A Purple Fountain

Only a few months after I move to Dubai, my dreams return. I wake up hearing people talk in my head. A life past, and sometimes things that never seem to have happened, occur. Strangely enough the girl that walked Leicester Square, wide eyed, on a Sunday afternoon through throngs of people painting, dancing and singing, seems to peep in my life. She never comments just looks in and disappears, sometimes when I am sitting in somebody else’s home, sometimes when I am spooning out stew or just putting kohl in my eyes.

I see her with a yellow pad full of angry scrawls. The writing is blue and sometimes black. It slants and sometimes it squats under the weight of an emotion. There are words that are half washed away. Reading through the reams upon reams of the written word does not make sense so she tears the pages slowly one by one. She feels comfortable once the pad is done with, so she struts into the kitchen and makes herself some tea.

I welcome her back after a draught of three and a half years. I want to question her where she had gone and why it took so long to return but it does not matter now. I am satisfied just so. I am happy to share a silent cup of tea with her.