( Written during my time in London)
The fragrance of the strawberries wafts in the air.
Delicate white hands smoothen out the bitter chocolate. Enmeshed with crepes,
the afternoon sun seems bittersweet. For an instant, the draught chills their
bones. The twinkle of an eye, a gradual grin and softness bursts into song. The
moment seems fragile.
The pigeons hover about the marketplace, looking for
crumbs. Amidst the drowsiness and the pallor, there is exchange of
conversation. Subtly at first, followed by a gush of emotions when they talk
about their mutual love for well-worn books.
The tube is crowded. In a whirl of colours, the two
find themselves sitting beside each other, eliciting odd stares. They talk
about their hopes, their dreams, shattered fragments. They talk about lives
lost. He talks about his family, how no one knew where his grandfather was in
the aftermath of the tragedy.
He asks her if she misses home. She does, she tells
him. She misses the people. She misses her jamrul tree. When she asks him what
it is that he misses about home, he says it is the river that flows downstream
in Kyoto and the quiet mountains.
They sit down to drink coffee. They discuss samurais
and comics books. As the sun begins to set, two strangers discover
an unknown land that neither can call home.
Both have fire in their eyes and wonder in
their hearts.
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