It was the weekend and the excitement had just begun.
Saturday morning breakfasts always used to be fun,
Never once did he ever miss this special occasion;
With legs folded he sat on the window ledge,
Looking out at the double road from Ammamma’s bedroom,
Holding onto the grills he peered through the fine mesh.
The world crisscrossed right before his eyes,
The two and four wheelers were his greatest entertainers.
Not many were in a hurry but a few sped in rage.
Ammamma came with a plate of scrumptious Dosas,
Cup of green chutney and a tumbler of hot coffee,
A weird combination, true, but its taste was heavenly.
Every single time a piece of Dosa took a dip into coffee,
Scooped some chutney as it swooped down,
And took off immediately to land safely into Puttu’s tiny mouth.
Munch, munch and munch, every taste bud got its share.
A sip of coffee followed to sup it all down to his lil tummy.
Wiping his mouth with a hanky, “Hmmmm!” said Puttu contently.
He questioned on and on, and she answered it all patiently.
In every moment he saw a “why?”,
And behind everything, he believed, there was a small story.
A million stories she had, from her good old childhood
To last night’s incomplete nightmare and anything he pointed at.
According to Puttu, she knew more than just about anyone in his world.
At least, till it was noon and the road became nearly empty.
Those days, even Time stopped by to lend an ear to their stories.