The Deep Cut

The first door-bell of the day had rung almost two hours earlier than usual that morning. It was still night-time, with the sun yet to rise at the horizon. My mother, still in her sleep, had opened the door to our cautious looking milkman. Upon being inquired as to why he had been so early today, he gave a single, crisp and wholesome response. 'Unhone Rajiv Gandhi ko maar dala..' They have killed Rajiv Gandhi.

Here I am, on my way to home, updating my blog from the train. Such a dedicated blogger that I am! My journey, yet again, sucks - this time more than anytime. Considering, even the last time, on my way to Mumbai, the one I mentioned in 'This Post!'  Dad had given me an option of flying home, which I turned down (much to the disappointment of the hassle-shunning half of my Indian soul) as I hate flying. I had booked 2 tickets in a Volvo AC Bus, from Vellore to Chennai. And much to my fears for the tragic developments about to unfold, the bus was packed! Already? ‘Anna, I‘ve booked seats 17 and 18 on this bus, it’s the 4 o’ clock Volvo right?’ He seemed to get heavily perturbed by my queries - 2 in tandem - one, asking if it’s the 4 o’ clock Volvo and two, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO MY BOOKINGS ON SEATS 17 AND 18!! Gave me a look, a killer one at that, then hurled a mouthful of harsh-sounding words in the bent, crooked language of Tamil. (Sorry, 4 years onwards,

'Egg or Idli?' Mess food. Even if I had not been informed of the menu, I'd have guessed it's redundant contents for breakfast.. However, the way the word 'Idli' was pronounced, made me look up. It was different, the way I couldn't exactly place it anywhere. I placed the egg carefully on my plate beside the bread and asked the guy to give some butter. He stared at me momentarily.. or my iPod, I think. I look back at the kid standing behind the barred window with a bucket full of jam. He could hardly be 10 years old. He seemed tall for his age and stuck out like a black smudge on a white shirt. I couldn't help but notice how awkward he looked. For one, his clothes were too big. It looked like he was swimming in them rather than wearing them. And his eyes were too wide, his mouth too small, his nose just a little bit crooked, as if his face didn't quite match his head. I smiled, rather to him than at him, but that probably raised the c