find her son lost in the wilderness.

Two more timid steps and the old man was watching the episode along with the boy. The roads were narrow streaks of flowing water; here and there, people stood under some feeble shade in clusters, trying to do away with the dashes.
Two street kids were playing with water on the opposite footpath. Jumped in mid air, they fell again with a splash! Fun played on their minds, faces and feet that in a chaotic cadence disturbed the flowing water and the falling rain.

The kid shook.

A wrinkled hand fell on his shoulder. In a moment, he ran to the cash counter and hid behind the pretty girl. The girl moved her lips, but it was hard for the old man to discern.

With timid steps, he proceeded to the exit, opened his black umbrella with a bland click, and looked back at the shop for a moment and left. Soon he was an umbrella moving through many as the crow could see, sitting on the window pane of a certain whitewashed building, waters dripping from its greasy black feathers.