words . unclasp. emotions

He was a story walking with a cat on his shoulder. I happened to notice him as I wandered, after comforting myself with a bowl of hot Asian food on a day when a mental breakdown was building up within; like Jenga blocks in my chest, about to crash with a thudd any moment. I watched that cat be comfortable, seated on his shoulder; moving back and forth, looking all around but having a grip at her feet I was really fascinated.  I walked on the same street as I planned earlier, six to seven steps behind him, and just strolled in awe of the understanding this human and cat had built. He wore a dark grey sweatshirt, full sleeved with a turquoise string looped around his thumb. This flat, tightly threaded string went all the way up tied to his cat's furry neck. The cat was dark grey and white, matching quite a lot to her owner's outfit. They looked like best friends and he, her safe keeper. I tried taking a picture from the back, but was falling behind because of his speed. I droppe

I am in a daze.  I've woken up thrice today from a deep sleep as if I slept through three midnights in a day. Once on the bus, when it reached Bangalore a few minutes after sunrise. Once to get ready and go to a friend's place for a ritual, a Hindu occasion. Once, right now. As the day discusses dusk with the moon, over coffee. Woke up to a dark room with some sounds of children playing on the floor above. And it was a defined repetitive sound that could make anyone morph annoyance into an expression, plastered to their face. And all this while, through the sleeping and waking up and sleeping again, my brain has been trying to find the perfect beginning of the piece you are reading right now. And I haven't found any. I just have a stack of postcards in my mind, as if it is scattered out of a memory box on a lazy Sunday, at a cleaning hour. And each one feels like a little girl's dream, a girl who dreamt it in foreign ways. Postcard 1 The sea shore Three friends sitting