Those were the days when time used to be spaced out into rectangular boxes of equal length - each a subject to be learnt, a skill to be acquired - as a tiny being clothed in crisp bright colours of institutional recommendation marched between school and home in determined little ballerina shoes. The streets never mattered, the footsteps did.

The orange pot of molten promises spread across the sky like a treasure as she pranced towards her music classes, twice a week, firmly holding her mother's hand, through the confusing little streets of the neighbourhood. 

There, the music teacher - a lady in her early thirties, would sit on a small cot, surrounded by her pupils - all shapes and sizes. She went and joined the group as her mother waited outside with the other guardians. The music teacher would sing and lead them through a journey up and down the notes, accompanied by the harmonium. She would follow the notes with the others (many of whom were way older than this three year old), join in a melodious rendering of sargam  and repeat the bol of the chhota khayals taught to them, as they were introduced to the Hindustani Classical gharana.  

There was no compulsion to make sense. Of anything. The melody lingered on. Long after the classes were over. As she walked back home with her mother, she kept repeating the lines to herself - sometimes even singing aloud, blissfully oblivious of the passers by - who were sure amused by this chance entertainment, and at times, even stepped forward to express their feelings.

She felt no embarrassment. None at all. Her mind was engrossed in the web of these entangled notes which had joined together to give her a melody - a tune she could hum, a song she could sing. The dark streets - punctuated by occasional street lights - she knew, would lead her home.

And she knew things she didn't really know back then. Etched on the little mind, in silence, forever.

She knew that ups and downs create tunes you could hum. She knew meanings are meaningless. She knew she could sing her song, irrespective of people around. And she knew that dark streets too, can lead homewards. 

So, there's this Santa Claus. Around ten feet tall. Installed each year just before Christmas, beside a busy road. He is, customarily, dressed in a bright red suit with glistening white borders. And, of course, there is this cheerful smile to inspire hope and festivity.

The optimism in the air is enough to make you cry. 

Blue skies. Winter mornings. Bright sunshine. Warm pockets. 

It's almost everything beautiful that you can think of putting together in one frame. 

But then, that's how stories begin. Mostly.

Days go by. 

And then there are pigeons and crows. Indiscriminately distributing an equal share of poop to the smiling old man who has no option except endurance. 

Tropical weather adds to the drama.

By the end of two months, there's no cap left. You see a balding old man with an amused expression - almost reciprocating your own, at the trials and tribulations of earthly existence. 

And if there is a storm, the poor man is subjected to the atrocities of imitating the action sequences in The Matrix - laid out horizontally at a perpendicular stretch across the ground, though his feet remain fixed to the initially intended vertical alignment.

At this stage, you identify...for, you are friends now. 

Absurd drama needs no stage. Santa understands. So do you. 

 

 

There's this cemetery inside.

Ask not for names

Nor details of burials.

I plant flowers

Hedges appear

And fade away

In an eerie silence 

Punctuated by breath.

The cemetery grows. Unguarded.

A handful of soil 

To each living soul.

Hear those footsteps? 

They come and go oft

Like dried leaves. Countless.