I have learnt to speak in metaphors. Not that it makes my thoughts particularly intelligible or anything, but I often find myself talking about winds and wings and the horizon. And yes, I talk about rain.

Coming to think of it, I do not see much of either rain or wind in my cubicle where I spend most of my day. But every day, as the digits on the bottom left of my screen read “17:30”, I walk out of that cubicle. I walk to the bus which ferries me home and look up at the sky. The silver moon greets me against a sky that has just started to get dark.

Then I take a U-turn and look up at the sky again, to be greeted by the setting sun in all its glory. The sky turns pink, orange and red against a dark turquoise canvas. I get up on the bus and stare out of the window. I cannot see the moon anymore. It seems almost poetic, you know, golden and silver at both ends of your vision. They are there, at the same time, and yet you cannot see them together.

In a recent movie, a king had proclaimed to his captive love, that they would meet the day the sky was adorned in the glory of the rising moon and the setting sun, and untimely rains. I see the sun and the moon almost everyday. The rains are missing.

The bus starts moving. I stare at the sunset for some time. The city approaches. I look away from the window and immerse myself in mundane conversation.


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