gang

 

Our gang was called 'The 16th Company'. Don't ask me why! We were ten at first (two died).

Eclectic, were we? School dropouts, black sheep of the family, brawn and no brain?

Sons of the landlord, the nouveau riche, the untouchable, the dirt poor, the anything.

One had a Bullet bike. One was religious. The polite softspoken one had the best story. He rarely folded his 'mundu' (dhoti) but when he did, what a fight it used to be!

Our parties were famous. We drank liquor (army grade), smoked beedi (local cheroot), cooked tapioca and fiery meat, brooded, never sang, slept under the sky. We stole the tapioca from our fathers, auld lang syne.

For the rest, we worked on someone's land, not for someone. Bare beasts of burden without master. Seamus Heaney got it right in 'Digging'. Almost. For us it was sex, macha! That tryst with soil. The mutual respect and the unsaid, the untamed and the tamed, the sweat and the tears, tender and rough, selfish and altruistic, the end was the start, edging forever, she laughed cried bled, us too, never sure if it was alright.

Then, we married. Only the religious one invited the gang. A short affair with his parents and hers and us. A vada at a tea-shop along with lime juice.

When we found love, we forgot 'The 16th Company'. 

And her.

not really #storytelling