So, I took a train home to Calcutta. A Duckback carry all. The rubber logo was partially peeled. *Duckback*, it said in yellow with an oval border running around it. A jute bag with cane handles. The writing in red had smeared on the off white grid of natural fibres. From years of use. That was the last I saw of them. For after I returned home I never heard of them again.
That night after everyone left, and it was time for us to go home, you had said you wouldn't mind a walk. Exactly a year. Like a maddeningly, unreally beautiful run in the rain. Underwears full of water. Shoes oozing mud. Lungs full of laughter.
It's like a strange dream. Set in the hapless and desolate context of thousand others that were shattered.