melting pot of people burst through the immense gates and a series of asynchronous footsteps twirl skyward through the mahogany stairwells. The towering luminescent bulbs look over us and beam as a slight breeze nods in our direction and the sun waves goodbye. Further downward 70 yards of thick spring grass are barbered to perfection silently awaiting the magic. Ten minutes till the big game.

Soon the heat begins to licks our faces and coils around our bodies like a serpent on its hunt. Sly drops of sweat tumble down hundreds of faces and peel through layers of roughly applied paint. Across me a sea of bodies adorned in red and green synthetics mill about the benches, moving back and forth like waves brushing across ashore. A string of scarlet hats stamped with the very celebrated crest are dotted in heaps all across the stadium. 5 minutes till the big game

I turn to the right, beside me is a young girl, decked in an oversized sea-green jersey and shorts, the kind that stretch like a rubber band. She ploughs through a perfectly innocent bag of potato crisps feeling no need for manner or remorse. She then moves on to lick her fleshy lips and turns her attention to inhaling anything remotely sweet insight. To my left, seated beside me is a man adorning powdered white hair and a matching goatee. A time chisselled face decorated by his blood-flecked eyes that bear the scars of a long-lived life. He sits patiently and calmly wearing an angelic smile, observing the commotion around him. A ferocious grunt beckons my attention to the other end of the stadium. It is all a blur, a furious collision between the rouge and the emerald seem to have the crowd in a fluster. An army of men in black soon arrive to dissolve the mess. 1 minute till the big game.

 A large siren echo’s through the stadium, followed by hoots and trumpets beckoning the game to begin.

on’t let the exterior of the double glazed automatic glass doors fool you, for once they slide open, what lies in front is nothing short of a snake pit.

 

I walk through the gates only to divulge in a cacophony of noise. Accompanying the ruckus, ostentatious and iridescent red signs prey to the guilty pleasures of innocent victims passing by, enticing them with insidious promises. A corridor of the same monotonous whey aisles brace in themselves in formation against the pulsating crowd. They are armed with a lethal combination of discounts and sales, forever ready to attack. Eager customers push and shove as they try and gain access to scintillating price tags and bargains. Amid the chaos the statuesque security guards seem to be the only still people in sight. The one thing keeping me from spending the day in the nascent honey rays of the sun, is the cool breeze from the vents oozing through the gaps between each customer. The pleasant air conditioning helps waft the aroma of foods from the delicatessen at one end of the market to the other like a nymph luring her men in before the kill.

Deep within the supermarket, a small child drags his feet along the scuffed marble, pulled along by the firm grip of his mother. His multicoloured sneakers screech piercingly against the flooring as he whines aloud. Prying heads snap to the source of the unwelcome soprano, some sigh in disdain while smile unknowingly. His cry finally subsides after surreptitiously placing a bag of M&M’s in the trolley. To my right a woman struggles to walk through to the checkout section. The handles from her shopping bag cover her arms like wrist bands, while the thin straps of the overflowing bags sink deep into her skin. One might find this quite amusing if they are not one of the many desperate people hoiting about the store.

y grandfather is a septuagenarian veteran swimming in the tidewater of his seventh decade, undefeated by the betrayal of time. His face is chisselled and the creases under his eyes grow in number by the day. He adorns a crowned fringe of fossilized hair around his balding scalp and matching goatee to complement it. Every morning he limps to the window sill and looks below at the immerse streets of Bombay through his observant eyes. He perches comfortably on a wicker chair wearing his bleached kurta engrossed in the chaos below, and every now and then he smiles, before the wires of his dentures start gnawing at his gums, and his rare smile fades away. 

Sometimes I can see the young boy in him, yearning to run loose through those streets again, barefoot on the ground. It was as if his soul sat down at one of those little kiosks, amidst all the commotion and ruckus, sipping on freshly brewed piping hot tea, or maybe that little boy waits for the day where he may put down his veil of sanguine wisdom and return to the frivolous frolicking he once wore with pride/ that children are entitled to. 

In the quiet you can hear the faint sound of his watch tick. The frayed and fatigued leather interlaces above his left wrist, where a tan line deepens every day. The silver-plated dial glints effortlessly in the nascent rays of the morning light, like it did every morning during the war fifty years ago, when it rode my grandfather’s blood-drenched hands through gruesome battle, scarlet memories that send shivers down his weak spine even today. The revered watch was a gift from his friend who did not survive the wrath of the war and every day when the hand passes eight forty-six in the morning he says a quiet prayer in remembrance of the last breath of his fellow soldier. His eyes full of suffering and dread and seems to be lost in an endless sea of agony.

And then grandma walks into the room, and laces her fingers through his and his eyes turn soft, forgetting the pain for a few moments. Their eyes locked in others gaze, holding each other tight like they always have. In her presence, my grandfather is complete, he is once again an innocent young lad tender and in love. His face is that of a puppy with nothing but unconditional fondness of her, and his radiant smile returns once more and this time does not stop.