Morpankh

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Cotton Candy Man

The script, the plot

I wish you were here. Or I were there. Or both of us were somewhere. The high gardens of my imagination lie barren. I need to talk to you. About words. About restlessness. About fear. About an injury in my knee. About Frangipani. About the bright green tint of a Carlsberg beer bottle. About sleepiness.

The other day you came to the café. I spoke a little out of anxiety.

“Baat karne aaye ho kya?”

I looked at you, inside you. I went silent. You stirred your coffee. You cried silently. I later told someone that we had met. He enquired about you, wanting to know whether you were happy. With you one never knew, I told him. He nodded. He understood.

Happiness is not for us. We are seekers – of what lies ahead of happiness. Of what lies beneath it.

Frangipani can only exist in our imagination. The high gardens of our lives will stay barren.

That is the script; that is the plot.