Famished.
After half a day of hyperactive, productive spending.
We reached the file of food-stations.
Sprinkled around the Haat.
The place was peppered with stalls from every possible state of the country.
So we slung ourselves over at the open Sikkim stall.
[ Purnima's recommendation, of course ]
And ordered platefuls of meat.
Neatly tacked up in flour.
[ Hers steamed.
Mine, pan-fried. ]
And as it so happens when two chatty girls sit down for heart-to-heart, we spoke of every possible thing there was to speak about.
Books and films and food and art.
Theatre and Ad and photography and dance.
And a zillion and one other things.
Pieces of our past were traded in clean.
[ And by the end of the day, she nearly knew everything about me ]
Once, she asked me about my back-story.
Tightening her molten, kohl-smudged eyes:
“So tell me.. How many boyfriends have you had?”
She also confessed that she'd 'stalked’ me on facebook.
Seen pictures and thought I looked like an updated version of my mother.
[ A thing I'm oft told ]
****
Anyhow.
For someone like me, who tends to monopolise conversations, Purnima was quite a participant to contend with.
So after a soothing parley post a hard, long week.
A beer-drenched lunch with delicious conversation.
[ And even more delicious momos ]
We started making for the road.
In the gloaming.
The sky looked like one of those charcoal oil paintings.
As though the dying day was trying hard to preserve itself.
In the magical glow of wet, shimmering smudges...
