I want to grab you by the balls. But you’re tired of this daily assault. Everyone is different, everyone has a story, and everyone has something new you’re dying to hear. I don’t. I’m Typical [Sada, actually. That’s my name. It also means ‘forever’ if pronounced the right way] SADA. Forever typical. I’ve always been afraid of being so. So typical. I have no new story. Nor a new take on an old story. But I blow things up!!! Don’t sit at the edge of your chair! You can’t rush me off to the nearest court for a never ending trial. I don’t blow up people. I blow up what they feel. You know, sometimes you want to feel that nervous jerk of emotion but can’t remember how to? It’s your drug when you live in a city like Bombay. A sada bambaiyya falooda.
And then it rained. This story isn’t getting anywhere is it? I mean, it’s got these random cuts and goes nowhere in particular. I’ve been sponsored by these Bombay fairies with a yearlong supply of Mumbai’s world best pav bhaji and faluda, to create this mysterious, artsy sort of feel to Bombay. This attempt to win my treat, and spend less time on this assignment has made it appear rather sketchy. I’m rushing this because another party wants a different, more cultural take on Mumbai and I’m willing to do it for endless vadapavs and leftover pink undies.
So it rained. The place rotted. You could smell fresh shit from every corner. You could smell stale plastic chappals that cut the cake and smattered it into puddles. Sheera sat on these wide steps, watched as people ran around, covering themselves with plastic bags. She just sat there, letting her hair get damp with the smell of chemical clouds. If I was shooting this, it would be a rather typical scene: a pretty girl spacing out on picturesque stairs. I would get a gorgeous heroine to do this shot, but no one would be as perfect as Sheera, even though she looked quite ordinary and had a constellation of pimples on her forehead.
Now as she watched everything, she pulled out large, twisted green chillies from her pocket and nibbled them slowly, tugged and twisted each taut green bit, till she reached the stem. This gave her a strange high, with her pulse quickening in retort, her eyes watering till everything seemed like a kaleidoscope. Her tongue burnt, thick and numb making her speechless. Then she stuck her tongue out, catching the droplets of water. They teasingly escaped her at first, letting only her lips get moist. Then they trickled in slowly, tickling her as she rolled and unrolled her tongue. She shivered; you know that shiver when you control a squeak when your bladder’s bursting? She shivered as the rain trailed down a path on her tongue, pricking her in its attempt to sooth.
She sat like a stunned frog for long, and walked around writing her name on the windows of cars that collected fog and droplets. Some things in life are random and she danced home.
-written by Rheaa Rao
Labels: the Rheaa-tard
