Freewheeling
From the time that we got there to when the boat rowed out to the point of confluence, everything’s a blur. What I remember vividly is the ride into the city, the shrivelled old woman selling jamuns by the wayside, the miniature figure of Hanuman dangling wildly below the rear view mirror, mace held aloft, ready to do battle. And filling the space inside the car, the laughing voice of Bhupinder Singh as he sang ‘Taash ke patton pe ladti hain kabhi-kabhi khel mein mujhse…’ I remember the six of us trooping into a highway dhaba, the Toyota Innova smell clinging to us. I remember the menu card with its gaudy fonts and misspellings, the shy waiter expertly balancing several steel trays in his hands, the child who wouldn’t stop wailing so that his mother had to walk around with him in her arms, whispering pacifying things into his ear, while her masala dosa grew cold at the table. I remember the colour of the sky, it was a dull grey. It might rain, you’d said.