Eight

Climbing the end road of our neighbouring farm, towards the farm owner’s house while on the way to the bus stand. A floral printed silk saree, blue blooms on white milieeu, washed and tucked was flying in the summer wind. Quiet beside was a hibiscus plant bearing enough of red flowers, covering the harvested paddy field far behind. Them native sharp grasses. 

When I reached the bus stand and waited beside the bidirectional road to Mangalore and Vitla, a bus passed across, blowing my hairs on the face, which after wiping off I looked at it moving fast at the far end of the road. Sometimes it’s places over people that take you back to good old times and memories, I thought as I stood there looking at that turning road where the bus had just faded into. This bus stand was, decade ago, the place I caught buses to school everyday, with my elder cousin sister. We would stand there and chat while waiting for the buses every morning. And as I stood there today, and watched us virtually waiting for the buses ages ago, in school uniforms, while I had a seperate lunch bag, sis managed with the bag which she carried over her shoulders, and as I imagined her hair neatly oild and plaited and tried to think of the conversations we had had standing there, laughter and silly arguments, came a bus from the same direction, and I crossed the road to catch.

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