Cocoon. It's safe, protective, a shell. Tender inside, hard outside. You are safe. You need protection. Somehow, the idea annoys me. What cocoon? What protection? Are you really that weak? Crap, I think. You need a cocoon to survive? When my mind goes blank, and thoughts are all dulled, I can't speak. I'm thinking, and its almost absent-minded in its activity. I'm grateful to be allotted work, there's something I can do, something productive. I'm approached for help, do you know which train I take? Fat finger points towards a map, questioning look in harassed eyes. I smile and nod. Then walk down an extra flight of stairs just to feel more useful. The brief moments over, I relapse into walking impatiently in front of Cafe Coffee Day. I hate waiting. Sometimes, all I can speak about is what I'm thinking right at the moment. Shove it to make space for other thoughts, maybe small talk. I can't. One-track mind, an especially difficult math sum that I have to solve. I'm still trying to understand the damn question. This is no examination, no warning bells, no time limit. Figure it out on your own, just do it correctly. It wasn't meant to be this way. There are some questions that never need to arise, some problems never meant to befuddle. It wasn't meant this way, we weren't prepared for this. Especially when it's the last thing that could've ever happened. If there's anything worse than trying to convince others of something you believe in passionately is trying to convince people of something that you completely don't believe in.

Rickshaws are comfortable vehicles. The streets in Chandni Chowk are narrow and our rickshaw waalla swerves expertly dodging humans and vehicles alike. This is like a joyride. Yeah, somewhat. Check out the colours!! Through my glasses they are warmer, rose-tinted, she said. I take them back and put them on again. Forced laughs, pretense. I know nothing. I know something. Do I really know anything? Clearing the table mechanically, some lines of my favourite Bengali song play on tv. I start humming it, I want to. Broken tune, the singer on tv is a man. I look down at my hands, the table is already cleared.

Drifting, like smoke. Constrictions in my throat, absent mindedly pick up a smiley that I once gave to dada. It's frozen smile grins back at me, and I squish it. Contorted smile. As soon as I release my thumb, it resumes it's grin. There's much to plan for the next day, a lot to decide. It's her birthday and we have to come up with presents. Dial, call, decide. Simple. Put the receiver quietly back, someone's called out to you. No pudding? Why not? The same way he looked when I didn't want mishti doi that day. And wanted it when it was over. The day has a lot left, finish them, you haven't earned your rest yet. Stay up till midnight, you have to wish her. Extra chirpy voice, birthday laugh. Special order. Insistent voice brings me back to reality. What's the plan for tomorrow? Remember. Remember. Some more nodding, back to mechanical catering of other people's needs. Sometimes, you just have to... go back.