I skipped a letter yesterday. In my defense, I was on a trek & there was no network. After return, my knees seemed spent & sleep slunk without warning. Ha, I'm explaining as if you await these letters everyday. Do you?
The highway looks deserted from the balcony. At this hour, you only find flocks of sheep marching blindly. 2-3 shepherds armed with a torch, a stick & a booming voice that speaks the sheep's tongue orchestrate the pack from behind. Often woolly pet dogs escort. If your car comes in front, the shepherds holler from faraway & the flock compresses in a snap, lending the car just enough space to navigate through scores of flourescent eyes.
I met one such shepherd during the trek. Perched on the top of the meadow, the herd scattered like carrom coins around, his eyes looked after me. I was slogging through the last mile. As I neared him, he yelped chalo, chalo. I felt like one of those carrom coins. Alas, he didn't know how hard I'd been struck. The knees bruised by the black mountain. The heart wounded by queen's rebound. In the bonfire yesterday night, the only thought left to humour my broken body was the name of your favourite pub. It was Strikers, wasn't it?
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