As a 19 year old girl, Annie watches her life like a movie, running in forward direction on the endless thread of time. A movie where the plot runs fast and a good ending is always somewhere nearby.
In her dreams, she is still a 5 year old girl. In her dreams, her ancient details hang about the knots of her hair, and in the colour and texture of her skin.
In her dreams, the face of her grandfather animates, guffaws, his body shakes, and the story of Banjaras is told again.
“There were once two lovers. By an astronomical miracle, their clans crossed path. The singers and the poets. One clan wrote but never sang. One clan sang but never wrote the songs down. Each for the same reason.
The lovers did not know the reason. They simply loved. And when the clans parted ways, the lovers went back to look for each other.
But they made a folly. They never wrote down the names of each other, only called it out loud over the desert air. And the desert, cruel as it is, stole the names, buried them in some far away dunes never to be found again.
And that's why the names and the songs of the banjaras must either be written or risked to be lost forever.
That's also why the banjaras memorize and sing the same songs over and over. To keep it safe in their memory and on the pages.
So that even if a girl runs away from what she knew as home before leaving, she remembers what home feels like, at least. That she does not let the desert take away the sensation of being home, even if it does not give you four walls and a room.”
...
The ringing bells from a nearby temple wake her up. The leaving sun gathers back its sprawling rays like a concerned mother. Annie takes out her diary and starts writing on the first page:
“This hill is a palace to me tonight.
The dotted lights that wrap her from head to toe, hide her trouble too.
Life’s a bit lost.
Regardless, these lights dance.
The concrete flourishes with the gardens.
Yellow dots form lines, lines taper away, like an endlessly luminous river.
Like an old song on repeat.
I see buildings, tall and nice, with square shaped rooms and their square shaped windows, with built-in people wearing colours.
I see vibrance.
Everywhere except in my Little Dark Room.”
She shuts it and writes “LITTLE DARK ROOM” in bold letters on the cover of her diary. This is what she names it.
...
“Can I get free green chillies with this?”
“Oh yes! Here. Coriander leaves?”
“Yes please! Thank you.”
Annie keeps the polybag near the ledge, drags the stool closer to the shop and counts her money while her phone is getting charged. This is her 8th day in Pauri. Everyday she comes here and spends an hour or two.
The vendor, a woman in her 30s, doesn’t ask many questions and is kind enough to let her charge her phone.
A tall shadow blocks the warm sun falling on her arms.
“Can I get Dunhills?”
Annie looks up. In the land of Four-squares and Gold Flakes, who’s looking for a Dunhill?
Green hoodie. Beige pants. Gaudy sunglasses.
Shabby chappals. Unkempt hair. Dark lips.
Just another urban rogue with the smell of earth in his garments.
As if he had heard her thoughts, he turns and catches the evening sun arrested in Annie’s coffee brown eyes. She pretends to count her notes.
“No saheb. No Dunhills available.” The woman shakes her head.
Poor pothead now has to use Four Squares for a joint. A little smile flashes on her lips. He turns again and Annie’s smile is caught.
“Aaa… they might be selling them in the main market… Dunhills. She only keeps what the locals buy.”
Very nicely done, Annie! She thinks.
“They don’t. I checked. I guess Gold Flakes will do.”
He lights one with the old lighter anchored to the table with a nylon string.
“Funny practice, this.” He waves the lighter in her direction.
“Yeah. It is required. Lighters. Ball pens. They often go astray. Nail cutters as well.”
“That’s a peculiar observation. I am Aditya.”
“An… aa… bell... Annabelle.”
“Writer, are you, Annabelle?”
“What? No. I live nearby. Student.”
“Oh nice! You must know how these inner streets work. I mean, what a thick network of narrow lanes. I always lose my way. ”
Annie knew where this was going. She can not afford to trust a stranger.
“Google Maps.”
“Sorry?”
“Google Maps... can help. Will save you time and the money that these guides charge.”
“Yes. I was thinking maybe a local could help – but Google Maps indeed. Hey you want a smoke?”
What, is he a cop? Why so persistent.
“Nah! Thank you. Nice of you to ask.”
“Nice to meet you! Goodbye, Annabelle.”
“Goodbye!” Annie says as she smiles back, hoping to never see him again.