ESSENTIAL DELIVERIES
-
Sreelekha Chatterjee (India)
I
notice a man on an e-bike
halt
outside our house.
Must
be one of those delivery boys.
Our
locality has these frequent visitors—
probably
at the rate of ten every hour.
He
removes his helmet, takes off a scarf covering his head.
A
handsome young face reveals behind the protective gear,
stares
momentarily at the house opposite ours.
Looking
attentively into his rear-view mirror,
adjusts
his disheveled, sweaty hair.
A
need to look presentable whelms him.
Perhaps
he feels the anxiety of facing a customer
for
a split second like an artist—no matter the experience—
who
confronts unease before going onto the stage
for
the world doesn’t believe in promise but in performance.
Akin
to a magician who strokes his mystic wand and vanishes objects,
the
man disappears somewhere with a parcel—
like
a vessel invisible among the sea of neighboring houses.
After
a while, he materializes—as if a suddenly rejuvenated
smoke
from a dying ember—coming out from a house next door.
Eyes
brimming with content, as he scrolls on his mobile—
a
brief preparation for the next delivery.
He
mounts his bike by crossing his left foot over,
stepping
on the footrest, swinging his right foot on the other side,
nimble-footed
like an athlete in a race, and drives off swiftly.
The
dust behind whirls in sudden exuberance,
only
to settle down quietly on the road.