Your secrets, they dance on my finger tips.

I saw him walking down the road I traverse everyday. It was a new face with wrinkles. He stumbled over blocks he was unaware of, but balanced himself. He was returning from his long walk, probably at the beach. He carried with him a scent of the west. The shirt he was wearing was probably a gift from his US-settled son/daughter. His shoes were brand new and he was still getting used to their grip, while losing his own of the world unknowingly. He carried with him a small stick to ward off chasing dogs. They all do.

There was a white plastic bag in his hand that I couldn't help but peep into. In there, were a couple of oranges and two packets covered with foil. Food, for sure. Steamy vapours of fragrance emanated from them. He won't let his wife cook today. They will sit back on a couch and eat the grub while discussing current affairs, a movie, their children/neighbours or bygone days. It'll be a relaxed evening with oranges for dessert. We're too old for ice-creams and too young to just feed on medicines.

People age very differently. I have seen many old people in my life so far and each one has been as different from the other as possible. But uncannily, they're all similar in numerous ways. They do behave like children but different children they all are. They're stubborn but about different things and in different degrees. They all look beautiful with experience, but sometimes that experience can be imposing, restrictive and harsh. They won't understand, so don't try to tell them. Change, other than physical, ceases to exist for them. That needs to be accepted at one level and ignored at another.

The summer colours are out. Bright. Scorching. Blazing. Glistening. I strangely like the heat. The pent up emotions erupt and cleanse one's soul. There's nothing that remains cooped up in cages, or so I think. Or so I would like to feel. I have probably started living in a parallel reality. Defense mechanism. I slip into it and take breaths of solace. Soothe the bursting blood vessels. No, I won't burst.

I have started my affair with the brush again. The paints are out and so is the virgin paper. The book is lying neglected next to it. Fortunately, its a book of anecdotes that doesn't need continuous sitting down. I can pick it up anytime and it'll welcome me with open arms. I wouldn't have missed anything. It'll read itself out to me and I promise to be a patient listener.

Its late and my eyes are droopy. I have a long day tomo. It shall be a good one and I shall spend it doing things I love and care about.

Goodnight my old man. I hope you had a nice meal and a nicer conversation.

Title: Courtesy the song Fortuneteller by Prateek Kuhad