rs-forever's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Happy Anniversary, my parents. The winter sun is now streaming in through the balcony window. The walls that appeared to be smooth are now textured as the sun hits them from their side, highlighting their peeling layers and showing their age. In the house is a woman with long hair, a slender build and a smooth skin getting dinner ready. She hears a car pull up outside and rushes to the balcony, her face glowing in the winter sun. The building itself is not very tall, perhaps three floors tall. It overlooks a narrow street with a temple at its very end. Around it are other building just like it. The buildings do not have names, like many other buildings in other areas do, in a feeble attempt to help impart a personality. The buildings on this road just have numbers. The house we just spoke about is building number 40. There are atleast 39 others exactly like it. The buildings have walls around them with a gate which is the single point of entry into the building compound, to give a sense of individuality perhaps. Three teenage girls sit on the wall just under Building 40, talking idly about their day. Their conversation was interrupted when the taxi pulled over at the building gate. At the same time a woman appeared in the balcony on the third floor. A smile formed on her face when she saw a familiar sleeve sticking out the window of the car, on an arm that was placed on the half open window of the taxi. A young man steps out of the car. He is tall and his build is slender, making him look even taller. His hair is shoulder length, dark and curly. He is wearing a pale green silk shirt and brown pants. The top button is undone in a causal fashion. The pants have bell bottoms, which is quite the rage now. He steps out the car and looks straight up, expecting to see his wife at the window, as always. When their eyes meet and a smile grows on their faces that reaches their eyes. He grabs his briefcase, pays the taxi driver the exact amount and then he runs up three flights of stairs, in a dark stairwell, with beetel leaf stains on its walls, with four apartments on each floor. On the third floor, the door is wide open, and the stairwell is lit with the light from the open door. Their hands meet, and we will leave them alone, this young couple, my parents, in the town of Sion, in Bombay somewhere in the 70s. 1:26 p.m. - 2011-11-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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