A few peanuts in hand, Rajala stands amid a flock of pigeons that are ruffling their feathers and squawking impatiently. She throws another handful of nuts into the air, sending the birds into a flurry as they try to get a peck .A smile lights up her exhausted face as a pigeon alights on her shoulder.
Behind her the brick archway of the museum gate looms silent, awaiting the daily crowd.
It is 4:00 pm and the evening is still in its infancy.
The sky looks freshly painted, and there is not a cloud in sight.
The roadside hawkers have started arranging their wares on the ground, in preparation of a long evening. A few foreigners, who are passing by, stop to inspect the goods. There is a lot of gesturing, and it is clear that neither party can understand the other.
A small crowd is starting to form around the collection of teashops, situated along the narrow lane adjacent to the museum entrance. The teashops, which have been around since god-knows-when, are a frequent hangout spot for the young and the old alike. In the evenings, you can hear their chatter over the sound of the rumbling traffic.
The traffic, increases steadily as people start heading home from their offices. One can spot several up market cars as they walk along the stretch of road from Museum to Vellayambalam. Every ten minutes or so, a BMW or Mercedes glides past, in all its regal grandeur.
A sudden gust of wind sends leaves showering down to the pavement. Caught in a beam of sunlight filtering through the branches, they are a pretty sight.
Rambootan salesman, Johnson, is occupying his regular spot outside the Kanakakunnu gate. He doesn’t seem to be having a profitable day as his cart is still three fourths full. He is cheerful, nonetheless.
The bus-stop just outside Kanakakunnu is vacant but for a middle aged woman. She looks anxious. Perhaps she is waiting for someone.
A little further along the street, a couple haggles with an auto driver over a fare. In the distance an unfamiliar Tamil song blares out of a loudspeaker.
Few people notice the model of an aircraft that has been on the roadside, for as long as anyone can remember. The old Navy sea-hawk model has stood the ravages of time. As always, it remains unnoticed, a shadow in the background, as the world flashes past before it.
The traffic signal, before Keltron, turns red, and vehicles come to a screeching halt. People honk impatiently. A hapless old man gets caught in the middle as the lights suddenly turn green. They curse and swear at him.
Its 5:30 now and the sky sports a bluish-orange hue.
What are we, but mortals bound by time.
For a stretch of road and a wonderful evening spent.
Thank you.
