In Ashtown there is a road that runs just parallel to the walls of a part of the factory. It is the only place in the whole town where those who are not employed by the steel plant can come closest to it without really getting in. The road, after taking a sharp turn, runs with the visible slice of the factory on its right for some three minutes of a moderately speeded vehicle. What this section offers up to the view is a stretch of conveyor belt. A completely black arrangement of a wide panel running along the side, possibly to conceal some rusty machinery, and a length of dusty, almost mossy belt around it, conveying its load between two intercepting towers. While passing it one can invariably hear it groaning and creaking – an abandoned creature with its weaknesses out there for everyone to see.

     However, contrary to the poor show which may lead people to falsely believe in the impotency of the steel factory, the town is actually ruled by the phallic supremacy of the tall chimney that is visible from almost anywhere. Unlike the conveyor belt, one cannot be sure of its exact position. So tall and massive it is that it gives the impression of moving with you wherever you go. You know, like the moon or like those freakish eyes of the painting that you sometimes see in a gallery which claims to follow you everywhere with its gaze. This Pater familias Chimney rules along with a few sons and there are the two court eunuchs, neither tall and straight nor completely curvy but somewhere in the middle, the Cooling Towers.

     Taking cue, the families of Ashtown centre around their pater familias – the source of subsistence, existence, gossip and status. Living quarters are assigned according to the position of the microcosmic pater familias in the court of the Ruler. The wives have accepted their fate and regularly fuss to set their schedule to match the five ghoulish hoots that are daily obliged by the factory. 6 o’clock- get up, 8 o’clock- breakfast at the table, 1 o’clock- lunch at the table, 5 o’clock refreshments at the table, 10 o’clock- dinner at the table. Status of the microcosmic pater familias, while makes all the difference elsewhere, hardly ever affects this neat schedule of the wife.

    The Lord Chimney smirks at his good fortune. At the end of the day, letting out a puff of smoke, he lets his gaze travel to the ground below him. My sons to carry on my legacy and my conveyors to feed me – perfect.

     Meanwhile, the huge round furnace with its bellyful of molten wrath conspires with the wind.

Lantana Camara

As the train shudders into the Ashtown station, there is a typical smell that greets her. A kind of wild flower. Once heard, these had been planted by one ancient Spanish missionary who had brought it from his motherland. She wonders how this place would have looked then… Was the soil still brown. Or had it already turned black?

Her place had a special feel about it during those five days of the month when the entire town gathers in the circular park to celebrate the ‘festival of joy’. What a misnomer, she smiles to herself. In the mornings, the sun shines too bright. The air of ashtown is perpetually heavy with blackness. The sun brings sweat. The blackness sticks. And the sun adds further tan to the already dark faces. The outcome- bright clothes with sooty faces. Hesitant smiles. Eavesdropping ears. And egg-white eyes, flitting, searching, cursing.

The skies are too blue. Flowers are in excess. The sultry heat smothers their delicate smell. What remains is only the stench. The park breeds evil, like distended belly of the street urchin breeds worms. Divinity is restricted to a semicircle of radius five meters. White chalk marks, designs, flowers, fruits, colorful festoons, glittering clothes, ornaments – all within the semi circle. Outside that is a Victorian world. Full of snooty people dressed as clowns. Pasted smiles and colored noses. A whisper here, a hug there. A grand opera of disguised insecurities.

She hates this season. These five days. For her, they bring the worst out of people.

She wishes if she could fold those five and five hands of the mute deity, like a pair of Chinese fans, and pull her by the now two hands and take her right hand and watch her smile as she ran with her into fields flooded with tall bushes of wild flowers and sit by a river and listen to her tales and breathe in soft, light, fragrant air.

Lantana keeps vileness at bay.

Transience

     Opening and closing her eyes, staring in space. No, not dramatic enough. She looked at the small figurine resting on the narrow ledge of her window-sill. Mother had called it ugly, and she had not dared to seek anyone else's opinion. For all she knew, they may think she was naive.
     It was a small bust. Carved in dull black stone. It's nose was chipped off and the bulbous head had a funny texture. It's ears were elongated. She had dug up the treasure from their garden at the age of eight.
     Everything about it was dear. The sharp, broken edge at the base. And the way it felt on pressing the thumb to it too hard.
     But she knew she had to do something about it now. The fifteen year old treasure will now become her memoir. Her mark. A reminder. That she was here.
     Her father would soon turn sixty, and they would have to move. Leave Ash Town forever. The Black Castle having fed it's servants black smoke for sixty years and making sure that their breath smelt of coal for the rest of their lives, and their fingers made black marks on white linen, let them free for an illusive retirement. So, she had really little time. She would hide the treasure somewhere here. Then, she would return after ten years and seek it.
       She would knock on the door, which ten years ago was her home.
         ' Hello. May I come in? '
         ' Yes. But do I know you? '
         ' Oh you will. '
And then she would bring out the treasure from it's secret place amidst amazed eyes. The news would spread fast, like the evening smoke. And the whole Ash Town will ring with her name. Again.
   
     The thought brought a smile. And she looked at the bust. But it was so ugly! So ugly! She almost dashed it into a thousand pieces.

Her fingers must never touch black.

the night...

                The night for her has had different meanings at different times. When she was young, she would smuggle ‘Famous Five’s to bed and read on till her mother finished her chores in the kitchen and came to switch off the light. Soon she ‘grew up’ and was sleeping alone. In a narrow bed. But it was bliss. She looked at herself as the queen of her territory. Now, she read story books well into the night. And winter was especially her favourite. At ten o clock, when the factory hooter signaled the end of the day shift and the beginning of the night shift for the workers, her mother took the cue to warn her. But the night somehow gave her courage. Made her bold.

            
At the time of her school examinations, she was thrilled to stay up late and study. The excitement however, was somewhat dampened when mother permitted her to do so. Mother’s approval diluted the defiance. Sad and disheartened, she took to early nights.

                Then her nights came alive once again when she had to attend to nightly conversations over the phone. The cell phone was hers beyond 8 pm and she convinced mother of its necessity for serious discussions on problems that she may not be able to solve. Mother, to her surprise, believed her. Those were magical nights. The dreaminess of adolescence and the magic of stolen night-time conversations was an intoxicating concoction.

                Now, however, all these are things of the past. She preserves them in the silver wrapping of innocence. Now, her nights are haunted. She has seen too much, understood too much. The ten o’clock hooter now sounds like the ghoulish howl of some smoky monster, framed against the red sky of factory smoke. Her storybooks are gone. In its place is a fancy, compact net-book, the centre of the present, distorted universe. She stares at its screen each night till her eyes water and sting when blinked. Then she fears if she will soon turn blind like her maternal grandfather. Is blindness genetic?

                Sleep evades her. The night guard strolls by, tonk tonking his stick on the street. She looks back to the bright screen, dislodges her hand from under the chin and googles the question,

“Is blindness genetic?”