Rooftop Reminiscence

The piece just wasn’t working out!

Vivek moved his chair back an inch and stretched out his legs under the table. Here, in his one-bedroom apartment in downtown London, the air smelt distinctly of poor bachelor. He moved his hands over the teak wood of the table and wondered what his mother would say if she saw the innumerable coffee rings which had morphed the once pale brown wood to a disheveled mess of stains. This was the result of the many sachets of Bru coffee which he would carry in bulk from his hometown of Pune. “Modern Art”, Vivek called it. A wry smile forced its way into his face. It felt warm.

He too was an artist. Well, an author. Not established yet, but he dreamt of brushing shoulders with the “whos-who” of the literary world in the near future. If only he could get this stupid piece out, otherwise he would have to make do with the “who-the-hell-is-who”. He had recently been asked to write a piece for the local newspaper. It was a small gig, but this young writer needed all the money he could get. A young brown man living all alone in the exorbitantly expensive city of London on a sub-editor’s budget often just doesn’t cut it. But Writer’s Block lived in that tiny one-bedroom apartment as well and seemed to have it out for our ambition aspiring writer.

He decided to take a break and head up to his roof. He pushed the door, which swung open with its characteristic metallic groan. Walking over to the east ledge, he took a seat, as he reached into his pocket for a smoke. He didn’t always smoke, not back home at least. But the big city tends to change you. This was definitely his place. One of the only places he still felt home.

Ah, home.

What a wonderful concept. Vivek had had a particularly peaceful childhood. The troubles of reality seemed to have had left him to his devices. His father worked a cushy government job and his plump, loving mother loved him to no end.

The cool wind of early October rushed past him on the roof, bringing with it, memories. Lost histories of masala chai and steamed momos during late hours in the winter. He remembered how he and his friends would sneak out at night and relish those cheap delights. The love stories written in the pages of the menus of Shamnath Food Centre remain in the corner of his mind. In stark contrast, the warm summers brought with it its own set of pleasure and excitement. The most prominent of them being the soft, plump mangoes. It was as if Vishnu himself as blessed the divine fruit. But Vivek had had no time to think about all this then. He had been too busy slurping up the yellow ichor of the Amrapahali. He recalls how his mother would always save him the sweetest ones, and how she would wipe his face after he was done. The delicately sliced mangos of the Hoxton Pony Club do not even compare to the ethereal experience of sucking the juice out of the mango core as the liquid drips down your arms, leaving stains not only on your shirt but also on your soul. He missed the familiar faces in the crowd. In small towns everyone was known to everyone, forming a sort of enormous community of embarrassing relatives. The Diwali feasts, the wedding banquets, the festivities, and the ruckus and mirth and joy and tastes and sounds and sights of home.

All of this lived now only in memory. 

His fingers now felt warm and he snapped back to reality. He’d let his cigarette burn too long. His heart longed to be back where he belonged. But reality often his its ways of shattering a man’s wistful thinking, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and shoving him back into the bottomless pit of adult life. Vivek returns to his stained coffee table. The piece isn’t going to write itself.

He went home once a year, in May.

He only brought back memories.

And of course, his sachets of Bru coffee.