Free

The king is dead

The courtiers fled

The soldiers bled

For a loaf of bread

The maid it fed

Now makes his bed

And in her head

Wakes a foreign dread

These bars of steel

Sheer walls of stone

Have echoed forth

Many thoughts unknown

Cut through the cracks

New sun has shone

That light is mine

And mine alone

I am a beast

Of heart and bone

A hungry seed

In desert sown

When towering weeds

Had overgrown

I wrung their necks

To forge a throne

A summer sung

Among my own

The bird remains

The nest has flown

For them that see

Past the canopy

Waits a misery

You must agree

You will decree

The swelling sea

Her sunken tree

Ever home to me

When in that boil

I choose to be

Am I then caged?

Pray, are you free?

The End

At the end of this life, you will have laughed and loved, hurt and hated, fought and failed, won and waited. You will have tried and tested, cried and coped, dreamt, denied, helped and hoped. You will be learned and lonesome, wistful and wise, calm and clueless, it'll show in your eyes. You will have been anxious and affectionate, firm and furious, interesting, insecure, conscientious, curious. You will be a lot and a little you won't, you will have taken far more than you thought you could give, you will be tired but find yourself grateful, for every day you were lucky enough to live.

Ordinary

You are a waster of time
A taker of space
You are a thinker of things
A forgetter of names

You are older than yesterday
Younger than tomorrow
Taller than your standing
Smaller than your ego

You are a maker of sound
A crasher of gates
You are a flipper of coins
A feeler of pain

You are harder than cloth
Heavier than light
Better than your worst
Faster than your stride

You are a soaker of sun
A watcher of waves
You are a breather of air
A catcher of rain

You are this and that
You are one or another

The only thing you are not, however,
Is ordinary

Umbrella

It was a night like this. As thunder and lighting laid desperate claim to the sky, I remember we shared an umbrella. We pitched it in my living room and crawled into its welcome shelter. It wasn't big by any measure but neither were we. It was home to you and a cave to me. We lit a fire and took turns shivering. I stuck my hand out to catch pretend raindrops while you cooked a make-believe meal for our make-believe family of three.

Two decades have passed, leaving us our own halves of that long forgotten picture. You have a little mouth to feed, a child infinitely more beautiful, and I presume hungrier, than the one you imagined that night. And I'm caught in the rain, sticking my hand out from under the umbrella.

Maybe

‘Maybe’ is a fascinating word.

In fact, I’ll go as far as to say ‘maybe’ just may-fucking-be the second
most interesting word after, well, ‘fuck’.

‘Maybe’ is better than ‘or’, and not because it’s three letters or a syllable heavier.
Come to think of it, ‘or’ is barely a word. Actually, it’s barely a sound, much like
a half-swallowed hiccup. Fundamentally, ‘or’ is dependent on the two choices
it needs to fit snugly between; in or out, soup or salad, your place or mine.
‘Maybe’, on the other hand, is a brand new choice altogether.

‘Maybe’ is shorter and sweeter than its overtly sophisticated cousin ‘perhaps’.
Perhaps, you’d disagree. See what I mean? ‘Maybe’ is easy on the tongue,
you can drop it at will, like a hydrogen bomb, which brings me to my next point.

Wielded well, ‘maybe’ is a potent weapon in the power hungry control-freak’s
(you, if you’re wondering) arsenal. Allow me to illustrate.

--

‘Do you love me?’

‘Yes.’

‘That was easy.’

‘Yes’ is acknowledgement, and although it presents the subject with success,
the feeling is short-lived. It’s precisely one chest thump, two fist bumps, three calls,
four social media posts or five eventful nights long. You can’t keep replaying
a single glorious instant for an eternity, can you?

Outcome: Power forfeited.

--

‘Do you love me?’

‘No.’

‘Bite me.’

‘No’ is outright rejection, a slap in the face, it’ll make the subject reel momentarily
but recover nonetheless. It’s a wake-up call, and some of us need more than one.
It puts the universe into perspective, and the jilted on an entirely disconnected
intellectual plane.

Outcome: Subject forfeited.

--

‘Do you love me?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What? How? Why? Okay.’

‘Maybe’ feeds both curiosity and hope in the precise measure required to place
the aggressor in a position of power. Even though the odds of approval and rejection
stand equally divided, it is human nature to disregard the latter. After all, hope sells
harder than sex ever did. And, while a part of the subject’s mind devotes itself to
optimism-laced flights of fancy, another dissects the response, probing desperately
for arguments that aggravate the former.

Simply put, when blind hope gets boring, one turns to curiosity to discover worthy
justification. A valid justification strengthens hope and the cycle completes its first,
but far from final, revolution.

Outcome: Power and subject retained.

--

‘Maybe’ is the grey in a world of black and white. It is the convenient middle path
between ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. Do I sense Buddha frowning? ‘Maybe’ is nonchalant,
noncommittal, nonconformist even. It has a certain air of suspense working for it.
It’s Bond-like, yet catty. It’s a veiled insult, yet sometimes pretty darn straight.
It’s absolute, yet throws open a world of countless probabilities and analyses.
It’s the answer to the question you weren’t seeking an answer to. It keeps you on
the prowl and your victims on their toes.

‘Maybe’ is a drug. Use it before you lose it, because you’re eventually going
to lose it anyway.

Well, maybe.

Home

Every person is a place. Some are bus-stops, others coffee shops. Some dark alleys, others sun-kissed beaches. Every day, we shuttle in and out and around music stores, art galleries, libraries, restaurants, broadcast stations, cinema theatres, photo studios, motorcycle workshops, football academies, lofty bars with empty stools, ATMs without withdrawal limits, employment exchanges and technology hubs erected in skin and bone. Long, short, under construction, under repair, broken, one-way, two-way or toll-free, there are many roads to the same place. And, some of them aren’t places at all. They are bridges we must cross to get somewhere new. Or tunnels we must emerge from to keep our purpose true. We spend each day traveling from person to person. And when we’ve spent many hours wandering, discovering, visiting, frequenting and deserting life’s many venues, some of us just want to go home.

The Fame Paradox

The light never dies on a person of greatness. It burns immortal, a warm glow that reminds us of the stature they once occupied, and still do. The same light burns brighter for their progeny. But, not in quite the same mellow timbre

For the young of a colossus, the light is deafening. An inescapable reality, it stares them in the face from the moment their eyes open. Through night and day, it is their unrelenting Sun, a cruel reminder of life’s sole purpose. To live up to the name they’re deemed fortunate to be born with. While the rest waltz through existence in the search for meaning and a higher calling, theirs is predefined. Their benchmarks etched in the sky, finish lines drawn before they learn to say ‘go’. The light teases and taunts them at every turn, as society prods them to follow in hallowed footsteps and occupy the circle it casts

From the dawn of time, the children of famous parents have been expected to outshine them. We can observe, barring the odd exception, that famous men and women seldom come from famous parents or give birth to children who grow to become equally if not more famed.

Most of us have wondered what it would be like to be born to titans. Lives in place, world at our feet, a sizeable serving of success and its many privileges without having to raise a finger. But, we’ve overlooked the heat that is always on. And feeling it up close, the gargantuan obligation to go one better, as we squirm under the shadow of a giant we’re always being compared to, can get suffocating. For us world is no stage, it’s a rancid lot of hecklers watching our every step, waiting for us to fall, and ultimately fail.

About time I made my point?

It’s simple, and becomes evident shortly. By chasing fame and achieving it, are we building or derailing the lives of our children? Are we landing them the luxury of a struggle-free upbringing or substituting it for the greater struggle of rising to, and hopefully besting our stature? Are we securing a precipice for future generations to look down at creation from, or are we preparing them for an untimely roaring leap off the edge? Is our quest noble or is it the veneer of our vanity, our constant need for power and the recognition it begets? Does ‘I’m doing it for myself.’ have more truth in it than we imagine? Do we go for gold or settle for scraps so our children can swap silver spoons for blank slates? Are we who started with blank slates obliged to leave blank slates for those to follow? If we forsake our thirst for glory, will our children do the same for our grandchildren? Should we be grateful to our parents for underachieving (achievement is subjective, but you get the drift) or prepare to face an impending outburst from our children against the pressure we have already begun piling on them? Is it better to be born to a legend or to raise one?

I don’t have the answers. Do you?

Bye

“Planes are just not my scene, brother.”

It wasn't the beer talking. Going by the stories I've heard, and there are a million,
I belong to the small and therefore elite clique of unlucky airbenders. In fact, the only fairer-sexed company I’ve been graced with in the air, happened to be flying
into her wedding. So, resigning myself to the inevitable, I continued sipping
on my half-empty-for the-last-half-hour bottle of lager, engaging in conversations
drowned out by muffled high-intensity EDM. I had a flight to catch the next day
and much needed sleep before.

I picked 6C because it was the unreserved aisle seat closest to the entrance.
I had discarded my fascination for window seats long ago, when I gathered
the inside of an aircraft offers more than the outside promises (refer Aerodynamics).
5E was free, but it was middle. The universally scorned middle seat, a solo traveller's nightmare, seldom occupied by choice, was forever out of question.
Although, I have employed the maximum probability argument to fuel my optimism,
each of the many times I have been subjected to one. The results have been grossly
and consistently disappointing.
---

The first to occupy my half-row, I was an eager gatekeeper anxiously awaiting the arrival of two unknowns who would determine the course of my flight. But, my unfailing
anticipation died a fast death when seconds later, I found myself semi-standing,
wedged between my seat and the rotund middle-aged woman hastening her way
to the window, completely oblivious to the existence of my feet, and me.
To prevent further damage, I stood up and slid out to allow her husband in.
Resigning myself to the inevitable, a second time in 16-odd hours, I pulled out
my notepad and pen. Suddenly, there was precious work to be done and precious little
to finish it in. I had all but written my first words when the attendant announced,
“Boarding complete.” Muttering, “Yeah, I hear you.”, I reluctantly shut my tray table
and yanked out the inflight magazine hoping I could figure out what to snack on
before the altitude of the plane allowed me to finish crafting my print campaign.
On an aside, nailing a third headline can be more challenging than cracking
the campaign it is meant for. Restlessly testing the airline's instant
remedy for restlessness prescribed on page whatever, I intently rotated my right ankle
for the 10th time, left went first. Obviously, I didn't feel any different.
Then, I looked up.

She stood two feet away, straining to thrust her handbag into the bustle
of the overhead bin. She was slender, mildly tanned, with dark blonde hair
tied into a tiny bun, in a half-sleeved white blouse and skinny-fit black jeans
with zip-down ankles. Beautiful, and unconventionally so. In a blink, she was home
in seat 5D, slippers off, buckled up, feet on seat, making an On the plane.
See you soon. call. I presumed Australian, her accent didn't help. We took off.
She plugged into her iPod and descended into a head-bobbing knee-rapping trance
any lover of music would readily associate with. In the air, I put pen to paper,
stopping frequently to watch her silently mouth a few verses as she soaked
in the groove. Smiling to myself as I struggled, I concluded good work is a product
of worthy distraction. Basking thoroughly in this newfound wisdom, my eyes fell
on the empty seat beside her. 5E. I cursed my luck, briefly.

Midway through my expulsion, I watched her sink into the minimal recesses
her seat could afford. Her little eyes shut, she turned her head in my direction.
Still wired and sound asleep, she inspired me. The idea was laudable,
Playlist Exchange. How interesting would it be to swap playlists with the person
sitting in the next seat for the entire duration of a short flight? To know someone
intimately without saying a word? To capture a mood though music? To risk
insignificant revelations for fresh listening pleasure?

The minutes piled on idly. I delved back into knitting evocative nothings, her timely
wrestling to get comfortable relegated to my peripheral vision. She awoke with
the landing announcement. She stretched, strained her neck and batted her eyelids
in adjustment. I was relieved, surprisingly. My uneasy, one-sided association with her
would be over soon.
---

The flight landed on time. Deftly avoiding the desperate scurry to the shuttle bus,
I strolled in casually and wound my way to the centre, a sea of tightly-huddled bodies
on three sides and a wall to recline on. The last few passengers streamed in while
I scanned the bus. I wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. Maybe I was. Either way,
I found her. Seated in the last row. Staring out the window. Face flushed. Red-nosed.
Sobbing. Her contorted features barely reminiscent of those I’d spent a quarter-hour
trying to forget. She was a mess. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and pulled out
my handy handkerchief. I looked at her, then down at my hand, then at her,
then at my hand. The routine ran its course as I worked out my approach. It ended
when I caught her looking at me about the 29th time I looked up towards her.
Caught off guard, I swung away. And then it struck me, I was trapped. The bus
had no room for even an honest intention to squeeze through to her.
‘I’ll meet her on the way out and offer her the kerchief if she still needs it.’
We alighted, she after me. She wasn’t crying anymore. She didn’t need anything.
---

On my way to baggage claim, I mused. I whistled, within, aware of her presence
a few steps behind and assured that her personal storm had passed. I disputed
whether I should have pushed past the throng and made my offering,
whether it would have done her any good if I did, whether it would have changed
the rest of her day even though she appeared to have overcome her demons
without assistance? With these and similar wonderments humouring my brain,
I turned the corner en route the smoking room and caught her following me
from the corner of my eye. The response was swift and impulsive. Assuming she
wanted a cigarette, I held the door ajar. She didn’t, the ladies’ room
was two doors down. In seconds, I was at peace with this private embarrassment.
I sat down, shook my head, shook off the stupidity and smoked at leisure.
Ten minutes passed before I found myself at baggage claim. ‘She must have
left by now.’ Ten more minutes passed before I realised I was at the wrong counter.
---

My faculties weren’t at their sharpest that afternoon. I knew exactly
whom to blame. I finally walked down the right side of the right baggage counter,
and lo, there she was, sitting on a trolley, coloured in a familiar shade of red, anxious
and fidgety. For some reason, I was no different. ‘Ok, so the luggage isn’t here.
Now, don’t encroach her vicinity. It’ll creep her out, if she has noticed you at all.
Let’s not mull over whether she has. Besides, the motion of the belt suggests your bag
will be coming out the other end.’ An about-turn and a few steps later, I took up
a position on the near end of the conveyor, one that ensured I would get my bag
the moment it made its way into the airport, one that ensured I could get the hell out
of the airport without overstaying my arrival. In my line of sight, a billboard proclaiming superlative home loan rates loomed ominously. It didn’t take curiosity two seconds
to get the better of me, and I strayed gently sideways. She was standing now,
more upset than I had ever seen her, pretend studying the meaningless billboard
to avoid being seen by more than a handful. Scrutiny of the colourful bystanders
revealed she had no reason for worry. Everyone was caught up stressing about
luggage already long overdue. No one had noted her. None, but me.

After light years of indecision, I managed to affix myself opposite her. Once more,
I felt the urge to reach out. I decided to write her a note of empathy, which I would
convey by way of the empty, yet moving, conveyor belt. Attracting her attention
by waving hysterically, I would prompt her to pick it up when the belt brought it to her.
There were intricacies I needed to consider, however. What if someone else picked
up the note? What if she dismissed my gesturing for a severe case
of cognitive retardation? What if she followed my gestures, picked up the note,
read it, but didn’t feel any better because of it? As is my habit, I let these thoughts
run their course while I paced the floor around my erstwhile position. Presently,
I arrived at the welcome conclusion that I couldn’t care less. I looked up. She was gone.
‘Was her bag not worth the wait? Did my indiscreet and recurring presence force
her to take up another position? Maybe she’s just gone to get a glass of water.’
Again, I was a rebel without cause. But, before I could wallow once more
in that lucrative cesspool lined with dejection and self-loathing,
surprise slapped me hard. She was walking towards me, trolley in tow.

Stupefied, I watched her come, place her trolley beside me and sit on it cross-legged.
She appeared fine, I hadn’t managed to get a clean look at her face yet.
Seeing she wasn’t wired anymore, I unplugged my earphones and shoved them
in my pocket. The action wasn’t smooth and I’m sure she noticed. I stared hard
at the empty belt, stealing occasional glances at her. And predictably, I succumbed
to the intimidation that accompanies being at arm’s length from a thing of beauty.
I resumed my nervous-yet-apparently-casual-to-the-human-eye pacing,
ambling aimlessly. And while I ambled, she relapsed.

From my roving vantage point, she started out with a blank expression
that bled mild tears amidst frequent texting. It progressed into her looking
downwards with both hands on her temple. Eventually, she buried her face
between her legs. I reached into my pocket, held my kerchief firm,
walked to my spot and looked down, at her. Head still buried.
‘Give her the hanky when she looks up? Pull up a trolley of my own
and sit next to her? Open with what the airline staff might be having for lunch?’
I didn’t have the nerve. She was daunting even in her vulnerability. ‘Let’s pace around
some more. Great exercise. Let her recover. Then, we’ll see.’ I turned, walked in circles
nearby, and returned a minute later.

She was up, but a mother with her 6-year-old son had taken my place.
‘There goes that. Enough is enough. Write the damn note. Put it on the belt.
It’s still running for a reason. Lean forward, ask her to pick it up and get this
despicable urge to make her day out of your system forever.’ I took a few steps
backwards, pulled out my notebook and scribbled ‘Beautiful women
don’t look good crying.’ I crumpled the note and deposited it in the nearest bin.
Then, I wrote ‘Beautiful women shouldn’t cry. Whatever it is, it will pass. :)’
Somewhat satisfied, I folded the sheet. My loss for words was legitimate.

Turning to proceed with my humble scheme, I met her eyes, looking dead straight
into mine. A piercing glare. Shaken, I pocketed the note and looked away.
‘What’s going on? Should I just go talk? Are we waiting for another sign?’
She faced the belt, the luggage had begun streaming in. ‘She’ll get her bag before
I get mine, and leave.’

My bag came first. I took it, set it on a trolley and rummaged
within for my lighter, another custom. In the next few seconds, she got hers.
Heading to the taxi stand, she walked ten metres in front of me. Then, for some
strange reason, she pressed down on her brake handle and broke into a frantic run.
‘Was it me?’ I was awed but inertia prevailed. I didn’t allow myself
any further consternation. I stopped at an ATM, then wandered past stores,
sampling their wares in measured glimpses. Sure enough, as I idled into
the prepaid taxi queue, there she was, ahead in line. No thought this time.
I walked right into her.

“Excuse me. Hi. I saw you crying in the bus earlier and I wanted to give you
my handkerchief but I couldn’t, because there were just too many people.”

“Oh, you did? I had no idea.”

“Yeah. And then later, as we were waiting for the luggage to arrive. You looked like
you could use a word or two so I thought of writing you a note and putting it on
the conveyor belt so it would go all the way around. I’d wave ‘Hey’ from the other end
so you’d know the note was for you.”

“I’m so embarrassed but thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

“Are you alright? Is everything ok?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing. I’m just having, I’m having a very stressful day.”

“Sure. Anyway, what I wanted to do didn’t happen. But, I’ve got the note with me
and I want you to have it.”

I handed her the note.
“Have a nice day.”

I turned away and then bounced back, she was still clutching it.
“You can read it now, it’s only two lines anyway.”

I soon realised I had cut ahead in line, so I went around and took my place behind her.
The counter next to ours freed up, the man behind it beckoned me. I leaned forward.

“You’re the one having a stressful day, go.”

“Thanks.”

She wheeled her way to the window. The next second, my counter freed up.
I transacted alongside her, catching the odd strain in her voice like I would
strain to catch a tune. When I finished, she had disappeared.
---

Outside the airport, the Sun was intense, but forgiving. It was hot, I was warm.
The deed was done. My mission complete. Or, was it? Like a reflex, I sought her.
I could only hope my simplistic words would bear my earnestness. Their effects,
much like the effects of my every interaction to date, were beyond my control.
Wrapping myself in this truth, I marched towards the yellow-topped rundown chariot
that would take me home. Again, she was all that stood in between.
‘This is getting old.’

While attendants scrambled to get her the next available cab, I stood calm,
propped on the railing and gazing into the distance, certain she didn’t know I was there.
Shortly, a cab arrived. She lifted her head while picking up her bags,
and shot me in the chest.

“Bye.”

Point-blank. I reeled. One word, three letters, the answer to every question
I had asked myself that morning. Her face clear, she was radiant, grinning, settled,
a far cry from the sombre shade I had made my acquaintance with. I nodded
in acknowledgement and half-smiled right back. Her manner, her disposition,
their change, were all pleasantly unsettling.

She made her exit. I savoured my salvation. ‘You get a single precise instant in time
to push a life into the better. And when it passes, your compassion, its abundance,
your intentions, their honesty, all you feel and are capable of feeling, count for nothing.
No walk in the park, running the risk of seeming desperate and sounding stupid,
willingly signing up for judgement. Pretty darn suicidal. But, after that moment passes,
you have only yourself to live with. That, you could definitely do without.’

My taxi arrived five minutes later. Snug in my seat, I hit rewind. ‘If I see her once more,
I’ll have to stop her.’ At ‘her’, I drove past her on the highway. I didn’t pull over.
‘It wouldn’t be much of a story if we met again.’

Come

Come. Come from your bright yellow lights and half-remembered nights.
Come from the emptiness that fills your window sill as you struggle
for a frame of thought that will keep you still. Come from a long day’s work,
from a hard day’s work, from all work and no play, from all work and no pay.
Come from no work at all.

Come from the dream you had last night, from the hopes
you’ve carried through sleep. Come from heartache, heartbreak, from a place
where you’ve given more than you can take. Come from being cared for
and having none. Come from sunshine, and red wine in glasses that never run dry.
Come from laughter and abandon and recklessness and surrender.
Come from rebellion.

Come from your intimidations, from your fears, from the worldly wisdom
you can’t unlearn. Come from hate and passion and pride and misgiving.
Come from a difference of opinion. Come from your relationships, your upbringing,
your scratchy beginnings and patchy acquaintances. Come from your expectations,
from birthdays and surprises, from red ribbons and pink lace, from long hours
in front of the mirror, from a few words and many faces.

Come from the roads you've left behind, from dark alleys and white corridors.
from burnt pages and broken bridges. Come from a full life, from a life well fought,
from contention, from little joys in little things, from big smiles for little reason.
Come from the TV shows, from late-night cinema, the smell of snow,
that song in your head that won’t let go. Come from history, from the renaissance,
from the countries you've seen and the events you will.

Come from the daily news, that book you must to get back to,
your boardroom scribbles, the attention you can’t afford to spare, the coffee
you sip by the sidewalk as it rains, those pretty shoes you never wear.
Come from birds in the trees and kittens and ketchup and lakes and rainbows
and orchids and bicycles and architecture and every romance you acquire
as you flit through routine. Come from your photographs of birds in the trees
and kittens and ketchup and lakes and rainbows and orchids and bicycles
and architecture and every romance you acquire as you flit through routine.

Come from the things you are, the things you do. Come from yourself, from company.
Come from a moment ago. Come from thin air. Come. Let us walk.

Red

The light shone red. The autorickshaw jerked to a grinding halt. A second early,

and I would have been alongside the white car that was hastily vanishing

from my present line of sight.

He pulled up casually in his three-wheeled truck, in no real hurry I now imagine.
As I stared long and hard at the blaring circular hurdle in my tumultuous race
to the railway station, he made me look the other way, at him.

Bursting gently into a heartfelt rendition of 'Tujhe Na Dekhoon To Chain
Mujhe Aata Nahi Hai', a popular 90s Hindi film song, he unhinged my frown
and set my resources pacing like a father-to-be outside a delivery room.

On impulse, I asked him, after waiting a few seconds for a break in the chorus,
'Kaunsi pickchar?' Which film? Then, before he could make an effort to answer,
I ventured, ‘Rahul Roy par filmaya gaya tha? Junoon? Junoon.’
Did the song feature Rahul Roy? From the movie Junoon?
Must have been Junoon.

He nodded in agreement, ‘15 saal puraana gaana hai. Gaate phirte the jab
pehli baar pyar hua.’ The song is 15 years old. I used to keep singing it
when I fell in love the first time. I let out an inward grin.

Without standing on ceremony, he humbly asked me for a cigarette, followed by a light,
both of which I gladly parted with. Passing the lighter back, he strode once more
down his lane of lyrical nostalgia, punctuated in greater variation this time around.
I threw in the odd line, without interruption, with equal soul. When he stopped,
I asked him where he was headed. He said something the whirr of passing traffic
drowned out entirely.

The light flashed green. As he turned his noisy engine on,
I waved him goodbye shouting, ‘Gaate chalo. Khush raho.’ Keep singing. Stay happy.

He laughed and waving back in return, trained his eyes on the road.
As my auto lumbered ahead, I mulled, ‘It wasn’t Junoon.
Phir Teri Kahani Yaad Aayi. That’s the film.’ I was wrong.

As we pulled into the next signal, I looked out and saw that the truck
had come to a halt three vehicles behind us. A part of me wanted to step out at once
and present the assumed correction. But, I decided against ruining the symphony
that had stemmed from our ignorance, and stuck to my seat.

The red light had changed much. Sure, I was a cigarette shy. But, that wasn’t it.
My singing friend-for-a-minute had, with his song and light-hearted manner eased me
of the anxiety that had consumed me moments before, the monstrous apprehension
that envelops anyone accustomed to the unpredictability of city traffic especially
when a train or a flight needs catching inside peak hours. In that solitary moment,
he spirited away a part of me I needed losing and left me with a memory that will linger.

There was much humming inside the auto in the half hour that followed,
and much more in the days to come. Some of it has lasted to this moment.

And, in case you’re still wondering, the movie was Rang.
I intend to save the song for the next time I find love.