She sits there in the middle of street, apparently oblivious of who’s ahead of her, who’s behind, and who’s waiting to pass. Tiny in size, enormous in pluck, the kitten sits there, waiting, watching. Watching something on the far left side of the street. So completely focused on the object of her attention, ignoring the traffic around her that you think she’s going to run out of luck on this busy Bazaar Road in Bandra’s main market. A rickshaw attempts to maneuver around her, but there’s no way to do it without driving into her – she’s sitting right in the middle of the narrow street. The rickshaw stops, waiting a few seconds for her to get with it.
A cyclist from the other side, a delivery man whose bike is overloaded with grocery supplies, barrels through, seeing the kitten almost too late. She does not move, does not flinch, she does not even turn her head. Her attention is elsewhere. The cyclist swerves to his left to avoid her and crashes into a bhajiwala (vegetable vendor) and his baskets of produce outside D’Costa Bakery.
“Abhey, laudu, tujhe cycle chalaane aate hai kya?! – Eh, dickhead, can you even ride a bicycle?” shouts a pedestrian who’s jumped out the way just in time.
The delivery man’s bicycle is now entangled between baskets of beets, cucumbers, eggplants and other vegetables. The groceries from his cycle are now littered on the dirty, mucky road, bags of dates, dried apricots, figs, cashews and almonds distributed among the fallen veggies.
“Yeh kya kiya tune?! What have you done?!” the incredulous bhajiwala asks the delivery man. “Tune mere poore din ke dhande ki maa-behen ek kar di. Kaun lega abhi yeh kharaab bhaji?! – You’ve screwed my entire day’s business. Now who the fuck is going to buy these dirty vegetables?!”
“Baba, sorry, yaar, woh billi thi udhar aur main baas…brother, I’m so sorry, that kitten was there and I just …” the cyclist’s voice trails off as he gathers himself and points to the kitten sitting in the middle of the street.
“Arre, billi, filli! Yeh billi toh yahaan ki hai. Tu kahan ka hai!? Aankhen hain ya button?! – Kitten, fitten! This kitten is from here, where the fuck did you come from?!” the bhajiwala shouts, eyes popping out of their sockets, his voice strained. “You have eyes or buttons?!”
“Saala, bina dekhke, cycle chalata hai – idiot, without looking, he’s riding a bicycle,” the bhajiwala continues with disgust, as he returns his damaged produce to the now rearranged baskets on upturned milk cartons. People gather around the bhajiwala, some others help the cyclist with the fallen groceries, among them a helpful passerby who samples the figs, asking disingenuously of the delivery man, “Wow, are these figs? Delicious. How much are they?” The hapless delivery man shakes his head and indicates to the passerby to leave it alone, he’ll take care of it.
Through all the commotion, the kitten is unmoved, its gaze locked onto something on the left side of the road. Finally, the rickshaw honks, tentatively at first, then a little more assertively. The kitten ignores the first horn, then gets up and without looking at the rickshaw, calmly walks to the side of the road in its own time.
At the side of the road is a scooter, and a footrest onto which the kitten lifts itself. It’s going somewhere with a purpose, its body crouching forward in hunting mode, still focused on the far side of the road, away from the fabric stands.
There are no chicken shops here and the fish market is quite a distance away. But something on the left side of the road is of utmost importance to the kitten, enough for all of its energy to become one with it. It doesn’t matter in the least that neither you nor I know what that something is. It is enough right now that the kitten knows exactly what it wants. And, as it is wont to do whenever you call its name, the universe has rearranged everything else in response.
© 2019 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.