Huzun

There is a collective sadness in Mumbai. A huzun. In the building across, an old couple sits near the grilled window, sipping their tea, while their clothes on the line flutter in the wind, promising two more days until they will finally dry off. A milkman makes his rounds, playing around with his cycle bell. I play old blue songs on Saavn and we are all sad. The sun is out and it is drizzling. Don’t expect to see a rainbow, because the buildings are too high and too many and there is no terrace or open balconies where you live.

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UNTITLED

I first stepped into school in 2001 in senior K.G. I hated going to that school, or any school for that matter. I despised the big open gardens, the cozy classrooms and the beautiful teachers smiling sweetly down at me.

Just like any other kid, my 5-year old brain searched for excuses. Groping for anything in the dark dreams of school corridors.

What came my way was a fairly reasonable excuse-  which I believed would convince my parents to reconsider their actions of sending me to school which was half-an-hour away from home. The previous school had been mere 5-minutes away. I complained of the long distance.

“It is so hot in the afternoon on the scooter. I feel hungry half-way. I get so bored!” I bickered persistently.

But you know how parents are.

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