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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Sunday, 4 September 2016

A trip to the suburb market

He grabbed his from the rack. Beige in color, light and easy to wear similar to the famous "jotti" shoes "circus freaks" wore for their acts. He had been in India a few weeks and was yearning a home cooked meal. The spices and diarrhea had stuck him out.
It was about 5.45 pm, The city was wired block to block, with cable tv, electric wires, and internet cables. If you had electrophobia you'd worry day-long. He had somewhat overcome his fear despite the beautiful view out his window-  a central point for the neighbourhood's internet connection.

The skies were grey and threatening to throw rhinos from the sky. They often teased when the monsoon season came around. He didn't carry an umbrella on him, I guess he felt rain proof. His biggest worry despite the wires running up above was getting shocked so he always wore boots hoping they'd protect him.
After locking his door with an extra nudge and bolting it to secure- he set off and run down the stairs. A quick agile man that still had plenty of energy to leap over steps given the opportunity.
A couple of blocks away, embraced by the dampness of the city, he walked past stray dogs, and city goats living gracefully in the suburb.
The town had wafts of dung in the air. Cows took shits all over the place with no fucks to give. Drizzles started to pour from the clouds, he started to worry, he kept walking. The market wasn't far so he didn't feel discouraged. The drizzles turned into mild pours from the skies, he held his sweater over his head to cover him...
In a flash, the street lights went out. Darkness consumed the street but people kept on with their business.. It wasn't a new happening to them, so he did like the Romans and soldiered on . The septic by the side of the road was overflowing, his shoes got wet trying to leap over it and landing into a puddle. He was overwhelmed, like a child with no voice to speak.
He kept trekking and a couple of blocks down the road he reached the market stools. The market vendors on the pavements covered their merchandise with  poly-bags from the rain, while others used "tela gari's," with roof tops to carry their merchandise. Clearly designed and prepped for the monsoon season.
"tum kya chahte ho?" What do you want? one of the vendors asked him.
"1kg rice, 1kg potatoes" he said.
She bobbed her head in approval and weighed his rice, then potatoes. She put the rice in its own polythene, Then he handed her his synthetic shopping bag where she placed all his groceries. The power came back at about this time and he thought to himself, 'thank God!'
"80 rupees," she said, as she bobbed her headed once again. He pulled the cash from the back pocket of is dun brown chino.
"dhanyavad" thank you, he said in a shaky tone due to uncertainty then bobbed his head, it was contagious practice.
When she handed him the bag, he turned round and made his way back. The rains had sort of faded, It was now chilly, petrichor emanated from the ground as it had been a couple of days since it rained. The smell of dung was now faint, or maybe he had grown accustomed to it. Minutes later, he was home hanging his sweater to dry from the rain that had soaked it. 

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