Meira was on her usual cleaning spree when she chanced upon a wry piece of paper, sitting meditatively inside the deepest corner of her chest of drawers. She read out the song:
Your eyes made love to me,
Your shadow touched mine.
Songs flew,
As did we,
Together to the clouds.
A stranger, my stranger.
When the smoke rises up to the clouds,
And returns to the river,
They become you,
Waves and Breezes you,
A stranger, my stranger.
I sing no songs of time,
None of this world,
For you are not.
I sing one of love, to you.
A stranger, my stranger.
It suddenly became the kind of day one does not wish to face alone. She remembered Nikhil and their hideaways on such days. She went out on her terrace, with her coffee and cigarette, shred the paper into bits of anger and burnt them with the fire of hopelessness. She cried like she hadn't in a long time and tried hard to remember the tune as she walked back.
It was a day one cannot live alone. Meira lived it with her memories. Of songs, and strangers.
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