My neighbors are kind. They have befriended monkeys in the neighborhood. Sometimes, we all look like families caring for each other. The monkey usually sits on the pipeline, connecting tap pipeline to the main supply, to not let people come near tap, unless it is my neighbor. In return, the neighbor lets the monkey use half bucket of water. Their children are kind too. Recently, the kids have started dropping out of school to give the parents another pair of hands to carry pails of bucket. I have been trying to visit Daryaganj this week to buy water colours for the kids. On a day when I am thinking whether water colours should even be in my shopping list, a memory of ocean fills up the lane and walks towards me in the form of a Class 11 child, asking a room, full of quiet children, “In which state is Bay of Bengal?” He was making jokes on water to break the ice between us. How are you and what’s up have become the most ridiculously creative questions ...

This is an account of a bus commuter being observant of spaces and interaction with women while observing the city as the bus accelerates around the word ‘daily’ every day.  On the first day in bus, the driver chided. “Pragati Maidan”, I responded with a voice that doesn’t care much about being misunderstood. “Ye poora Pragati Maidan hai. Metro station jana hai? Court jana hai? Joo jana hai? Kahan jana hai?  [This whole area is Pragati Maidan. Do you want to go to Metro? Court? Zoo? Where do you want to go?]" I was not prepared for so many options. Pragati Maidan had always looked so vast that it never felt like a place that would require me to be precise. Since that day, traveling by bus has come very close to being specific. I traveled in bus to take respite from the word daily. Metro was making me annoyed and impatient: I reached my destination late; I wasn’t getting up early to fix the situation; I never got a seat; There was nothing to look forward to e...

When father said “Why go straight now? We no longer live there.” He does pause while maneuvering left. I let myself see trees rushing along road – bowing to the question. That yes, you are right. But then taking a side anyway. By lending trunks to tilt and crown to spread and roots to reach (even if water is gone). It is then the trees become ? ? ? ? ? ?

A clear-dandruff like collection of cloud should mean, I am coming to the ruffle of leaves. A cue to the coral should mean it is 7 and I am to miss tea. A well stationed azure should mean the bus will have left by the time I reach. A wind is still learning to settle what it is going to leave behind. On the roads when people spill along with brown leaves, there is a reflection Of a chai spilled, a biscuit broken — A tip to summer and an earthworm. When I arrive early, I take a longer route. When I arrive late, I am already seeing the sky at home (but at some other place). Glad that the one thing that won’t move with me will be this scene. I am occupied in looking around because I do not need to carry the sky, or pack it, or remember it forever. Also, I can’t really do any of those things. Even knowing that my travels speak to me More about home, should have made me feel adjusted. Most days, I feel Well Traveled.

The crow when in hopeful departure from the mango tree did not find the bread crumbs on the corridor wall still flew in at the sound of iron gate opening. When I bring water to the parapet wall in white plastic dish of Bengali fast foods, I am surprised by how sure the crow is of the bowl holding water only. And I do not even try to test, or trick, or check, for anything that could tell me otherwise. “The parapet prevents roof edge from blowing off by diverting air flow up, over and away.” The Extraordinary thing I do not think I am, my boundaries are. In the days of September mother once said, “Our ancestors might come as crows -- That this one right there, quietly stalking the edge of left-over piece of roti - is one we are seeing our people in”. The crow dips its beak in water, leaves bread crumbs to float, shoots to branch with jaws full; I want to be this hopeful about something that comes only in good times! The thing...

She said “goodnight!” hopping on steps that led to the afternoon coloured skies. Her mother tugged at her red hood “Beta, at night it is goodnight.” Her sister reaches up my iron door Slides the hasp. Almost locks me inside the house. For a minute I keep pushing the house. The house is making me understand a language, I think. The girl walks in oversized slippers He mother laughs when she sees missing chappals. When someone rings a bell here, her footsteps are the first we anticipate. When her father says, “Go run and get Daddy’s jacket!” She scurries and tells her mother, “Daddy wants chocolate!!” On Sundays, she and her sister sit cross legged on Activa. And the sound of car alarms going off at their touch are common enough. In between, they charmingly match sirens with ‘Chal Gaadi!!!’. For all the varied kinds of distance, I want to be this close to my home. And since doors do open — That one yawned too. As they forgot to fit the hasp on loop and go. ...

While returning from college I was waiting at the Bus Stop. A middle-aged man, carrying a white plastic bag, shaped in the form of a boulder (also weighing like one) arrived on the bus stop. His shoulders sank and the more he walked with that weight the more he seemed to get smaller. His legs were ready to give way any moment. He wanted to reach New Delhi. A vendor selling moong phali, popcorn, mathri , salty chips told him the many bus numbers that would take him. But when the bus came, the man did not move.  The vendor was busy. The pavement, the road, the streets nearby, the city itself was churning. Everyone was going to get somewhere. In those moments I got a feeling of being tossed instead of being suffocated. I wanted to know why I wasn’t able to smell any of those food items on the cart. The pollution, the smoke of petrol. All this should have made me dizzy but that is not what happened. I could have also taken a picture and sent it to Wes Anderson fan accounts - that...

One pigeon, two pigeons, three pigeons… Suddenly, It is a swarm of pigeons. The sky tilts a little towards     what has always been here. With terraces, I stand in agreement of everything they see. They have lived at the edge for as long as they can be & not absorb heat. There is noise in this blue of sky shrilling every corner of heat telling it to go outside and play! Look at everything — A flock of confusion takes flight, circles the air, & assembles at the same terrace again. The sky is still sky when the sun sets and nothing comes to an end. On other note, we never see the sun setting Only the colours changing Yellow glides dim amber Pink ruffles orange, But I never see the sun descend. It bulges, It grows, It glows To wait.