Remember the times ?

Remember the house, the one in the corner of the lane, always shut, smelling of intrigue, or better still, love ? Remember the times ?

Do not disturb

Please do not disturb, said he, annoyed at her insistence. But she was in no mood to relent, having come this far, with little hope and less money. Who will blink first, I wondered, smug that my issues were far less urgent, far more sorted. Meanwhile, the evening fell, giving an edge to the conversation hitherto missing. It was time to go.

Departure

So be it, said she, as she watched him go. He wasn't particularly happy, but there were other reasons to go, in seasons far away. The mid-afternoon summer sun shone relentlessly as the cat on a nap in the corner woke up with a start, and slowly went back to sleep. All was quiet again, except for the half-hearted bark of a bored stray dog some distance away.

Less of a man

He wasn't really less of a man. At least the thought never crossed his mind. Born middle class, to parents who cared, siblings who didn't mind, and a body that lacked quarter of a limb, Nishant grew up quite uneventfully (or eventfully, if you had known him from inside), in one of those suburbs of a big city which do not appear in guide books for hosting/heralding something more than the commonplace commotions of life ordinaire .

Well, that's a good beginning - thought Prakash. And the name Nishant is a masterstroke - artsy, insider stuff. Plus a clever, clear allusion to his own name. Who is afraid of the bloody writer's block, thought Prakash.

A usual monsoon day

The pitter patter of the steadily falling slow rain occasionally disturbs the closed 7th floor window panes of the dark drawing room, clouded with a thin sheet of mist and memories. Right below, beyond the waterlogged little garden of the slightly run down housing complex, a solitary traffic light winks lonesomely to no one in particular, in the barely busy pot-holed by-street, as dusk approaches slightly early on a usual monsoon day.