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Showing posts from June, 2014

The Last Saturdays

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On the last Saturday of every month, a white Esteem, numbered 1616, would drive down the tree-lined Copernicus Marg of Delhi. Judging by the smoothness of this drive, and the adroitness with which it negotiated bumps and curves, one could tell that the road was not unfamiliar to the driver. Month after month, year after year, neither the car changed, nor the driver. In the multitude of a national capital, nobody noticed this car, parked under a Chhatim tree. She used to say its flowers carried the drugged fragrance of romantic poetry. And that it injected life with each breath. He’d park his car right under that tree, adjacent to the theatre auditorium – at the same time and same day of each month. The man behind the steering drove in no hurry. Without exception, he came well in advance, not wanting to risk his religious ritual to haste. In the bee-hive of life, the syrup can be sucked best and deepest only by the bee of leisure. She alone obtains and derives the taste as it’s