when we walked through the old city

i had not been there before but it always amazed me. the old city. the kite flying. the time loitering. the sun bathing. the roof stalking.

and then one fine afternoon they took me there. sitting on the scooty, balancing myself as we swerved through the traffic, i saw white shirts drying in the sun by the waterside. i saw bony men wearing shades accelerating past us on a muscular bike, not knowing how funny they looked. i saw children basking in the naivety of ignorance. i saw smiles exchanged for no reason whatsoever. i saw me being us with them.

them, pulling each others’ pants down. laughing and juggling wits in bucketfuls. hands on each others’ shoulders walking the path. not even trying to appear ‘innocent’. not claiming to have done any right by strolling carelessly. being shameless; a bit less of it as they had me with them.

me, trying not to be taken aback by the jaunting way in which cable wires ran above the dizzingly narrow lane, owning the sky, challenging every onlooker to un-entangle them. me, being strangely eyed by every two pairs of eyes we encountered. them, trying to make peace with it. me, trying to make logic out of it. me, finding none.

we sat in the dirty sweet smelling corner. the oxymoron-ity of it all must not have hit them; they had been there before. we partook among blunt jibes. when it was time to go, they fought over they silliest of things and me and a stranger smiled. it was funny. after one won, the other was smiling still.

the old city remained. un-punctuated, shameless, happy; we were the old city that day.