Buses and trains

It looks like it will rain hard today, said Prachinta to herself as she looked up at the gray sky.

There were photos in her mail-box that morning, of a face strewn with innocence.

He'd sent her photos of his little one sitting in a stroller, trying to imitate his father in thick glasses and one of just staring at the camera lens.

The little boy's face had a faint trace of the him she had known in school.

There were no words in that correspondence. Just images. And they made way for a brief mental journey to a walk on the banks of river Cam, where they had stopped to look at their favourite tree in silence, holding back the surge of emotions that had been filling their hearts, the moment they started on a walk on the stone-paved sidewalks of Cambridge that day.

The walk had been about the chill that touched them, more than what tugged at their hearts.

All unsaid and undone, they parted ways at the station. The warmth of the passengers in train embraced her, instead of the Cambridge air. For just a moment then, she had longed for his hands and then turned her face toward the Cambridge grasslands the train was fast traversing.

Now, Prachinta looked at the thick patches of cloud rise above the airport and said a little thank you for the rain.

She knew rain was creating havoc in Pakistan and wondered why what could breed love, was also attached to destruction, death and ruin.

Nothing is permanent, she thought.