The boy woke with dawn nudging his eyes, a dream dissipating like the mist over paddy fields. It was not a proper waking, but like a calico curtain parting in a mild gust. The moonlight gleamed on the wooden window bars. The wind rustled in the bamboos, soft and sibilant. The morning waited behind the Western Ghats like a great wing of light, about to unfold over the sleeping town and villages.
Morning’s smells were a mélange of waiting experiences: fresh milk in copper vessels, mango flowers and incense. But it was still dark outside, the sky only imperceptibly lightened by a shy pink. The boy turned over to face the wall; sleep cajoled to stay back like a beloved friend still full of play. The play of sleep — dreams; full of mysterious familiarity and absurd cognition. Driving grandfather’s Baby Hindustan that no longer stood on cinderblocks in the garage with spiders weaving webs on the steering wheel, but instead gleamed with a fresh coat of paint and seemed to be flying; speaking soundlessly to a heartbreakingly beautiful stranger who wore red silk ribbons like the neighbour’s daughter; meeting a man who turned into a pack of cards like the king of hearts in Alice in Wonderland while his father and sister melted away like Cheshire cats.
The dreams slowly tumbled into the morning. Cows mooed low and soft as grandmother supervised their milking. The little cowbells came dancing in the wind to where the boy lay in his half sleep, to be replaced by the sudden frantic tinkling of the temple bells and the expanding melody of Sree Venkateswara Suprabhatam. Suddenly the dawn broke through the window accompanied by a gust of wind, and suddenly the boy was full of impatience. He had to go racing down the wooden stairs and run into the courtyard, scattering the annoyed hens, towards the well to draw clean, sharp water to smear the sleep away with his palms. A quick bath, some shivers and then racing back to the kitchen where mother and grandmother were supervising the making of an elaborate breakfast: stew simmering in earthen pots, chutneys being sauted with kari leaves, fluffy dosas being spread on sizzling flat, black stone. He would be handed a cup of hot coffee, frothy with fresh milk. Grandmother was scolding the servants for not slicing the vegetables properly, or grinding spices well enough to prepare lunch. The boy smiled hungrily at one of the maids churning the curds with a butter-ladle, waiting for the white, thick butter he would daub liberally on his dosa. Soon, friends would be calling to go for a swim in the river. A bicycle bell rang insistently outside the gate, inviting an irritated glance from mother. It was a Sunday; the girls would be going to the river to bathe. The neighbour’s daughter would be there, too, with her red ribbons shimmering in the morning sun. She turned and smiled. Her smile was dazzlingly white, like sunlight.
The boy woke with the sun on his face. He shook the sleep from his tired eyes, groaned and covered his eyes. His chin was suddenly covered with stubble. No cowbells danced at the rim of his waking; no prayers swam in the air. The man got up, stretched and hobbled towards the kitchen to put water and rinds in the coffee machine. He would grab a quick sandwich on the way to work. But then he realized, it was a Sunday. He went back to sleep and dreamed of a woman who wore bright red lipstick.
Ravi@newindianexpress.com