Heaps of mud decorated the road of the potters. For a change, they were not to make tiny pots that shelter the grains or water from pelter. They were to be used to create edifices, where the object of over-confidence, who thinks he is the GOD, is to take shelter. In fact, the structures would themselves be ashamed of their skyscraping.
Joys of innocence spread warmth on Potters Street. The bundle of joy was from the kids who were apparently happy about discovering the wetness in the fine sand in their feet and hands on a hot morning. Four kids surrounded the mound, started digging from the four directions, dug in deep till the first two found each other's hand. Several sets of four were waiting for their turn. The winners would then team up together to play a bigger game.
Several minutes of dedicated patience was being spent on repairing a watch that stands a proof of something irreversible--a horologer was repairing his customer's watch with his object-magnifying monocle on.
Mrinmayi was aware of all this while she was still contemplating whether to attend the eleventh-day function of Satthi Amma's demise. It was a bountiful Saturday and the one that Mrin was waiting for a long time. She was to meet her friend who had just come back from Jaipur. She never knew when she grew fond of his beautiful hazel eyes and his very non-apparent dimple that other people would have to search for on his cheeks. Perhaps, even before she became aware of him. People who knew his lineage would know from whom he had inherited those beautiful eyes. It was his mother who had those lovely glowing eyes that spoke a language of its own. Like an add-on, Mrigank had an additional charm in his eyes that would make you say hi, even if you have just met once and were a reticent person.
They had studied together till their class ten, and they were neighbors too. The fact that, the school roll call had Mrin's name immediately after Mrig's made quite a significant difference in the rate at which they got to know each other. But then, as fate would have it, Mrin's dad had to come to Madras owing to his occupation. Mrig and Mrin were the best buddies in the whole world till then, and even after they had departed, fate had them meet at least three years once, somehow, till before college and quite often during college days. Mrigank got an admission in a college in Madras aka Chennai. He had to keep reminding himself of the name change because he was so used to the name, Madras. It is certainly true for the number of times he would have referred to the place with that name, on quite a few dozens of envelops. They wrote to each until the advent of internet and other communicate-on-the-go type of mechanisms such as sms, mobile etc.
Just as Mrin was immersed in those lovely hazel eyes, she jolted with her eyes wide open and sprang towards the wooden table where the cell phone was present. The sense of urgency was quite apparent to the fact that she was expecting a call and also to stop the tremors that the cell phone was creating thereby disturbing the clam ambience.
The cell phone displayed ‘M’. It was Mrigank.
In a jubilant voice Mrin said, “Hey!!”
Mrig, in an elaborately long intonation said, “Hi!”
The interval between the ‘H’ and ‘I’ seemed so long that you could finish speaking one long sentence in the style of disclaimers that appeared on the stocks or insurance ads on TV.
So what are you up to in Madras?
Oh! Nothin much, just trying to recuperate a bit.
“Recuperate...? Why? What happened?”, asked Mrin in a worried manner.
“There was a small accident while I was trying to get off the plane.”, said Mrig in such a nonchalant tone that you would want to shake up the person and remind them of taking the responsibility of being a bit serious in life.
And you are saying that as if you went and got a pair of casual trousers?
Mrinmayi just loved it when people called her ‘Mrin’, despite the fact that one of her friends made sure that she called Mrin by her full name, because of the fact that the name sounded very Russian. She was indeed right, because there was a small village called ‘Mrin’ in Ukraine, a country that shared borders with Russia.
“It isn’t a big deal, just a small scar near my eye, and on the cheek.”, said Mrigank in an amused intonation.
Oh, man!! That is bit too much. What do you mean? And now, because of your nonchalance, I am getting a bit suspicious on the adjective that you used to describe your scar. Did you say ‘small’? I am afraid it is getting a bit serious here.
Hey! No you don’t have to worry to the details of the inch of the scar. I am perfectly alright.
No, Mrig. You are staying at Shruti didi’s place, right? I am coming over right away. Don’t take this as a chance and run away from the house. I will be there in another thirty to forty minutes.
Mrin’s call ended with a ‘Stay-right-where-you-are’, in a purposely americanized and threatening intonation.
Before Mrig could say an elaborate ‘Yes Madam’ in a rhetorical manner, he heard a distinct silence at the other end.
Mrin had already hung up and had started her vehicle to leave to Bose Nagar—the place where any hermit would love to settle down in his meditation. It was such a clam place and it would be an ideal place for an early morning walk or a walk at any time of a cloudy day. She reached his place, wished the elders, and Shruti didi, Mrig and Mrin collaborated into a long pending raillery of each other and there was no ending to the roars arising from the house.