ever to pedantic, as she was, she then decided on writing an array of meaningless words through me. I hardly knew her till now; and just at this instance as I am writing her story I am starting to know her better. There couldn’t have been a better start than this, among two people separated by time and death. The moist accumulated on the tombstone of her grave gives me a feel that she is still looking for that sunshine. A bright yellow tulip is what I thought was a perfect memento which I could have offered to her when we first met, while walking down the bridge. A silent breeze called me, but never took my name. How could she? She also hardly knew me then. The “Black Pegasus” as I call her, is an artist in her soul and was a pianist by passion. The impossible desires clashing with the burdens of being alive is what compelled her to pursuit her dreams on one rainy afternoon when she set herself free! The Pegasus leaped from the fourth-floor balcony but of course she couldn’t set her wings free. As at the moment she jumped, the reality surrounding the city engulfed her completely. She fell thrashing down on the pavement outline the busy streets, just in front of a small café. There she lay as people passed her by. But the moment she did touch the ground, ripples of happiness spread all across the road and the City which was dead and busy for years suddenly felt life, shaking the ground on which they stood, creating funny sensations on the heels of their boots.
Suddenly the children came flocking in, running down the streets, with their worn-out clothes and brand new smiles; lover kissed each other in the café, the chefs and the waiters started rattling the dishes and the spoons in a symphony and instantly the so long wannabe metropolitan became the City of Joy.
As I was passing by her graveyard, she told me her story and kissed me goodbye. I looked around that evening and found that my city indeed looks like the Black Pegasus and this is my Yellow Tulip to her!