Jeur

Tasting freedom

The cyclone has hit the house hard. The old tiles don’t stand a chance. Your grandma is asking you to get more buckets from the attic. The power is out and you are scared. Your mother is out to buy milk and rice. You want to be with her. Grandma’s skin is cold and weathered. A line of ants heading towards the kitchen seem to be confused. They go in circles. The storm is near now. The fishy tang is on your tongue.

She points at the ants. “One day you’ll know the taste of freedom.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. I was talking to the ants.”

***

Most of the coach is asleep. You open the door. A wall of cold air crashes into your face, tousling your hair further. The sun outside is low on the horizon. Orange. The sky extends upwards and around. Pink and indigo. A reservoir. Blue and green. Dark figures in wobbling boats casting nets. Grey and brown. Cormorants and Ibis splashing. Black and white. You have your feet firmly planted, one hand on the window grill and other against the bulkhead. A woman from somewhere inside protests against the sharp wind. You ignore.

The bright blue coaches dive into a deep cutting. The wheels screech against the steel. The rocks are brown, black and sharp. Some grass between them. You look out, the wind rushing, picking up pace with the train. Your toes start to tingle. Waves of invisible energy pushes up. Your fingers get twitchy. Your ears acutely aware of Nusrat Khan saab’s voice. Distinct from the clackety-clack.

The pulse hits your head. Boom. Crash. Silence. Blind. Blank. Tears.

“Freedom, grandma”, you say, “tastes like salt.”