love

The drive was nice. The first pleasant thing that happened was that the shortcut to the main road in the city was open. It led through the old stadium. Sometimes the gates were closed, sometimes they were open. It didn’t make sense most of the time. Very few times, they were being cautious. And they hadn’t not prevented another attack like the one on the cricket team that happened more than a decade ago, because they were cautious. They had prevented it simply because those who would perpetuate such attacks had decided not to. But of course, the security forces would laud one another, clap themselves on the back.

The shortcut was open, and it meant you would drive past the garden, past the cricket fields. For him, it meant driving past memories as well. In his childhood, before the attack that led to an erratic open and close schedule for the gates, he’d come through this shortcut while on the way back home from swimming. His hair would be matted and heavy with the substances in the water. His stomach would be light and hungry. His body would be feeling energized. It had meant driving past the bookstore, and in special occasions, even going in. It was the only bookstore he’d been to, which was both surprising and not so surprising after all. The first because he was a huge bookworm. He had glasses by the age of eleven, before most of the future glasses wearing children of his age. The second, because it was the only well stocked, large bookstore in the city, and in an area that was relatively safe and clean. Later, the city would expand, other areas would become nicer. Later, even the teenagers that came to the cafe adjacent to the bookstore would migrate elsewhere.

The second pleasant thing was the thought that he was going home. It had been a long day, albeit not unwelcome. He was going home at five thirty, half an hour after closing time. But he was going home. And that was a relief. Oh, to cuddle with his dog, wrap blankets around himself, as the air conditioner hummed above his head.

The car reached the end of the road. Outside was the main road. The shortcut had saved him a good amount of time, had seen him drive through a cleaner part of the city.

By the gates, stood a girl, between six and eight. Twirling. Swaying, eyes closed. Dancing to her own music. His face was grimy. Her clothes were old. But clean. Her fingernails were crudely painted, but all of different colors, which meant she had put effort into them. By her, squatted a man on his haunches, fixing something on the ground. He kept glancing over at her, as if afraid she might get lost, or someone might take her. Not impossible concerns, but the unnecessary concerns of parents. He sat fixing his wares. There was a small stall made of bricks stacked on top of one another. And on each brick that made up the top of his makeshift table were different items, a colorful fan, a cheery toy bus, a plastic bubble blower.

His car passed the gate and joined the main road.