Transformation

 Another day. Another airport. It is a little before five in the morning and the bleary-eyed traveler wades their way through a relatively small mass of people. Several of the shops are closed – remnants of a day gone by. As I make my own way through the people, couple of hours to kill before hopping off to my destination, I can’t help but be reminded of days gone by. Not that there is necessarily much to remember. Ramblings. Musings. The difference is sometimes subtle.

As the clock hands (unfortunately, digital ones) slowly move past five, the shops start opening up. Employees who have woken up early just to help people like me deaden the sound of the ticking of the clock. The stores are all open now and I walk through a couple of them – not really sure what I am looking for but pretty sure that it is not here, not now; and even if it was, it would certainly not be for sale. Not to me, for sure.

I eventually make my way to a bakery-café – every time I pass through this part of the airport terminal, I try and stop by. The staff is friendly and warm. I remember that their scones taste pretty good. I also remember that they forgot to warm my focaccia once. And you get free refill. A few travelers are ahead of me, getting their morning cup of caffeine fix. I order two scones and a cup of coffee. Black, please. Just like that darkness inside your soul that sometimes threatens to eat you up. Almost immediately I am handed a plate of scones and an empty cup (which I can fill up from the fountain of everlasting life in the corner). The person behind the counter does not even look at me – she is absorbed in a world of her own. The special kind of being self-absorbed that typically happens early morning, when you try and huddle up to yourself, bracing yourself for the cold (world) outside. She doesn’t tell me that I can refill my coffee. Oh well.

I settle down at my usual spot (at least I think it is my usual spot) – someone has moved the chairs around so that I have a slightly different view than the last time I was here. I can’t be bothered to move it around. Slowly, I nibble at my scones, making dents into its shell. Occasionally, nuts tumble out, seeking their release from the confines of their scone-world. I am facing a kiosk which typically sells socks and some knitwear. There is a person behind the sales counter, carefully folding some grey material. I realize that they are the curtains that hang around the kiosk when it is closed. Slowly she puts them away under the counter, a resting place of their own. 

Someone begins to play the piano which is very close to the spot where I am sitting. Nothing too jaunty but not too subtle – a sort of wake-up tune. The music fills up the place. The person behind the counter seems oblivious to the few passersby who applaud the first piece – she continues to jab away at her terminal screen and making some notes on a piece of paper. I am almost through with my first scone and the cup of coffee is threateningly close to being empty. The refill offer would have been nice. The next piece starts, and I think it sounds a little bit like the opening tunes of The Arrival of the Birds or maybe Transformation by The Cinematic Orchestra. A few more seconds in and I don’t think that is true – probably something else that I don’t recognize. But it is nice. It seems to be breathing the people around me with a bit of a life. 

Suddenly, it is no longer five in the morning but maybe five in the evening – there are people having their coffee and buns, their eyes lit by the glow of warm lighting that surrounds them. It is dark outside, but nice and cozy inside with piano music filling the air. The piece ends and the third piece starts. She is still oblivious to the music around her, making notes on her piece of paper. Makes me wonder if it is someone’s job to come in every morning and wake the place up. She doesn’t register the music because it is routine to her. For the rest of us weary travelers, the escape is a boarding gate away – off to somewhere else. But for her, and others like her, the idea of escape is probably different.

I notice the hint of a transformation within me. This whole time, I have been thinking of writing. I haven’t written in years – it is probably a long forgotten, slumbering something. I might try and write about these musings (ramblings), I tell myself. The music ends, there is no applause. There is no fourth piece – the person has probably gone off somewhere else, their morning duties completed. I struggle and finish off my second scone and drain the dregs of coffee. Nothing around me has changed. The person behind the counter continues to do something with her computer terminal and piece of paper, the café staff are slowly clearing up the plates from the tables, a passenger with headphones around her ears has remained oblivious to everything and continues to watch something on her phone, and the endless queue of people passing through the duty free counters remains unending. Cést la vie. What can you do?

~ Parekh, Pravesh

7th October 2023; 06:33 AM

Oslo Airport (en route Montreal via Copenhagen)

The Arrival of the Birds

This is a sequel to an older post "The Passing of the Birds" which can be found here.

She smelled of funeral. He craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her but could not spot her. The whiff of the perfume he had caught began to fade away. He turned around wildly, desperately trying to drink it in, to capture it, to smell it…deeply, but it waved off into oblivion. It sparked memories of a time that had once been…

It had been a really long time since he had seen her last. He did not even know if she actually existed or was a figment of his imagination. But then who was to say what was real and what was not? Or rather who was real and who was not? People told him that he had become a shadow of his former self. He wasn’t even sure if he had a former self. Things change, people change, life changes. It’s a gradual process. Can one draw a distinction between what was and what is now? But then, he argued back: if she indeed was real and if he had indeed seen her, shouldn’t he be able to draw a distinction?

Frankly, it was muddled and confusing. He did not have the heart to go into it. It was clear that his arguments were convoluted and self-contradictory. His thoughts recessed back into her memory, if indeed memory it was. That’s how it would usually be the case. He would be busy musing about things and his thoughts would converge onto her. That smell. The smell. Her smell. He wondered who’s funeral it actually was. His? Certainly not…he felt awakened to subtleties. He felt awakened to what was beneath the surface, to the colours seen in grey…

And he wondered about the birds…it seemed that the birds had really left. He had become deaf to their song. Or to music in general. The songs he had once loved, those CDs were packed in a box, stashed in a closet and forgotten. Their lyrics and melody a mere illusionary memory. He strained himself to try and remember the tune of one of his favourite numbers but could not. He sighed heavily. They had been replaced.

*

He came back home and settled back into his chair. The road to the café had been routine, the timing though different today. He had been inevitably delayed and had not been able to reach the café at the hour. Had I been missing it all along, he wondered now? What if the hour had changed and he simply kept to the old hours and hence stopped seeing her? A chance event had forced him off the usual track, and he had caught the perfume again. He wondered what it would be like to see her again…would she recognize him? More importantly, would he recognize her? Of the latter, he was completely sure. He would recognize the funeral in the perfume immediately. Even today, the perfume had been different. Yet, tragically the same. It was a different funeral at different time.

An envelope of heaviness encompassed him. He wanted to sketch. He wanted to paint a landscape in all the glory of monochrome. Black and white, streaked with greys. They were the same. He wanted to listen to tragically beautiful sad music but could not get himself to get up and put something on. He thought he heard the opening tune of Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen but it passed in a moment. He thought of all the beautiful music out in the world, the kind that would smother you in their melancholy till you became one with them. It was like one kept absorbing the sadness in them till the bubble broke and one was suddenly released. Like a prisoner on life sentence, suddenly finding himself free, just when he was getting used to it. Would he want to be free?

He felt himself getting restless. His thoughts were all over the place. He felt average. Mediocre. He felt his frustration at being unable to paint the picture he wanted. As if he were an artist who wanted to paint in black and white, but only found himself with colour tubes. Or a musician who wanted to compose the most heart-breaking violin solo in history, and found himself without one.

He forced himself to think back about the chair under the tree, the birds, and the whiff of the perfume…from three years ago. He began to calm down. What if his timing all along had been wrong? Would he go at the changed time tomorrow to see if she passed by, shrouded in her black dress, black veil, and black gloves? He briefly wondered about why he had never followed her to find out whose funeral she was going to? Somehow he felt confident that she was going to a funeral, not coming from one. But would that make a difference? His finding out…

*

Next day he was at the café since morning. It was slightly clouded, the sun cool and shaded behind the clouds, but not particularly grey or gloomy. He hoped beyond hope that it would get oppressive and overbearing. That would be a sign that she would come! He knew it was senseless and illogical to believe so, but he continued looking up once in a while, hoping the clouds would turn black. The usual hour came and he felt himself stiffening up. However, nothing happened. It would be another few hours before the new time. He sighed and waited. The hour came and almost passed, but nothing seemed to happen. He was disappointed. He was restless, anxious, sad, and filled with a different kind of melancholy. The melancholy of missing someone you never knew…of losing something you never had. The pain of separation upon being united…he looked up in the sky one last time before he got up to leave. In the distance he saw a flock of birds passing by. He did not hear their song but he knew what it was. It was the arrival of the birds.

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 29, 2016

05:52 PM

MBIAL, NIMHANS

Curiosity?

I look in the mirror. Who do I see? Hair unkempt, overgrown round the ear. Eyes, bloodshot. Tired. Anxious. Lips, slightly chapped. Beard, untrimmed. Stubble. A face. Don’t I see anything unusual about the ear and nose? No, I don’t think so. Do I?

I look in the mirror. Where am I? Is it my home? I am inclined to believe so. Must you believe what you think? Someone would know. That is, again, something I believe.

I look in the mirror. I think there are two of us here. You and me. Do you have a name? Not that I care to know…only curious. Mildly so. I don’t let me curiosity show, in case you are wondering. Are you? No, no. Barely curious. It doesn’t really matter.

Have you ever had too much caffeine? Perhaps on an empty stomach? Hypoglycaemia setting in, hands begin to shake, you are jittery, on the edge, tunnel vision, perhaps? Yes, you have? Good…good. Have I too, you ask? Of course, more than enough number of times. Recently? All the time…all the time these past days. Are you curious to hear about it? I don’t think so. Am I curious to know if you are curious? Is it a mice in the corner of the bathroom? I believe no…there is nothing to eat. Soul? Do I have it?

How do you deal with the loss of someone you never knew? How do you deal with the loss of something you never owned? I own you, I say. Do I detect a smile? Are you mocking me? But you can’t, I tell myself. Are all my questions the result of curiosity? The answer to it is curiosity? I wonder if it is the coffee rather than my head talking. Ah, damn it! It’s a loop. All roads lead down the same end…wait. Are there different roads? Yes, you tell me. How do you know? You have only walked down one, I say. You are silent.

When was the last time I slept? Must have been a long time ago. I am sleepy. I am in that phase where sleep is just behind the eye, tingling it, coaxing it to droop a little. But of course, it can’t close yet. There is too much caffeine in the blood. It’s the only thing that I have been having. Coffee is a diuretic. Even my urine smells of caffeine. But how do I know, you ask me. Have you ever smelt caffeine? No. That’s all I say. That’s all I can say.

I step out of the bathroom, but you are still there. Come out. I am tired. I need to sit. No? Very well. I will go out and sit. You can stay wherever you are. Be specific, you mock me. I can’t. I don’t know where you are. Don’t you want to know, you ask. Please don’t toy with my anxiety, I plead silently. I know you are in the mirror. I know you are my reflection. No, I am not, you sing along cackling away silently. Damn you, I curse as I stumble towards my room. I am going to sit down. Should I make another cup of coffee? Do you want one, I ask. You do not reply. Well…maybe a little later.

There is no furniture in the house. It’s an empty house. Yet, I see someone sitting. I blink and rub my tired eyes. Fine by me. Sit wherever you want. Do what you want. It’s not like I have a say in the matter, do I? I should ask my reflection if it is tired of all the standing around. Perhaps it wants to lie down? Is it a he or is it a she? It is an it, I tell myself firmly. I am not interested in knowing. My curiosity is limitless…or is it? I am curious to know. Am I? Loop inside a loop.

I walk around the house, slowly. My tired feet want to rest. I walk into the kitchen. There is a kettle. There are a large number of cups lying around, some with stale coffee in it, others with coffee dregs or with a few droplets of coffee in them. Whoever has been drinking so much coffee? Perhaps my reflection? No, no. It is not my reflection. But it ought to be someone’s, I ask myself. Does it have to be? How would I know? Am I the reflection of someone? Is someone the reflection of me?

How does it feel to be inside the mirror? Where is my reflection when I am not looking at it? It does not belong to me anymore. Did it ever belong to me? Who is sitting in the drawing room? Is it the reflection? But it wanted to stay wherever it was, right? How do I know if it was lying? Who am I? Where am I? Do I care? Or is it me telling myself that I don’t care? Perhaps the reflection is making me think that way…is it really? Can one do such things? Perhaps a reflection can make you think of yourself in ways you have not had previously? Isn’t that what reflection means? But that’s a different reflection…is it a reflection of the reflection? Do I see what I think or do I think about what I see? Do these questions matter? Why are so many cups here? Did I buy them? But is it my house? I think I have lost something…what is it? Oh yes, my reflection. Does a reflection have a reflection? Ad infinitum? How would I know? Do I need to know? When do the questions end? Is there an end? Death is an end…is it the end? Does someone know? Somebody should know…someone is screaming…perhaps my reflection inside my head? How did it get there? I close my eyes for a second…or is it a minute? 

Where am I? Oh, the kitchen. I must have come here to want something? Not sure. Perhaps a cup of coffee will clear my head…I should make some…

-Parekh, Pravesh

August 06, 2015; 11:35 PM

T-70, Chandigarh

Chinese Takeaway

It was one of the most miserable days ever. He woke up that morning to find the other side of the bed empty. Expecting a sumptuous breakfast, he got out of bed and strolled towards the kitchen, stumbling a little as his eyes refused to open completely. He was expecting some delicious pan cakes and a cup of hot coffee to open his eyes. Any minute now he would be greeted by the aroma of melting butter in the pan. Mmm…lovely morning. He reached the kitchen to find it empty, the sink having dirty dishes from last night. The Chinese takeaway from last night smelt.

He called out to her, “Honey?” Then he called out again. “Where are you?” singing it out as if playing a game of hide-and-seek with his wife. She did not reply. He went around looking for her but found no trace of her. He made a face, the desire for pan-cake disappearing to the smell of last night’s leftover. Maybe she has gone for a quick run, he thought to himself. He decided to take a shower.

He spent a long time in the shower; hoping breakfast would be ready by the time he stepped out. He stood in front of the mirror for a while, staring at his bulging tummy. Hmph! He flared his nostrils and lifted his head to see inside them. Then he stuck his finger inside and began nose picking. It was a habit she despised but then she was not inside the bathroom with him.

After finally stepping out of the bathroom, he called out to her again. No reply. He bumbled about the house wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, his belly protruding obnoxiously. She hated it. He found it cute. Surely she loved it as well but only pretended to be angry. Now he began to worry a little. Where was she? He went back to the bedroom to fetch his mobile phone when he saw a paper next to it. He lifted it up to read. It only had two words on it:

“You. Asshole.”

He read it a few times. It was his wife’s handwriting for sure. If only there was an “i” in there, she would have drawn a heart over it. But then what did the message mean?

He gave her a call.

“Hey! Where are you?”

Silence.

“Hello? Hell-oooo”

Silence.

Call disconnected.


He called again.

“Hullo?”

“What do you want?”

“Where are you? I have been looking for you”

“Oh yeah? For me or for breakfast?”

He blushed.

“You know. A bit of both”, he mumbled.

“Screw you.”

Call disconnected.


He called again.

“What the hell do you want, you pig? Are you such an oaf that you can’t figure out what’s happening? You will get the divorce paper today. Now don’t you dare call me again. Get lost and go to hell.”

Call disconnected.

He didn’t know what had happened or why his wife would be so angry. Maybe the food last night had really upset her? He knew he couldn’t call her again because she was furious. Maybe I will wait for her to call. He waited for a long time hoping she might call and secretly hoping she would come back with some great breakfast as a compensation for getting mad at him even though it was her suggestion to order Chinese food. He had to change from his comfortable pyjamas to a pair of jeans and then go and collect the food. While waiting for her call, he munched a couple of packets of biscuits. Surely, she would not get angry for eating up whatever was lying around. He hadn’t even had breakfast!

He woke up a couple of hours later to his phone ringing . He was slumped on the couch with biscuit crumbs over his bare body. It was his manager calling. He winced even before he answered the call.

“Where the hell are you?”

He opened his mouth to reply but instead came a very unexpected and thoroughly unpleasant burp.

“You lazy ass! I want you in my office within half an hour”.

“But…”

Call disconnected.


He muttered to himself and began to get dressed. He tried to comb his hair but realized that a part of his hair towards the back of his head was standing up, refusing to get combed. He opened his closet to take out a tie but realized that his wife was not around to tie the knot. Mumbling, muttering, and thinking about lunch he reached his office, four hours late.

As he was going to his cubicle, he ran into his only friend-James-the janitor. James never really said much and he rarely had any opinions, thereby making him a good companion. And he ate less so he could pick food off his lunch plate. James listened patiently as he told him all about the incident with his wife. When he finally explained his Chinese food theory, James stared at him for a few seconds before saying, “you are an asshole” and then he went away. He stared at James in disbelief. His wife, his boss, and now James too! Everyone on Chinese food or what?

He finally walked into his manager’s office. One look at his uncombed hair, open collar, and bored eyes, and the manager burst out in profanities. “You are fired. Get lost” he added towards the end. He walked out of his manager’s office and decided to have lunch before leaving the office. The only good thing about Mondays was the addition of some French fries in the canteen lunch menu.

He walked out of his office carrying whatever little personal possession he had in his cubicle. He went to a nearby orphanage where he used to go every Sunday afternoon to read to the children. Often he would play with them or do other activities with them. They were very surprised to see him on a Monday but the children cheered him when they learnt that he would come to them every afternoon. He never really had any talent but every time when he made a fool of himself, the children loved it. The time he spent with the children…it was the only time he never thought of food.

Later in the evening that day, he went to a nearby park and settled down on a bench. He wondered if in his brief married life he should have told his wife where he went every Sunday afternoon. She would assume that he went to some idle friend of his. He played a little while with a neighbour’s baby, making funny faces for the baby to giggle at. When he finally got up to leave, it was dark. Would she be back by now, he wondered? Then his thoughts drifted away to dinner. Chinese takeaway?

-Parekh, Pravesh

January 13, 2015

01:52 AM

NIMHANS (SH-15)

Content?

They were lying peacefully, side by side, under a warm and cosy blanket. The bed was comfortable and the air had the faint smell of her perfume. It was dark and silent. The fan moved slowly, the curtains drifted a little from their position and returned back. Almost as if playing a game. Presently, she changed her position. Earlier she was lying down on her back, looking at the fan through half closed eyes but now she turned to her side, facing away from him. The room was filled with her smell again as he inhaled deeply. For a moment, he thought how strange it was that they were under a blanket with the fan on but then he shrugged the thought away. It was not important. He looked at the circling motion of the fan and thought about the circle of life. She did not need to see his face to know what he was thinking. After a while he turned to his side as well, face towards the other side, away from her.

There was a window on his side through which a faint haze of light could be made out, now that his eyes were adapted to the darkness. He felt a glowing warmness in him but it was not because of the light. He thought of her and the faint lines on her face, but he did not need to turn to her to see them. She counted his breath mentally to know that he was at peace and she smiled faintly. There was so much to tell him and so much to tell her that it would take the entire night but they would still not be done. But it was alright. They did not need to talk to tell it to each other.

*

And she slept peacefully in the heat, not a trickle of sweat down her forehead while others tossed and turned in the heat, finding no respite. The floor was hard, the room stuffy with so many workers trying to sleep but a faint smile lingered on her face, content and happy.

And he slept peacefully in the cold, with nothing but a crude blanket over him while the animals in the stable and other workers shivered and remained awake. The straw bed was uncomfortable; the room smelly with the smell of animal waste but a warm glow lingered on his face, content and happy.

They did not need to be with each other to be together.

-Parekh, Pravesh

February 19, 2015
10:30 PM
NIMHANS (SH-15)

Autumn Leaves

“Kindness out of pity. Would that hurt someone more than simple pity? But is there a difference? To give money as charity to someone needy on the road. That would be one case. Seeing an old lady struggling to sell her wares to make ends meet; going and specifically buying something from her instead of, say, the shop nearby. Who would be hurt more? Perhaps the old lady because she still has dignity and she knows that the kindness of people is out of pity. But that would be assuming that the other person receiving the charity had no dignity to begin with. Which is wrong. Perhaps he has become used to it? Immune to feeling hurt? Maybe. But may not be true. Maybe she has become immune? May be not. Dignity. Everyone is entitled to it.”

Such were my thoughts as I stood on the road waiting for someone. It was Autumn. An Autumn evening with its charm but my thoughts were about a different kind of Fall. I was inside the Institute campus and the road was empty, lined by old trees shedding their leaves.

I was strolling slowly making it a point to step on leaves and crushing them with my shoes. I am not sure if I really like it or not. It brings up questions and images which confuse me at times. What if a child comes along shortly afterwards, steps on the fallen yellowed leaves and fails to hear the crunch because I had already stepped on it? Wouldn’t the child be heartbroken? Would it not be an early, rather too early, a lesson to real life? I guess I am being ridiculous.

I am transported back to my childhood days. We had a house-help in those days. She would have hardly been 18 or so. Frankly, I do not know. My memory from those days is mostly gone. Her name is not really important. Let me call her Boe. I remember my mother making her sit down and go over my books with her so that she would learn to read and write. She did not resent it but did not like it as well. Maybe she was indifferent. Or maybe I never saw the truth. Sometimes I wonder…do children ever see the truth? I don’t think so.

One day I was walking with her. There were fallen leaves on the road and I was stepping on them, perhaps relishing the crunching sound. At some point, I asked her why she was deliberately avoiding the fallen leaves. I think I saw her face become grave. Then Boe began to tell me something that I did not really understand back then.

Boe told me that the leaves had souls in them. Even the fallen ones. When a leaf fell from the tree, like it did in Autumn, it was similar to one of our dear ones who was inching closer to moving on to a different world. The yellowed leaves are the old ones that are dying. But they are not completely dead. They are silently talking to the alive ones as they surround the dying. They are telling the young ones the story of their leaves. Leaving behind their legacy. When they are done, they die. If you step on them, they won’t crunch. Their souls would have left. But if you crunched their souls, their young ones would never have said a proper goodbye. They would remain heartbroken.

A leaf fell down in front of me and I stepped on it. It did not make a sound. I smiled silently to myself wondering whatever happened to Boe. She got married at some point and I never heard anything about her ever again. I didn’t even know where to look for her if I wanted to. I am sure neither one of us would recognize each other even if we met. Her face is blurred in my memory and I have changed too much.

As I walked a little further ahead, I saw a small pile of yellowed fallen leaves. Someone would have swept them to one side. I stepped on it and heard the collective crunch of souls, dreams, and humanity. I let out a sigh. Dignity. Everyone is entitled to it.

- Parekh, Pravesh

November 23, 2014

03:15 AM – 04:08 AM

NIMHANS

Chance Encounters

I turned to look at her face in the light filtering in through the window. The shutters ought to remain open during take-off. And I prefer it that way. Unless the sun is too bright and I am blue. The sun shone off her face. She was young and I could see the youth reflected in her eyes. I thought back of the time when I was young and admittedly cocky and arrogant. She was beautiful, no doubt. Everyone is in their own way. The right side of my face was beginning to warm in the patch of sunshine. I liked it. She saw me looking at her and I could see her cringe a little, her spine, relaxed earlier, became tense. She readjusted her seat belt and glanced around, letting me see that she was uncomfortable. I did not want to make her feel so, yet I did not relent.

I was reminded of the days of my youth, the numerous journeys I undertook and the places that I had been to. At a point I had started collecting the various boarding passes from my travels. The collection must be lying in one of the boxes where I had packed the rest of my life in. Perhaps gathering dust that seeps in even in closed boxes. Like melancholy that seeps into your heart even when you are not alone. Time heals many wounds but wrecks more on the soul. If one has a soul, that is.

I turned around and stared outside the window. The aircraft was picking up speed and was ready to take-off. I wondered about the life my travel companion would lead. She would, no doubt, have plenty of friends and would be in college. Or perhaps she had recently finished college. She seemed to be of that age. She would perhaps be working. Or maybe she is a writer who travels a lot and writes about the places that she sees or the people that she meets. Romance, I silently rebuked myself. All that I see is romance in people’s life. Not everyone has the liberty of following their heart. Not everyone is successful. Not everyone sees the world as I do.

I glanced at her face again. Her blonde hair curved and blended into her jacket. She was wearing light makeup. We were up in the sky. I am usually not a person who bothers other passengers during my solitary travels but today was an exception. “You look quite familiar”, I told her. She turned to look at me. “You know…you are old enough to be my father. Can you just not nod off to sleep or something?” she said, clearly very irritated. She must have thought of me as a pervert. I was furious. Grey hair is not immunity to humiliation. I turned my face to the other side and stared into the clouds.

I thought of the life that I had led, the sting of recent humiliation like a throbbing vein in the head. So many times there had been babies with my co-passengers. I recollected the forgotten face of one of them as she had looked at me with her bright big eyes. I have not been one of those people who play or befriend a strangers’ baby. Yet that baby had looked at me, soft blonde hair on her head. For all I knew, she could have been my co-passenger now. She certainly was just old enough. Who cared?

For the remainder of the trip, I wondered silently about the various brief encounters we had all the time. At the airport. At the coffee shop. At a book store. We come, we see each other, never meet, and go on with our lives. For all we know, they come back to us in ways we would never know. What about that baby who kept staring at me? Perhaps she wanted me to pat her head? And I did not. Of course, she would never remember…but what if I actually had done it? Maybe nothing would have changed. Brief chance encounters…I doubt people even register.

- Parekh, Pravesh

October 06, 2014; 03:20 PM
New Delhi International Airport
En-route to Bangalore