“I bought another book this week — a Murakami novel”, she tells me. Deep furrows appear in her brow.

I see a genuine look of concern on her face.

Three other books sit on the nightstand. Bookmarked, dog-eared pages, a thin layer of dust has settled on the top most paperback.

“Sometimes I worry that the rate at which I consume fiction will never match up to the rate at which I buy them.”

I nod in agreement.

“Yeah, I know how that is.”

20th December

Dear Aayush,

I am in a state of being that can only be described as dreamlike. A strange mixture of reality meets fantasy.

This morning I stood in the balcony with my cup of coffee, black. I remember how you always only take it black.

It is really not that cold for December, but there’s slight wind-chill. The red morning sunlight filtered through the towering buildings that surround. My insides filled with warmth.

It was a kind of warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time; and then I caught myself smiling. Another first in a long time.

I wanted to tell you something, Aayush.

Today, as I watched the sky turn first from twilight grey to fiery red and then to a gentle blue, I realised that everything was going to turn out fine. Everyone was going to be okay.

I fold her letter carefully and place it back into the over-sized envelope.

The sky is a sombre shade of grey.

There is also something else inside the envelope. A feather — a symmetrical tail feather, iridescent green in colour and about twelve inches in length.

I pull out the book in my bag and replace the bookmark with the feather.

Even after all these years she remembers.

I examine the feather under the incandescent light of the table lamp.

A quetzal’s, I conclude.

I think of all the different things I’ve used as bookmarks over the years.

Currency notes of lower denomination. Boarding passes. Bus tickets. Fluorescent-yellow post-its. Bits of paper torn out of notebooks. Paper clips. Feathers of exotic birds.

My mother’s voice. The smell of father’s aftershave. The fragrant dewy grass on winter mornings at home. The sound of the school bus sounding its horn at seven.

Her ringing laughter.

Her gentle touch.

Her delicate fragrance.

These are the bookmarks I’ve used to tab pages of my life with.

A cornerstone of sorts — all the things, time and again, I find myself returning to.

Three books sit on my nightstand. Bookmarked, dog-eared pages, a thin layer of dust has settled on the top most paperback.

Sometimes I worry that the rate at which I consume fiction will never match up to the rate at which I buy them.

Please do tell me about your thoughts on this piece in the comments or email at aayushyadav96@gmail.com