It has been more than three months since Kaalicharan left for her place in the clouds.
100 days & nights, sunrises & sunsets, since my dog died but it is not sadness alone that I carry around my neck like a cinder-block. Not just maps to memories and melancholia.
Out here in the sleepy Turkish suburb, two-and-a-half-hours from Nainital time, I wish for a place far enough to run to. Fantastic in it’s subtleties, a map of lands not yet discovered. Wherein there are no reasons for moving. Somewhere where time difference is in a poetic precision with Einstein time warps, a parallel universe where I’d still have my dog.
And why should I relent until Laika is on her way, way back…
As the morning turns to an auburn afternoon, measured in coffee cups, a feral cat makes herself comfy by my feet. Her fur stuck on my corduroy trousers. Seen from a far, you might take me for a writer in recluse, longing for a sense of belonging somewhere.