he party hall is almost ready now, chairs, banners, balloons and an explosion of every single colour of the rainbow. To the far right is the popular pin the donkey and to the left a table, stocked with every child’s dream a mountain of cupcakes and a sea of every candy available in the local retail store. Next to the entrance sits a bare and eager table designated for gifts, the only one excited for the horror to come. With the squeak of the last balloon being twisted into shape, the hall is ready, it is the last moment of silence, the queen of this land before she surrenders her throne to the phantom of the children’s army.

 And with that a melting pot of asynchronous florescent footsteps burst through the the entrance of the hall, may the queen of silence rest in peace. Among the chaos a grown man, possibly the party organizer, sinks in a sea of hyperactive 3 year olds, desperately trying to create a method to this madness. As if the cacophony weren’t enough the overhead speakers begin to blast with the oh so familiar notes of the “Wheels of the Bus” melody partaking in a growing mess of discord.

The once proud mountain of evenly stacked cupcakes is now a cascading landslide. Stubby uncoordinated hands grab and snatch for the brightest cupcakes complacent to the structure crumbling down. Within moments the floor is covered in grease and frosting, one must be careful to not stand in one place for long for their shoe might get stuck. The only thing that seems to be building up is the pile of gifts. Sheets of dinosaurs greet those of princesses and the striped and the polka dotted ones beam at the top of the hill and Loosely tied bows and ribbons intertwine through the lot. 

I carefully maneuver my way through a maze of chatty mothers gushing about their child’s latest achievement and a pair of judgy eyes from the only teenager here and wind my way up to the cupcakes. Eyes shut I throw my hand into the fire pit/wresting pit hoping to score and after the 2 most traumatizing minutes of my hands I land up with a cupcake. The base of the cake is lost under the gargantuan heap of frosting, the only rainbow that hurts my eyes. I bite into it, my teeth sink into the velvety texture of the cake, 2 seconds of bliss before the sugar takes my taste buds on a dreadful roller coaster. The sugar migrates across my tongue causing it to twitch and turn in agony. 

However, when one observes carefully, there lies an orchestra among the turbulence, an orchestra of exuberant children, music that transports you straight to your crib and happiness beyond belief.

he garden is always a shade brighter after the first rains. The dew is perfect pearl beading more exquisite than any wedding dress, effortlessly following the curves of the earth. The harlequin beneath shines through, a rich dark grass upon the nurturing soil. Embedded in this soil are the legs of a bench. Simple planks fixed together, weathered by the many seasons given. It is almost as if one could see the compilation of its precious years in the layers of varnish. The water seeps from the bench through my woollen sweater as I sit and observe the garden. 

At this time of day vast silence reigns over the land. A banyan tree, the center piece of this arrangement, stands bathed in the nascent rays of the rising sun and casts a lake of shadows into the grass. A slight breeze sails around it and the aerial roots begin to perform a waltz. The young leaves breathe the hues of green and the promise of the coming season. A bird swoops down in her earthy-toned browns, a vibrant gentle shade that reminds me of the rich woodlands. She hops about through the wands of grass as if the earth were her trampoline. The creature then twirls through the massive branches, perches herself upon the highest one and begins her song. A chorus of never repeated notes is welcome in the quiet of the morning. She is a Nereid, her song mystical and alluring. 

The base of the tree seems like a whole new realm. Two little Mexican red belied squirrels frolic through the forest of roots in their way, they fiddle skip and hop, unconcerned about anything around them.  Around the tree, a copse of cypress pines flank it on one side and a thicket of peaceful bushes stands guard on the other. Aphrodite’s children are birthed in these bushes. Hydrangea festoons through its green mother, opening its petals to the world. 

It is rare to find peace like this, the bliss of the morning. I stand up the damp soil welcoming to my foot and head back home.

s the nascent rays of the rising sun highlight the edge of my magazine page, as I near the end of a rather interesting article about politics and look up at the morning mist clear underneath the flickering halogen lights. The unceasing aged charcoal platform seems in cohesion with the somber mood of the two maybe three people that occupy the other over-varnished timber benches at this hour of day. Oddly enough, vast silence and stillness reigns over the terminal, only a few vibrant plastic wrappers Mephisto to a slight breeze along its taupe ballroom. It is quiet and deserted and almost enchanting. A blaring soprano announcement slices through the gratifying silence of the morning and with it starts an uproar.

A raucous, argute shriek heralds the arrival of a decrepit carriage standing in defiance of its condition. A melting pot of people burst through its immense gates, as series of asynchronous loafers and sandals sprint in all directions. A wave of heat licks faces and coils around bodies like a nest of savage serpents on hunt. Each person moves as if unseen hands drag them this way then that, and furrowed brows, sweaty necks and urgent eyes swivel about in confusion. It’s like a volcanic eruption of an unholy perfumes, body odour and foul, cheap overpriced cologne explodes in my face all at once. The air now, throws out an acrid musty aftertaste causing my taste buds to twitch in agony. A tsunami of chaos has drowned the peace I so long for within minutes.

Although disjointed, the crowd moves in one direction. Every walk of life shoulder to shoulder, no personal space and no expectations, and amid the confusion a young boy tries to keep up, constantly tripping over his oversized khaki dhoti. It’s stampede of untamed hyenas out there, when the crowd moves so must the boy and if his tiny feet fail to keep up, he risks being trampled under their carnivorous claws. Around the corner of a pillar right on cue, a familiar voice calls out for tea in perfect intimation like it does every morning at the arrival of the first trains. A Chaiwala man’s his makeshift kiosk while sultry rich golden brown tea cascades from his large metal pot into a gargantuan of greedy plastic cups with accuracy beyond belief. With his vacant hand he strives to thrust bronze and silver copper coins into his endless pockets. There is no time to stop nor think, one must just move.

To a stranger the disarray and mayhem is unwelcome. But if one looks closely enough you’d see that the crowd has a life of its own. A multicolored cornucopia of clothes and exciting chatter of the people, old friends catching up, new friends made and with that I flip the page of my magazine to indulge in the next article.