There was guy, one of the folks, who never forgot. A piece of paper lay there, by him, his side, and he knew where it came from and why it lay there. It was just a piece of paper, a tiny, broken fragment. The ink was fading but he knew how that paper smelt when he first touched it.
He sat, typing now; the parchment, the piece of paper, a letter? pointedly being ignored. I wonder why he did not throw it, the dust bin was just there. I wondered why as he lit yet another match he did not burn, that crackled, worn out and yellowing piece of paper.
Tobacco smoke filled the air in his room and his lungs, and his blood. He was a Sherlock Holmes with no mystery. But there was a always a question which he could not answer, did not want answered. What would have been?
He was typing and every keystroke that fell, fell through the dense air, fell upon the bare floor and found its grave to crawl into and slowly die. But it left a virtual mark, in a digital world. He typed, and symbols and relations, characters and strings, came into existence.
“I can create them,” he said not to anyone in particular, but in his head.
A long time ago, in a land far away. There was a young boy, riding on the wind as the sun set. He held a swift in his hand, but it was the swift that held him. The swift has weak legs, and a strong grip. It was grey and small and he called it ‘Bhuru’. The wind caught the boy, and the bird. It ruffled his hair and streamed through its feathers. And they both looked at each other. He wondered why the bird didn’t fly. He wondered whose fault was it.