When the color of the sky is like a dying tip of a cigarette, a soul is seen wandering around the city in search of memories. His gait meanders around spots that are too trivial for novella couples, so out goes the gray river, the ruins of the bridge, the dusty green park…
And enters the sneaky alleys, the paan-spit smeared walls containing seedy advertisements, both political and personal; enters the road by the tram depot that has not yet fully decided where to start and where to end, splitting in every nature of path possible; enters the Pripyat of railway stations where trains hardly stop – and the lonely cha shop on it.
Eons apart, another soul emerges on the window of a highrise, with pen in tow, waiting to write a future. But the past poisons her thought with pangs of nostalgia.
As if she has seen Medusa, her movement freezes. Somewhere down below, five million people scamper around a city like stray cats on a mission. Only there are never stray cats.
The world forgets how to smile, only to retrieve it from an ashpile of deadbodies, and then chooses to ampute that thought. A vicious cycle ensues, aided by psychedelic advertisement boards where skimpily clad women hail a man who has clearly still dreaming.
He and she, they both carry a similar card on their hands. ‘Lacuna’, it reads, ‘The finest memory-erasers at your service’.
“What if you stayed this time?” the Durga-Pooja time text reads.
“I can’t,” the reply on Facebook Messenger, neatly archived between thirty chatboxes, “I walked away.” Between curry colored sarees and bottle green kurtas, the festive songs are a heartbreak.
Rolling of seasons is the only thing that keeps people sane.