A Safe Haven

It was getting late enough to be worried. I once again stepped into the balcony and looked down. Except for a drenched street dog that was lying down miserably near the gate, there was not a soul to be seen anywhere. Rainwater had puddled under the lamppost. A breeze ruffled the mango tree in the courtyard and a few twigs fell down and broke. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Did I hear a soft knock at the door? I turned back, listening intently for the next few seconds, from the corner of my eye I saw the street lamp flickering for a moment, I waited for a second knock but there was none. The air was heavy with the smell of rain and thunder. I turned to look at the wretched creature, I had somehow caught his attention and he started wagging his tail looking up at me with soulful eyes. I was so conflicted about dogs, I wanted to like them but they somehow made me wary and I could never let my guard down in front of them. Moreover, they smelled so foul; I couldn’t even bear to be in the same room as one. I am especially afraid of the larger ones with huge unsightly jaws that really unnerve me. A distant rumble of thunder shook me to my bones; I never liked thunder and rain or anything too wet or loud. The branches of the tree traced shadows like wiry arms on the courtyard, shadows long and dark. My anxiety was worsening with every passing moment, where was he? Another streak of lightening forked the sky, followed by a deep rumble of thunder; I scurried back to the living room. 

I curled on the sofa, laying my head on the cushion, trying to bask in his warmth and his smell or whatever was left of his essence. He would say that nights like these when the rain pounded on the streets he would feel as if he was in the middle of a mystery or a crime thriller. He loved the rains, and would spend many wet evenings on the balcony with a cup of tea and I would snuggle up beside him of course, listening to his stories. I hated the rains, the constant pounding of water against the concrete and sudden blinding flash of lightening following by ear-splitting thunder, what was there to like? I didn’t even like the smell of damp dank earth after every heavy downpour. I am usually quite content to spend the day without him, by myself and am quite apt at keeping myself busy…but the rain brought in a sense of insecurity and despondency, a case of nerves…and I hated feeling helpless. Another fifteen minutes had gone by, I could hear the ceaseless tick-tock-tick-tock emanating from the wall clock, adding to my present sense of doom. I sprinted to the balcony; did I hear an engine buzzing? A stranger’s car zoomed past the gate, splashing water on the poor dog, it yelped and ran away. The wind rustled the leaves of the mango tree, I sulked back to the sofa, feeling quite angry and anxious, where was he? He should be home by now…did I hear footsteps? A second knock at the door startled me, this time more persistent and loud, rat-tat-tat…one after another. I darted to the bedroom, cowering under the bed; I was never good with strangers or was it a burglar? I wished the stranger would go away, where was he? He would have handled such situations much better, my sense of hopelessness and helplessness deepened. I lay trembling on the floor for a very long time even after the knocks had died down and I heard the stranger walk down the stairs. I was always on guard with new people; I knew how cruel they could be. I was a mere child when those boys threw sticks at me and mocked me…I never had quite grown out of this fear and suspicion I had for strangers. Although he treated with so much kindness after I moved in with him, I would always be fearful of people. I closed my eyes and lay still on the floor. 

Another thirty minutes had gone by, I finally decided to move out of my so-called hiding place and walk back to the balcony. There was no sign of him or anyone else on the rain swept road, the storm was petering out but wind was still howling, I shuddered involuntarily, fearing for his well being. I knew my survival depended on him, my sense of security and happiness; I would be quite lost without him. I remembered how he nursed me when I was a child and took care of every one of my needs; he gained my trust slowly and painfully. There were long nights when I wouldn’t be able to sleep and would keep pacing around the house, he would hold me close and I would listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat slowly fall asleep. I felt how inseparable we had became over the years, companions and friends for life! I would also sense his uneasiness or his sorrow and would rest my head on his shoulder, kissing his neck, till he would calm down. I could not imagine life without him now, I have grown so attached to him, and he is the only one I trusted. For him I would even tolerate the other “friends” he would often bring home, however I am always quite aloof with them. No one affected me the way he did; he is my person. 

The clock struck midnight, it was about time. My anxiety had heightened my sense of hearing and smell more than usual. I could hear the distant reverberation of traffic from the main road near our street, the winds wailing; I could smell the rain, the mud and rain soaked leaves. I was on edge and about to have a breakdown. Standing on the balcony for quite sometime, I noticed that the car I had seen earlier was still there, outside the gate, lurking in the shadows! Did the stranger not leave? Was he waiting for someone? Was he waiting for him? I almost screamed with fright, why was the person still there? I saw smoke billowing out from the open windows, and the air reeked of its awful stench, the stench of burning tobacco. This was the worst! I stood rooted to the spot, petrified, as the stranger opened the front door of the car and strolled out. He was standing in the shadow of the lamp post, I could barely make out his silhouette; puffing away on a cigarette his body slouched against the car, his right hand on his hip. I started to hyperventilate. This is it! This must be someone dangerous, why else would he wait outside for so long, like a predator in the shadows, so inconspicuous…I knew one when I saw one, the stealthy stance and the patient wait, he didn’t have me fooled! I wished I could do something, I wished the dog would come back and bark at him (sound of barking would normally drive me crazy!) and urge him away…where was he? After what seemed like an eternity, the man finally finished his smoke and stomped on the cigarette butt on the road, got back inside his car and started the engine and drove off. I heaved a sigh of relief; this was turning out to be the worst nights of my life. I couldn’t take the stress any longer and started pacing around the balcony, agonizing over every passing moment. 

I don’t remember when I fell asleep, outside in the cold, waiting for him. I was dreaming of strange whirling shapes and sirens blaring in the background. My body was so numb and heavy that I couldn’t move a muscle. I felt like I was suffocating in my deep slumber. A sudden noise awoke me I looked up; alert and wide awake in a moment. I ran inside, desperate to do my best given any situation, and then I saw him…He was taking his shoes off, for a moment I was so overcome with emotion that I couldn’t move…then I ran to him, rubbing my body against him, walking around him. He smiled at me and picked me up in his arms, my safe place… 

“Did you miss me my shona?” His voice soft and low, and then he began to stroke me behind my ears, just the way I liked it, I purred with pleasure. 

“Was daddy away for too long?” His fingers rubbed my back pushing my fur back. I was shaking with ecstasy. I looked at him blinking in slow motion; I had forgiven him instantly for leaving me alone on such a night. The important thing was that he was safe and he was back. My night of horrors seemed to have ended; I was safe and happy.

L’appel du vide (call of the void)

She could spend most of her days by the window, staring at the snow-capped peaks of Kanchenjunga, feeling a sense of happy alienation from everyone and everything. A moment lost in time, a moment when she could just be herself…but this morning, she felt so blue, the wind whispered sending a shudder down her spine. She wrapped the shawl tight around her shoulder, trying to keep the warmth in and to keep the sadness at bay. Often on a beautiful morning when the sky is clear and blue, and the wind caresses the pine trees, and the clouds float like puffs of cream, she felt the old sadness again, tugging at her heart. She had been living in a small cottage by the edge of the road leading to Ghoom for about a year now. Giving up her worldly ties was the easiest thing she could do and she didn’t regret doing any of that! When she learnt she was terminally ill and it was a matter of few years, she knew she had to do what she wanted to do for so long. Leaving everything, the hustle bustle of Calcutta and the busy life of a retired schoolteacher and a grandmother, it had been too long since she followed her whim and fancy…first there was her husband to worry about, then the children and the job, her family, his family, their incessant demands…. sometimes she wished to get away from it all and finally she could at the end of her journey! Life is funny like that. One realizes at the end of the fraying rope that this is it, and to make the best of it all! People thought it was crazy when she explained how she would like to spend the last few of her functional days, her son was flabbergasted and her daughter-in-law smirked a little, her grand kids were too young to understand and maybe they thought they could come over for holidays! Oh silly silly children! She would be going for a permanent vacation soon, but she didn’t really care.  “Second verse same as the first” the Beatles sang and she listened resting her palms on her cheeks and feeling a deep sense of melancholia.

Her silence was broken by a loud grunt and hum of a commotion outside. She forced herself from the favourite spot and went towards the door. A small crowd had gathered surrounding a car, a blue Maruti Swift, a tire had burst and stalled it. She saw him coming out of the car; the crowd had parted in a way that she could look at him. In a moment of despair and hope she looked at him, it was him! He had aged, salt and pepper hair and a fuller face, wrinkled but genial, it was him! She thought of going back inside her safe haven and to shut the door on him, but he saw her too. Saying something gruff to the driver about fixing the tire, he slowly walked towards her. Did he recognize her? After all these years, she felt elated and sad at the same time. Seeing him made her ache in places she had forgotten existed, a film of tears was blurring her vision, she swiftly wiped them away, she still felt uncomfortable expressing herself. After everything she had been through she didn’t expected to be surprised by anything at all, but life does that at times, punches you in the guts and lifts you to the stars! What could they say to each other? She wondered her hands trembling at she clutched at her skirt.

            He was hoping to reach the hotel by noon. The road was steep and winding, he felt a little car sick, the little car grunted as it climbed up the hills.  He had a meeting with a local tea estate manager the next day and wanted to enjoy some sight seeing before.  On one of the hairpin loop near Ghoom, a small town before his final destination, Darjeeling, the car jerked suddenly nearly falling into the ravine. The driver was a local man with nerves of steel it seemed, he swerved the car to safety, missing the edge by an inch. The car had stopped; smoke coming from the engine, one of the tires had burst. His heart was pounding now, beating hot blood to his face and neck. It was a delayed reaction to the near fatal crash. He made his way out of the backseat, his knees trembling, his whole body shaking. The driver was putting some water on his face his forehead was cut. A crowd had gathered. His head was dizzy and walking in a daze. At the far left of the road, a little cottage nestled at the side of the hill. He found himself looking at it’s front door, white curtains with blue flowers fluttering in the wind, his eyes rested on a woman standing at the entrance. For a moment it seemed he must have been hallucinating. Was it really her? His vision cleared and he saw her in the bright April sun, her face old and lined but still beautiful. His legs gave way and he fell down on his back. People crowded around him, humming words and supporting him on his feet. He gently brushed the hands away, mumbling thanks. His feet seemed to be made of rubber, wobbly and weak. He slowly walked to her. She kept looking at him, curtains billowing around her, sunlight streaking through her grey hair.

            He held her hand, smiling at her innocence. They were 17 and in love, life couldn’t have been sweeter. She pursed her lips and asked again, “why do you love me?”

“Have you ever stood near a precipice and felt the call of the void?”

 She looked at him puzzled; he tried to explain himself,

“ Sometimes you just can’t help yourself. It’s like gravity…”

Nostalgia

What is so romantic about Paris? The only other city I would really like to see in the rains…I have a love-hate relationship with the rains and with my city, Calcutta…although I have seen my fair share of rain in Bombay, it was somehow baffling and exhilarating …torrential and yes definitely baffling…but in Calcutta (and I have heard also in Bombay) when it rains (and oh it pours!) the roads are flooded, traffic stops and in a way the city stops…but nothing beats the cool breeze of an early April or late June shower and the smell of wet earth (which is related to some bacteria)…but I am going off topic, what is it about Paris or Cairo or Calcutta in the rains (even without the rains)…I was watching this movie called “Midnight in Paris” and the film starts with a few sweeping shots of the city and I felt so thrilled, remembering some of the streets I had walked in and wishing (imagining) walking in some of the others, little bistros, splashing puddles with flashing street lights and of course cobbled roads! I mean what’s not to love? And there was something else they spoke of in the movie, the term is “nostalgia” related specifically to some old time…the protagonist in the movie wants to live in Paris in 1920s and in the rains…I found that absolutely thrilling! Then my enthusiasm was dimmed a bit when his not so nice “friends” pointed out that people who have such longing for the past they do so since they are unable to cope with the pain and the ugliness of the present…I couldn’t agree more…I mean why do we watch movies, read novels and why do we travel…we do so to escape sometimes from the pressing needs and demands of the present…The present is not such a “gift” as people would like to sell you to, things like nothing like the present and today is a gift that’s why it’s called a present…well hard luck returning the “gift”…what’s wrong with nostalgia…I often visit my memories and sometimes imagine the future…even marvelous trips….sipping wine and reading a book by a road side bistro in Paris…walking through a bustling bazar in Cairo and petting a cat…watching the sand grains slip through my fingers in the desert and looking at the pyramids in awe…I mean why not? Sometimes I don’t want to look at bills that need to be paid, dishes that need washing, and numerous everyday chores that need to be done…I am a romantic and I often live in memories, but isn’t that a crime we all are guilty of to a certain extent?

“Often I dream of far away streets and cats playing peek-a-boo,

Corners of a dusty bookshelf dappled with sunshine…

And a misty morning in June…

Sometimes I wish I could live in a far away cottage,

Just beside the creek, and could hear the water lapping,

Or just dancing in the moonshine by the pool!

And then I wake up to tomorrow and the days pass away,

I slip in and out of my day dreams, trying to live through the way!”

Blink and miss

I was obsessed with faces those days, faces that look similar yet different, faces that stood out in a crowd. In fact I would see faces everywhere, in abstract things like shadows behind the door, clouds in a clear blue sky or water spreading on the floor.  I would end up quite often following a person with an interesting face; it was not sexual but just plain curiosity. I was to some extent influenced by a film, in which the protagonist tails people around in London, but he has a purpose, he wanted to know more about them, write about them. I, on the other hand, had no purpose, but pure impulse. I would aimlessly follow people around the city if I liked their face or their expression. That didn't imply the face would have to be pretty; ugly faces were as fascinating to me, or someone with a distinctive scowl of disdain.... I liked faces that looked particularly unhappy their own selves or with life in general, I found them to be funny! I was struck by this idea that some faces could be completely identical even if the people belonging to those faces were not related...this idea was put to test once when a friend of mine suggested she could tell identical twins of our class in college apart and I was completely floored, I mean I could never discern them and she said initially it was difficulty but afterwards she could do so by simple features (one of them was supposedly a bit on the plump side compared to the other and had a longer face, very subtle but apparent difference according to my wise old friend!). I would often find myself wandering about in the streets, tired, hot and a little confused. My wild goose chase ended on a terribly hot day in May, and ended quite abruptly.

There used to be a roadside tea-stall, just by a used book store. I would often frequent both the places, spending some time in the bookstore, browsing through the selves and then enjoy a steaming cup of sickly sweet tea from the tea stall. Of course, I knew the owner of both the joints very well and they in turn could gauge my mood, and would either ignore me or engage me in some trite conversation sharing some insight about humanity in general and gossips involving specific people. The kettle was blackened with years of soot and dirt, even the walls of the little stall were stained with soot, but I felt safe there surrounded by familiarity and routine. On that day surrounded by this mundane familiarity, I saw him, standing across the road, smoke rising from the cigarette dangling from the thin mouth. I wouldn't have given this ordinary man, shabbily clad in well-worn clothes , wrapped in smoke another glance but there was something about his face...and it struck me, he had a singular resemblance to my face! I nearly dropped my tea, my hands trembling as I rubbed my lips. The traffic light beamed green; a rush of cars, buses and bikes rushed passed me as I stood staring. When the traffic had slowed down, he was still standing; he took his time with the cigarette and finally stubbed the light out with his left foot. I was sure now, it wasn't a superficial resemblance, he simply looked exactly like me. I would often wonder if people actually knew how they really looked like, I mean we would go by other people's perception about our own looks and a mirror reversed version was the only reference we had of our own face, would one know how they actually looked like, objectively? I knew now then in that moment and was terrified, the way he tilted his face while dragging on the smoke, his eyes squinting, his fingers long and gnarly, oh how I knew!....my face, my posture, every nuance of my body language on a stranger...it was the most mind numbing sensation I had ever felt as long as I can remember. He started to cross the road and walk towards me, I had to act now; I willed my limbs out of atrophy and turned my back to him. I could still see him walking nimbly towards me from his dim reflection on the glass door of the bookshop. He walked right into the bookstore, our shoulders brushed as he walked past me. I waited for a few seconds and followed him inside. He was looking casually over the bookshelves, his eyes casually passing over the books. Did I look so gaunt and serious? The lines in my face were stark, when did I get so old? My hands wandered over my face running over my features, making sure they were still in place.  It seemed he had enough of the place and was deciding on leaving. It was strange that the shopkeeper couldn't see the resemblance or maybe for him in spite of all the insipid yet intimate conversations we shared I was just another face in the crowd. I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..." and then I followed him into the street, in the crowd...

“What happened then? Did find him? Did you speak to him?” Anita asked eagerly. I gulped down the whiskey in one quick motion and shook my head slowly. “I lost him that day in the crowd, but the incident still haunts me...what did it mean? Was it just a figment of my imagination?” I laughed, glad that my idiosyncrasies didn't turn her off, this pretty lady seemed genuinely interested in me. It was strange that I remembered this story from my youth that too after more than a decade of it, I smiled wistfully. Maybe the wounds of my broken marriage followed by the ugly divorce were finally healing, with time I lost a great deal of my strangeness and my fancies...struggling to fit in with the world, playing the role of a corporate slave and a disgruntled family man, I had quite forgotten my strange ways, the old days.... The rest of the evening passed in a blur, nothing memorable occurred and I conveniently forgot to take her number, Anita (the wild big haired Anita with scarlet lips!) my fix-up, courtesy of my well-meaning friends of course...

The next was a Sunday; I slept late and had an usually large breakfast. I had nothing to look forward to, no expectations and no worries to let any one down. I thought of going to the bookstore especially after yesterday, the old used bookstore that had held its own through the test of time. Ten years is not such a long time yet so many things have changed. I walked briskly down the street, the flow of traffic had increased in the city with time, everyone owned a car and everyone was in a hurry to go somewhere or to get away from something. I was almost there, the tea-stall was no longer there but the soot stained walls remained and so did the bookshop a little worn for wear but still there, I smiled feeling at peace. The light was still green and the flow of traffic didn't show any signs of slowing, I thought of finishing my cigarette first before crossing, I wrapped myself in smoke and oblivion. A chill ran round down my spine, feeling someone's eyes on me I looked across the street, there was no one I knew. A sudden movement caught my eye; a young man quickly swiveled around turning his back to me. I paid no heed to the strange thin man and crossed the street to walk inside the store.  The shop had quietly aged and I didn't know the owner any more, I smiled remembering the bland conversations we had for the sake of having something to talk to. I glanced around the bookshelves; my habit of reading had been forsaken for the sake of running about in the rat race my life had become lately. I still felt someone watching me; I looked around hoping to catch a familiar face. I almost did see someone peering at me through the gaps of the books in the last row. I felt uneasy and uncomfortable, deciding on leaving. As I walked outside, losing myself in the crowd I had this eerie feeling of déjà vu, I turned to look again...and some how in a blink and miss moment, in the sea of strange faces, I saw a face that looked familiar, a young confused face with thin lips, his eyes searching for something...it looked like my own face.

How Blue is my Sapphire

"One of his tears fell in my mouth, where it became a blue sapphire, source of strength, source of strength and eternal hope." - Anita Diamant

“All of us live with our past. All of us allow it to shape our future. But some of us know how to shrug the past. I think that is who I am... at least for the most part. I can still remember moving into a new house with my husband as if that were yesterday but it about twenty years ago. Now I have moved again after his death, to a new place and a new life. The neighbourhood seemed promising and my flat was on the ground floor, so I wouldn’t have to punish my knees climbing stairs everyday. I was apprehensive about staying alone but I assured myself that things would work out; after all my family and friends were a phone or Skype call away, I would be fine. Besides, I didn’t want to bother people unnecessarily. The biggest hurdle I thought I would face is killing time and trying to adjust to a much slower pace of life at a town, having lived most of my life in a city. Most of my old stuff and furniture had already moved in, now it was my turn to move in physically and emotionally to this new house. I remember hesitating a little on the day of moving in, pausing a moment at the door; the nameplate had only one name, “Ms. Kakoli Das”.

The first few days were a blur, trying to form a routine of everyday life, getting to know the market place, the bus timings and of course the drudge of cooking, cleaning and working…sometimes it would seem days were longer but shorter somehow when they blended into a long continuous today…I finished reading book after book every month, spending rest of the free time on the computer, or walking around the neighbourhood…sometimes feeling a sense of alienation from reality and the people around me…what was I doing? I have started to talk to myself quite loudly these days, not bothering to do it quietly in my mind anymore, anyway who would hear me, who would care? Staying alone one stops caring about some doors but caring a bit more about few others…Slowly I got used to the solitude, caring less about company, finding solace in my own thoughts…but the flip side is that I dwell more and more on the past these days, some memories come rising up from somewhere deep in my inner being, I remember things I never thought I noticed before…” She smiled, ending her monologue with no definite ending.

“But you didn’t really answer my question?” I said feeling a little annoyed. It didn’t seem right to be nettled with such a sweet old lady, but I felt dissatisfied, almost frustrated.

“It is the best one I can give you.” She said with an air of defeat. She finished her coffee and started to leave, without so much of a good-bye. I was left alone, again, with my thoughts. Maybe she was right; a real conversation albeit dissatisfying is any day better than small talk, isn’t it? I signaled the waiter for another coffee. Maybe I had framed the question wrong, I waited for someone else to join me as I sat alone wrapped in smoke from my cigarette and coffee.  An hour passed by, I was still sitting alone, conversations from the tables nearby came floating by along with some background noises from the street, awkward honking from rickshaws, occasional sounds of traffic…I could feel the beginning of a headache, throbbing at my temples, time to go…I was about to give up on my quest, when the couple walked in. The man had an irritated look, and the girl seemed lost. The coffee house was unusually busy for a Saturday afternoon, there were no tables free, and serendipitously the only table they could share was mine. I motioned the waiter for yet another coffee and sat up straight as they walked uncertainly towards me. I smiled at them reassuringly. As they came up to me, the guy addressed me,

“Would you mind if we shared table, the rest of the place is occupied” He spoke in a soothing baritone, I liked him already, the female seemed jittery, I couldn’t really place her, she looked like a nervous little bird.

“I would love some company, please do” I gestured coming off as little too friendly. Maybe I should try to curb my enthusiasm. He smiled again; a little uncertain this time but they seated themselves across me.

“I am Anjan,” I said. They introduced themselves as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Sen, without offering any first names, I was a little surprised but decided to let it go, I still had my question to ask them. I waited patiently for them to get comfortable, Mr. Sen seemed very hungry as he gobbled on the omelet and toast, and Mrs. Sen grew more uncomfortable by the minute. I was feeling the strain as well, they were not speaking to each even, was it my presence that hindered their flow of conversation? Or maybe they didn’t speak much, their partnership flawed, ill matched somehow? I had to break the ice; I coughed a little too deliberately and cleared my throat…

“Would you mind if I asked you a question?” I said, hesitating a little. Mrs. Sen looked startled, comical even! The husband was still busy eating, but he did look up, glancing at me with a quizzical expression.

“I don’t know, depends on the question”, he sounded gruff. What was their deal? I wondered but I had to ask what I had to ask.

“How much of a role does the past play in your life? Do you dwell in the past or you don’t really care?” I rushed through it, realizing I had their full un-divided attention, yet maybe some explanation was in order, since they looked as if I had asked the most out of context, absurd question one can ask on a busy Saturday afternoon, that too in a coffee house…

“Actually I am trying to develop characters for my story and I was thinking of writing about memories, how much of the memories that we have are our own, you know, since memory is dynamic and can change over the years, in fact sometimes the memory becomes quite different from the real incident….” I trailed off noticing the look of disdain on the husband’s face. The wife looked even more petrified, glancing nervously at her husband’s face and mine. The man finally decided to grace me with an answer.

“I have no use for the past nor your silly questions. Can a man not enjoy his coffee in peace without being hounded by lunatic these days, really!” He looked absolutely furious.

I was about to explain my case further, when the wife began to speak, rather querulous at first, but her voice becoming clearer as she went on, “If I may I could try answering your question. I am a simple girl, with not much ambition or desire. I just want to live my life in peace. Growing up in a village with my four brothers, I learnt how to keep out of their way and maintain my sense of peace and dignity. My parents preferred them to me, having brought up a daughter they only wished to get rid of me as soon as possible. I was married quite early and came to live in this town about five years ago.” She stopped for a while, smiling wistfully, “and I thought I had escaped my surroundings, my past and I could make a new start, but I was wrong. Things remained the same; I was still invisible, trying to maintain a sense of dignity and quiet. I was trying to avoid confrontation at all costs. I have not escaped my past, my past is my present.” As she went on talking, I couldn’t help but notice the change in her husband’s demeanor, from being self assured and almost arrogant, he went to bewildered and eventually deflated.

“I am glad you asked me this question, because I had been struggling with this thought ever since, why couldn’t I escape my past? Now I know why…” She looked at Mr. Sen.

“I am not happy, if things don’t change I don’t think I can go on…” Some of her earlier nervousness returned but she went on, “I am sorry for bringing this up now and here, but I had to tell you…” Her eyes filled with tears as she finished her monologue.  I knew I had to spare them some private moments to discuss this revelation about their relationship. I felt awkward that I had to witness such private and raw emotions at such close quarters, but I felt a lot more satisfied now. I stood up, excused myself, went to settle my bill at the counter and left. It was nearly evening; the day had ended with a burst of colours. As I walked back to my flat, watching the sky change from rose pink to lavender and finally to indigo, I reflected on my past. Thinking about my family, my parents and my friends, and the person I am now…. how much I had changed, or did I change…how things change and yet remain the same.