Williams and Zamora kneeled, on opposite legs, before a sun wave. Their inter-transmission beamed. Echoed harmonics bounded twelve times across their plank spaces, seeking the middle measurement. Space blanket fabric carried atomic fumes through Earth fabric receptors.
Brother Redding and Sister Redding stood up before the sunny temple shrine. The pooja complete, they wiped their hands of the just-lit incense residue.
--
"How many chairs are there on Earth?" posed Williams, upon page-marked ears. His calculator plopped on her journal, a vegan leather bound respite.
"What is a chair?"
"Four legs, nothing fixed to a floor. Transit vehicles don't count."
She tore, finely and with great care, the second to last page of her writing companion.
"All institutions, number thereof, rooms therein, average count per membership."
Logarithmic approximations. Cosine fractions. Proof.
"And?"
Figures drawn, shown. Scribbles writ, displayed. Some kind of language, created. Williams' eyes widened. Zamora's knuckles cracked.
Two chai teas delivered.
"No cow, both?"
"Bai?"
"Almond milk?"
Uncertain head nod, shoulder to shoulder, metronomic oscillation.
As hands wave off the obviousness of listening, another head movement in gratitude.
She sips. Whistle mouths cool liquid shapes.
"Oh yeah"
Her hips shake the same way as the heads moved just before quaffing.
Hands push the finger surfer through another crest and trough.
--
The last chais on the continent gone, now supporting the mantel of journeys.
Goat traffic. Cow jam. Rush hour in lamb lane. Smoggy face masked air puffs away as the International Terminal leers closers. Tuk-tuk auto races somehow keep their lanes, and all, in line. A long nailed, painted purple, driver of obtuse weight guides the three wheels with triangular muscle memory. Petrol mindscapes with roundabouts in sight.
Familiarity. Didactic and organized. The efficiency meter of The Siblings Redding jettisons to full. Positive bag check interactions makes for easy retrievals.
--
Ashen shoes stay on, bags fit neatly in lego block formation through conveyer belt of control. Protruding into their periphery, a mudra of meaning waves them through another airport terminal. These hands signal more than an identity, a symbol, or a path. Delhi airport’s giant statuesque hand sculpture wall mounts usher Ganesh energy through the jet fuel and ventilation shafts. New breath through pollution elicits the truth of Williams’ and Zamora’s inner guru, as mediated by pantheon of global patterns and spaciousness.
One last wipe, on chest and torso, sops the remaining dusty sweat into Big Bro’s bandana.
Lil Sis rotates her headwear both counter and clock, spinning her brain though soaked hair stranding its ends like the propelled legs of a jellyfish.
Towards the lounge strut four legs in need of a stretch. Two hours of sea level yoga gives justice to practice, and utilizes status for cultural subterfuge.
--
“Welcome back Mr. and Miss Redding.”
A nod and a Namaste.
“How can we make your stay more enjoyable?”
Four hands form two separate cups. They look…
“Two Chais, almond milk, yes?”
Two Namaste nods, and they bow into their flow.