The Fundamentals of School Avenue
The birds start before anyone else does. Their call, a premature alarm rising to a crescendo- the climax of 10 notes, playing over and over to remind you that you can’t stay in bed today. 10 more minutes, but you’re awake.
The racket echoing from the kitchen tells tales of a massive breakfast, but is merely the enigma of a cook who uses every pot and pan to scramble two eggs. You sip on a hot beverage, absolutely any hot beverage, and sit groggily in your bed while your body remembers how to be one.
When your morning begins, as does that of those around you. You drag yourself into the shower and let the hot water hit your shoulders, and as you stand in your unawakened state you do not feel time passing by. One minute, two, fifteen then twenty-four.
Thoughts end where a toothbrush meets a tongue: through the ventilation holes comes the hetero gagging of your neighbour as he relentlessly tries to reach a point at the back of his throat, defeated only by reflex. When the young girl in the adjoining house starts fighting with her mother- you know that too much time has passed. There is a sense of community in the shared dreariness of the morning. Cold water to close the pores, and you’re done.
Some people have a body clock, but you have a neighbourhood clock, and it takes a lane to make a morning.
After switching between Uber and PickMe and Yogo and Uber and PickMe ( Never Kangaroo), you forget to eat breakfast and defeatedly venture up the road. You call your “known guy” only to hear that he’s already taken a hire, and pass his beige tuk-tuk while he tells you that he’s in Dehiwala. A couple of cats, a dog, some seven sister birds, a run-away siri bag and, always, a new face coming out of one of the houses on the right, and what you tell your friends is a 5-minute walk has taken you 7, but you’re almost at the top.
The Indian lady walks past you leisurely, not even stopping to wait for your answer when she asks you how you are. Instead, she immediately resumes her conversation with the mystery person who she calls every day, twice a day, and makes her way up the lane dressed in nightdresses, flared skirts and anything but walking attire.
The buzz of restless children and helplessly shushing teachers spill over the walls of the school to your right, bringing up sweet memories of the chaos and stress that you were once a part of- although, on a different lane. In the unfortunate event that you get caught to the national anthem broadcasted across premises, you stand still clad with a bag that’s never felt heavier. School teachers, van drivers and late students; Medusas lining the school walls watch to see your next move.
At the top, you make eye contact with that one trishaw guy who is always there for hires, knows where you have to go, but will never take you, and he immediately gets out of his office to hail another passing by, and then you leave.
The day passes and you return down the lane at the end it, only to see plenty of mature faces making their way up- a herd of old trying to battle the aches and pains of time with their polyester suits of armour and evening strolls. There goes the Indian lady again. Perhaps the phone call never ends and she is merely an incognito promoter for some mobile service provider.
Some way or another, afternoons seem to go by unnoticed. Preoccupation with trivialities of the home lets the sun fall below the horizon of houses sooner than you want it to. The occasional weekends, however, reveal a spectrum of orange and purple hues- once in a while decked with prodigal stars that cannot wait till after dusk.
Occasionally, you stand outside and crane your neck to look at them- while thankful for the cluster of trees, one tends to despise how they block the night sky. How lucky those above seem to be in that moment.
Stand out too long, and mosquitoes taste your ankles, too far down for the hands to slap away. Their irritating sirens letting you know that they are there, and then reminding you again if you happened to forget. Laughing at your pathetic attempts to ward them off with citronella, they bite you anyway.
By around 7 pm the mother and daughter in the house next door make up, and their voices mingle with the sound of their evening teledrama; their chatting regularly interrupted by the occasional sound effect and climax. The gagger comes out for his usual evening call, and his loud eerily Mickey Mouse-like voice makes you wonder why he uses a phone when surely his projection could reach the other end anyway.
A slight breeze blows, replenishing the swept gardens of their dried leaves, and rests peacefully knowing that it has created work for tomorrow. More stars come out and as do the fireflies- at a glance, it is common to mistake one for the other.
For a while, there is silence, and as the lane tries to close its eyes, phantom crickets take over, a cat moans and a thug on a motorbike disrupts the night, all in chaotic harmony while the birds go home- resting so they can start before anyone else does.
