My words they die on their way to you, cold and heavy. With light fading, the gloom prevails, as all evidence of reality lies frozen, the stillness muffles all the truth being spoken, offering shelter only for all that is false. This is the winter of discontent, the times of our disconnect.
A cloudy, rainy day. My neighbor’s son sits sprawled on a white plastic chair on their balcony, restful and casually observant of the street below. He has been here as long as me today, watching over some men working on the side of the footpath, digging concrete to lay some cables perhaps.
Earlier this morning, another neighbor had a loud argument over the sweeping of the leaves on the street with the lady who comes to do the sweeping. It lasted for a good part of an hour. The vegetable vendors came soon after, and as per an arrangement, one of the women rang our doorbell so karthik’s mother who would have missed them otherwise, could come out and make her purchase. We will now be eating drumstick sambar with rice for lunch.