The sky gets all teary-eyed as you pack. Tired, heavy drops fall on your windowsill.
Anuradha Patel glides from one corner of the screen to another looking like she has cancer or something. So do you, gathering sundry items still lying in the dresser and putting them in a Zipouch.
Aadhe sookhe aadhe geele, sookha to main le aayi thi
Geela man shaayad bistar ke paas pada ho, woh bhijwa do, mera woh saamaan lauta do
Memories of a monsoon evening, as you walked with him, hand in hand. It begins to pour and you run for cover, shuddering under a tree. So wet, you slip and fall into a puddle of grime. He laughs and gives you his hand.
Then, memories of leaning on him as you limped on your way back, and how his hand rested on the small of your back; the lack of coordination and the nervous giggling at the wetness and the growing size of his thing and your broken toe.
You wipe a little tear off the corner of your eye and toss the Zipouch into the suitcase.
The toe still hurts.