He asked me, “If you knew you would be dying in a day, what would you wish in your remaining mortal hours?”

I paused. And replied, “I would take a stroll down Park Street.”

Dripping water from the hair. Drenched in the evening downpour, I entered the pub. Unknown faces. A few known. Exchanged smiles. Twinkles in the eyes that glittered among the shabbiness and the occasional rats. “Oh, again you have coloured your hair.”“Yes,” I smiled, “Golden this time.”

Both of us knew the gold of my streaks extended its roots deep inside us. Us. Inebriated by the rum. Ensnared by words. Words that blew in the smoke from the hot cuppa in the café nearby. Words that were chewed in between the ham sandwich at the street corner. Words that were run over by the meandering traffic.

A dark alley was discovered while being in the mood for love. In another chunk of darkness wavering in between the flickering lights, I saw my namesake on an earlobe.

From Candide to Vagina Monologue, from Sans Toi to squabble over homosexuality, I tasted them all. Taking a few steps up, we sat in a corner that offered us a view. Umbrellas. Blue. Pink. Yellow. Emerald green. A shade in my mocktail glass. Smooth. Soothing. A bit like the struggling words, born from my lips that witnessed the tears sitting opposite.

Spells of disappointment. Bouts of despair made room for themselves sporadically between Spring’s red Gulmohor trees and December’s warm cuddling breaths. I thought I could create an album of Melancholy. Thoughts remained thoughts, amorphous and anomalous. Thoughts morphed into photos in black and white; into today’s me, O Park Street.

- The Shepherdess