Stories of Ozmania

Strolling on the promenade of Ozmania this evening I see them with dogs, children, wives, and other stuff by the sea. I am well insulated. I try and run away from this audacious masquerade and from that clown. I want to be at the grocery store soon, I should be at the grocery store. What was it- loaves and loaves of dry bread, oils and spices, treacle tarts, creame. The street of Ozmania is a favourite haunt. Yes, I haunt it when I can. The sky is still making up her mind. Evenings always confuse her. I see a blue-green kite dwindling somewhere near the clout of palms. Strange,who flies a kite here?

I am browsing through the shops on the other side of the pavement. The antiquarian has not opened today I think. I don’t blame him. Business is thin. I wanted a look at some old prints,but, I guess tomorrow will have it. I cannot help but wonder at the fat candy-woman. She looks as ugly as on any other day. She throws a smile at me. I try to return it. I hate her, but why let her know. And maybe, she hates me too. I feel the urge to visit the bookshop. I hope they have the ones I ordered last week. I cross the street and enter the old, smelly shop. The rusty bell croaks a jingle.The endless shelves of books, the faded yellowish peeling paint, the green carpet, and burgundy red furniture (scanty though!) along with the lamps makes this a perfect haven. I love this place. Old man Moreez greets me with the toothless grin. I ignore him. I head to the shelf with the latest additions. Yes, they have two of them. I find a nearest seat and open the first one. I hear you.

You stand there near old Moreez. I look up to see. I look up to see you and I like you. My eyes canvass the tip of the heels of those red stilettos, move on to those alabaster legs,to the skirt that so happily shapes you out. I find I like you and I am afraid. You do not laugh but repeat your words. I reply in a negative. I see your tongue touch your teeth when you say what you say. You are smiling and I am afraid. I am afraid and I am angry. Old Moreez asks you to show me some new ones that might interest me.

You move closer. I do not look, but I can see the way you bend down and browse through the dead old stack with the tip of your finger. It bothers me immensely. You come to me now with half a dozen. I can smell your hair. Your lashes flutter and I see the eyes for the first time. What is that look? Are you throwing a gauntlet? I oscillate between interest and boredom(both feigned). I can’t decide. You smile knowingly and I want to hit you across the face. You blabber about the authors and best-sellers and I try to keep seated. You are seated on the arm. I hate to admit but I like it. I ask if you have read any by the author and you giggle and say you would rather do without authors and what they write. Your brown curls rest on the pages. I admire the shade while I try and read the first words.

I sound so like myself and I bet I look composed. But, I know how hard it is to keep the lines drawn accurately, tougher than managing the mad bull Knell at the Sunday fair. I wish you keep seated where you are and talk and not wait for me to reply.

The bell rings a second time. Some young bucks from the university. I hear old Moreez shout Kaavi , help these gentlemen find what they want. Kaavi…Kaavi …it repeats itself like the sound of a gong. You leap from the seat and run to the new entrants. All smiles and May-I-help-yous. I get up and go out. Wanton slut.
(to be continued)