I was visiting a friend in the vicinity of my dad's home. It was late evening; the street lights had come on, casting their familiar amber glow on streets I once knew by heart. The residents of my erstwhile home were possibly sipping their favourite spirits and mulling the week ahead, oblivious to the ghost walking past their gate.
I stepped out into the night and let my feet detour past the old building. Dreading and braving it, I took a quick glance at his flat. All lights off. All windows shut. My heart sank. Perhaps he was sitting there, disembodied, on his old sunken sofa — his memories for company, the pitch-dark flat familiar to his frameless persona. A man reduced to the outline of himself.
My wife sensed it, tugged at my arm and led me quickly out of the gate into a rickshaw. The city moved around us, indifferent and alive. I let my heart and mind return to their newfound peace, brought by a brain slowly, deliberately pushing back the old memories and emotions — knowing they would return, but grateful for the quiet while it lasted.
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