The place had no soul or spirit left, and it was evident in the colourless walls, the unclean glasses, the empty eyes of the server who left me a menu card.
I’d never felt sadder at the prospect of not being a part of someone else’s story.
The infallible whiteness of the walls, the omnipresent smell of disinfectants, and the fields of artificial grass come back to me. Swimming before me are visions of smiling children and the legions of overworked childcare professionals constantly at their service. Every blink threatens to permanently relocate me to their world of ceaseless laughter.
It’s God’s funny way of reminding me that all that is received is a gift that is broken.
Today, as I hail a rickshaw and as it slowly paddles across an alley and then flits out onto a busy road, my mother's word echoes along with my little silver jhumkas in the air. And thus starts my game.
The celestial light, burning my skin; Reminding me how to feel, ridding me of all sin.
If it wasn't for the building with the lit up windows, she may have faded into the nothingness that wallowed around her.
Mr. Hakim was a very strange man for three things: he seldom spoke, he always smiled and he sold bottles of waves.
She would stay around here, in case he came back for it. She decided. What harm would a few moments do?
The day my feet touch the ground from here, she decided at that instant, is the day I finally become a woman.
I do not miss going to work, but I miss being young – not like the leftover puzzle pieces from several different sets jammed into one, never quite fitting.
Bhatu dadu died on a Friday morning, uneventfully and unobtrusively, surprising none in the village.
