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.
Lipi runs and runs, determined to get as far away from where she started as possible. She could feel all her pain infuse into her tears and stream violently down her face, subsiding that sunken feeling in her chest.
The fading away seemed palpable to me. It was a tangible rope on a continuous journey of gliding away. A force pushing me back while I tried to hold on until at one point I slipped way back into the background.
The pandemic does not discriminate, whether you live in Dhaka or New York City.
Black. Glossy in the moonlight. Its white whiskers asserting an implicit, involuntary dominance. Its supple body effortlessly sliding up and down the teak trees that are abundant here. A shadow – a dark emissary of the night – drifting among the plant kingdom like a fugitive.
"You know," I said, opening my backpack. "Maybe I will work from here today, listen to your story and write something on it."
What if we met not in this decade but in one where love would be a mechanical process? Would it be different then? Or is it what it is? What if we met at an age when engineers created love like they create machines now?
You're so annoying sometimes. Sorry, we do not use negativity towards ourselves. I'm sorry, I did not mean that. You're a wonderful person. Please grab a rag. We need to meditate.
