PROLOGUE

I stood there at my usual favourite place. The place was near the French windows, where the wine red colour of the velvet curtains had some gold threads dangling, without any uniformity. Miraculously they have retained their sheen, despite their age, which felt like eternity now. I looked up, and saw that the spider webs have ruined my curtains, and then made a mental note that I would clean them up afterwards. I don’t have time for that now; Reva would be here any moment. I looked up at that antique clock of ours, which still cuckooed its way out, to announce the passing of an hour, and the finite number of hours left for me to live. My French windows, gave me a view of the street outside. Actually, street was not the right word for it, it wasn’t so busy, and it was too wide, too spacious, and too calm. It now lacked the hustle and bustle of the daily life, the sound of horns, the shouts of the people, the racket made by the children. Now, nothing is there, absolutely nothing.

It is drizzling outside. I always liked the rain. The endless clatter, whispered in my ear with its sound unknown, and here I am, standing, thinking of the things that were passing by, the things that were already lost in the beauty of time and the unknown things yet to come. Its freshness is so simple, yet so complicated to describe, its ravishing, ferocious nature attracting me towards it every time, inviting me as usual, giving me a chance to ponder as always, that they too, enjoy my company. I kept my hand on the foggy glass of the window and saw my hand print on it. Clear, pure, distinct. Freedom, is just not the right word, it was pure ecstasy. It made me feel like a seven year old kid, splashing in the muddy water, making paper boats, with my red and white polka dots umbrella in hand, flaunting the new bicycle that my father gifted me for my good results, with an unending emotion that even I can fly and race with the clouds. The scene was too clear in my mind. It has something to do with age, when all the forgotten things come right back to you, when you are near your end. Reva says that I over think things, but how could I make her see the incessant lines of wrinkles on my face, the long blue veins protruding out of my skinny hands, the lost demeanour of my being. How could I make her understand that I am content, despite all the things that have happened to me, I am mysteriously happy. Why? That question was perhaps the easiest thing to answer in the world. I looked down upon my hand, and notice the long thinning pale fingers and that his ring was still there. Perhaps the oldest thing on the planet, but yes, it was there, making me smile as usual, drowning me in his endless memories, the dimensionless state of mind, where it feels like that you are actually visiting your home, my home...