Where the streets have no name

The long summer vacation in his home in India was Abhi’s favourite part of the year.

His favourite spot in the house was the balcony of his bedroom. It gave a good view of the street below. Like a typical Indian street, it used to be buzzing with people. All kinds of people.

In a corner, Babu would station his cart and press clothes using a coal iron. Every morning there would be men in their ganjies queuing up to get their shirts ironed before rushing off to work. Every few minutes, he would sprinkle some water on a shirt and the sizzle would be visible even from Abhi’s balcony on the 10th floor.

On the corner opposite to him would be Kalu Ram, an ice gola seller. Just the sight of bottles filled with bright-coloured liquids on his cart would soothe the eyes. Abhi would visit him at least once during his stay in India and enjoy the colourful gola like he used to as a schoolboy.

The most unusual sight would be the barber who would set up shop under a mango tree. He’d have people getting a shave, trims and hair cuts, all done under the tree.

But today the street was eerily silent. Not a soul to be seen anywhere.

Abhi sighed under his face-mask and hoped that the street would soon return to the buzzing chaos it always was.

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