All wrapped up in cloth, stuffed in a box, under the stairs,
smelling of must, we found him.
Unwrapped, he stood stiffly, blinked then eyed
us - one by one by one - as he wound the watch on his wrist.
We had been
looking for chapatti flour, we had not lost that, it was where it was supposed
to have been, in the dustbin, with its scoop and all. No, the box was the
oddity. Too large for its space, too large to have always been there unseen,
with dust befitting its situation.
. ."its time I left," that is all
he said, near upending the bin in his haste, and pushed past us. He lifted his
arms, as he squashed through the bikes and our junk in the passageway, as if
trying to avoid soaking his sleeves while wading.
And he was gone down the street, past the bins and dead cars and trolleys. Dust devils blowing through the chapatti flour, mid-morning Leyton, just past 1986.
And he was gone down the street, past the bins and dead cars and trolleys. Dust devils blowing through the chapatti flour, mid-morning Leyton, just past 1986.
