I was in the lift when I heard the burglar alarm go off. Beeping incessantly . begging to be switched off. The morning cleaner boy . He was instructed to dust the insides of the car too , every Sunday . Every Sunday , my neighbours would forget to unlock the car for the poor boy . Every Sunday , at 5;30 am , while darkness was still lurking in certain nooks and crannies , hiding from the golden beam of sunlight , all the 250 or so occupants of the colony would be woken up to hooting and beeping noises from the car .
My scooter was an open air affair . No mats to be dusted , no burglar alarms . Just kick and go , adjust your chinstraps on though. The cold morning air hits your face . I always feel guilty about having left the kids behind . About how I have laden the fridge ,with stuff that is definitely going to outlast my duration of absence .
The roads are empty . Some sweepers trying to clear up the roads of its accumulated dirt , over the last week . No school buses though . Sunday .
Even parking lot guy was sleepy enough to ask me my registration number . Usually he is alert and fast enough to note it down before handing me over , the slip . 10 Rupees for 12 hours . The two wheelers are sparse . Sunday .
Even the bus is late . I never wait for this bus . Today I waited for 5 min . The conductor takes his time to amble to my window seat . An old man with a young girl in yellow dupatta sits ahead of me . The wind from the open window slaps the faces and billows the dupatta into a transient yellow balloon .
The horizon is rimmed with pink and grey , as the day breaks . Slowly , the world wakes up to a wash of liquid gold , blotting all breeze and early morning chill . Even as the bus trundles to its first stop , the stifle of heat slowly creeps up the footboards and golden light pools on seats .
The coconut seller already has his gamcha wound around his head and a thin layer of moisture around his lips . The soda seller is already doing brisk business .
People take cover against sun . Goggles , scarves . Two wheeler riders wrap themselves with cotton chunnis , just about keeping the eyes open . Some wear sunglasses over their mummified shrouded selves . Boys in smart turbans tie hankies around their mouth and nose to keep dust and heat out . With sunglasses, they look formidable .
Where there are open fields , heat and dust comes gambolling in , rolling into the bus , open from all the sides . We are awash with dusty heat . Whenever we cross a tree lined avenue , the air cools down , and the breeze is kinder , dust free , cooler , benevolent . But such oases are few and fleeting .
At the entrance to the city , the sun has blotted out , a cool moist breeze , threatening into a storm , blows . The sky is laden with ominous piles of cumulonimbus . Dark grey blue monster , upon another dark grey blue monster . Their borders wavy pale grey . The raindrops first tap on the window panes , tentatively . Then, without waiting for an answer , let loose the deluge . All hell breaks loose on the flyover underpass where everyone , in a hurry to get away from the rain , goes this way and that . Honking and purring madness . Rain battering tarpaulin covered chicken carrying lorries , smug food couriers , swiggy and zomato , in their rain soaked uniforms .
Our bus decides to take a U turn . We go over the divider in the highway , in pelting rain , holding up disgruntled traffic , on either side . They watch us , warily , behind swishing wipers , as not one but two monster buses lurch this way and that , heaving their bulk over foot high dividers .
Suddenly , we are in the city , rain has stopped and the sun is out . Rain puddles fast shrinking , we rush through empty thoroughfares and I have reached my destination full fifteen minutes before time .
Not surprisingly , there is no one to receive me .
