The street she lived in was always bestirred.
From the crisp morning that'd have skies slashed with delicate, lethargic strays of golden hues to the night that'd have all the stray cows, and calves huddled in front of the pretty vegetable shop, awaiting their daily dose of remnant withering greens, leaves, and vegetables just before they closed it; South Street was always bestirred.
With a humble wedding hall right next to the vegetable shop that stood in the entrance of the street, followed by a chain of amenities like a cramped grocery store, a tailoring shop, and a house turned into a lending library, the street had all the claim to be hustling almost all the time.
Time was 8.30—a little before they'd move back all the large, bamboo baskets of meager remaining vegetables inside the room, and roll down the shutter whilst the vegetable seller's son and daughter would feed the stray cows—and the shop was jammed with people standing scattered around the seller, carrying their preferred vegetables to be billed in hands.
A huge sigh evaded her partly open mouth, as she took in the queue of people, standing around in a not-so queue way. Annoyed, she sped up her steps towards the dimly lit vegetable store, hoping she'd reach and tail the queue before another person joined it anew.
She was dog tired from the day's work, and all she wanted was to lay on her dear bed, stretching her long, sore legs and drift off to sleep. But before anything, she'd to feed herself, which wouldn't happen if she didn't tolerate the wait to buy her veggies.
Her refrigerator was empty since her return from her cousin's wedding last night. She'd taken up a stupid, stupid No Swiggying For Thirty Days challenge this morning—that did not seem stupid back then, but it, absolutely, felt so at the moment.
Reaching the baskets of left vegetables, she grasped one of the eversilver basins from the stack. She picked up a couple of carrots, one handful of french beans, brinjals, ladies' fingers, a bag of baby potatoes, a tiny packet of green peas.
For someone living alone, that should go a long way.
By the time she'd finished gathering up the vegetables on the list she'd made up in her mind, the crowd of customers had gradually retired, and she was the last one to bill.
"There are baby bitter gourds, my dear," the shopkeeper said, looking down at her with his kind eyes, as he took her vegetable basket to weigh the contents, "would you like some of it, too?"
Her eyes constricted analytically over if she should add on a cabbage to her list, as she chinned up at his query. "Anna, you know how much I loathe bitter gourds."
The shopkeeper emptied the contents from his weighing scale to the jute bag she had wide open in her hands, and smiled at her. "I know you hate them and hadn't bought even a single one from the day you've started buying vegetables from our shop, my dear. But you should give them a try, the baby ones are tasty."
She scrunched her nose a little, at the thought the bitterness creeping up on her tongue.
"They are horrible, Anna. I don't even want to try them," she muttered, looking for a fifty rupee note from her wallet. "Like, who even likes this horrible vegetable and buys them? Yuck!"
A manly hand extended from just beside her, holding out an eversilver basin brimming with the vegetable that'd bag first place in the world's disgusting vegetable, according to her. She turned around to look up at who it was. She'd thought it was, probably, some middle aged man who was buying bitter gourds because of his wife's or mom's sermon on healthy eating.
And if that were the case, she'd have definitely offered the gentleman a token of consolation. But that was not the case.
Standing next to her was a guy of her age—that seemed so. His hair was short, but curly that reminded her of someone she'd seen somewhere, long ago. His shoulders were broad, and sheathed in a round-neck t-shirt. He had long fingers that she could observe, as he gently fished out a wallet from his pocket to pay for his hecking bitter gourds—well, the one thing that she could say that she didn't like about him, already. Literally.
"I buy them in abnormal amounts," he piped up, tipping a quaint smile at the shop keeper. "They are healthy, and eatable, if cooked properly."
She perked up her glasses on the bridge of her nose a little fiercely, slightly offended at his words and unsolicited answer.
"Are you saying I don't cook properly?" she asked, looking at him, in his eyes... that were smiling, leaving out creases in their corners, making it hard for her to keep up that indignant frown on her face.
The guy opened his bag at the shopkeeper, as he replied in nonchalance. "I never said that. Bitter gourds are good for health. They are such—"
She couldn't resist herself from leaving a derogatory chuckle. "Ah! Look, someone's straight outta Google, listing down the health benefits," she said. "Thank you very much, Google boy." Or rather cute boy, which she'd never say aloud.
The guy's smile wore off. "You're welcome, Rude girl."
Shopkeeper, standing up from his place, face-palmed. "I won't ever coerce someone into buying bitter gourds, hereafter, my dears. Please get going. Good night."
Was it okay? Or was it okay? :D
This is a short-story with 5-6 chapters. I will try to put up most of the chapters today.
