Fellows entered the room with beards of Stradanus.(As an aside, I went to the hot place to write this story ). Local newspapers at a corner on cracked rosewood table.Vasari wandering through the lives of painters. Galleries. Again Titian, the monk with a book. The wind was calm when he reached the riverbank, a current that passed under a bridge. And befitting.
Bookshelves like folds of intermittent layers of limestone and chert in the shape of Grecian folds. Kids coming from the park. He had to jump and enter. Windows were glassy. One could see grass and amidst the flowers, some yellow, some red, he dug the soil and found the tone of earth, brown. The chrysanthemum days over. She came this time newly dressed. In Madagascar, children playing violin.
I got the Eleanor Roosevelt book as a present. In school days. The club secretary was faraway kin from dad’s side. With his family, he went to a classical film in school days. Perhaps that was the first time that he travelled in an auto-cart. They were jam-packed, still, the trip was enjoyable. Often he would sit on the back curved seats of the gallery and read books. Once he read a soldier’s story. In the club, there was a small but good library. We would be shown free films by the Films Division. Sitting on the ground, we would watch the movies.
The city, or rather a town, the hottest in the region, temperature 40-degree centigrade, most of the time except winter and rainy reason. Small roads, the main centre is but a mile broad and a mile long. He eats raw eggs then, his mentor’s wife wrote, may not be good clinically, check it out. He had a problem swallowing. The same ground, parties used for meetings in the evening. He went there in forenoons Once after coming to the historical river, that he had read in geography titles, was amazed at the beauty, the calmness and the unusual breadth of banks. He had a family ritual to perform, he did it in honour of his father. He didn’t know if it was right or wrong, but he did it. He took it as a few moments away from work and schedules to remember his father, bask in the thoughts of his humble father, how they went to a small circus, how while walking home from a friend’s house at eight o’clock night, he, his dad and mom. He felt sleepy, after passing his friend’s house, the fellowship terrains, Swamy’s bookstall, He introduced his old friend, he is old B. A. He introduced his young friend, he is a new B.Sc. mirth, laughter after a decade or two Swamy also bought a farm. That season notwithal he was walking home, on the same sand, grit and gravel trail by the millpond with steps that went deep into the water, where his dad lifted him and walked home when he was drowsy and couldn’t push further.
Crash of a project, loss of fortunes, weight went down by ten kilograms, the backers apportioned his tract and took out the money and in the same seasons he bought two books of Edith Wharton and read. In the evening he would go to the bookstall, covering the head with a shawl as if he had a cold, to escape from creditors, but bought books and read it. And a money lender offered him a sum, discouraged him, a good man if it is for business take, otherwise don’t, you will be in trouble. This moneylender was kind, He was an old experienced chap. Didn’t want to spoil the life of a young man. He wasn’t exactly young. He was forty-three, a junction in life, you are neither young nor old, you think experienced, but you’re not enough experienced to know the mind of all types of people on earth. That you need additional years, at platforms, dormitories, railway waiting halls, the whole night, ask the lady. It is not always a story of just passion, some had, but others involved in some frustration, a deep wound in family, a tale that is hidden, much more.
You must have the brain of a snake and the heart of a dove, mom said. He tries to get the heart of a dove, the brain of a snake he found is not an essential commodity. It is plenty, and he could seek help. But, then it is a lengthy tale involving several detours.
At forty-three you are losing your youth but not on the wise edge to understand all the brains on earth. It needs some more glimpses, further journeys, some rechecks, some trashings into the bin. Some more inquiries, unexpected responses.
Is it true? At the sweet stall of his countryman. Again in the hotel. On the other end of the phone” dad is reading a book”. And the small town was girdled by crags and boulders. When the sun was high in the sky, the rocks became hot. He would read in the reading room and the people outside spoke a tongue that he could understand but cannot reply. The man said-Put the signature.. Yes, just that though probably a bit late.