Chinese tea?
He looks up, confused.
At least his movements are confused…dazed…like he’s forgotten his glasses and just realized they weren’t on his nose.
But behind those shades…blind? Is he blind?…it’s impossible to tell.
There is a silver chain dangling out of his breastpocket.
A pocket watch? Vintage?
He slips his hand out of his coat pocket.
A handkerchief.
Laced…it’s laced?
White and laced.
And he wipes the sweat off his brows.
Only there wasn’t any sweat to begin with.
The swing doors glide apart and a blast of hot afternoon Kolkata air storms into the air-conditioned room.
Chinese tea?
No…er…what was that?
Chinese…
He waves his hand.
Not now.
His shoes…look for his shoes.
Kolapuri sandals.
And a bloodstain.
Blood.
Dull dark black gory magic.
Run away.
Is he hurt?
Are you hurt?
Just the market? Chicken? Fresh meat...?
He stands up.
Heavily.
The loo?
And sits down again.
Not sits…falls. Into the plush seats. Cheap plush seats. Beautiful cheap plush seats.
That way.
Which…what?
Drunk?
There’s a scent of aftershave. Cheap aftershave. But aftershave. Subtle.
Not drunk.
He’s breathing fast. Suddenly.
A doctor? No. Water? No.
There’s a shout outside. Traffic. Crowds. Heatwave.
April. Kolkata April afternoon sun.
A doctor.
Another shout outside.
The swing doors screech.
He’s standing up.
The loo?
They’re running. He’s running. The swing doors screech in the tension.
Kolkata April afternoon sun.
Traffic. Crowds. Heatwave.
They’re rushing in. Everything’s exploding. Fire?
Just the sun. And the crowds rushing in.
There’s been an accident.
He falls over.
On the floor.
Shiny polished marble. Kolapuri sandals. A bloodstain.
He’s run over someone.
A little girl coming home from school.
Two little pigtails.
Kolapuri sandles. And a bloodstain.
A shiny polished marbled floor.
A white ambassador. A red ambassador. An orange and yellow ambassador. A black ambassador. Dust. Rust. Dust. Rust.
In the wind.
Kolkata April afternoon sun wind.
A trail of sweat on the polished marble floor. Where they dragged him out.
Into the Kolkata April afternoon sun.
A white laced handkerchief. A red laced handkerchief. An orange and yellow laced handkerchief. A black laced handkerchief. Dust. Rust.
Shattered glass.
Not inside.
The temperature levels as the air-conditioner restores the cool.
Fresh meat.
Chinese tea?
He looks up, confused.
At least his movements are confused…dazed…like he’s forgotten his glasses and just realized they weren’t on his nose.
But behind those shades…blind? Is he blind?…it’s impossible to tell.
There is a silver chain dangling out of his breastpocket.
A pocket watch? Vintage?
He slips his hand out of his coat pocket.
A handkerchief.
Laced…it’s laced?
White and laced.
And he wipes the sweat off his brows.
Only there wasn’t any sweat to begin with.
The swing doors glide apart and a blast of hot afternoon Kolkata air storms into the air-conditioned room.
Chinese tea?
No…er…what was that?
Chinese…
He waves his hand.
Not now.
His shoes…look for his shoes.
Kolapuri sandals.
And a bloodstain.
Blood.
Dull dark black gory magic.
Run away.
Is he hurt?
Are you hurt?
Just the market? Chicken? Fresh meat...?
He stands up.
Heavily.
The loo?
And sits down again.
Not sits…falls. Into the plush seats. Cheap plush seats. Beautiful cheap plush seats.
That way.
Which…what?
Drunk?
There’s a scent of aftershave. Cheap aftershave. But aftershave. Subtle.
Not drunk.
He’s breathing fast. Suddenly.
A doctor? No. Water? No.
There’s a shout outside. Traffic. Crowds. Heatwave.
April. Kolkata April afternoon sun.
A doctor.
Another shout outside.
The swing doors screech.
He’s standing up.
The loo?
They’re running. He’s running. The swing doors screech in the tension.
Kolkata April afternoon sun.
Traffic. Crowds. Heatwave.
They’re rushing in. Everything’s exploding. Fire?
Just the sun. And the crowds rushing in.
There’s been an accident.
He falls over.
On the floor.
Shiny polished marble. Kolapuri sandals. A bloodstain.
He’s run over someone.
A little girl coming home from school.
Two little pigtails.
Kolapuri sandles. And a bloodstain.
A shiny polished marbled floor.
A white ambassador. A red ambassador. An orange and yellow ambassador. A black ambassador. Dust. Rust. Dust. Rust.
In the wind.
Kolkata April afternoon sun wind.
A trail of sweat on the polished marble floor. Where they dragged him out.
Into the Kolkata April afternoon sun.
A white laced handkerchief. A red laced handkerchief. An orange and yellow laced handkerchief. A black laced handkerchief. Dust. Rust.
Shattered glass.
Not inside.
The temperature levels as the air-conditioner restores the cool.
Fresh meat.
Chinese tea?
