Shrutidhora P. Mohor narrates a tender tale of love and longing interspersed with deep melancholy.
Summer arrived late that year, later than usual.
I remember seeing you last on a day in early spring, expecting the first blossoms to brush over my head as I pranced on my way to you. Instead, it was nippy, a tad frosty on remote metal surfaces where there had barely been any sunshine for the last four months. I drew the stole over my head, pulling it down to cover my forehead as well, and tucked its loose ends inside my collar. It didn’t help much though, for when I saw you, asleep, or so I liked to believe, your foot uncovered, your ankle showing, the skin blackened from the dirt picked up earlier that morning, I shivered on your behalf, and calling out for the attendant angrily for neglecting her duty, pulled the striped quilt cover over it. I believe you felt warm and comfortable as I did so, while I looked around at the large open windows, too many around your head, through which the chilly morning breeze wafted in and ruffled my stole.