Riddles of the Crimson Flow

The steering wheel binds me, its chill and firmness unforgiving against my palms. It tethers me to an existence that loops perpetually through the cacophony of traffic and endless honks. Within the narrow confines of my tempo, the world compresses into a tiny box, its nooks crammed with grain sacks and permeated with the earthy scent of cattle. This mobile cell casts me as both its captive and keeper. As I weave the tempo through the lifeblood of Pune, the radio springs to life, its narratives of distant realms and elusive love as far removed from my reality as the celestial bodies. The dashboard, trembling with each thud of bass, crafts an anthem of liberation, a fantasy where my spirit roams free. The cabin, adorned with peeling paint and a dimming charm swaying from the rearview mirror, encloses my solitude. Here, I'm isolated, yet paradoxically, I'm at the epicenter, navigating the disarray. Each halt at a traffic light gifts me a momentary respite, a fleeting chance to venture beyond the confines of glass. Yet, as Shivaji Market draws near, those ephemeral dreams scatter. The market unfurls, a rich mosaic of color and din, reeling me back from the edge of my daydreams. I guide the tempo into the butcher's square, its ancient engine's growl preempting my arrival. Here, the melody from my radio is overpowered by the market's own symphony, a gentle reminder that within my tempo's bounds, I find my sanctuary from the chaos beyond. The sons of Farooq-chacha, their frames lithe and movements sprightly, emerge from the shadows to greet me, their vivacity a stark contrast to the heaviness that cloaks my shoulders. They encircle the tempo's rear, their youthful energy making light of the arduous chore, their playful banter now a distant melody to me. The cattle, sensing their journey's conclusion, stir and call out, their voices merging with the rhythmic pulse of the market. I stand vigilant, a mute guardian, as the beasts disembark. The absence of the older brother's steadying presence leaves a void, rendering me as unbalanced as a missing tooth. The sun, in its relentless surveillance, showers its gaze upon me, tracing a rivulet of sweat along my spine, seeking the path of least resistance. On such days, when the cabin morphs into a furnace, I long for solace—a touch of coolness, a whisper of sweetness. This desire crystallizes with every bead of perspiration that escapes. My gaze lands on the faded sign of a general store at the fringe of the vegetable market, a rarely frequented haven now beckoning me with the promise of respite. I navigate through the pulsating heart of Shivaji Market, opting to meander through its core rather than taking the straightforward path past Farooq’s butchery. The market vibrates with vitality, each vendor's cry and bargain a heartbeat threading through the cramped pathways adorned with a kaleidoscope of produce and merchandise. Approaching the general store just outside the vegetable market, I'm captivated by the sight of an elderly man making his way to the seemingly deserted shop. His leisurely stride compels me to pause and watch, a silent observer once more. His movement is deliberate, as though he commands time to mold itself around him. Adjacent to the shop, a discreet canal carves its path, a sharp contrast to the vibrant hues of the vegetables nearby. It's a dark artery, channeling away the somber remnants of Farooq's butchery. Having been raised on a farm, I'm well-acquainted with the cycle of livestock, yet the canal's proximity to the bounty of fresh produce strikes me as unusual. The shopkeeper, upon noticing my towering figure at the doorway, welcomes me with a grin shaped by years of placating customers. "Merely animal blood," he offers, as though he can read my mind, oblivious to my identity. His persistent smile and the gentle crinkling of his eyes seek to soothe, yet they only serve to underscore the canal's curious placement. I nod, the blend of metallic and earthy odors sharply reminding me of the market's true nature—a realm where life and sustenance are intricately entwined. The stark contrast between the market's vibrancy and the silent testament of the canal ignites an unforeseen curiosity within me. Today feels unlike any other; the market, as familiar to me as the lines on my palm, now conceals a mystery awaiting my discovery. I linger by the shop, my attention riveted on the canal as the remnants of my ice cream succumb to neglect. The shopkeeper ventures back into the market's hustle, engaging with a stall owner as I ponder the canal's existence. The presence of a solitary bone near the canal, alarmingly close to the vegetables, deepens my bewilderment. Outside the butchery, the butchers' casual chatter permeates the air as they enjoy a brief smoke break. They are a varied lot, each embodying the essence of their craft. Aslam's boisterous laughter resonates, Irfan's composed demeanor offers silent smiles, and Junaid's animated discussions rival the speed of his butchering skills. I stride towards them, my curiosity veiled beneath a guise of casual inquiry, and broach the subject of the bones' fate. Aslam, in the midst of a puff, exhales a smoky veil before responding. "All is taken care of," he assures with a broad smile. "Nothing here is wasted. The larger bones find new purpose in broths or as treats for dogs." Irfan, his voice a whisper of firmness, contributes, "The smaller fragments, we leave for the strays. It's important they're not left wanting." Junaid, resting against the wall, adds his assurance, "Indeed, nothing is left to chance. We ensure a balance is maintained in all things." Listening to their justifications, everything appears to align, yet the image of the bone lying so close to the produce contradicts their assurances. I withhold my observations, the enigma of the bone and the canal tightening its grasp on my thoughts, compelling me to probe deeper. As the butchers snuff out their cigarettes and ready themselves to resume their duties, my curiosity unfurls into a quest for truth, driven to uncover the veiled secrets of the market.