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When I walked past the young and restless hearts huddled around the antique coffee tables painted in vigorous shades of blue , and smokes swirled out from the hookhas, I do not know what actually I was thinking?

I was conscious of my surroundings, a wave of sadness floated in slowly like a silent river upon my shoulders, all of a sudden. As if I approached not so familiar small town tucked in behind the brooding fields of golden wheat. I walked past those windows where curtains were drawn close, and I do not know the houses were past their evening tea-time. What a bundle of contradictions a human body could be, my pair of legs glided across the room lightly, while eyes blinked out the first layer of water.

I finally let out a cry. Its voice was thin and nobody heard.  I found a new term beaming at me in my dictionary – “milder doses of humiliation that life throws at me”. I could be wrong in perceiving them so. Things became clearer to me – what happened a few minutes ago, at the table next to the other where a white man was sharing a huge cup of coffee and a bowl of German potato salad with a long-limbed black woman.

Why was I glancing towards that table instead of coming alive with the conversations at my table? Who was I, and where I’d come from, why I was ending up here with him in the first place, was it just to end one more chapter of my story bound in a dark cover?

How would both of us break miles of silence on our way back home in the taxi sitting close to each other, different worlds with some unknown distress uncomfortably wrapped around them, its head kept down on us and blinking deep into some darkish streets? Has the taxi-driver noticed how lonely my tears were in a faint light?

The streets were buzzing pregnant with people who have homes where they talk to or eat with or sleep with others. Nobody turned his head and seen my face growing paler with my eyes brimming like pools of sadness. Nobody wondered why I was so alone ?

Or was I a loner by choice, as the boy nodded back at that fact, my dress soaked with thin layers of sweat, which sticks to the corners and folds of my body, as always, I struggled to be in a group of humans as ever before? Or has the world failed once again to make me talk about – all those simple things I wished to bring onto the table, a gentle heart, a few kind words, a bunch of playful giggles, a few tales of woods I read about, the trees throbbing with the positive energy of highly articulate birds, bees, and insects of many kind? Or has the world lagged behind me to understand all those trails I take in solitude? Or the world has forgotten to wonder at me as I carried on without turning back to see him for the last time?

I had sad stories of my own, like each one of you, am sure has, and they make me quiet at times when I see skins glowing with happiness.  I lay a long time without the energy to do anything about the sadness that pours out – from the corners of my mouth and eyes, everything looks so basic and raw.

Walkers in the airport looked down on me, a gunny bag of sadness, turn their backs as if having second thoughts about leaving a woman on the edge of some unspeakable personal grief like that. But most hurried on, that man sat to next to me for a while, but then moved on – much to my relief. Yes, for one more time, I faced it – a thin sliver of pleasure with slippery coat, which, in fact, is sadness in disguise.

Thus I wrote a report – of an evening when everything went wrong.

{link :Nelly Furtado – All good things

Flames to dust, Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end?
}

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