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A lot of things happen on the street right? People walk, people talk, dogs bark, Cars Park, men pee, chai walas make tea, panipuri treats, dragging feet. And many such things. Including dustbins and twosome kissing. And shopping orbits are sometimes called high streets. What? Why? Even sober people go there!
I confess a sign of immature writing. But how can you blame me? “Street” is a sign of uncreative thinking. I have more suggestions to offer.
Anyway, please don’t stare at my piece like a fire breathing dragon, papers catch fire. A creative writer’s job is to convert ridiculous topics to sublime literature.
So end rant.
And here I go!
Street shopping and street food gives an unimaginable high! Easy on pocket, happiness unlimited. My red t-shirt magically makes my skin clearer, my hair brighter. Thanks, I know you find me pretty. That’s why I say don’t trust mannequins, they are just wax or plastic in mango’s latest arrivals, but what’s the point? They don’t understand street walking and vadapav hogging.
Love is a two way street. Oh how many times I’ve heard that before. Not really, I’ll narrate to you happy one sided love stories sometime. But taking someone’s hand and walking in the streets of Mumbai at 12 in the night and chatting away to everything under the moon is a kickshaw!
What about the loser you see on the street? Yes yes, that loser who lines up in front of the street wine shop at 9P.M and lies down in front of the shop by 10P.M before he struggles his way back home to beat up his wife? Oh he’s such a pain!
But somehow I relate to him. Sadly. I’m under age, and I can’t really go by my alcohol from the authorised shops. I stopped doing proxy purchasing after I left home. So this is my only means to blacking out.
So I line up with them, and my story is that of every woman. I do not wish to generalise and state that they are all sex hungry people ogling at me, but what to do? How much can I blame the alcohol? Tell me he’s staring at my breasts out of envy, I swear I’ll let him do so out of sympathy. I will also go alter Freud’s theories. Tell me he’s singing songs because he thinks I resemble one of the Indian Idle judges. *faints* tell me he is staring at my face because he deals in anti-acne and fairness creams and hopes that I might buy them someday. Tell me he’s grinning not because I’m buying alcohol, but because my street shopped t-shirt quotes “Just where the hell is easy street?”
Ok, I’m digressing. Even assholes have souls. End rant.
I have two childhood stories for you. Cute right? One on birthdays, and the other on street puppies.
I absolutely adore birthdays. Mine, other people’s, and strangers on the street. I was 10, and I heard someone wish a friend. I stopped to wish the passerby, she was taken aback and my mum freaked out! Yeah yeah crazy childhood! But what do I do? I craved for some cake, and even after wishing, I was bereft of it! Sad right?
Now this one goes back to when I was three. I loved dogs. I had one of my own, but I’d still go out to play with the street ones, much to the annoyance of Simba and my mummy. So this is how my dinnertime story goes.
Ronny was black and Ginny was white. They lived on the street. They were fighting over a Scooby snack right outside Simba’s gate. Simba was handsome. He was chocolate brown. He was sad because one of his favourite Scooby snack rolled out under his gate.
Simba watched Ginny and Ronny fight over the yummy treat. They barked and scratched. Simba was very smart and he was little enough to fit between the bars of the gate, he crawled out and picked his snack and chewed and chewed and swallowed it down. Just the way Sai eats her food. So Simba is a smart boy. And Sai is a smart girl. Now eat up your food!
So now, dear reader, dear evaluator, before I close, a random piece of advice from a girl writing on street - I wouldn’t and you shouldn’t walk the streets without money.
Lots of love and LMAO,
Madireddy Sai Vindhya
