Musings of a sachharine-bitter soul

"This is a hypothetical question" you had said. My mouth was silent then. Today, after traversing an eternity within three summers, I can write the answer to you. I would walk through strange streets endlessly as the sun bleeds into the night. And would wait to see it rising again, Its orange glasslike ray, cutting through the tallest skyscraper. Then, I would walk into the first 24*7 cafe that I see and order coffee. That's how I would spend my last day before the earth collapses.

Midway through the 7th episode, a song started playing and the dancers started swaying their bodies rhythmically. I was nestled in pillows and blankets. But I had to get up. I wondered why the strain sounded so familiar; it felt like someone has flicked a wand, and silvery wisps of my childhood have appeared. Too hard to miss, too thin to grasp. But then life knocked on my door and I stopped trying to remember. A few weeks later, I heard the same tune playing as the background score of a 70s film. Damn, I thought. I have to get to the bottom of this. The dark labyrinths of WWW gave me an app. I hummed into the speaker, and in a second, Hava Nagila. Someone told me once, associative memory works in funny ways. You see the rising sun, and you think of an orange. That's how I knew that right now as Belafonte's deep voice fills up my bedroom, I am also witnessing the face of my father, who, half-reclined on a sofa, sings "Jamaica Farewell". I am also seeing a 13-ye...

How do you create a home?  You plant a sapling in a desolate space.  Then go away.  Let days grow into months  and months grow into years.  And then one day, all the roads that led to your hitherto-home will have thorns growing. It is then that you will return, with blood-caked feet, and sit under your tree, and have its yellow shadow envelop you. It is then that you will thank that stranger who put seeds in your palm on a dreary morning and told you that second homes can grow in the most unlikely places if one dares to plant Hope.