Silence.
In the small spaces where the texts rang out and the parts of my day where I laughed to myself at something silly or sweet or poignant.

Last night I woke up to my phone buzzing, like the bird at the window that you sometimes imagine.  
There was nothing there, just static. I looked at it, turned it over for a bit in my hand and then fell asleep somewhere along the way.

The morning, my phone was still barren. No ideas crammed in winding messages and no late night missed calls that comfort you - because you know it's nice that someone remembered you once everyone had slept.

You must return. That's how it's supposed to be. 

The trees are glowing with the afternoon light. The rustling tales get amplified as we come and stand under them.

We try and hold hands because there isn’t much else to do. You keep playing with your hair. It spills on to your shoulders in a riot. I am tempted to reach out and touch it. I don’t.

You have something to tell me. Under the cackling tree, you say you want your things back. Your clothes, that smell of flowers. Your books, some of which are dog eared from quoting and re-quoting passages in the night. Your slippers, pale and blue and smooth from use. I don’t have the courage to ask Why, but I notice that you have pulled away your hands and stuffed them into the pockets of your sweatshirt.

I nod. A brief, pointed nod. You look at me and the corners of your eyes, where my laughter lived for a bit, start to fill up. “It’s really hard. You know that right?” You ask me. You want me to say that I understand. I look at my feet.

We walk back, an awkward bubble walks between us. When it’s time to take different routes, I say See You Soon and you say Take Care, but neither of us mean it.

The one week hiatus

It was a break, from both the writing and the city.

A whirlwind Calcutta visit; the city that potters around in a lackadaisical manner.

Walking around aimlessly on a Tuesday morning, stopping at every curious looking shop, being unnaturally gleeful that everyone else you know back in Bombay is at work.

A marriage with the usual emotions that it stirs up - happiness, a wistful tug somewhere deep within and an overwhelming wave of "someone my age is now married"

A campfire on a terrace, that was only partially successful, but thoroughly enjoyable.

Driving around the city, trying to make sense of bengali billboards and drinking milky chai from clay pots.

Extreme generosity, hospitality and camaraderie.