These days are the days of early winter. The weatherman may disagree. But yesterday's rain brought the cold front and as the rain enveloped the night with its incessant noise I slept soundly. In my dreams I fought childhood fights; I am finally fighting the bullies of middle school. I had backforce then so there was no need for me to get involved. The round glasses of the jokers of my neighborhood dadas who fought for a non- living. Hanging out with them was like a revelation. They collected the green grass from the fields and rubbed the juice on their hands over and over again to make smoking grade black. "Now run to the shop and get a box of matches!" I ran like the health of my brethern depended on my swift return. I nodded my head vigourously when at the sauni's threat that if I did not return the box of these precious matches she would just light one and burn my hair. I ran back clutching the box as the matches inside banged on the box in an uneasy harmony. The dadas lighted the black and bellowed the smoke. Once I had sat by them and when the stub was passed around it happened to come to me. Almost by reflex I took the stub to my mouth when I felt a strong, hot hand hit the back of my head. It stung and the lighted smoke fell off my hand. My eyes became watery and I could not think for a long while. They were laughing. It was Biste. I ran back home. They kept on laughing. The guffaw rang louder and louder as I ran through the muddy galli back to my beloved home. Now Biste is sitting on the parapeet by the road. He is juggling two stones on his left hand and some strangers are watching him in awed silence. The cars are whizzing past on the road. I hear a radio playing Audioslave. Like a stone... Sauni must have gone crazy to play Chris Cornell crooning his post-Soundgarden warble in this dump of our chowk. Who listens to hard rock here? But Biste seems to enjoy the music. The crowd, starved for entertainment, seem to gather for any spectacle. Biste now had two coke bottles. They swirl up through the air and rotate through the light and specks of sand on their glass glisten on the morning sun. Biste's eyes glisten as well. His eyes are red bloodshot. He must have been smoking all these years. I raise my hand and it reached Sauni's ceiling. When I bring it down and let it fall on Biste's forehead he misses the bottles and they crack on the parapeet. In my house/I long to be/Room by Room.... LIKE A STONE... Biste must be stoned. He seems to not realize that he has fallen ont he sharp glasses. They now glisten through his rough skin. One pierces his ear. He is still juggling the imaginary bottles. Now there are four bottles, now five and he raises his bloody hands and catches the bottes in the acrobatic maneuvers of a virtuoso. The strangers stand and in uneasy confusion they shuffle around but when I look back they have not gone away. They are like zombies in audience at the fight of my dreams.

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mG.