Pune, Maharashtra, India - April, spring. The daily temperature reaches forty-two degrees. The evenings are hot and a fan or air conditioning are necessary for comfort. Living happens here in the early hours and then the late hours. The middle of the day, slows, to a crawl, except in the malls.
The streets are lined with banyan trees reclaiming their territory, surviving in the spaces that remain. Each painted with bands of white and rust coloured paint, up to five feet, indicating their right to permanence. The canopy spreads and provides shade, the trunk, existent and in some cases, not, as the roots take hold where they can, encasing the stone walls and pavement looking for ground, moisture, support. Aerial roots form an archway above the road, arrested from descending by the continual assault by vehicles, tip pruning the downward move, leaving the ends distorted, with finger like protrusions. Streets are curtained tree by tree. Their age cannot be determined by sight, though they must have been planted to line the streets some time possibly Colonial era. Small temples, simple and elaborate have been created amongst the tangle of base roots or attached to the trunk.
Beneath these giants small business thrives. The paanwala sits atop a covered bike wheel trolley surrounded by the necessary ingredients. There are hole in the wall shops but most are temporary structures, illegal I learn, but needful in the community. The dhobiwala, or his agent, have a small establishment, accepting in the washing and retuning laundered, pressed, clean, with a sheet of paper folded into each shirt and an identifier swatch of cloth stitched to the item in the order. The auto rickshaw drivers linger, waiting a fare, tucked into any nook at odd angles. Young men sit under the trees with boxes of Alphoso mangoes for sale. Beautiful, juicy and ripe, you can squish them, puncture a hole and drink the sweet nectar directly. The orange skins shine, entice, whet the palette though business is slow and the heat oppressive. The mangoes are shaded by a skewed lid, protecting them from direct light and heat yet they are warm to touch just from the hotness of the day. The fruit and veg stall is manned by five with customers driving up and ordering through the window of air conditioned cars. Fruit is brought to the buyer for inspection before the order is placed.
Like everywhere, any space is filled with a cricket game, which stops as traffic passes.
The streets are lined with banyan trees reclaiming their territory, surviving in the spaces that remain. Each painted with bands of white and rust coloured paint, up to five feet, indicating their right to permanence. The canopy spreads and provides shade, the trunk, existent and in some cases, not, as the roots take hold where they can, encasing the stone walls and pavement looking for ground, moisture, support. Aerial roots form an archway above the road, arrested from descending by the continual assault by vehicles, tip pruning the downward move, leaving the ends distorted, with finger like protrusions. Streets are curtained tree by tree. Their age cannot be determined by sight, though they must have been planted to line the streets some time possibly Colonial era. Small temples, simple and elaborate have been created amongst the tangle of base roots or attached to the trunk.
Beneath these giants small business thrives. The paanwala sits atop a covered bike wheel trolley surrounded by the necessary ingredients. There are hole in the wall shops but most are temporary structures, illegal I learn, but needful in the community. The dhobiwala, or his agent, have a small establishment, accepting in the washing and retuning laundered, pressed, clean, with a sheet of paper folded into each shirt and an identifier swatch of cloth stitched to the item in the order. The auto rickshaw drivers linger, waiting a fare, tucked into any nook at odd angles. Young men sit under the trees with boxes of Alphoso mangoes for sale. Beautiful, juicy and ripe, you can squish them, puncture a hole and drink the sweet nectar directly. The orange skins shine, entice, whet the palette though business is slow and the heat oppressive. The mangoes are shaded by a skewed lid, protecting them from direct light and heat yet they are warm to touch just from the hotness of the day. The fruit and veg stall is manned by five with customers driving up and ordering through the window of air conditioned cars. Fruit is brought to the buyer for inspection before the order is placed.
Like everywhere, any space is filled with a cricket game, which stops as traffic passes.
No comments:
Post a Comment