The Street we’re at cart wheels with Life in the raw. Rich really. Theres the row of Welders. Their customers and beetle chewing friends. The drunk fabulous singers > Ramswamy you’re the best !
Temple drums and dancers.
Nothing in that Oil/Acrylic of mine even remotely resembles Life today Jeevanhally, Welders.
The Samandhi Pu ladies , flower sellers , some in cycles and others with sari bunched to waist and voice like shocked flutes. Who are their men ?
The Street Fighters. After Dark. Women, their men, their other women. Mud flinging, face slapping exchanges that may never find script.
The Lovers reunions….
I linger behind the seven potted plants in our balcony to hear the end of the Day’s dialogue. Tomorrow early morning there’ll be the water fight, if the three sisters down the third row, arent having a good start. The joyfully cooking pots if the water was sweet and clean/ flowers in the hair and much chattered giggles.
Do I paint them, write about them, for them ? How would my play end ? At the local govt office ?
Askn about Water ? Or am I the quiet arty type best left to Art room.