A blank stretch of time. An unforeseen yet welcome break. And there was water, waist-high and unfathomable in gravity, in every direction from where I stand.

Marooned. This is the word she used. It sounded like the only word in the existing language. For the whole day it reverberated in the huge green pool of water, the rain washed trees, the gloomy looking discolored houses and the vast cloudy grim sky. It echoed in my mind.

As is said, the books are your hiding places when you feel you are out in the open and the people on your trail are going to spot you like that. I picked up 'Snow'. I opened the book where it was bookmarked.

One random quote from that page : "Do you really want guidance from me?"

Now, my question is who are you seeking guidance from.

If you are Ka, you'd be prompt enough to say 'Seikh Saadettin'.

If you are a student, I think the answer would be 'Prof. Sengupta' or Somebody else.

If you are an employee, you'd certainly blurt out the name of your manager.

But actually I was asking you, yes you, typing away mindless sequence of letters.

You have closed the book already. You cannot concentrate on a single book. Because it's not the guidance of a book that you seek.

Confusion. That is what you need in this shapeless monotonicity. You pick up another book. This time it's Borges. Lying on your back, following the tiny garamond fonts, you think that you've found the recess.

Because the story you are reading is not claiming itself as a story. Small sentences. That's what is used. Like objects in a dream. Clear. Fragile.

It's too rigorous. I like it. I have a vague feeling it's written by me. Actually there's no doubt about it. Just that I cannot remember when. A feeble satisfaction. A deep uncanniness.

Like Fune, I imagined, I can hold on to every second of details. What details? The "objects" floating away in the shabby river of two days.

"Objects" :

1. A pouch of pan masala
2. A piece of paper, blank of course.
3. A cigarette packet, empty
4. A towel!!!
5. Branches and flowers of trees
6. A shoebox, again empty

Now wide awake, I am sitting in the balcony, looking at the liquid constancy. Missing my childhood. Paper-boats. Dancing in the rain.

"Miles and miles to go before I sleep"

Curses. Upon the system. For the rain. For the lack of infrastructure. My non-distinct voice plunges into the uproar. I too have to go somewhere. Someone I don't know is waiting for me. I need this to cleared at once. This is urgent.

But the point is : where'd you pour this stagnancy, if it has already crept along all the veins of my city?