The Fall

I write because…well, well, now do I really ! When was the last time I wrote ! Ages it seems now.
I thought I had nothing left in me to say. I felt as if all the words have drained out of me, and that I will never write again.
But this room ! This writing desk next to this huge window! It seemed this house was meant for me. So when Areej wanted to take the other house on rent, the one closer to City Center, I insisted on this one. This house is a little away, somewhere right in the middle of Manchester Airport and Piccadilly, if you would. The place is so calm and quiet. The window from my room overlooks this serene backyard with six giant trees – two maple, one that I presume to be fig, and rest I don’t know; and lots and lots of bushes.
When I first came here three months back, the place was all green. So much green, like I had never seen before. And the sky, oh the Sky ! Stark blue. We don’t get such clear sky in India. Not so much green either. Although it should have been, in Bengal at least. But now everything is so grey, so dusty back there.
I had seen leafy trees and leafless trees, but had never seen trees shading their leaves. Like a nostalgic gradual process, the passing of time becomes so palpable, you can feel it. Behind the trees there are the radiant English cottages standing in perfect harmony, at ease. Mine is an apartment, but of that same romantic terracotta red colour, with chimney and fire places and…you know. What else could I have done, sitting here, all alone, but write.
Yet, it didn’t come easy. Words were with me when I had no one, nothing. In that solitary studio in Qatar, confined, I had turned to them. I made Sandcastle my best friend. Came good times, and how conveniently I had forgotten all about it. Continue reading “The Fall”