The train was shooting through the green landscape. It was crossing plantain groves, ponds, cows, thatched houses, and smiling onlookers, in flashes. I was not looking. It was ticking. And it was painful. For I knew it wont be an easy transition. Not easy enough to cry for, not easy enough to talk about, not easy enough to think over. (Do you remember writing with your first ballpoint pen, after the velvet touch of the fountain pens? Don’t you wish…)

But I was just looking at the eyes. The eyes that stopped speaking then. The eyes that wanted to see more. I looked. The chugging of the train had stopped long back, the pitter-patter of conversation was hardly registering, the somnolent breeze, the pregnant silence. Nothing. And I was desperately looking for words.

Enveloped in verbosity, shrouded in faces and names, that moment stretching aeon made me realise…

Naiveté had made me believe that words can change the world. We make friends through words, and that love stays wrapped in her purple casket neatly ribboned with unforgettable words. Words prick insatiable memory, cooped like pigeons, with nowhere to go. Words are bridges and roofs, words are rains and petrichor, and words are the innocent and the patriarch… And how wrong was I!

Word really fall short…

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