Made in Madras

Having a room collected up with possessions that harmonize a colour in its different shades for a schoolboy in a city like Chennai is lousily unfashionable but, without weirdos around what would we smile about on the inside, let's be real. 

From the deliberated choice of coarse sheets to pillowcases to the mahogany teak dressing table to the fluffy bath towel left carelessly over the four post bed frame to the wardrobe attached to the wall on the other end to the carpet beneath, every eventual property was down to the colour red.

He rushes upstairs grabbing his coffee by the hand, still inside the maroon jersey worn to bed last night, to the terrace, past the clothesline anticipating he should be on time. Chennai's mid-morning sun does not actually scorch through the damp fabric. He quickly refashions his face to absolutely disinterested and eyeshots impassively at the 9 AM scheduled tushy, cute as a cinnamon roll stride past his house to work. This custom was forever followed in the end by playing possum for a while, gazing over the neighbourhood, overshadowed by playing Rahman and Raaja by the loop from the music player behind, admitting to the happenings around for a second in his head before actually seeing them. 

The every-morning school kids dabbling around their way, merry and care-free, messing with the few north Indian kids especially by only speaking to in Tamil.

The brilliantly coloured, intricate knotty god-knows-how-many-pulli kolams on the porches of few homes, that can toil with your head if you probe into the involutes too much.

The uncle on the opposite household who can't make it a day without washing his Jaguar with the garden hose and gets yelled upon people coming through, both for making their mornings horrible and for letting gallons of water being wasted. 

The young YouTubers on the street with their props and cameras preparing everything else for their to-be-uploaded short film with sober faces. Fellows like them are very likely to be the same ones contributing to Chennai's first-day-first-show frenzy and the hundreds of movie reviewing done all across social media for both,  the good ones and the ones that are unaffectedly nothing.

The aunty on the terrace opposite to his, with her kaapi and a crisp newspaper in her hands on an amber rocking chair, occasionally looking over her dull coaster of Marie-gold for ants on the tea table.

Her son playing Linkin Park for three houses in a row to hear.

When asked for downstairs, time dawns upon him. He will have to rush to be on time to school.

Miles away is a girl sitting snug on a footstool, her hair let down, bolted from inside a loo in her residence, attired in her school outfit but without the cardigan which is lying on the bed in her room beside her backpack. She's beside the faucet facing the lav, under the shower with her velcro shoe feet lengthened halfway across the dry, cold marble floor and her calves quiver of the bare chills, as she empties her skirt pocket of a friend-bought Four Square and pulls an 85 mm baby out. That let sit between her lips, greasy with cranberry chapstick and mom's coconut chutney she shakes her other pocket for the matches she found from Paati's prayer room and then lights up. The room is marigold lit in the mornings via the window sill from seven feet above and her hair Is lit scarlet from the luminescence. She could almost hear the guys next door, tipsy from last night and still void of any sense and the seldom throw up from the basin on the other side of the wall. 

She had only come across one of them, the one with the always unkempt hair and with the impressive shoe collection, who does shifts at their community apartment's grocery store for stipends. Not that she was being lewd but you can't help paying attention to his hair on the arms, funnily they were naturally kempt every time she noticed through the glass doors when she left in the evenings for her coaching classes, a blend of a honey hue and a bit of a distinct crimson that is caught up in the peach fuzz that sort of whirlpools on his arm.

We have another person at the hour to rush if not wanted late to school.

Her mouth done with Listerine, She will have to pick up the Sophie Kinsella book on her way out and pack it beneath her lunchbox so as to mom won't notice, ammonia spray the room of the odour, put on the cardigan and walk off to the school bus unmindful of the people next door. 

Yes, because her mom watches her back up until the elevator door closes.

Not that she was ever particularly interested in knowing about them, the only piece of information the entire apartment had about the guys in 311C was that they were most often on alcohol. 

You might think this may domineer a naturally prying schoolgirl like her to be aware of them more, but she had put herself against any position where any potential argument with a drunk man could be possible because apart from her mom and the obvious misery, you never know when they start making sense.

Image source: thehindubusinessline.com