Conversation, for us, was never a prescription for romance.

We had championed the cause of love while fighting ceaselessly with each other.

We bonded over sweet-smelling tea served in earthen cups. We travelled kilometres meaninglessly holding hands hiding behind our bags.

And when we would be often left sulking, philosophising about love in general, the last bus plying for the city would enmesh us in a cloud of smoke, in the hope of bringing us together.

We fell in love.

Days passed. Things changed eventually. So did you.

My fingers now wait for the time when it would again be caressing the velvety petals of a red rose, a rare gift. I still wait roadside, waiting for the last rickshaw to take me home, all alone. I still wake up before the clock strikes 8 mistaken your call ringing.

Unfortunately, I was a stickler for painstaking innocence.

Stamping my feet several times on the dusty ground, I would indeed go my own way, never to look back again; his fading voice could be picked up again on a device called the telephone.