The Twig

// May 2020 //

I step out of my office. I take a left turn, walk a few steps.

Adolescents cloaked with face-masks twitch around with the football. They seem to be in a rush with their game. A speedy football game. Probably because of the curfew.

I hurtle away to the right. The right direction to my room. I walk a few more steps, on this road. A new road.
Darting around the corner comes the football, decelerating upon my hindfoot — I turn around and gently kick it over towards the arena, adding an effortless nod.
I turn again, I keep walking.

I stop. I had to, because of the house. The house, with a glass-enclosed projection on its front. Hold on, it’s called a ‘porch’ (or a ‘patio’, there happens to be a confounding difference that I don’t seem very interested in). It looks elegant. It looks new to me.

Or maybe, it is new to me.

I stand still for a moment there, trying to condense the surrounding into my head —
not an awe-inspiring description of the nature around, but a copious sense of calm,
is what I get.
A feeling of immunity. A specimen of richness.
A transparent projection of wealth, in the form of magnificent architectures and neatly lined cars (number of cars), in the sight of the mansions.

I pull out my mobile and try to set the camera right, binding the road, the lush green trees, the scattered leaves, the number of cars, the architectures, and my current residence (which stands a few yards away), into the frame.

I zoom in and out a bit, and slowly let my thumb graze onto the capture button.

My hands start shaking. I cannot press it.

I don’t feel the same. I feel unexplainably heavy. A sense of deja vu dives in — an odd flashback into my middle-school days, running around my house. The scenario was half the same as this road.
But my house was in a town. This place is a city.
Heaps of contradictions and confusion start to swirl around my head.
I plunge my mobile into my pocket, I scurry into my residence.

I close the door. This wasn’t a police chase. This was just a moment of enormity.

Could be one of those ‘I don’t fit in here’ moments. I try to ignore it.

I take off my mask, suspend it over the door hook, change into my pajamas, and go to the spot.
The spot in my kitchen, where a blue pigeon unfailingly leaves a twig every day, at the exact same time.

I pick it up with a smirk and lead my way outside the door.

When I am about to drop the twig into the bin, I anticipate the sound.

The sound of a middle-aged someone, working from their room. The room could be seen right in front of my door, with half-shut windows.
A consultant. A management consultant, if I’m not mistaken, working on an evening shift. Working, tirelessly.

I look at that and smile.

I drop the twig, I shut my door.

The evening passes.

It’s 7:10 am. I follow my vacillating morning ritual.

As I get ready for work, I see the twig again. I take it to the bin.

Then I take away the trash and walk down the steps to keep the trash outside the front gate.

It’s the no-contact policy, for the sanitation workers to bear away our junk, as we sit inside our homes like we are somehow privileged to be.

As I close the front gate, I pause. Again.

This is a red-tiled mansion standing right opposite to my place, with another someone (probably in their fifty-fives), sitting on their porch’s steps. This person is seen smoking a cigarette, with a fittingly smug look.

A bright-blue car nestles outside.

I stare at the scene for a moment until I regain my consciousness.
I scoot back into my room.

It’s 9:45. I put on my mask, walk down to the front gate, and start walking out.

When I’m about to take the turn, I catch a view of that cigarette-person, from the bright-blue car’s rear-view mirror.

I could still see the smoking. It’s been an hour since I last noted the same.

I smile, widely.