A Flyer

 This evening, Mags looked like a deserted pub. It reminded me of the music room of Ray's Jalshaghar, denuded of its vibrance and echoing musical vigour. The waiters were glued to a CRT T.V screen which broadcasted some insipid political harangue. At the counter, I could only see the tip of a bald head, approaching its retirement. The intense somnolence of this place trickles down slowly to his blood as he informs the kitchen is closed. There was no other customer. Voilà, a story that needs no explanation.

This is how Park Street will end. This is how we are going to die. Yesterday, a friend asked me, "Are you afraid of death? Or more precisely, do you ever think that we will die sooner or later?" I said, no. But, of course, I see how things around us are silently dying and not many of us are consciously still living out of what remains.

There will be no flutist at Park Street after a few years. To which extent our street children can improvise the ballons to sell? I don't know. Will Backpacker's Park at Karnani Manson still be relevant or will disappear forever like Peiping? What hurts us more - a separation or disappearance? Perhaps, a replacement?

The bookseller at Oxford Bookstore would greet you now in Hindi and ask, "Sir, diary chahiye kya?" (Are you looking for a diary?)

1 November 2022