Familiar contempts

The flowers bloomed milk against the sky. The leaves were glossy, as if somebody had individually shined them, rubbing their shirtcuffs on it and puffing twice over them. With everything around the world dusty, how is it that the leaves were still glossy? She mused. The balcony was littered with withered leaves , crunching to powder under her feet. She went back to the kitchen , stirred the maggi around a bit and then sloshed the contents into a bowl, uninspired. “How long can you live on a diet of maggi and tea anyway ?” She asked her sprightly moneyplant. I’m probably getting some vitamin deficiencies. Picking up a worn magazine and the bowl, she made her way back to the balcony. The cup of tea stood on the ledge, the steam rising from it , alluring. She thought of getting a photo of it but then sank into the chair. Cradled the warmth. Not that it was chilly. It reminded her of the trips to the Himalayas , eating maggi from the street vendors , balanced on the crags. It tasted better, always. The chai was sweeter , the elachai just there. She remembered the boys , skinny and tumbling over themselves. Mischievous eyes , ruddy blooming cheeks. Their scratchy sweaters. She shook her head to clear it.

It was day I don’t even care anymore of quarantine. The lonliness was getting to her , like an itch under the skin. Was always too restless anyway.

Not that she missed her friends, didn’t have a lot of them in this town anyway. Just missed seeing people, the sidelong glance, the leftover smirk , the unknown dimples. Just missed walking around, picking up tomatoes and brinjal, looking straight out of a watercolor painting.

“Oii”, she hears a shout. Cautiously peering over the many branches , she catches sight of a group of boys. They’re young , skinny things with brown hair and impish grins. Their bright bandanas are tied to the tree nearby. Makeshift masks , she thought. One of them , scratching an itch on his shoulder, looks around and then slowly ducks behind a broken down wall, emerging with a football in hand. It’s a sad looking thing , really, quite brown and patched up and slightly squished. But they were adoring it like a pet. Ceremoniously he set it down and kicked it. She followed the ball with her eyes , not following the game at all. The fork went into her mouth mechanically.

The children ran around, trying not to make too much noise. She hadn’t seen them around before. Must have sneaked away to play in secret. A dilapidated swing was one goal post and the rusting ambassador car , the other.

After half an hour of this , she tired and walked back inside. She pretended like she was shooting a goal and then did a celebratory run around the room.

She had names for them . Messi was the one who kicked it in without fail , Ronaldo was the itchy shouldered one who seemed to be the leader. The long , lanky one was zlatan and the fashionista with the polka dotted shorts was Naimer. She named the last one Pele because she remembered that was her father’s favorite. He was her favorite too. Not because he was very good , but because he was so earnest about it. She swore she saw him wipe his eyes on his arm, pretending to wipe off the sweat when his team lost.

She sketched them all , the features were made up, for it was too far away to make them out. She saw the limbs over one another , pushing, shoving , the hiding spots in the clearing behind the bushes whenever a mean looking adult passed by. She looked down at her toe nails, the nailposhing peeling off , the white splotches on her legs. She noticed they had grown , and she was getting new ones on her arms too. But then , as each day goes by , this would too. She doodled in them with a black ink pen.

The phone used to ring incessantly. She stopped picking it up one day and slowly it trickled down. Now it’s silent with the occasional ping of an app. She’s getting bored with the boys who never changes the game , never changes the rules. She had her pad of sketches by her leg when she twitched and spilled the tea over it. It scalded her ankles and she jumped up , shocked to have felt something after so long. The boys were all sepia, blurring into each other. In a fit of anger , she tore the pages off and threw it down into the street , where it floated gently, gently settling on the road and the gutter. She felt the resentment and pain rise up so she chucked the mug down too, for good measure. Then slightly panting , she went in to wash her feet.

It rained heavily that night. She snuggled in, eyes open to the windows where the rain lashed. She felt a deep exhaustion come over her and she slept, face still turned towards the rain and lightening.

The morning after felt fresh. A blue sky , scrubbed new , with the weak sun and a misty half rainbow. She breathed in the petrichor, picked up the rain sodden flowers that had fallen onto the balcony. Her tea had to be from a different cup, not her favorite red one with the chipped brim. She felt a twinge of regret , for it was her father’s. She was determined to be cheerful though, and held on to the soulless triangle patterned cup. She kept hanging around, whistling aimlessly, waiting for something, when she realized that the clearing was a mess. The rain had turned it into a mush. Nobody would be coming to play anymore , now that monsoon was here. She breathed in deeply , the champaka saturating her nostrils, scanned the roads below for the remnants of her pages. She couldn’t find any, of course.

She sat down, lowering her head into her crossed arms , as the sun went behind a patch of cloud.